The Cézanne Chase (11 page)

She smiled. “On to more important matters. Let me pay you for the new frame.”

L
ancet Ventures Ltd. occupied the thirty-first floor of National Westminster Tower, the tallest building in the City of London, though no longer the highest in all of Greater London, as that distinction belonged to One Canada Square on Canary Wharf, the spectacular and speculative real estate development that had come into being in the middle of the Thames River. Lancet's offices were furnished in an understated elegance and, by the reckoning of some, expensive beyond reason. The grandest space of all was a conference room that commanded a view of the Thames to the south and St. Paul's Cathedral to the west. Beneath a wide spreading chandelier was a table made of teak inlaid with blond and brown grained woods, surrounded by two dozen high-backed chairs upholstered in a silk fabric designed with eagles and lions and purple-red roses. A painting by Jackson Pollock and one by Andrew Wyeth were given prominence on an interior wall and were flanked by two unremarkable paintings by contemporary British artists. One, a geometric exercise in shapes of red, was by Margaret O'Rourke and aptly titled
Untitled A
while the other,
Number 3–1954
by Jeremiah Tobin, was a vast canvas of blue with streaks of purple and green that had been applied by a broom swept over wet paint.

Lancet Ventures was owned equally by First Bank of New York and London/Westminster Securities. The New York offices were precise duplicates of those in London and were located on the thirty-third floor of the World Trade Center towers in lower Manhatten. Lancet's business was the infusion of capital into new enterprises, and over a threeyear period Lancet had scored a few hits but too many misses; so word had come down from the executive suite to “stop the bleeding.”

The senior managing partner from New York had come to London to meet with his counterpart about the ominous signs that Lancet 's largest deal, a once promising investment in high-priced fine art, was about to turn sour. At stake were loans of over $100 million, and also in
the jaws of jeopardy were the partners' share of profits and the the nearly $3 million deposited to their escrowed “set-aside” accounts.

Harold “Bud” Samuelson was a thin-lipped, short man with alert, searching eyes, a tan from the sun room in the New York Athletic Club, and a nervous way of talking with his hands and odd shakes of his shoulders. He was forty-two, University of Missouri and Harvard Business School, and known as a shrewd negotiator.

London's senior managing partner was Terrance Sloane. Terry Sloane was forty-five and had reached his position through gutsy hard work and a brilliant record in international assignments. He was not old school, only reasonably well-connected socially, but had succeeded on the strength of a sharp business mind, old-fashioned common sense, and a penchant for working twenty-hour days.

Samuelson had spent his entire flight on the Concorde preparing himself to face the man who had been advanced a kingly sum to acquire a collection of great paintings but who had failed to generate the promised profits. In the process Samuelson had put himself on a sharp edge, and now his face was fixed in taut determination. His first words gave away his pent-up frustration. “The bastard's going to give us a weary story and demand an extension. Hear what I'm saying, Terry? He'll go for the fucking initiative and do all the demanding.”

“He might have a good argument, Bud. Remember, he's had an incredible loss, made doubly so with the murder of his curator.”

“I'm sorry about Barnes or whatever his name was, and about the painting, too. I didn't know he owned that kind of stuff.”

“The curator's name was Boggs,” Terry Sloane said, “and his ‘stuff,' as you call it, is first rate.”

“We were pretty damned stupid to get sucked into a deal where we can't invade his personal holdings, especially when the bastard's got God knows how much tied up in his own paintings. He's got a pair of balls the size of the Tower Bridge, for Christ's sake.”

“We were stupid for not knowing more about the art market.”

Samuelson was not interested in talking further about his or Terry Sloane's stupidity. “I assume the painting was insured, and pretty well spread around.”

“Lloyd's, probably.”

“You know damned well he's going to demand an extension.”

“Wouldn't you?” Terry Sloane asked.

Samuelson flipped open a folder. “Here's six pages of all his
goddamned assets—not including his painting. He's got money. Plenty of it.”

“He's leveraged up to his neck.”

Beverages and ice had been set out on a table beneath the large blue painting with the purple and green streaks. Samuelson poured a tall glass of soda water and returned to the table. As it was customary for the visiting senior partner to sit at the head of the table, Terry Sloane had staked out his position to Samuelson's right, and in front of the chair to Samuelson's left were pads, pens, and a telephone.

“He'll be exactly ten minutes late,” Terry Sloane predicted, and added wryly, “It's part of his charm.”

At that moment the door opened and an attractive woman came into the room. “Hello, Bud,” she said warmly. “You didn't stop to say hello.”

Samuelson stood. “You were having a torrid affair behind closed doors.” He held up his glass to her. “I didn't peek.”

Her reply was to close her eyes and shake her head gently. “Do you want me to sit in or listen in?”

“I'd prefer that you listen, Marybeth,” Terry Sloane said, getting to his feet and coming to her side. “Alan's apt to be on his high horse, and he's easier to deal with when he doesn't have an audience.”

Marybeth Warren was a lawyer and a good one. She had been chosen as general counsel from the parent bank's fifty-lawyer legal department. She was an American married to an Englishman and the mother of two small children. Marybeth was an all-around success yet was not in the conventional mold of highly accomplished people who also exhibit strong personality quirks. There was something awesome in that.

“I feel badly about his curator; that was terrible news. If there's a chance, I'd like to say that to him.” She paused momentarily. “I want you to tell him that the meeting is being recorded. I know you don't like doing that, but I do.”

The men exchanged glances, then Samuleson spoke up. “We'll explain that he's being recorded—that it isn't bullshit time.”

Marybeth smiled. “You still have a delicate way with words, Bud.”

Terry Sloane's secretary came into the room and announced that Mr. Pinkster had arrived.

It was exactly ten past six o'clock.

Alan Pinkster and Bud Samuelson first met in Japan in the mid-eighties.
Pinkster was with an aggressive New York–based brokerage house that was expanding its international department. Samuelson was second in command of his bank's Tokyo office. Terry Sloane and Pinkster knew each other through their wives; they had been schoolmates. Pinkster's wife, after her divorce, remained a close friend of Sloane's wife and became the source of information about Pinkster's celebrated pursuit of wealth and possessions.

Pinkster came into the room, his high anxiety-level clearly showing, his air of confidence equal to a board chairman who had summoned his minions to announce plans to snap up his largest competitor. His usually crisp appearance was marred by the rash on his forehead and cheeks that he had been unable to put under control. His gruff greeting was meant to convey that he was anxious for the discussions to begin and be over quickly so he could go on to more important matters. He put his thin briefcase next to the telephone, pulled the chair away from the table and sat. Samuelson and Terry Sloane remained on their feet, waiting for Pinkster's early head of steam to subside.

“Long time no see,” Samuelson said, then added, “Sorry about Boggs. That's awful stuff.”

Pinkster turned his head up. “I lost two good friends.”

“Boggs was a genuine tragedy. The loss of the painting was terrible, but it was a painting, and those things can be replaced.”

Pinkster stared hard at Samuelson. “Not that painting. It was irreplaceable.”

“It puts you in very good company, I'm afraid to say,” Terry Sloane said.

Pinkster ignored the comment and, looking at Samuelson, said, “How did your Cardinals do this year?”

“You really want to know? The pitching staff had an ERA of 4.68, and the team couldn't hit shit. That's how.”

“You Americans go on about baseball with numbers and statistics.” Terry Sloane interjected. “Is that the fun of it?”

Samuelson said, “Alan was a Yankee fan when he was in New York. Right?”

Pinkster nodded his reply, then turned his eyes to the notepad. He took the pen and wrote the date at the top of the page. “Shall we begin?”

Terry Sloane replied, “Before we start, Alan, I want you to know that our discussion is being recorded, and you will be provided with a copy of the tape. Do you understand?”

Pinkster nodded.

Samuelson spoke up. “For the record, please acknowledge that you understand that our discussion is being recorded.”

Pinkster said angrily, “I acknowledge that you've got a bloody tape recorder going.”

Samuelson neatened the folders and notepads that he had set out on the table and looked directly at Pinkster.

“There's a substantial amount of money at stake in all this, and I'm sure that you want to see a fair resolution as much as we do. Eighteen months ago we put $40 million into your Pacific Bowl operation. Six months later, another twenty-five, and forty more in March of this year.”

“A hundred and five million,” Pinkster said with closed eyes and a flat, impatient voice. “I know the numbers.”

“I think, for the record, we should go over all the numbers,” Samuelson said with firm insistence. “Interest payments to date total $2.5 million. The principal has not been reduced. Total outstanding interest due on the account, as of close of business today, is $6.84 million.”

“Less three million.” Pinkster handed Samuelson a draft made payable by the Sumitomo Bank of Tokyo.

Terry Sloane twisted forward and ran his hand across his chin. “That's not enough, Alan. Not even a good try.”

“It's bloody damned enough,” Pinkster snapped. “And under the circumstances, a goddamned good try.”

Samuelson got to his feet and took several steps toward the row of windows. He turned, shoved both hands into his pockets, and began speaking softly and deliberately.

“Alan, I've watched you operate in Japan and New York, and I know you're a bright son of a bitch with a God-given talent for making money. But good as you are, you can't control events, and you can't control markets. You can just read them.”

Pinkster sat motionless, all but his eyes, which shifted upward and glared at Samuelson.

“The Japanese had a financial scandal a few years ago. There were suicides and arrests. A pretty awful mess. I learned recently that you were in on that deal, that you were one of a few non-Japanese who were offered a private placement of Recruit Cosmos stock, and you made a shitpot full of money.”

“Less than two hundred thousand,” Pinkster said. “And that has nothing to do with Pacific Bowl.”

“We think it does,”Terry Sloane said.

“I'm telling you it doesn't,” Pinkster said defiantly.

“The Recruit Scandal is long over with, we don't care that you made some money. What's important to us is the fact you were cut in on the deal.” Terry Sloane leaned back in his chair. “We want to know why.”

Pinkster rubbed ointment over his lips. “I got a phone call. Nothing remarkable about that. I knew a lot of people, and I gave them a good tip from time to time.” He made several indecipherable scribbles on the notepad. “I'm the best at what I do, and in Japan you get rewarded for doing it.”

“You were trading heavily with Tokyo's largest securities firms. With Nomura and Nikko and not with your own company. Why?”

“I was trading for special customers.”

“You were employed by Aubrey & Weeks and were handling customer trades through other brokerage houses? Isn't that a bit odd?”

“I had opportunities on the side. They couldn't be handled in the usual way.”

“You say you got a phone call on the Recruit deal. Who was that from?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Oh, but you can,” Samuelson said. He stood beside his chair, an arm draped over its high back. “We're into Pacific Bowl to the tune of 105 million bucks plus interest, and every goddamned thing you do is our business.”

“The call was from the chairman of Recruit. I'd helped him buy several paintings. He was returning a favor.”

“They're big on that ... you do me a favor, I do one for you.”

“Private placement of a new stock issue was common practice. And legal.”

“Then why did so much shit hit the fan?” Samuelson asked. The country went crazy over the Recruit scandal.”

“Because three cabinet ministers accepted stock donations from Recruit. That's different from buying the stock, even at a steep discount. They resigned, and that forced the prime minister to resign. The head of Nippon Telegraph and Telephone got mixed up, and he quit. Is that crazy enough?”

“And you came out of it clean as a goddamned whistle?”

“First off, I'm not the bloody head of the Japanese government or the world's largest corporation. And I didn't take a donation, I was given the chance to buy a thousand shares, and I bought them. All perfectly legal.”