The Account. Roderick Mann
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And within weeks Brand, almost immobilized with grief, suffered a heart attack. At first he was forced to rest, but then, ignoring Rex Kiernan’s warnings, he had plunged back into work. And, until that morning in Geneva, felt reasonably fit.
According to the latest Fortune magazine, he was now the sixth richest man in America. A workaholic, he spent most of his time on the top floor of the thirty-storey black glass building on Madison Avenue where the Brand Corporation was based. There, he put in a fourteen-hour day, overseeing a business empire with interests in oil, shipping, hotels, food processing and drugs.
‘The Man Who Has Everything’, Business Week dubbed him in a piece that was laudatory but glaringly short of facts, for Brand never gave interviews and provided no biography for inquisitive journalists. Even the accompanying photograph was an old one.
Brand knew that success usually came either through an accident of birth or the sheer power of will. But in his case it was both. At twenty-two, with $50 million inherited from his father, he had tasted the heady fruits of power and found them to his liking.
Calculating risks to the nth degree he flew in and out of the world’s capitals making deals and increasing his fortune. He took gambles that even the biggest banks balked at. With the Pacific Rim booming, he waited until Indonesia’s currency became convertible and then invested heavily, knowing the country was rich in natural resources. Within two years his investment had tripled. He then moved into the Finnish market, which was underpriced, and doubled his money within a year. Then, anticipating the dollar’s fall, he invested heavily in other currencies.
Since Jane’s death, however, he found himself deriving less and less satisfaction from the mere making of money. He wanted someone, or something, to change his life, to set him on a new course.
Speeding down the neon-lit autoroute into Paris he lay back against the chill leather of the limousine and closed his eyes. He realized he had never felt so lonely in his life.
Georges di Marco awoke suddenly. He glanced at the clock by his bedside. It was 2.30 a.m. He had been asleep less than two hours. Touching his forehead he realized it was damp with perspiration. The dream. It was always the same. Ghosts from the past, jeering, pointing fingers. And money, stacks of it, scattering in the wind as he tried to count it. He sat up, switching on the bedside light. I’m an old man, he thought; I should be sleeping soundly. My conscience should be clear. Instead I awake in dread.
For a moment, as a spasm of nausea assailed him, he feared he might be sick, and reached for a handkerchief. What’s the matter with me? he thought, on the edge of panic. Why is this happening? He took a drink of water from the glass on his bedside table.
I must tell someone, he decided. That man with the Federal Banking Commission – Albert-Jean Cristiani – I will call him. Take him to dinner. Ask his advice. Produce the diary, perhaps. He will know what I should do. He will realize I am an honourable man.
He bunched the pillows beneath his head. Switching off the light he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.
Julia Lang had thought herself prepared for the encounter, for the time when she would have to face him again, but now that the moment had arrived, now that he was standing there in the lobby of London’s Burlington Hotel talking to one of the guests, she was swept by a feeling of such revulsion that for a moment she feared she might be physically sick.
It had been-sixteen years since their last meeting and seeing him again it seemed to her that he had not changed at all. The same aristocratic stance, hands behind his back; the same black hair brushed straight back; the same rimless spectacles. And the same dark grey suiting with a light blue tie.
Her face set, she walked towards him.
He turned, pivoting on one foot. ‘Miss Lang. Good morning.’ It was as if nothing had ever happened; he might have been greeting her after an absence of a day instead of all those years.
He turned to the elderly American by his side. ‘Mr Elliott, this is Julia Lang, Publicity Director for the hotel.’
The American looked approvingly at Julia’s shoulder-length blonde hair and deep-set grey eyes. In a lobby full of pale-faced people in heavy winter coats she stood out sharply in her forest-green velvet jacket and black skirt.
He smiled warmly. ‘Glad to know you, Miss Lang. I was just telling Mr Moscato here how impressed we are with the Burlington.’
‘Will you be staying in London long?’
‘Just a week. Mrs Elliott wants to see a couple of shows. I want to get some shirts made. Turnbull and Asser – I like their shirts.’
Julia smiled politely. ‘If there’s anything I can do while you’re here …’
‘Thank you, Miss Lang. We’re being looked after very well.’
Julia excused herself and walked back towards the executive offices. She realized with a pang of dismay that just being near Guido Moscato had made her feel soiled. She had not expected that. Well, she would have to come to terms with his presence. It was that or quit; those were her only choices. But she loved her job. And if she walked out with two years left of her contract, her chances of working for another London hotel were slim.
In her office at the end of the corridor, Emma Carswell, her secretary, was waiting with a sheaf of letters to sign. Seeing Julia’s expression, she frowned.
‘You’re looking glum.’
‘I just ran into Moscato,’ Julia said.
Emma groaned. ‘He’s finally here, then.’
‘Arrived yesterday.’
‘Did he say anything?’
Julia shook her head. ‘There was someone with him.’
‘You’re sure he recognized you?’
‘Of course.’
Emma nibbled on her lower lip. ‘Of all people for the Sultan to hire.’
‘He must think Moscato is a good choice,’ Julia said.
‘How did he ever hear of him?’
‘Everyone knows the Palace on Lake Como.’
Emma put the letters on her desk. ‘I still think you should have told the Sultan what happened …’
‘Emma, the Sultan runs this hotel as a business. People’s personal lives don’t come into it.’
She moved round to the other side of her desk and sat down in the swivel chair.
‘Are you going home to change for the party?’ Emma asked.
‘I brought a dress with me.’
She had been looking forward to the cocktail party that evening, planned months earlier to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Burlington’s reopening after its £40-million face-lift. All the hotel’s guests had been invited, together with people from London’s social and political circles. Julia had even bought herself a black cocktail dress from Louis Féraud, an extravagance she excused by convincing herself it would be useful for other occasions. But with Moscato’s arrival at the hotel much of her earlier enthusiasm had waned.
Emma paused before returning to her own office. ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad,’ she said, her face rather implying the opposite.
Julia mustered a faint smile and reached for her pen.
By 7.30 p.m. the Terrace Room was crowded. Guido Moscato stood just inside the wide mirrored doors greeting guests.
Inside the huge room, bars had been set up at either end. In the centre a buffet table was laden with delicacies prepared by the Burlington’s chef, Gustave Plesset. In a far corner a willowy