“Peter,” he said, tapping his sterling silver letter opener on the crease of his trousers. “I do not need a lecture on the merits, or lack thereof, of selling in a difficult market. The stock’s not performing, so we’re getting out. It’s that simple.”
“Dumping those shares isn’t getting out. It’s abandoning ship. We’re due!”
“So is Father Christmas, world peace, and the second coming. Really, the decision’s been made. Save your breath.”
Gabriel, forty-five years of age, was chairman and chief executive of Richemond Holdings, S.A., an internationally active investment firm with interests in equities, precious metals, and strategic shareholdings in a number of diverse companies. He did not like to be badgered. Running a hand along the back of his neck, he urged himself to remain calm. As usual, the building’s air-conditioning was not functioning. The office was hot and stale, but despite the heat and the insistent nagging, Gabriel looked unfazed.
“Jesus, Marc, I don’t like to see you get hurt like this,” the man in New York was saying. “I mean, Christ, it’s a bloodbath. Hang in there for another month or so. The stars are getting in alignment.”
“Wire the proceeds to my account at Deutsche Internationale Bank. I’ll expect the funds by the end of business today. Frankfurt time.”
But the banker would not give up. “What is it?” he demanded, unable to hide his desperation. “You know something I don’t? You boys start cleaning house, people are going to ask questions.”
A smile on your face guards the smile in your voice, Gabriel reminded himself. The last thing he needed was attention. “The group is reconfiguring its portfolio. Nothing more. Nothing less,” he said, in a singsong way, his cheeks aching with the weight of the smile. “The equity markets haven’t been performing as we’ve liked. We’re moving into real estate and commodities in hopes of increasing our returns.”
“Commodities?”
“Yes, yes, I know they’re risky,” began Gabriel, as if asking for permission.
“I wouldn’t say risky, so much as-”
“Get me some information on pork bellies,” Gabriel interrupted him. “Take some time. I’ll be in New York next week, then we’ll talk. Lunch at Le Cirque? Make sure Sirio knows I’m coming.”
Gabriel hung up the phone, his face slack, a mask of hate. He was sick of the meaningless chitchat. If all went well, he would never have to speak to the foolish man again. Gabriel’s problem was that he was too polite. Sometimes he really should forgo his manners, especially when there was so much that needed to be done.
Cardboard moving boxes littered the spacious office and sat bunched in groups near the credenza, the filing cabinets, and the antique Indonesian bookshelf that had displayed his personal vanities. Gabriel slid from one to the next, checking that each was full, sealing it with tape, marking the proper address in two languages. He was a compact man, trim and athletic, with a graceful economy of movement. Even with his sleeves rolled up, his Hermès cravat loosened, he never appeared rushed or in the least bit stressed. Panic was not a word in his vocabulary. Discipline. Self-control. Focus. These were his touchstones.
A cap of wavy dark hair framed a shadowed, angular face. As he worked, he kept a faint smile to his lips, and the smile along with the sparkling brown eyes lent him a wily, seductive air. He looked like a man who knew a few things about life. A man not afraid of the world’s darker corners. A man who could keep a secret.
Standing, Marc Gabriel checked his watch. It was three o’clock, and he still had to call his bankers in Milano, Zurich, and Frankfurt, and order them to liquidate his portfolios. He was selling it alclass="underline" Fiat, Olivetti, Fininvest, and Benetton. ABB, Julius Baer, Nestlé, and Credit Suisse. Bayer, Daimler, BASF, and Dresdner. There would be more arguments, more pleas to leave the money in the market. Again, Gabriel would explain his decision as a simple reconfiguring of his portfolios. Again, he would arrange meetings he had no intention of making. He would be sure to leave a million or two in each account, while asking that the proceeds of the share sales be wired to a web of numbered accounts in Dublin, Panama City, Vaduz, and Luxembourg.
And then he would sell again.
He would sell like he had never sold before.
Needing to stretch, Gabriel made a short par course of his office, stopping as was his custom by the window. Across the Seine, the Eiffel Tower soared into an unadulterated blue sky. It was a million-dollar view, and he knew that when he was gone he would miss it. A half mile distant, the tower appeared closer, within his very grasp. His eye locked on an elevator climbing the steel latticework and he thought the tower timeless-every bit as modern, as impressive today as when it had been built over a hundred years before to grace the opening of the 1889 International Exhibition of Paris.
This afternoon, however, he was more interested in the goings-on in the street below. Craning his head out the window, he took a long look around. Two buildings farther up, a liveried chauffeur was polishing the Qatari ambassador’s three-hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche GT Turbo, though he was not so engrossed in his work not to notice the long, gamine legs of two women strolling past. A few children chased one another, shouting and screaming, as was every child’s privilege. Monsieur Gallieni, the proprietor of the corner café, paced in front of his establishment smoking and looking to buttonhole an acquaintance to argue about the government’s latest policies. Otherwise the sidewalks were deserted, as they always were in midafternoon.
Gabriel thought of the events of the past days. He knew that when they came, he would not see them.
He returned to his desk.
Yes, Gabriel decided, he would miss the Eiffel Tower. But he would miss nothing else about Paris; not its decadent nightlife or chichi bistros, its ungodly traffic and rancid pollution, its drippy autumns and frigid winters; and certainly not its flamboyant love of self. The rot was everywhere.
Picking up the phone, he punched in a number and began his second round of calls.
“Hello, Jean-Jacques. An order to sell. We’re getting out of Citroën, Saint-Gobain, and L’Oréal. Yes, all of it. Every last share.”
Chapter 12
The Ford Mondeo carrying Adam Chapel and Admiral Owen Glendenning passed through three checkpoints before entering the courtyard of the American Embassy. Concrete caissons spaced five feet apart constituted the first line of defense. Next came the French police, three pairs standing abreast of squad cars parked directly before the embassy gates, all dressed smartly in sky-blue shirts and navy pants, Legionnaire casquettes worn correctly, submachine guns strapped across their chests. Last came the Marine security detachment. Posted at the watch house that had once governed the entrance to the Chancery, they were no less vigilant because of the added measures.
“You’d think we’re at war,” said Glendenning as the car slid to a halt and he opened the door. “They’ve got the streets cordoned off for four blocks in every direction. Snipers on the rooftops. We’ve uncovered two plots to blow this place to kingdom come. God knows how many more are being fomented right now.” In an awkward ballet, he lifted his legs one at a time out of the car, thrust his canes out the door, and struggled to his feet, all the while ignoring the chauffeur’s outstretched hands. “Pardon me,” he called over a shoulder. “Do you need help getting out?”
“Thank you, sir, I’m fine,” said Chapel, touched by the man’s consideration. His shoulder was as numb as an iceberg, thanks to the painkillers Dr. Bac had insisted he take prior to signing him out of the hospital. The last traces of shell shock had vanished on the ride over. Glendenning’s words were as bracing as a slap in the face.