CHAPTER THIRTEEN: CROESUS
Political correspondents often live pretty much like soldiers at war. One day can be all thrills and spills and excitement, filled with the cut and thrust of combat. But the next may prove very dull, with little to do but sit around cleaning guns and polishing equipment.
Hunter spent Tuesday morning fending off analysts and telephoning politicians. Manning had splashed Wonders across three columns on Financeday's front page, and half the City telephoned to congratulate Hunter, invite him to lunch, and probe delicately on possible further developments. Blakeley rang, glowing with gratitude, and the Home Office came back with a rather lordly message that the Home Secretary would be pleased to see him on Friday at eleven. But none of the calls provided any copy.
He decided to prod around for eurosceptic developments and called a leading Liberal Democrat MP. But the Liberal was wholly doubtful.
‘The PM's a stayer, Richard. He'll do everything in his power to keep his job.’
Hunter hinted delicately at cross-party forces massing behind Lord Doucereaux.
‘Balls.’ The Liberal had once been a Commando officer, and did not believe in mincing his words. ‘Butcher and his gang are just troublemakers, and Marley is stirring the pot. Jim will find something to blow them all apart.’
This sounded like a possible lead, and Hunter murmured encouragingly.
‘Don't know.’ It was hard to tell whether the Liberal was thinking wishfully, or genuinely had something on his mind. ‘Nobody has wrong-footed him yet, though plenty have tried. Something will come up. You can bet on that.’
Hunter returned sadly to his screen to write his Wonders background feature. Big story one day, nothing but drudgery the next. Life as a newspaperman could sometimes be very dull.
His telephone rang, and he picked it up without much enthusiasm. It was Jim Nash.
‘Wonderful, mate, wonderful.’ Nash sounded as though he was yelling at his telephone. ‘Brilliant story, real star stuff.’
Hunter perked up a little, murmuring an acknowledgement. Praise must always be sweet music.
‘You got me off a hook, mate, I can tell you.’ Nash sounded euphoric. He was a prudent man: he had sold out of Wonders, repaid his acquaintances, pocketed a few bob for himself, and was now totally free from care. ‘I owe you one.’
Hunter remembered Hella, and grimaced.
‘Come down here, any time, you'll get the best.’ Nash's voice dropped a couple of decibels to grow lubricious. ‘I'll put you in for a really nice bit of stuff, maybe a couple. They'll make those bleeding Swedes look like bloody hod-carriers. Come down tonight. We're having a bit of a jump-up for the Russians, and Sergei says he wants to fill you full of vodka. We'll be kicking off at half seven, caviar and Crimean champagne. You'll have the time of your life.’
Hunter licked his lips, and all of a sudden his irritation had quite melted away. Free crumpet on Tuesday, boozy lunch with Croesus and then slowdancing with Veronica on Wednesday, lunch with Alice Carew on Thursday, and a joust with the Home Secretary on Friday. He had no real reasons to fret at all.
Scott waved a piece of paper. It was a set of dull industrial statistics, and Hunter eyed them in disdain. But Madison had already cleared his desk and left for sunnier climes, whilst Naismith was still wrestling with the complexities of his new role.
‘Just bash out a filler, maybe a hundred words.’ Scott was almost deferential.
Hunter assented graciously: even star writers must occasionally hoe humdrum rows. Then a voice called from behind him, and a hand waved a telephone. He hurried back to his desk. It was Croesus' secretary, purring with charm.
She came straight to the point. ‘I'm dreadfully sorry, Mr. Hunter. But Mr. Harris had to cancel his lunch with you tomorrow.’
Hunter's heart dropped like a stone. Everything was brilliant one moment, and then events suddenly changed their minds.
But she was still speaking. ‘He wondered if you could come today instead. We'll get some people to bring in something cold, if you don't mind eating here.’
Hunter opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. His telephone purred at him interrogatively.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He struggled to stay afloat, but he could feel himself floundering. ‘I'd love to come.’
‘Half past twelve? Good.’ The purr filled with promise and melted away.
He glanced at his watch, realised that he was still holding Scott's sheet of statistics, and pushed them to one side of his desk as he punched Harris' name into his terminal, to scan the multimillionaire's file quickly, jot some useful leads, and slip back into his jacket.
Scott looked grumpy as he dropped the statistics back on his desk. ‘I thought you'd get it away before lunch.’
Hunter beamed. ‘Croesus changed his mind. He's moved me forward, and I'm on my way.’
Harris worked from a luxurious first floor suite in a palatial Park Lane building. The ground floor reception area was as lavish as the reception area of a supersmart hotel, with a coolly beautiful blonde ensconced winningly behind an expensively crafted desk. Elegantly banistered stairs circled away up out of sight, and an elaborate flower arrangement graced a wall alcove. The beautiful blonde smiled, pressing a key on a console, and Harris' secretary was already descending the stairs, her hands outstretched, as though to welcome the most important guest in the world.
‘Oh, poor Mr. Hunter.’ Her voice was pure honey. ‘Mr. Harris was really heartbroken to have treated you this way, chopping and changing so.’
Hunter waved her protest away graciously. He had been to see Harris before, and Harris' secretary had always been charming, but never quite as charming as this. She was an elegant woman with golden eyes and golden hair, cool in a pale beige silk summer dress, a model of efficient and glamorous restraint, and it was something magic to be treated so royally.
She led the way up the stairs, treating him to a glimpse of nicely-fleshed calves, and her slim beige silk backside swayed with a twitch that seemed quite unsecretarial. But she was already opening the door to Harris' suite, and the florid multimillionaire was advancing across an ankle-thick chinese carpet with hand outstretched.
‘Welcome, Richard, welcome.’ His voice boomed, and he pumped Hunter's hand, and they might have been two bosom friends meeting again after a long parting. His office suite was expensive in a grand Hollywood style - a massive, ornately carved mahogany desk and thronelike chair dominating one end of the huge room, three large screens set side by side on a mahogany table in a corner flickering with world stockmarket prices, exchange rates, and news service updates, whilst a fourth screened a golf tournament, and acres of ankle thick carpet surrounded two large overstuffed sofas facing each other across a gilt and crystal coffeetable, whilst an archway in the background opened on a long boardroom. The walls were covered with expensively pale green silk, and hung with an eclectic collection of modern art, canvases slashed with bright flames and complex swirls of primary colours.
‘Take a seat and let me fill you in on this Wonders business.’ Harris gestured at the sofas. He was in his shirtsleeves, with his cuffs rolled up to his elbows, and his tie at half mast, but his eyes were hard. ‘Morissey has walked straight into a trap, and some wide boys are just about to rip him off in a really spectacular way.’ He paused to light himself a fat cigar, and settled himself comfortably. ‘Do you want the real Wonders story?’
Hunter nodded warily. Harris lived in a world of deceptions and illusions, where dreams frequently passed for reality, and nothing was ever stable or certain. He positioned his CD recorder neatly on the crystal coffeetable top, midway between them, thumb poised ready to pin Harris to precision.
‘No, no.’ Harris looked alarmed, and waved a fat hand impatiently. ‘We're off the record.’
Hunter sighed. Croesus plainly wanted to dish some dirt.
‘No quotes, no sources.’ The florid multimillionaire was insistent.
They stared at each other, and Hunter nodded again. He could always try waiting for an hour or two, disguise whatever Harris told him as market rumours and then bounce them off a clutch of merchant bankers. Perhaps some smooth PR men were already doing exactly just that.
‘Bob's paddling his canoe straight up shit creek.’ Harris blew a large smoke ring. ‘He's way out of his depth.’
Hunter looked bored. This was just an opening fanfare. Stories, even market rumour stories, demanded better foundations.
‘He told you he's doing a deal with Elektron...’
Hunter began to tap with his fingers on his knee.
‘They're a bunch of crooks.’ Harris hesitated, as though weighing whether to trust Hunter, scowled as he tapped on, and began to speak at speed. ‘I've just come back from Moscow, I had dinner last night with two top men in the President's office, they talk to Vlodo all the time. They say Elektron’s a bag of junk. Melnikov and his gang just want to lay their hands on some hard cash and take to the hills.’
Hunter sighed. This was all much too gossipy, much too vague. He must have facts, and explanations. ‘So why were you buying?’
‘Me?’ Harris puffed furiously at his cigar, screening himself in smoke.
‘People say...’ Hunter hesitated. He must choose his words carefully. ‘People say that you cut a packet yesterday closing out a big short position, and switched to piling into traded calls last night.’
The smoke screen billowed thicker. ‘People? What people?’
‘People in the market.’
‘You mean Morrisey?’
‘People.’
They stared at each other, and it was a stalemate. Harris chewed the end of his cigar. ‘Well, you can tell your people that they're talking a load of crap.’ His cigar waved an angry denial. ‘I haven't lost a penny, and I was in Moscow last night.’
Hunter closed his eyes wearily. They were circling round and round, and going nowhere at all. A movement in the boardroom caught his eye. Two men in white jackets had begun moving around busily, and he heard the clink of cutlery and plates, and then the distinctive sound of a cork being drawn. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Perhaps it would soon be time to eat. He tried one last throw.
‘So you're just having a flutter?’
‘I'm just playing the market.’ The haze of cigar smoke cleared a little, and Harris’ eyes were the eyes of a weasel scouting a prey. ‘Your story started Wonders running, I want a cut.’ He exhaled a long plume of smoke. ‘Bob's got about a month, maybe two. He'll raise the cash, buy Elektron, and everybody will cheer. Then the market will realise that Melnikov has taken him to the cleaners, and Wonders will go into free fall. I'll be out of the calls and into the puts in a big, big way, and I'll make a bomb. Then I'll catch the bits when Wonders bottoms out, break the business up, flog them off, and clean up all over again.’
Hunter felt a small chill wind start to whistle along his spine. Harris plainly wanted to torpedo Morissey's plans, but he might also know some secrets. He echoed Harris' phrase. ‘Taken to the cleaners?’
The florid multimillionaire smiled thinly, the smile of a weasel now hot on a blood trail. ‘Elektron has a bunch of stone age plants. Morissey wants to stuff them with Western technology, upgrade them and make a killing, selling smart new vacuums and videos to the Russians, and exploiting rock bottom Russian labour costs to swamp the rest of the world.’
‘But that sounds smart.’
‘No, Richard.’ Harris blew three smoke rings in a row, and beamed with the arrogant confidence of a card sharp holding four aces. ‘He's taking Wonders straight up a cul-de-sac. Melnikov and his friends will strip out all the investment cash and vanish, and Morissey will just have a bunch of stone age plants.’
‘They won't be much use to you.’
‘Oh, yes they will. My friends...’
‘The ones who talk to Vlodo?’
‘The very same.’ Harris stabbed the air with his cigar. ‘They'll step in smartish, grab Melnikov by his collar, and confiscate his ill-gotten gains. Then I'll pick up Wonders, we'll rebuild Elektron together, and we'll laugh all the way to the bank.’
Hunter listened, and mused, and the wind along his spine was a cold, cold hand, stroking him with the finger of death. Harris was telling a typical Harris tale, centred on making a whole series of killings, and laying waste all his foes, and he had the look of a man with inside knowledge. Yet they were also playing a game of poker, where confidence ranked as a heavy bet - perhaps the heaviest possible bet - and bluff might very possibly pass muster as legal tender.
The multimillionaire got to his feet. ‘I think we should have something to eat.’
Lunch was smoked salmon and cream cheese on wafer thin toasts, followed by a lobster salad, with Pouilly Fume glowing in frequently replenished glasses.
Harris was a serious man when it came to eating, and they both chewed for a moment in silence. But Hunter's mind was spinning in overdrive. He could make a fortune if Harris was bluffing. But Cosgrave would blow away if Wonders melted down, and his own name would be blackened forever at Financeday. He was exposed, and it was a bad feeling. He finished a mouthful of lobster and sipped reflectively. He was sitting astride a razor blade. ‘It's a risky story to write.’
‘Don't write it.’ Harris waved a denying fork as he spoke. ‘We're off the record, remember?’
Something in the multimillionaire's manner suggested that he might be shadowboxing. Hunter's panic ebbed a fraction.
‘But it might be a nice rumour to bounce off some dealers.’
‘No dealers.’
Searchlights began to focus. ‘You're trying to build a rollercoaster.’
Harris nodded vigorously. Now he was beaming. ‘I want to ride Wonders a little higher, then close out.’
‘Open some bear positions and tip the market?’
He nodded again. ‘We've got to call the shots.’
Hunter busied himself with chunks of lobster. The bastard was bluffing, and trying to rig a two way ride. Such things were crimes, and everyone holding Wonders in Financeday would need warning. ‘You'll let me know...’
‘It'll be your scoop.’ Harris drained his glass. ‘I'll give you plenty of warning, as and when.’
They smiled knowingly at each other as a white jacketed waiter deftly refilled their glasses. New hands were being dealt, and a new game was starting.
The waiter cleared the table and came back with a large wooden board laden with cheeses, whilst his white-jacketed companion busied himself in the background opening a bottle that sounded remarkably like champagne. Now it might be time to talk Europlots.
Harris balanced a large chunk of a hard white cheese on an oatcake, crammed cheese and oatcake into his mouth, chewed for a moment, and smacked his lips. ‘Scottish sheep cheese, very tasty.’ He was smiling his weasel smile again. ‘We're setting another trap.’
Hunter scanned the cheeseboard and helped himself to a chunk of something blue from the West Country - each cheese was skewered with a neatly written identity card on a small stick - and washed it down with a good swallow of champagne. The combination was tasty, but he had a feeling that he was beginning to float gently away from hard reality. He looked quizzical - it was easier than speaking.
‘We're setting down a motion to follow the next set of economic statistics, at the end of the month. We’re turning round, and they're going to be brilliant.’ Harris spoke with the confidence of a man with spies in all the right places. ‘We'll congratulate the Chancellor on building Britain into Europe's fastest growing and most soundly based economy, and making sterling the Community's leading currency.’
He paused for effect, and Hunter nodded encouragingly whilst spearing another chunk of cheese. Politics was hungry and thirsty work.
‘Then we'll ask him to promise that he'll never give our lead away.’
Hunter came back to earth with a bump. ‘You mean never join the euro...’
‘As long as we're top dogs.’
Hunter's head was a little fuzzy, but he could still think more or less straight. ‘He'll never sign up to that.’
‘We'll make him.’ Determination replaced Harris' well-fed joviality as he flexed an iron fist in a velvet glove. ‘We can push it through.’
Hunter fought to get a grip on himself. ‘You've got the votes?’
‘All counted.’
‘He'll fudge it.’
‘We'll make him promise.’
‘He'll resign.’
‘We'll wave him goodbye.’ Harris' eyes were shining with the hungry expectation of a weasel bearing close down on its prey.
‘Dux for leader?’
The millionaire nodded.
‘Then Harry Kent?’
‘As day follows night.’
Hunter was silent. He suspected that Harris had begun to sketch another fable, wagering bluff again as confidence. But Parliament was a complex place, where might sometimes rode roughshod, and a riven House might well force out a vulnerable leader.
He took a deep breath, fighting to control himself, and was tempted almost beyond endurance by Harris' wine and Harris' hubris to brag a little himself. But Cradock must remain under wraps until he could drive his knife home.
One of the white-jacketed waiters was now pouring fresh champagne, and Harris raised his glass and to sniff it appreciatively. ‘Brought it from Moscow.’
Hunter grinned. He had regained control. ‘Last night?’
The two men drank a toast, and the second waiter brought small pastries stuffed with wild strawberries. They both ate slowly now, for they were both replete, and even a fine liqueur brandy would be hard to fit in.
Harris lit another fat cigar. ‘Traps are good business.’
Hunter was floating gently away from reality again, daydreaming about Jim's nightclub, and filling it with leggy blondes, all mad to lure him down sexually alluring paths. But something about Harris' words sounded an alarm bell. He looked quizzical again.
‘A man called Cradock. He's trying to set you up.’
Suddenly Hunter was stone cold sober. He waited.
‘He's got a bee in his bonnet, somebody in Whitehall ripped him off over his pension rights.’ Harris blew a series of lazy smoke rings, as though he was merely making conversation. But now they were playing poker for real. ‘He forged a lot of guff, tried to flog it round the quality Sundays. Nobody wanted to touch it.’
Hunter was silent.
‘I've heard he's doing his rounds again. Met you at Waterloo.’
The same cold hand of fear stroked Hunter's spine.
‘Be careful.’ Harris spoke as though he were just passing on a handy warning. But they were both skating on the tip of an iceberg.
Hunter nodded neutrally. He was giving nothing away.
‘I've had some people look into it, and I feel sorry for him - he's had a raw deal.’ Harris seemed to be inspecting the end of his cigar, but Hunter was certain that he was being watched carefully. ‘Tell him, when you talk to him next, to get in touch with me, and I'll make sure everything is put to rights.’
The door opens, and his secretary stood in the doorway smiling at them. Harris looked at his watch. ‘Christ, I've got to be going.’ He stood up, holding out his hand. ‘Remember, I'm going to make a couple of fortunes out of Wonders. My people tell me you met the Russians at Jim Nash's place, judge them for yourself.’ His fingers tightened on Hunter's. ‘Maybe I'll need some company on my rollercoaster. We could grow rich together.’
He laughed, and it was the sound of a weasel confident of its kill. ‘Keep in touch.’
Hunter realises that he was sweating as he descended the stairs from Harris's suite to street level, and it was a cold sweat, a sweat of fear. He had stepped into a world of deceptions and illusions, where dreams could pass for reality, but reality could also shadow nightmares, and nothing was stable or secure. He was being watched, and trailed, and a net might be closing. Friday and the Home Secretary were still three days away, and then he must strike, and strike hard, and strike true. He would have one chance, no more, and failure might demand his neck as forfeit.