The Money Makers. Harry Bingham
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put something in the data room, then we were covered by the warranty. That’s true – unless that thing was already public knowledge, defined as something already being in the press. So what they do is, they take their bomb’s most dangerous part to a Norwegian journalist. A journalist who works for a Norwegian oil industry magazine with a circulation of about five thousand. They say what they have to say. The journalist writes a couple of paragraphs, in Norwegian of course, and bungs it in the magazine. Hey presto. It’s public knowledge. The story’s not big enough to be picked up elsewhere, and if it is, it’ll probably hit the English-language journals too late for the deal. After all, there aren’t all that many people with fluent Norwegian and an avid interest in the offshore oil business.’
Daggert shook his head. ‘So how the hell did you guys find this bomb? You read Norwegian oil industry magazines for fun?’
Zack shook his head. ‘Thinking about the data room afterwards, I realised that they’d concealed the first three pieces very carefully. They were a long way apart. Each one was buried in documents almost too boring to read. I realised that they had a perfect bomb, all they needed was some explosive. So then I started looking for the explosive. We used our databases to search the English-language press, then the press worldwide. Up pops this Norwegian article which mentions a sum of ten million pounds. And there we had it: a bomb, primed and ticking.’
Zack tossed the article across the desk with a translation. Daggert scanned it. It didn’t say much: just that there was a problem and that the Norwegians would be putting in a claim for the money. But it was enough.
‘You got notes on the other stuff, the other parts of the bomb?’ Zack shook his head. Daggert looked at his two subordinates: the ones who had been with Zack and Sarah in the data room. ‘Did you pick up this stuff?’ They both shook their heads and the more senior guy glowered at the junior guy, as though it was his fault. Daggert’s voice grew sharper. ‘You don’t have any record of this and you want me to drop my bid by ten million pounds?’
Hanbury leaned forward. Here was a chink of light. They could be honest with the client, but still maybe encourage the client not to change his bid. That would be the best of all worlds. He began to speak, but the arrogant young Gradley beat him to it.
‘I do have records, just not written ones.’
‘What?’ Daggert was pissed off. Was Gradley playing games?
‘I have a good memory. I don’t forget a fact.’
Daggert gave a sharp laugh. ‘That’s easily tested.’ He reached for the yellow legal pad of one of his subordinates. It was crowded with notes from the data room. Daggert flicked through the pages and looked at Gradley, his eyes openly challenging. ‘OK. File fifty-seven. Tab eight. Tell me what it says.’
Zack brought the file to mind, then the tab, then turned the tab to find the first page. He let the page swim out of memory into focus.
‘Employee grievance procedures,’ he said. ‘Disciplinary committees. First and second warnings. That kind of thing.’
Daggert nodded and flicked forward again through the notes. He smiled. This would be a good test. ‘File ninety-one. Tab four. There are some numbers on that page. Read them to me.’
Zack found the page and let it swim into view. Then he smiled and began to go red.
‘What’s up?’ said Daggert. ‘Something amuse you?’
‘Er, well, no not exactly,’ said Zack, his red deepening. This file hadn’t been one of his. It had been one of Sarah’s and he hadn’t looked at it fully. But as he tried to bring the picture to mind, he realised he had seen it after all. He had been standing up, getting a cup of coffee from the table at the side of the room. Sarah had been sitting in front of him, leaning over the file. Her light brown hair fell down either side of her neck, leaving it exposed, vulnerable, kissable – Zack had stared at her with yearning and found himself staring also at the file open in front of her: file ninety-one, tab four. ‘Sorry,’ continued Zack. ‘I was smiling because I remember Sarah – er – walking into the room about that time. I guess that must have been a nice experience for me.’
‘Nice to see a good team spirit,’ growled Daggert, glancing at Sarah, who went red in turn herself. But she wasn’t angry, just embarrassed. ‘Did you get a chance to look at the numbers too?’
‘Yes. Of course. The numbers you wanted were eighteen point six, fourteen point eight …’ He continued flawlessly. Daggert followed from the notes in front of him. Zack was perfect.
‘OK. Stop. You’ve proved your point. Good catch, young man. Piers, we’ll drop our bid by ten million pounds. Is that clear? We offer a hundred and fifteen million only.’
Hanbury swallowed. Damn Gradley. Damn him.
‘That’s perfectly clear. You do of course remember our advice that the winning bid is unlikely to be less than one twenty-five. I must warn you that your revised bid is most unlikely to win.’
The oilman glared at the aristocratic Hanbury.
‘Damn right. And we won’t overpay either.’
12
‘Kiki? It’s me. George.’
‘Georges, darling, how are you?’ Kiki’s English was excellent but she knew that a French accent sounded sexier and she exploited the fact for all it was worth.
‘I’m OK. Look, can you come over to my flat right away? I need to see you.’
‘Now darling? I’m going out right now. I have my hat on.’
‘You’re always just going out. I’ve ordered you a cab and it’s waiting outside your hotel now. Kiki, I need to see you.’
She paused for a moment, wondering whether to provoke him with a longer refusal.
‘OK, Georges. But you will need to admire my new suit very much. It is new today.’
George promised.
‘And I really am going out, so I will only be able to stay with you for two minutes.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘Maybe only one minute, if I have to spend time getting ready.’ Getting ready for Kiki meant fussing over her immaculate make-up and leaving expensive brand name cosmetics in other people’s bathrooms.
‘Kiki, I’ll give you a personal pedicure if I have to. Just get a move on.’
She came. An hour and a half late, of course, and carrying a bag from Harvey Nichols. But she came. Her new suit was stunning. Coral pink and perfectly fitted, it was as eye-catching as its price tag. George gave it as much praise as it deserved and almost as much as Kiki demanded.
Nobody annoyed George more than Kiki, but nor had any girl ever attracted him as much. Other than a kiss one New Year’s Eve in Monaco – which had meant a lot to George, but nothing at all, it appeared, to Kiki – nothing had passed between them. He was heavily built and, dressed differently, could easily have passed as a Yorkshire farmer: slow-talking, stolid, strong. She, in contrast, was petite, pretty, brightly coloured, fluttering constantly from one thing to another like a bird hopping from twig to twig. They were unlikely friends, but George kept her doggedly in his sight, as she skipped from Gstaad to Monaco to London to New York to Palm Beach to Milan and back home to her chateau in the Loire valley.
As for her, she showed no outward sign of attraction to George – or at least no more to him than to anyone else in her wide circle of friends. Yet it was noticeable that, wherever she went, her path always circled back to George’s flat in London. She sat on his sofas, showed him her latest purchases, scattered her make-up, showed him photos of the party she’d just come from, agonised with him about what to wear for the next one, patted his cheeks, called him darling, rumpled his hair and left him in a frenzy for the next visit.
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