The Deal (23 page)

“You are the doctor, Lucy. Remember?” her husband replied, beaming.

Scarlett hugged her mother, Lily scored a record number of points and Tabitha said “a brother, ugh”.

Charles wrapped himself around his wife and they lay down on their cushions as the sun beat down on them.

Lucy had been watching her husband with some intensity. She could see that he was, for much of the time, lost in his thoughts. But he was showing no further signs of struggling with his battle against alcohol. She knew herself that the abduction of Tabitha had given him every reason to give in to his demons. Time and again he had agonised over the bottle of scotch he placed in front of himself. His temper was frayed and his nerves were tested. He did not give in. He kept talking about the fact he was making a choice about how he wanted to live his life.

She suspected that he was thinking through something else. She realised that she was better advised to leave him alone. He would, in due course, tell her about it.

“Andrew, you’ve been saying that we are short of new market opportunities. I’m convinced that Dimitri could be a good client.”

“But you know nothing about him, Jody,” Andrew argued.

“But that’s your job. Every month I send salary slips to that lot out there. Let them perform.”

“They will. Of course they will, but ten million pounds, for us, it will absorb all our resources.”

Civil war broke out at Harriman Agnew Capital at lunchtime. During the preceding two hours, Dimitri Petraffus, his accountant, his lawyer and a woman who was never really identified, gave – what was accepted by those present – a dazzling presentation on his coal mines in southern Russia.

Dimitri did most of the talking. The accountant gave an impressive speech about international accounting standards and focused on Jody throughout. The lawyer produced a document which he said was a copy of the contract signed the previous evening with the Ukrainian customer. It was in Russian. Dimitri showed a final slide indicating that the required fund-raising was ten million pounds. He then announced that the valuation of the company would be sixty million pounds. And in a year’s time the shares could have a value of three hundred and sixty million pounds.

He looked directly at Andrew. “Read your financial pages, Mr Agnew. What are the deals the markets want? Mining. Look at Glencore. I’m bringing you a wonderful opportunity.”

“Dimitri,” Andrew said, “Glencore is the world’s largest commodities trader. It was valued by the market at over six billion pounds on its flotation on the London Stock Exchange in May. It’s Swiss-based. It had all the heavyweight finance houses behind it. Its competitors are Anglo American and Rio Tinto.”

Dimitri roared with laughter.

“You catch on well, Mr Andrew Agnew,” he laughed. “Now let’s talk about money.” He took some papers from his briefcase.

“I pay you a fee of three hundred thousand pounds and four percent of the funds you raise. That will be another four hundred thousand pounds. On the day you pay ten million pounds less your costs into my bank account I give you free, Mr Andrew Agnew, shares in my company. I will give Harriman Agnew eight million shares representing about three percent of the total of our shares. I am sure you can work out what that will be worth when our shares go to the London Stock Exchange.”

Oliver was the first of those present to calculate the answer of nearly eleven million pounds.

Dimitri, his accountant and lawyer, and the unidentified woman, left the offices soon after this exchange.

In the conference room Andrew was seeking the opinions of his colleagues. The tone was set by Gavin.

“Brilliant. Jody, you are a star,” he said. “It’ll take every waking hour we’ve got but Duncan and I can raise the money. Jody, you are going to see the accountants this afternoon. The lawyer has agreed to meet with ours tomorrow morning. Melanie, Martin, will you get the regulatory matters underway. Abbi, Dimitri will go down a treat with the fund managers. You should start preparing the institutional presentations immediately. As Dimitri said, after the success of Glencore, they’re all looking for mining deals.”

The whole room turned towards Gavin in complete surprise. He had spoken at some length without using a single expletive.

“Would you like me to research his mine and the Russian coal industry?” asked Sara.

“Why?” snapped Gavin. “It’s all here in the presentation. Why do we need you?”

“Andrew!” Oliver slammed his fist on to the table. “I’m head of corporate finance. I knew nothing about this deal. I accept that Jody was right to seize the opportunity but we are rushing headlong into a transaction we know nothing about. I don’t like the way it’s being done and how you’re all being dazzled by the money.”

“If that’s what public school taught you,” shouted Gavin, “I suggest you fuck off and become a professor of knitting! Bloody City Fiction. ‘It’s a gamble’,” he mimicked as he glared at Sara. “Crap. Raising two million pounds for that will exhaust our contacts. The institutions will bite our hands off for this coal mine.” Gavin looked at Oliver. “Stuff your publisher. Let’s do some real business.”

“Andrew,” Oliver pleaded. “You can see what’s going to happen. If you allow the deal to go ahead, I can see City Fiction being pushed aside. I can’t do it on my own.”

“Not on your own – with me,” said Martin.

“Thanks, Martin,” said Oliver. “With Martin. But we need our client base. That has to include Gavin and Duncan.”

“Forget it, fairy feet!” shouted Gavin. “We’re going to raise ten million pounds and make this company a fortune. Jody, what’s my commission on ten million?”

“Far too much,” she smiled.

“I really do think you should allow me to have a look at the background and the industry.” Sara turned to Andrew. “I can have a report on your desk in three days.”

Gavin looked at her with undisguised menace.

“I don’t know what you’re fucking doing here, Sara. I never wanted you interfering with our deals. I could have researched City Fiction standing on my arse.”

“I think you mean head!” roared Duncan.

“What I’m trying to say, Sara, is keep your fucking face out of our business. Got it?”

Oliver turned to Andrew.

“Andrew, you must step in. This is unacceptable behaviour.”

The chief executive tapped the table. “Meeting closed. Dimitri’s transaction goes ahead. Jody, my office please.”

That evening, Sara, Martin and Abbi decided to catch the tube train down to Embankment station where they walked a few hundred yards to find a pub. They wanted to be away from Queen Street.

Martin put their drinks on the table and looked at his two companions.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” he said. “How are we going to split our time between these mines and City Fiction?”

They remained silent for a few moments.

“Oliver’s out on a limb,” said Abbi. “Andrew is the boss. We have to go with Dimitri.”

“Gavin and Duncan are capable of raising the funds and it’ll boost our company performance,” said Martin. “I accept he was rude to Sara today – but we’re used to that.”

They sat together quietly in the dark interior of The Royal Oak in Witham Street.

Abbi was the first to speak again.

“We must try to complete both deals. We can’t leave Oliver on his own.”

“I worry that his mind’s more on Alistair’s sister, to be honest,” said Martin.

The two women looked at him in surprise.

“I didn’t know you were a gossip, Martin,” laughed Sara.

Abbi left the table and made her way to the crowded bar. She returned with another round of drinks.

“Any further thoughts?” she asked as she placed the glasses on their table.

“She’s pretty hot,” said Martin.

“No, Martin,” chuckled Abbi. “About us helping to complete both deals.”

“Let’s face facts. Gavin is deciding everything.”

They turned and faced Sara.

“She’s right,” said Abbi.

“But I smell something. Dimitri’s not right. He’s bought Gavin, I reckon.”

There was a pause while they reflected on Sara’s statement.

“And Jody, perhaps,” said Martin.

“I think I’m going to have to help you all out,” Sara said, in a quiet voice.

Andrew poured his partner a glass of sherry and reached for his gin and tonic. They were sitting on the twelfth floor balcony of their flat overlooking Regent’s Park.

“As days go, Rachel,” he said, “today was up there with the best.”

He then explained in some detail about the appearance of the Russian entrepreneur, the deal and the fund-raising involved, and the clash between Gavin and Oliver.

“It’s unusual for Jody to be involved, isn’t it?” Rachel observed.

“In the sense that finance directors do not normally generate new business, very unusual. But her role is very important. She seems to have Dimitri’s confidence and that will be helpful in obtaining all the financial information we will need.”

“I get it about the possible earnings and how it could be a great result for you. But why Harriman Agnew and why are you so sure you will raise the ten million?”

“Two good questions. The first is simple. Ten million pounds sounds a lot but it’s below the radar of most of our competitors. I suspect Dimitri has been doing the rounds and has found he is too small in City terms. Secondly, and this is so important, markets follow trends and at the moment, with the buying from the Far East, the price of energy and minerals continues to rise. There is virtually no new business activity within Britain because of the state of the economy. The institutions desperately need to invest their funds if they are to make returns for their shareholders. I share Gavin’s view. We can raise this money.”

“Yes, and make yourselves good bonuses… What about Oliver? I’m worried because I sense that he’s really your main back-up.”

“He was damaged today and he didn’t deal with matters very well. He never saw Gavin coming and if I’d intervened it would have diminished Oliver’s authority. My hope is that he can still complete the transaction for City Fiction.”

“I think one more small sherry is in order,” decided Rachel. She replenished her glass and sighed.

“I don’t know what really goes on but my suspicion is that Oliver is the front man. He is good with clients and staff. The dirty business of fund-raising is for Gavin and his pal. What’s his name?”

“Duncan Hocken, and you’re right, especially since we lost Ian Bridges.”

Andrew relaxed back in his chair. Rachel had hit on his major worry. Gavin and Duncan had no intention of helping to raise the funds for City Fiction.

Oliver closed the curtains, lay back in his Clerkenwell lounge, and listened to the music of Franz Liszt. “Not Russian,” he thought to himself, “but Hungary is pretty close.”

As the sound built up he read the CD cover notes:

“He was the greatest piano virtuoso the world has ever known. He literally redefined what ten fingers were capable of, and such was the sheer force of his musical personality that it took just a single touch of the piano keys to have adoring women collapsing at his feet in a swooning feint.”

He decided that the next time he entertained Amanda, the background music would be Franz Liszt.

The CD started with the Hungarian Rhapsody No.2. He read more of the cover notes:

“This piece features exuberant emulations of the cimbalam, ‘rubato’ violins, and the driving syncopated rhythms of the contemporary gipsy band.”

This was followed by Sara’s chosen piece, Liebestraum No. 3, a number of attractive compositions, and then the Mephisto Waltz No 1, described in the notes as:

“A no-holds-barred depiction of the tavern scene from Goethe’s Faust, in which a bored Mephisto decides to inject a bit of pep into the rather drab proceedings by grabbing a violin and playing havoc with the local band’s waltz tune. The dancers are then encouraged to abandon the formality of the waltz for a ravenous orgy of love-making.”

Oliver was struggling to connect his memory of ‘ascent’, ‘mountains’ and Russian piano music, plus the drums, but Sara had been compelling with her recommendation.

He listened to the nearly twelve minutes of the Mephisto Waltz. He replayed it and replayed it again.

He picked up his mobile and texted Sara.

“Mephisto Waltz. Great try. See what you mean. Not my music. Back to the Russian composers. Thanks for trying. O.”

Sara read the message quickly and threw her mobile back on to the bed. She returned to her screen and acknowledged with her thanks some information which had come in from Moscow.

She didn’t go to bed at all that night. She spent nearly two hours pulling the documentation left by the Russians apart. She ended up with three lists. The first was names, the second had country breakdowns and the third was a series of random thoughts.

She began a series of emails to her contacts and several replies came through almost immediately. Sara was quickly puzzled. Most of the responses confirmed the accuracy of the information that was given in the client proposal.

She realised that the task ahead was likely to be more complex than she had first thought.

She was certain that Dimitri Petraffus was a fake. She owed it to her employer to find out his true background. She was also determined to damage Gavin.

Oliver arrived at Elm Tree Road as Laurence Llewelyn Bowen was reaching the half-way stage of his Sunday morning programme on Classic FM. He had selected Elgar, Chopin and an obscure Austrian composer. There was no Russian music and no ‘da-de-da’.

Amanda appeared at the front entrance to her flat looking radiant in a white track suit. Oliver was sitting in his car waiting for her. She put her bag on the back seat, joined him in the front and kissed him lightly on the lips. They drove to her fitness centre where they changed and attacked their schedules on the various computer-based machines. Amanda discussed her latest printouts with one of the trainers, the conclusion being that she was very fit indeed.

They returned to her flat just before one o’clock. Amanda put a chicken in the oven and poured them both a glass of cold white wine. They sat down on the balcony chairs and looked out towards Lord’s Cricket Ground.