Chapter 10
The telephone rang in the king’s suite at The Four Seasons Hotel. The king automatically looked at his watch. Two o’clock. Prompt, if it was Markham. The staff sergeant, in his best uniform picked up the phone, spoke three words and put the receiver down again. He turned to the king. “Markham, Sir. I told them to send him up.”
The king had selected the staff sergeant to be present based, firstly on his physique in case it came to blows, and secondly on his discreetness. The man had his revolver on his belt. It was loaded, on the king’s direction. He didn’t know what was going on, why the king was dressed like an actor in a play. It was not his business.
The doorbell rang, and the king gestured to the sergeant to answer the door. Markham bounced in.
“To see the prince, young man.” His voice booming out into the apartment, and the man himself propelling his gammy leg in a series of arcs through the lobby and into the sitting area of the suite, where the king, dressed as the prince, was standing in front of the fireplace. Set with a real fire competing with the air conditioning.
The king forced a smile and shook his hand. “I thought we would sit here and have an informal chat,” he said, pointing to the sofas drawn at right angles, with a coffee table in the angle. Markham limped to the nearest sofa, and the king occupied the other one.
“Would you care for a drink?”
“Whisky, please.”
The sergeant stood to attention at the door.
The king said: “Could you pour us some drinks, Staff? One whisky, and one mineral water.”
When the drinks were served, the king asked the sergeant to stand in the corridor outside the apartment. The conversation should not be overheard.
“Well, Mr Markham, you say you are a very rich man?”
“Correct.” Markham at his most confident, firmly into scam mode.
“What I have to say must never be revealed. It is to be kept in complete confidence, you understand?”
“Of course. And, I might say, your money would only be invested in the safest ways, and of course you could withdraw it on demand.”
“What are you talking about?” The prince looking bewildered.
“I thought you wanted to invest into one of my trust funds?”
“How did you get that idea?”
For the first time probably in his life, Markham was lost for words, opening and closing his mouth without issuing any sound.
“I’ll explain, I am going to undertake a venture, and to finance it I need to borrow ten million pounds sterling for about a week, ten days at the maximum. Then I will repay thirteen million. That isn’t bad, is it? Thirty percent per week. Where else would you get that rate, eh?”
Markham was back on track. “What security could you offer? Property, jewelry, shares?”
“I was merely giving my word to repay you. And also as a further, what do you call it – a sweetener, I would offer you a Maswatiland passport.”
Markham tried again. “Tell me what you are going to do with the money, Sir.”
“There’s an old joke says, if I told you I would have to kill you.” Markham smiled weakly. “However, you will have to believe that, if you tell anybody else.” He paused for dramatic effect, then, “I am going to take over the country from my brother. In other words carry out a military coup.”
Markham’s eyes stood out, his mouth open.
The king carried on the conversation, since Markham had offered no input. “It will be quite easy. With the money I borrow, I hire a few jets, bomb the army barracks, and I hire at the same time a hundred or two mercenaries, and there are always plenty of those. We capture or kill most of the king’s army, he will capitulate. We will also take over the TV station and announce our coup. The money we owe you will come from the treasury, which I can assure you has adequate funds. The passport you want, I will personally sign.”
Markham’s face was redder than ever, and sweat beads trickled down from his receding hairline. How could he possible agree to such a dodgy deal?
“I’m not really sure that a country you aren’t in charge of can act as surety for a loan, with respect, Sir…”
“There will be no uprising from the population. I’m family, the people don’t mind which of us rules them, as long as we keep it in the family, man.”
“I was conjecturing what would happen if the coup fails. In that case, my money has gone.” It wasn’t his money, but it had been held by him for a long time, so it was the same thing. So reasoned Markham. On the other hand, he held property that he was getting no return on. Perhaps he could sell some to the banks at a knockdown price. That was like giving nothing away.
“Well, what do you say? Do I go somewhere else? Tell me, man.” The king was getting agitated, lost in his play-acting.
“Give me until tomorrow morning, Sir. I promise to consider the request.”
“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning then. If the answer is in the affirmative, I will give you a bank account number in the Bahamas where you can make the transfer. You can telephone me here at The Four Seasons. My staff sergeant is on the door, he will show you out.” And the king stood up and left the room.
Markham stood in the lobby of the hotel and speeddialed his solicitor.
“I need to come and see you right away, Malik. Something very urgent.”
“Always is,” grumbled Kadakia. “I suppose I can slot you in at five o’clock.”
Markham looked at his watch still only three o’clock. Twenty minutes, tops to the solicitor’s office. Time to have a drink here, catch up with the newspapers. He phoned his chauffeur, told him to be at The Four Seasons at four fifteen.
He wandered through to the ground floor bar, pulled a London newspaper from the rack, The Times and sat down in a table at the window. On the front page, at the bottom was a report of the inquest of Johnson, Markham’s late partner. Markham felt no remorse at the passing of the man. Serves him right. One thing being the front man, but stupid to remain so when the shit had hit the fan. The newspaper reported the inquest in detail. The coroner’s verdict had been murder by person or persons unknown. Markham suddenly thought that it could have been the pair of them coming out of that doorway, and each meeting a bullet. Except that Markham had been careful not to set foot back in England for three years. And probably could never go back again. Unless he had plastic surgery, and changed his name. What was the point of that? It was cold and mostly raining. Funny that nobody had been arrested. He recalled meeting McBride the previous evening. That name was familiar. Not in connection with the art world. Markham had no interest in art. He must get hold of the investors’ list from the solicitor. Maybe he was an investor. If so, then he could be dangerous.
Markham suddenly woke. The newspaper had fallen on the floor. The glass in front of him was empty. His chauffeur was standing beside him.
“Oh, sorry. Must have dozed off. We need to go to my solicitors.” He looked at his watch. “We need to be there at five o’clock.”
“That will be no problem if we go now.”
The traffic was bad at this time of the day, but the chauffeur pulled the car in front of the solicitors with five minutes to spare.
“I’ll phone you when I’ve finished,” said Markham struggling with his cast and cane.
Markham was not kept waiting in reception, but shown straight through to Kadakia’s office.
“This is very urgent, Malik, or I wouldn’t have interrupted your busy day.” Markham at his slimiest. “Let me tell you what I have been requested. To lend ten million pounds sterling for one week at thirty percent interest.” He went on to tell his solicitor the whole story. After all, if you can’t trust your solicitor not to keep a secret, who can you trust?
Kadakia leant back in his chair, his mahogany face smiling at Markham.
“Of course, you do not have ten million pounds in cash.”
“There is the hotel complex.” This was the mainstay of The African Land Trust. Of course there was
an infrequent dribble of rent from that source, but needs must.
“That is in a separate company, your name on a lot of the shares. Two directors, our nominal director and Mr Johnson. The late Mr Johnson.”
“Don’t bother about that at the moment, the bank won’t know. Pretend we don’t know.”
“So, I take it that you want to pledge the hotel company in return for a loan of ten million pounds? Yes, that could work. If there is no repayment the bank will be left holding the hotel property. No comeback to you. You would lose the shares, of course.”
“I am expecting that we will be repaid with profits.”
Kadakia’s eyes twinkled. “If I wasn’t your solicitor, I would be tempted to say that it sounds like one of your scams. Since I am your solicitor, I won’t say that. Are you out of your mind to fall for this trick, chucking ten million pounds away, even if it’s not technically your money?”
“It’s my decision. I am going with it. How long would it take to get the loan secured, and the money into an offshore account?”
“About three days. I won’t be able to start today. Phone me when you get the account number.”
Markham started to rise out of his chair to go. “By the way, I need a copy of the list of limited partners, South African Property Fund.”
“Ask the receptionist, she’ll run off a copy for you.”
Once in the car, Markham ran his eye down the list of one hundred and ten names, and spotted that of John McBride, shareholding one hundred thousand pounds. He tapped the list against his cheek, while thinking hard. There was another man invested around the same time. He had some connection with Africa. Hard as he thought, the name refused to come to him.
The Ponzi Men Page 10
