Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  His other lover called that afternoon to warn him that she was on her way to the hospital. He asked Hong Kong to hold.

  “Why?” Nat asked anxiously.

  “Because I’m having your baby,” his wife replied.

  “But it’s not due for another month.”

  “Nobody told the baby that,” said Su Ling.

  “I’m on my way, little flower,” said Nat dropping the other phone.

  When Nat returned from the hospital that night, he called his mother to tell her she had a grandson.

  “Wonderful news,” she said, “but what are you going to call him?” she asked.

  “Luke,” he replied.

  “And what do you plan to give Su Ling to commemorate the occasion?”

  He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “A lady in a bath.”

  It was another couple of days before he and the dealer finally agreed on five thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, and the little Bonnard was transferred from the gallery in SoHo to the bedroom wall in their apartment.

  “Do you fancy her?” asked Su Ling the day she and Luke returned from the hospital.

  “No, although there would be more of her to cuddle than you. But then I prefer thin women.”

  Su Ling stood and looked at her present for some time before she gave a pronouncement.

  “It’s quite magnificent. Thank you.”

  Nat was delighted that his wife seemed to appreciate the painting as much as he did. He was only relieved that she didn’t ask how much the lady had cost.

  What had begun as a whim on a journey from Rome to Venice to Florence with Tom had quickly turned into an addiction that Nat couldn’t kick. Every time he received a bonus he went in search of another picture. Nat might well have been dismissive of the used-car salesman, but his judgment turned out to be correct, because Nat continued to select Impressionists who were still within reach of his pocket—Vuillard, Luce, Pissarro, Camoin and Sisley—only to find that they increased in value as fast as any of the financial investments he selected for his clients on Wall Street.

  Su Ling enjoyed watching their collection grow. She took no interest in what Nat paid for his mistresses, and even less in their investment value. Perhaps this was because when, at the age of twenty-five, she was appointed as the youngest associate professor in Columbia’s history, she was earning less in a year than Nat was making in a week.

  He no longer needed to be reminded that it was obscene.

  Fletcher remembered the incident well.

  Matt Cunliffe had asked him to take a document over to Higgs & Dunlop for signing. “Normally I’d ask a paralegal to do this,” Matt explained, “but it’s taken Mr. Alexander weeks to get the terms agreed, and he doesn’t want any last-minute hitches that might just give them another excuse for not signing.”

  Fletcher had expected to be back at the office in less than thirty minutes, because all he needed was to get four agreements signed and witnessed. However, when Fletcher reappeared two hours later and told his boss that the documents had neither been signed nor witnessed, Matt put down his pen and waited for an explanation.

  When Fletcher had arrived at Higgs & Dunlop, he was left waiting in reception, and told that the partner whose signature he needed had not yet returned from lunch. This surprised Fletcher, as it was the partner in question, Mr. Higgs, who had scheduled the meeting for one o’clock, and Fletcher had skipped his own lunch to be sure he wouldn’t be late.

  While Fletcher sat in the reception area, he read through the agreement and familiarized himself with its terms. After a takeover bid had been agreed, a partner’s compensation package was challenged, and it had taken some considerable time before both partners had been able to agree on a final figure.

  At 1:15 P.M. Fletcher glanced up at the receptionist, who looked apologetic and offered him a second coffee. Fletcher thanked her; after all it wasn’t her fault that he was being kept waiting. But once he’d read through the document a second time, and had drunk three coffees, he decided Mr. Higgs was either downright rude or plain inefficient.

  Fletcher checked his watch again. It was 1:35 P.M. He sighed and asked the receptionist if he could use the washroom. She hesitated for a moment, before producing a key from inside her desk. “The executive washroom is one floor up,” she told him. “It’s only meant for partners and their most important clients, so if anyone asks, please tell them you’re a client.”

  The washroom was empty, and, not wishing to embarrass the receptionist, Fletcher locked himself into the end cubicle. He was just zipping up his trousers, when two people walked in, one of them sounding as if he had just arrived back from a long lunch, where water had not been the only drink imbibed.

  First voice: “Well I’m glad that’s settled. There’s nothing I enjoy more than getting the better of Alexander Dupont and Bell.”

  Second voice: “They’ve sent over some messenger boy with the agreement. I told Millie to leave him in reception and let him sweat a little.”

  Fletcher removed a pen from an inside pocket and tugged gently on the toilet roll.

  First voice, laughing: “What did you finally settle for?”

  Second voice: “That’s the good news, $1,325,000, which is a lot more than we anticipated.”

  First voice: “The client must be delighted.”

  Second voice: “That’s who I was having lunch with. He ordered a bottle of Château Lafitte ’52—after all we’d told him to expect half a million, which he would have been quite happy to settle for—for obvious reasons.”

  First voice, more laughter: “Are we working on a contingency fee?”

  Second voice: “We sure are. We pick up fifty percent of anything over half a million.”

  First voice: “So the firm has netted a cool $417,500. But what did you mean by ‘for obvious reasons?’”

  A tap was turned on. “Our biggest problem was the client’s bank—the company’s currently $720,000 overdrawn, and if we don’t cover the full sum by close of business on Friday, they’re threatening nonpayment, which would have meant we might not even have got…”—the tap was turned off—“…the original $500,000, and that after months of bargaining.”

  Second voice: “Pity about one thing.”

  First voice: “What’s that?”

  Second voice: “That you can’t tell those snobs over at Alexander Dupont and Bell that they don’t know how to play poker.”

  First voice: “True, but I think I’ll have a little sport with…”—a door opened—“…their messenger boy.” The door closed.

  Fletcher rolled up the toilet paper and stuffed it in his pocket. He left the cubicle and quickly washed his hands before slipping out and taking the fire escape stairs to the floor below. Once back in reception, he handed over the executive washroom key.

  “Thank you,” said the receptionist just as the phone rang. She smiled at Fletcher. “That was good timing. If you’ll take the elevator to the eleventh floor, Mr. Higgs is available to see you now.”

  “Thank you,” Fletcher said as he walked back out of the room, stepped into the elevator and pressed the button marked “G.”

  Matt Cunliffe was unraveling the toilet roll when the phone rang.

  “Mr. Higgs is on line one,” said his secretary.

  “Tell him I’m not available.” Matt sat back in his chair and winked at Fletcher.

  “He’s asking when you will be available.”

  “Not before close of business on Friday.”

  26

  Fletcher couldn’t remember an occasion when he’d disliked someone so much on first meeting him, and even the circumstances didn’t help.

  The senior partner had asked Fletcher and Logan to join him for coffee in his office—an unusual event in itself. When they arrived, they were introduced to one of the new trainees.

  “I want you both to meet Ralph Elliot,” were Bill Alexander’s opening words.

  Fletcher’s first reaction was to wonder why he’d singled ou
t Elliot from the two successful applicants. He quickly found out.

  “I have decided this year to take on a trainee myself. I’m keen to keep in touch with what the new generation are thinking, and as Ralph’s grades at Stanford were exceptional, he seemed to be the obvious choice.”

  Fletcher recalled Logan’s disbelief that Alexander’s nephew had even made the shortlist, and they both came to the conclusion that Mr. Alexander must have overruled any objections from the other partners.

  “I hope both of you will make Ralph feel welcome.”

  “Of course,” said Logan. “Why don’t you join us for lunch?”

  “Yes, I feel sure I could fit that in,” replied Elliot, as if granting them a favor.

  Over lunch, Elliot never missed an opportunity to remind them that he was the nephew of the senior partner, with the unspoken implication that if either Fletcher or Logan should cross him, he could slow their progress to a partnership. The threat only served to strengthen the bond between the two men.

  “He’s now telling anyone who will listen that he’s going to be the first person to make partner in under seven years,” Fletcher told Logan over a drink a few days later.

  “You know he’s such a cunning bastard, it wouldn’t surprise me if he pulled it off,” was Logan’s only response.

  “How do you think he became student president of UConn if he treated everyone the same way as he does us?”

  “Perhaps no one dared to oppose him.”

  “Is that how you managed it?” asked Logan.

  “How did you know that?” asked Fletcher, as the bartender collected their glasses.

  “I checked your CV the day I joined the firm. Don’t tell me you didn’t read mine?”

  “Of course I did,” admitted Fletcher, raising his glass, “I even know that you were the Princeton chess champion.” Both men laughed. “I must run, or I’ll miss my train,” said Fletcher, “and Annie might begin to wonder if there’s another woman in my life.”

  “I envy you that,” said Logan quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The strength of your marriage. It wouldn’t cross Annie’s mind for a second that you could even look at another woman.”

  “I’m very fortunate,” said Fletcher. “Maybe you’ll be just as lucky one day. Meg on the reception desk can’t take her eyes off you.”

  “Which one is Meg?” asked Logan as Fletcher left him to pick up his coat.

  Fletcher had only walked a few yards down Fifth Avenue, when he spotted Ralph Elliot approaching. Fletcher slipped into a doorway, and waited for him to pass. Stepping back out into a raw cold wind that required ear muffs even if you were only walking a single block, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his scarf, but it wasn’t there. He cursed. He must have left it in the bar. He would have to collect it tomorrow, but then he cursed again when he remembered Annie had given it to him for Christmas. He turned around and began to retrace his steps.

  Back in the bar, he asked the girl at the coat check if she’d seen a red woolen scarf.

  “Yes,” she replied, “it must have fallen out of your sleeve when you put your coat on. I found it on the floor.”

  “Thank you,” said Fletcher as he turned to leave, not expecting to see Logan still standing at the bar. He froze when he saw the man he was talking to.

  Nat was fast asleep.

  La dévaluation française—three simple words sent the tapes from a gentle murmur into a chattering panic. The phone by Nat’s bed was ringing thirty seconds later, and he immediately gave Adrian the order, “Get out of francs as fast as you can.” He listened and then replied, “Dollars.”

  Nat couldn’t remember a day in the last ten years when he hadn’t shaved. He didn’t shave.

  Su Ling was awake by the time he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later. “Is there a problem?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  “The French have devalued by seven percent.”

  “Is that good or bad?” she asked.

  “Depends how many francs we’re holding. I’ll be able to make an assessment just as soon as I can get to a screen.”

  “You’ll have one by the side of your bed in a few years’ time, so you wouldn’t even need to go into your office,” said Su Ling, letting her head fall back on the pillow when she saw 5:09 flick up on the bedside clock.

  Nat picked up the phone; Adrian was still on the other end of the line. “It’s proving difficult to get out of francs; there are very few buyers other than the French government and they won’t be able to go on propping up the currency for much longer.”

  “Keep selling. Pick up yen, deutschmarks or Swiss francs, but nothing else. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes. Is Steven there?”

  “No, he’s on his way. It took me some time to find out whose bed he was in.”

  Nat didn’t laugh as he replaced the receiver. He leaned over and kissed his wife before running to the door.

  “You’re not wearing a tie,” said Su Ling.

  “By tonight I might not be wearing a shirt,” Nat replied.

  When they had moved from Boston to Manhattan, Su Ling had found an apartment only a cab ride away from Wall Street. As each bonus came in, she’d been able to furnish and decorate the four rooms, so that Nat soon felt able to bring his colleagues and even some clients back for dinner. Seven paintings—few that laymen would have recognized—now adorned the walls.

  Su Ling fell back into a half sleep as her husband left. Nat broke with his usual routine as he leaped down the stairs in twos and threes, not bothering to wait for the elevator. On a normal day, he would have risen at six, and phoned the office from his study to ask for an update. He rarely had to make any major decisions over the phone, as most of their positions were locked in for several months. He would then shower, shave and be dressed by six thirty. He would read the Wall Street Journal while Su Ling prepared breakfast, and leave the apartment around seven, having looked in on Luke. Rain or shine, he would walk the five blocks to work, picking up a copy of the New York Times from a box on the corner of William and John. He immediately turned to the financial section and if the headline grabbed his attention, he would read it on the move, and still be at his desk by seven twenty. The New York Times wouldn’t be informing its readers of the French devaluation until tomorrow morning, by which time, for most bankers, it would be history.

  When Nat reached the street, he hailed the first available cab, and removed a ten-dollar bill for a five-block journey, and said, “I need to be there yesterday.” The driver immediately changed lanes, and they pulled up outside his office four minutes later. Nat ran into the building and headed for the first open elevator. It was packed with traders, all talking at the tops of their voices. Nat learned nothing new, except that the simple announcement had been made by the French Ministry of Finance at ten o’clock, central European time. He cursed as the elevator stopped eight times on its slow progress to the eleventh floor.

  Steven and Adrian were already at their desks in the trading room.

  “Tell me the latest,” he shouted as he threw off his coat.

  “Everyone’s taking a bath,” said Steven. “The French have officially devalued by seven percent, but the markets are discounting it as too little too late.”

  Nat checked his screen. “And the other currencies?”

  “The pound, lira and peseta are also going south. The dollar is climbing, the yen and the Swiss franc are holding steady, while the deutschmark is bobbing.”

  Nat continued to stare at his screen, watching the figures flick up and down every few seconds. “Try and buy some yen,” he said as he watched the pound drop another point.

  Steven picked up a phone linked directly to the trading desk. Nat stared in his direction. They were losing valuable seconds as they waited for a trader.

  “How much is the trade?” barked Steven.

  “Ten million at 2068.”

  Adrian looked away as Steven gave the order.

  “And se
ll any pounds or lire we’re still holding because they’ll be the next to devalue,” said Nat.

  “What about the rate?”

  “To hell with the rate, just sell,” said Nat, “and get into dollars. If it’s a real storm, everyone will try to shelter in New York.” Nat was surprised how calm he felt amidst the barrage of shouting and cursing around him.

  “We’re out of lire,” said Adrian, “and are being offered yen at 2027.”

  “Grab them,” intoned Nat, his eyes not moving from the screen.

  “We’re out of the pound,” said Steven, “at 2:37.”

  “Good, transfer half our dollars back into yen.”

  “I’m out of guilders,” shouted Adrian.

  “Switch them all into Swiss francs.”

  “Do you want to sell our deutschmark position?” asked Steven.

  “No,” said Nat.

  “Do you want to buy any?”

  “No,” repeated Nat. “They’re sitting on the equator and don’t seem to be moving in either direction.”

  He’d finished making decisions in less than twenty minutes, and then all he could do was stare at the screens and wait to see how much damage had been done. As most currencies continued their downward trend Nat realized others would be suffering far more than he was. It didn’t help.

  If only the French had waited until midday, the usual time to announce a devaluation, he would have been at his desk. “Damn the French,” said Adrian.

  “Clever French,” countered Nat, “to devalue when we’re asleep.”

  The French devaluation meant little to Fletcher as he read the details in the New York Times on the train into work the following morning. Several banks had taken a bath, and one or two were even having to report solvency problems to the Securities and Exchange Commission. He turned the page to read a profile about the man who looked certain to be running against Ford for president. Fletcher knew very little about Jimmy Carter, other than that he’d been governor of Georgia and owned a large peanut farm. He paused for a moment, and thought about his own political ambitions, which he’d put on hold while he tried to establish himself at the firm.