‘We’ve had our analysts take a look at Evelyn Gill’s Beckwith Communications,’ Dower said. ‘Of course it’s totally private, and the accounts are a tangle of holding companies. When they borrow, they tend to go to a tight group of banks in Switzerland. But we don’t think Gill has access to more funding. A cash offer from you of eight hundred and fifty million would be hard to match. He won’t be willing to go to the bond markets for it, and his corporate structure is too messy to be able to get an equity offering away in a hurry.’
Cornelius wasn’t going to fall into the trap of underestimating his opponent. Sir Evelyn Gill was a stout man with a defiant stare and a heavy lower jaw thrusting aggressively forward. He had worked in his father’s business trading steel in Sheffield, but had seen the writing on the wall for the industry and diversified into ever more precious metals, until he had transformed the family firm into an international commodity speculation outfit. He had invested some of his profits in the purchase of Beckwith Communications, a magazine publisher, in the 1980s, before using this vehicle to launch his failed bid for the Herald in 1988 and bagging the tabloid New York Globe the following year. Since then he had bought the London tabloid Mercury and a series of other newspapers and magazines throughout Europe, Australia and South Africa as well as a book publisher in London. Although Beckwith didn’t publish figures, his newspapers were rumoured to be extremely profitable. They all took a populist right-wing stance — anti-immigration, patriotic, anti-bureaucratic — that seemed to strike a chord wherever they were published. Even his more serious political weeklies in France and Sweden subtly followed that line, and circulation had increased. His contribution to the national media was recognized when he was knighted by the Conservative government in 1996, the year before their election defeat.
‘Gill has been trying to talk the price down,’ Cornelius said. ‘You know the game: bait and switch. Agree a price in principle and then negotiate it down because of problems you supposedly discover during due diligence. In this case it’s accounting discrepancies and under-funded pensions.’
‘Those could be real issues for us as well,’ Dower said.
‘Laxton Media think it’s all bullshit. They are pissed off. Even better for us if we come in with a higher offer.’
‘How do we know this?’ Benton asked.
‘Edwin has a source.’
There was a brief uncomfortable silence. Edwin stared at the papers in front of him while the minds of everyone around the table flitted over the possibilities of what Edwin’s source might be. Cornelius knew that Edwin had a reputation for the occasional use of underhand methods to get things done. Cornelius also knew this reputation was justified. He hadn’t asked Edwin about his source; he hadn’t wanted to know the answer. Perhaps he should have done. Cornelius realized that whenever he did retire, his reputation for integrity would retire with him...
‘Excellent,’ Benton said, to break the silence. ‘Now perhaps we can talk about the junk-bond issue.’
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you back, Zero?’ The Saudi smiled as he sipped his orange juice. The dining room in Claridge’s was quiet this early in the morning. He and Calder were the only two people there, bar a lone businessman in the far corner. Their table was set for three. One chair was empty.
‘I’m quite sure you can’t,’ Calder replied, responding to the old nickname from his bond-trading days. ‘But I do appreciate you asking.’
‘Actually, I will always ask,’ the other man said. ‘Until one day you say yes.’
Tarek al-Seesi had been Calder’s partner and immediate boss at Bloomfield Weiss. He was a small man, with a thick moustache, thinning hair, and large brown thoughtful eyes. He was no more than a couple of years Calder’s senior but he looked and acted much older and wiser. He combined the street-trading talents of the bazaar with a profound understanding of human psychology and good grasp of macroeconomics, backed up with a PhD. He was also a canny political operator, something that Calder emphatically wasn’t. Most importantly he was someone whom Calder not only respected but trusted. When Calder had phoned him the day before with his request, Tarek had been happy to oblige. So Calder had flown his Cessna down to Elstree the previous afternoon, and spent the evening with his sister in Highgate so that he could get up early to meet Tarek at ten to seven.
‘You can’t tell me you don’t miss the markets,’ Tarek said.
‘I suppose I do,’ Calder replied. He was just about to tell Tarek about the little bits of spread-betting he did, but something stopped him. When they had worked together as bond traders they had laughed at ‘dumb retail’, their name for ill-informed individual speculators. Calder didn’t want to admit that that was what he had become. It was only a bit of dabbling anyway. A bit of fun. ‘Thanks for setting this up.’
‘No problem. I’m curious to see what happens. Ah, here’s the man now.’
Tarek stood up and waved, extending his hand. Calder was sitting with his back to the entrance to the dining room. He waited a few seconds and then turned to see Benton Davis striding towards them. The polite smile on Benton’s face froze as he saw Calder.
Tarek shook his hand. ‘Have a seat, Benton. You remember Alex, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Benton said, the smile now gone. He curtly shook Calder’s hand and hesitated. Clearly he had no desire to have breakfast with his former colleague. But although Benton was nominally head of the London office, that was essentially a bureaucratic and ambassadorial role. Tarek was in charge of Fixed Income in Europe, and his group made lots of money. Hundreds of millions of dollars. Tarek’s star was in the ascendant. Benton sat down.
‘I congratulate you on your choice of venue, Tarek,’ he said, looking around the ornate dining room.
Tarek smiled. He raised an eyebrow and the head waiter came over. He ordered his usual complicated mozzarella cheese, bread and olive-oil concoction, Calder went for a full breakfast, and Benton just a bowl of muesli and some fruit. Calder had forgotten how impressive a figure Benton cut, with his tall trim frame, his perfectly tailored suit and his deep authoritative voice. Outside Bloomfield Weiss he didn’t look like the lightweight glad-hander he had appeared to be from the trading floor.
Benton and Tarek made small talk for a few minutes, ignoring Calder, before Benton turned to him. ‘Well, Alex, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’ He was polite and he kept the exasperation he must surely have felt over Tarek setting him up out of his voice. But his eyes were wary.
‘Alex wants to ask you a question,’ Tarek said.
Calder thought he noticed a flicker of relief in Benton’s eyes. He suddenly realized that Benton’s first assumption was probably that Tarek wanted to offer him his old job back, and this breakfast meeting was actually an interview. But a mere question couldn’t be that difficult.
‘Sure,’ Benton said, with a quick smile. ‘Shoot.’
‘Do you remember Martha van Zyl?’
Benton hesitated, taken aback by the course Calder was taking. ‘Yes, I do. She was Cornelius van Zyl’s wife. She was murdered, wasn’t she? In South Africa. Horrible business.’ He shook his head. His concern seemed genuine.
‘Martha’s son, Todd, has some questions that he wants to ask you about the death. I’m a very old friend of his wife, Kim. She asked me to talk to you.’
‘Ah,’ Benton said. ‘I was aware that Todd was trying to speak with me about that.’
‘And you avoided him?’
Benton smiled. ‘Cornelius van Zyl is an important client of the firm. It seemed inappropriate for me to be speaking with his relatives about his wife’s death.’