Money Run (3 page)

Buckland looked sceptical. “You were researching tax law problems for global corporations recreationally?”

“I plan for them to be my problems someday, sir.”

“Interesting. Is that because you want to own a corporation, or because you want to be a tax lawyer?” He gestured at the chair opposite his desk. “Take a seat. And there's no need to call me sir.”

“Thanks, Mr. Buckland.” Ash sat down. The city sprawled out in front of her, uncaring and powerful, looming behind the windows like a shark in a tank.

“I'll tell you a secret,” Buckland said. He leaned forward. “You don't want to own a major corporation. Trust me.”

Ash stared at him. “That seems a strange thing for you to say.”

“Who'd know better than me?”

“You didn't get this far by accident.”

“No, you're right.” Buckland turned his chair sideways, and gazed out at the city. “I didn't.”

There was a pause. “So you built your empire,” Ash said, “and now you don't want it any more?” She smiled. “Can I have it?”

Buckland laughed. “That's what I'm saying. You don't want it.”

Ash wasn't sure what she'd expected from this conversation. But this wasn't it. When she was a child, her mother had told her that money was the most important thing in the world, because it could be traded for almost anything. Money bought success, and respect, and happiness. Ash hadn't imagined that a billionaire like Hammond Buckland would disagree.

“Statistics dictate that I will live for roughly another forty years,” Buckland was saying. “Divide $2.2 billion by forty, and you know what you get?”

Ashley frowned and thought for a minute. “Roughly $55 million?”

Hammond Buckland raised his eyebrows. “Exactly $55 million. Your maths is as good as your writing.”

“Just a lucky guess, Mr. Buckland,” she said. Maybe Benjamin was starting to rub off on her.

“Well anyway, my living expenses are nowhere near $55 million per year. Like most people, I'd settle for a nice home, a big TV, a holiday once a year, and a car that always starts. That would cost only a fraction of my savings. In fact, I'm currently earning money at a much faster rate than I could possibly spend it. I'm forced to save.”

“Lots of people would kill to have that problem,” Ash said.

“You'd be surprised how small a consolation that is. What's the point in having money you can't use? I spent my whole life lusting after wealth, and I didn't think about what I'd do when I had it until it was too late.”

“But why is that such a problem?”

Buckland sighed. “Because I can't buy back the things I had before I was rich. Anonymity, for instance. My face isn't that famous, but I can't sign a cheque without being stared at, or called a liar or both. And companionship – I can't make friends, or go on dates. Anyone I get close to will either be trying to exploit me, or they'll be at risk of being abducted.”

“Have you thought about giving the money away?” Ash asked.

“To a stranger on the street?” Buckland shrugged. “Their bank would never be able to cash the cheque. Unless they were with my bank, and I don't even know what would happen there. It'd be like a snake eating its own tail. And I can't sell the company, either – no one can afford to buy it for what it's worth, and if I try to sell it for less, the stock market will collapse.”

“I meant to charities,” Ash said. “Becoming a philanthropist.”

“I've tried that. It's hard to find charities that won't spend it on advertising or converting people to their own cause. And even with the good ones, it turns out there's only so much they can use. If you give a charity with too few resources too much money, they drown in it. The imbalance makes them collapse. It ends up being way more effective for me to build my own homeless shelters, send food to Africa myself, buy my own sections of rainforest for conservation. And I've been doing all these things, but my fortune keeps growing. I'm not spending enough. And the government tries to stop me.”

“The government?” Ash and Benjamin had researched the influence of governments on the rich and vice versa for the essay, and hadn't come across anything to suggest that wealthy individuals were discouraged from donating to charities. “Why?”

“Because I have no family or friends,” Buckland said. “And as such, I have no legal will. If I die, the running of the company goes to the various people below me on the ladder. But my majority holding of shares in HBS, my personal possessions and all of my savings will go to the government. So they want me to stay as rich as possible, so someday they can have it all.”

Ash's eyes widened. “Doesn't the government have way more money than you anyway?”

“Our nation is wealthy, but not so wealthy that my fortune is negligible to the economy. Particularly with our foreign debt, and the war costing us billions.”

“And they've tried to stop you from donating to charity?”

“They try to stop me spending any money on anything,” Buckland said. “Particularly anything overseas. They don't like my money leaving the country. At first they arranged special discounts for me on local products, equipment, labour, whatever. When they realized I didn't care, they started putting huge tariffs on foreign things so that it's impractical for me to have any connection to any kind of business outside our country.”

“Are they allowed to do that?”

“They never do it directly. From time to time I get singled out by another big company as someone you shouldn't trade with, and I can see the government pulling the strings above. When they can't do that, they change the law so it stops everyone from doing what I was trying to do. That way I can't claim bias.”

“But no one else notices because no one else is rich enough to be able to do those things anyway?” Ash tried to keep the cynicism out of her voice.

“Exactly,” Buckland said. “So here's my advice: don't get greedy. Think about your goals before you make them. And when you reach the finish line, don't just keep running out of habit. Take a moment to rest, be proud of what you've accomplished, think about how lucky you are. Otherwise you'll wake up someday and realize you're working yourself to death for a life you never really wanted.”

Ashley rested her hands on his desk. “So what are you going to do?”

“Me?” Buckland smiled. “I'm leaving the country. Tomorrow. I'm changing my name and going to a place where no one reads
Business Review Weekly
.”

The scuba suit made more sense now – although Ash wondered why he had it out already. “Really? I hadn't heard that.”

“Of course not. It's a secret.”

“Won't the government try to stop you?” Ashley stared at him. “Doesn't that kind of interfere with their plans for your money?”

“Let them try,” Buckland said. “But there's nothing they can do.”

Why is he telling me this? Ash thought. He doesn't know anything about me.

“Anyway, here's your cheque,” Buckland said. He handed Ash an envelope. “Ten thousand dollars; congratulations. Any plans for spending it?”

“Nope. I'm putting it in my AU account,” Ash said. “I'll have earned $350 interest by the end of the year.”

Buckland frowned. “You mean $700, don't you?”

Ash winced inwardly. She was splitting the prize money with Benjamin, but Buckland wasn't supposed to know that.

“Yes,” she said, “of course. Sorry, I'm just excited.”

“And here,” Buckland said, rummaging through his desk, “is a voucher entitling you to two regular coffees. You can either use it at the café downstairs, or at any coffee shop on this street – I own them all.”

He handed her a card in a little plastic wallet. “I know I've just given you enough money for about three thousand reasonably priced coffees, but the cheque will take a couple of days to clear, and I figured you might want one to celebrate right away.”

Ashley laughed. “Thanks, Mr. Buckland.”

“You're welcome,” he said. He glanced at his watch.

“This has been fun, but I'm supposed to be meeting a potential business partner at five o'clock. No rest for the wicked.” He offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Ash said, shaking it. “Good luck with your travels.”

“Thanks. And please don't tell anyone about that until I'm gone. You wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, right?”

Ash shook her head. “I'll keep my mouth shut. Least I can do.”

“Excellent.” Buckland punched in a combination on his keyboard, and Ash heard the locks on the big doors click open. “Well, goodbye.”

Ash turned to look at him once more as she approached the doors. He was already engrossed in other things, removing a piece of paper from his desk drawers with one hand and typing with the other. They would probably never meet again – the next time she saw him might be on the news, as the media realized he'd skipped town.

She twisted the handle and walked through.

Keighley smiled at her. “Hello again.” He nodded at a man sitting on the couch, in the same spot Ash had occupied while she was waiting. “Mr. Ford? You can go in now.”

The man looked up from his pocket watch, stood, and straightened his suit. He barely looked at Ashley as he walked past her through the doors. They swung shut behind him.

“Well, how was that?” Keighley asked. “Exciting?”

“Yeah, it was great.”

“Can I take you to the cafeteria, or are you going straight home?”

Ash needed to discuss the conversation with Benjamin. “It's okay, I'll show myself out. I need to use the bathroom first. Is there one on this floor?”

Keighley pointed down the corridor they had arrived through. “Third on the right. There's another lift you can use there. Remember to hand in your name badge on your way out.”

“Thanks.” Ashley started walking. When she was out of sight and earshot around the corner, she put her phone to her ear. “Still there?”

“How weird was that?” Benjamin said. “I didn't expect a ‘money is the root of all evil' lecture.”

“Neither did I. But you see our new problem?”

“He's leaving the country tomorrow.”

“That's right,” Ash said. “Someone else will take over, and the first thing they'll do is demand an inventory of the building.”

“So either he'll take the loot with him, or they'll find it.”

“Exactly. So now we have a time limit. Wherever he's hidden the money, we have to find it and get it out today. Before the building closes. This is our last chance.”

“I don't know about this,” Benjamin said. “You think we can still do it?”

Ash bit her lip. She knew that professional thieves usually got busted because they got too confident, too spontaneous, too greedy. They tried to take more than they could carry. She and Benjamin had never done a job this big. They'd never worked without a solid plan. They were breaking all the rules. They should abort.

But it was
so much money
.

“We can do it,” she said.

Peachey was reaching for his Glock even as the doors swung shut behind him. When my life is made into a movie, he thought, this part of the soundtrack will be heavy metal. Guttural guitars and bass-rich drums, more felt than heard. But with an electronic touch – Rammstein, maybe, or Marilyn Manson.

In the split second it took him to raise his weapon he was taking a mental snapshot of the room. The first quality of a good hit man was the ability to leave everything exactly as it was found. Spa. Desk. Scuba suit. Pot plant. Painting. Chairs.

Empty.

Peachey swung around. The office was empty. There was no sign of Buckland.

Peachey ducked into a crouch. Partly because he wanted to check under the tables and chairs, partly because in his line of work it was strategically good to duck whenever something didn't seem right. A crosshair could be pointed at the back of your skull.

Buckland wasn't under the furniture. Peachey looked up. He wasn't clinging to the roof, either.

Peachey scoured the room with increasing fury. No hidden doors in the walls, floor or ceiling. The windows weren't the kind that opened, and it was a twenty-five-storey drop anyhow. He'd been watching the door the whole time, so he knew that Buckland hadn't escaped that way.

Had he ever been in here in the first place?

“I've been expecting you…”

Peachey whirled back around towards the desk. He could see no one.

“…Mr. Peachey.”

Peachey turned the computer monitor around. Hammond Buckland's face stared grimly out of it.

“I know why you're here,” Buckland continued. “I know who sent you. I know your success rate is good – excellent, even – but I also know that today will be an exception.”

Peachey turned away from the monitor, put down the Glock, and tried to push the desk to one side. Maybe there was a trapdoor under it. But it was heavy, and barely budged. He picked up the gun.

“You've met your match. You're at my mercy. Just count yourself lucky that I have nothing to gain from killing you, and plenty to lose by giving you to the cops.”

Peachey wrenched the black painting off the wall. There was only wood behind it.

“I assure you that finding me is the least of your concerns,” Buckland warned. “You may have noticed that the doors are now locked. You probably didn't notice the room slowly filling with a colourless, odourless gas.”

Peachey stared at the monitor, heart pounding.

“It's an airborne barbiturate. Non-lethal, but I'd say you have about…” Buckland glanced down off camera, probably at his watch, “…two minutes before you lose consciousness.”

Peachey couldn't smell any change in the air, but he could hear a faint hissing. He closed his eyes. It was coming from the corner of the room.