The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  ‘But I’ve blown the first year of that, right? Unless Cornish comes charging to my rescue.’

  ‘Right. And that’ll more or less screw up any hope of getting six next year.’

  So there it was. A million quid was more than a million and a half bucks. Matthew was a good trader, but not that good. Unless Matthew broke Wall Street records, he hadn’t a hope of earning his way to a million pounds inside the three-year limit of his father’s will. So it was going to have to be Plan B. That was no surprise. In his heart, he’d always known as much.

  They spoke of other things until it was late. They damped down the fire, cleared away the dishes, and walked upstairs. Fiona went right on into the one usable bedroom. Matthew stopped at the door, where his bag lay.

  ‘Fiona,’ he said. ‘You remember you said you would never ever lie for me again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any chance of your lying for me right now?’ He looked at the inviting double bed, heaped high with clean linen and feather quilts.

  She smiled. Once again, ambiguity flickered in frightened eyes, but her answer was clear. She walked right up to Matthew and stopped a few inches from him. Her long dark hair fell around her shoulders, and her face was only inches from his.

  ‘Kiss my feet, big boy.’

  Matthew shook his head. Slowly, she moved her hand down between his legs. She grabbed him, firmly but not to hurt, and pulled him over to the bed.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she ordered again, and this time Matthew obeyed.

  In bed, they had sex such as Matthew had experienced only once before. Their fires blazed high and long, until eventually and happily they sank back into quietness. Afterwards, as before in Jamaica, a change came over Fiona. Matthew tried holding her, she tried to let herself be held, but it was obvious to both of them that it wasn’t working.

  ‘Would you mind sleeping on the couch, please?’ she asked, but it wasn’t a question.

  Matthew took a blanket and pillow from the oak chest beneath the window and took himself downstairs. He couldn’t sleep and lay watching the dying fire. He thought about Western Instruments, and Nick Cornish, and his bonus and his father’s millions. He thought about his brothers, Zack and George, and he thought about Josephine and his sick mother. He thought about Sophie, the first woman he had ever really felt for. He thought about the enigmatic Fiona, wondering if they would ever pass a night in each other’s arms. Over the lake and the wooded hills beyond, the starlit night paled at the first hint of dawn.

  Just as Matthew had wondered for the hundredth time about Fiona, he heard the stairs creak. Fiona stood at the bottom, dressed in the long cotton T-shirt she used for a nightie.

  ‘Are you awake?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  She came over to him and stood by the couch.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not great at intimacy. My childhood wasn’t the easiest. But if you can put up with me, I’d like to try.’

  Matthew held up a comer of his blanket. She crept inside and let Matthew put his arm around her. She was tense, but no longer running. Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but she raised her finger to his lips.

  ‘Let’s just lie quiet,’ she said.

  And as these two lovers watched the dawn gather slowly over the woods and rocks of Vermont, another dawn was breaking thousands of miles away, bringing sunshine once more to the warm blue seas of Jamaica.

  Nick Cornish, early riser and tireless worker, held a presentation in his hand. He’d studied it closely over the last couple of months - he’d had one of his best teams rip it apart and put it back together again. Western Instruments. What a company! It was crying out for a hatchet job. Logically, he should go for it.

  But even with a man like Cornish, logic carries only so far. Western Instruments was headquartered in Sand­ point, Montana, up in the mountains not far from the Canadian border. It must be cold as the devil in winter and none too fun in summer. Cornish hated cold. That was why he’d moved to Jamaica in the first place.

  ‘Spending two or three years kicking redneck ass in Montana wasn’t his idea of fun. What was the point in being a billionaire if you couldn’t have any fun?

  Reluctantly, Cornish took the presentation and, by the light of the swelling sun, dropped it on to his out tray. His secretary, Helen, would shred it on Monday.

  6

  It was one of those good news, bad news situations. Looking on the bright side, the faxed confirmation note from the bank contained the information Val had long been waiting for: news of George. Val’s anger at George’s disappearance had long since turned to a cold and broody rage at his behaviour towards her, but she still had a loyalty to the company, and she knew that the company needed him to survive. So here was the good news: George Gradley was alive and well.

  The bad news, however, was worse than the good news was good. The bad news was that George had taken it into his head to withdraw forty-five thousand pounds from the company’s contingency reserve, leaving just fifteen thousand pounds. He was within his rights to do so. He was the company’s Managing Director and sole shareholder. But his timing couldn’t have been worse.

  If Wilmot had been right before to give Gissings a life expectancy of three months, he’d need to slash his estimate now. Gissings had less than a month.

  7

  Zack was used to just a few hours of sleep a night, so the flight from Heathrow to Hong Kong seemed an eternity, and an eternity beyond the reach of mobile phones at that. Gillingham snored away beside him, his eyes even less attractive by night than by day. They watered in his sleep. Zack topped up his beaker of orange juice for him. He’d want it when he woke.

  Zack had eaten, slept and was bored with the movies. The eastern dawn had already broken around the air­ craft, hours before the same sun would wake the grey streets of London, but the little plastic shutters were all drawn down and the cabin was dark. Zack pulled out his briefcase and browsed once more through the documents. It wasn’t necessary. He knew them by heart. He fidgeted on until breakfast was served.

  On arrival, they passed swiftly through Kai Tek airport and rode a cab through Kowloon, under the tunnel, to Hatherleigh Pacific’s offices on Wan Chai. Phyllis Wang soon joined them, followed a few minutes later by Lord Hatherleigh himself. Hatherleigh shook hands briefly and hurried them through the executive suite.

  ‘We’re in the boardroom today. Plenty of room to spread out and the view’s quite something.’

  So it was. Picture windows extended from floor to ceiling. Through them you could see the crowded seas of Victoria Harbour and the glittering cityscape beyond. In the blue distance beyond the towers lay the huge bulk of mainland China: communist, dictatorial, inscrutable. This was the very edge of the world, a fingernail on the unknown.

  In the room, already seated, were two men. The first of them, with the auburn hair and freckles of the Highland Scot, rose, scarlet-faced.

  ‘My name’s James Macintyre, but ye needn’t bother to remember that. I’m Scottie to my friends, Mr Scottie to the rest. I’m Chief Executive.’

  He hustled over to shake hands, reaching Zack first. His grip was massive and Zack’s hand ached. Zack hoped he’d go easy with Phyllis’s tiny bones. She might want them again. After Scottie, Zack shook hands with the Chief Financial Officer, a neat Chinese man, Edmund Zhao. Zhao nodded and smiled like a glove puppet, but behind woefully thick glasses, an agile brain calculated. The morning was spent in discussion of Hatherleigh Pacific’s current situation. Scottie and Ed Zhao devoured the numbers as greedily as Hatherleigh had, and, if possible, with even greater attention to detail. Zhao smiled and nodded all the while. The red on Scottie’s face grew ever deeper. Hatherleigh excused himself from time to time and left silently through a glass door at the end of the room. Zack and Phyllis Wang did the talking for Weinstein Lukes. Gillingham sat slumped with a coffee gazing out over the harbour, wishing he were somewhere else and a whole lot younger. Addiction nibbled at his soul and his soul was weary.

/>   Eventually they were done. Zhao whispered some­ thing to Scottie, who nodded. Zhao smiled, nodded and left the room.

  ‘We’ve been through your numbers in detail,’ said Scottie. ‘It’s only fair that we show you ours.’

  Zhao came back in with the Hatherleigh Pacific Strategic Plan. It’s not just communists who draw up five­ year plans. Companies do it too. Zhao spread out the figures for Zack to see. Turnover, operating profit, pretax profit, net profit. The numbers were extraordinarily close to Weinstein Lukes’ own projections.

  ‘We seem to have it about right then,’ remarked Zack.

  ‘Oh yes, pretty much right,’ nodded Ed Zhao with a smile.

  Zack and Phyllis exchanged glances. In the jargon of Weinstein Lukes, Hatherleigh Pacific had just dropped its trousers - revealed the most secret data in its possession. No company does that unless it trusts a bank completely. Zack and Phyllis knew that by the time they. left they would be hired to do something. The only question was what - and for how much.

  After lunch, Hatherleigh kicked off.

  ‘I wanted Ed and Scottie to put you through your paces. They’re as pleased with you as I was and we’d like to work with you further. Now, in London you showed me the names of six companies. We’re interested in just one of them, the South China Trust Bank.’

  Scottie took up the theme.

  ‘Yes. The other names are sensible targets, but not thrilling ones. South China has everything. As you know, South China owns one of the biggest fleets of coastal ships besides ours. But whereas our fleet is completely containerised, South China’s fleet is non-container cargo only. Coal, timber, cement, iron ore, oils, steel, you name it. It’s a huge fleet with bags of potential and yet we believe they haven’t made a profit for seven years. That’s bad management, that is. The fleet’s fine. We think the true value of the fleet is close to a billion US dollars.

  ‘South China also owns some land, valued at next to nothing on their balance sheet, derelict land up in the New Territories. Well, we have a development scheme, which we believe we could pre-sell about eighty percent in today’s market. We’ve got the scheme, the reputation, and the skills, but we don’t have the land. South China would give us all we need and more. We believe the land alone could be worth two hundred and fifty million US dollars to us.

  ‘And finally, of course, there’s a bank there. Let me ask you this: how much do you think we’d need to pay to be sure of winning South China?’

  Zack paused. He had pages of analysis on that. Loads of what-if analysis, tons of matrices. Scottie didn’t look like a man for matrices.

  ‘We reckon that one point two billion US dollars might buy it for you. To be sure, I think you’d need to pay a couple of hundred more than that. Say, one point four.’

  Scottie nodded.

  ‘That’s what we think too. One point four. We think that in our hands, the land and fleet could be worth one point two billion. That means we’d be buying all the rest of South China for just two hundred million, virtually nothing for a bank that size. This could be a huge deal for us. Huge.’

  ‘Which brings us to our final question,’ said Zack.

  ‘That’s right.’ Scottie smiled thinly, and Zhao for a moment stopped smiling and nodding. ‘Where do we find one point four billion dollars? We can borrow a billion and that’s stretching it.’

  ‘More than that,’ said Zack. ‘We believe we can find investors in the US willing to lend you as much as one point one billion. Maybe, one point two if you don’t mind paying a chunky interest rate. But that still leaves a gap. So you have two choices. The obvious one is to create some new shares and sell them on the stockmarket.’

  Scottie shook his head. Zhao smiled and shook his head. Lord Hatherleigh intervened.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve ruled that out, Zack. The family and I hold thirty percent of the company and we don’t want our holdings to be diluted by selling shares. My mind’s made up on that, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find another way.’

  Zack nodded. He’d guessed as much and come prepared. That was why Gillingham was there.

  ‘We have a second way on offer. We think you can raise the extra money from the taxman. Hal, do you want to explain?’

  Gillingham sat up and began to speak. His worn-out face became animated, his voice commanding. Once again, the brilliance of the man who had been a Weinstein Lukes partner for more than a decade became apparent. He wasn’t just convincing, he was mesmerising.

  The concept was simple. The only reason why Hatherleigh Pacific couldn’t borrow the full one point four billion was that some of its profits would be siphoned off by the taxrnan. If only the taxman would generously agree to stop taking anything in tax, the company should be able to borrow the one point four billion in full. And how could the taxrnan be persuaded into an unprecedented act of generosity? Gillingham had the answer. The scheme was simple in outline, complex in detail. It all had to do with the property portfolio and ways of shuffling it around. A clause in the tax law, intended to help property developers, had been turned by Gillingham into a scheme for avoiding tax altogether. It was brilliant.

  The three men from Hatherleigh Pacific listened intently.

  Zhao’s understanding of the tax intricacies was excellent, and he quickly began to ask all of the right questions. Hatherleigh and Scottie were soon lost and they excused themselves as Gillingham, Zack and Zhao pored over some draft legal documents. After two hours Zhao was persuaded, and he brought his two superiors back into the room.

  ‘We will need to check with our lawyers, of course,’ said Zhao, ‘but I understand this stuff better than they do. I am telling you, this scheme will work.’

  He was emphatic and it was clear that his two superiors trusted him. The three men from Hatherleigh Pacific moved into a comer for a quiet talk. This was better than they’d dared to hope. In effect, the taxman would be paying for a big chunk of the deal, and Hatherleigh Pacific’s potential profit looked enormous. The only thing that remained now was to formally hire Weinstein Lukes to advise them. The three men resumed their seats. Behind them afternoon light slanted across the waters of the harbour, lighting up ships, offices and banks: the fabric of Hong Kong, the fabric of the new Hatherleigh Pacific.

  ‘Zack, Phyllis, Hal, I want to thank you all for a quite

  excellent presentation,’ said Lord Hatherleigh. ‘We would like to retain you to assist us in the acquisition of the South China Trust Bank. With whom should I discuss your fee?’ He still couldn’t quite believe that Zack was in charge. He was so young, young enough to be his son. Good lord, if Sarah became serious about Zack, this young man might even be his son-in-law. But it was Zack who answered, blunt and direct.

  ‘With me. Our advisory fee will be one percent of the eventual deal. Our financing fee for helping you raise the money will be another two percent.’

  ‘Three percent? Of one point four billion? That’s over forty million bucks!’

  Hatherleigh’s surprise was understandable. For large deals, fees are seldom more than one percent. Zack’s response was cool.

  ‘You’re right, it’s a lot of money. But remember. Without a way of avoiding taxes, you can’t do this deal. We’ve shown you how to cut out the tax and that means that this deal becomes possible. That’s why you’re paying extra.’

  Zack stopped, but his meaning ran on into the silence. Any investment bank could advise Hatherleigh on the takeover, but only Weinstein Lukes had the technology to make it work. Without Gillingham’s tax scam, the deal was impossible.

  Lord Hatherleigh tapped on the table in annoyance.

  His daughter’s young boyfriend sat before him demanding forty million dollars, the politeness of the Ovenden House dinner table forgotten. But that wasn’t the most annoying thing.

  The most annoying thing was that Hatherleigh was going to say yes.

  Then Zack spoke again. He didn’t even know what he was going to say before he said it.

  ‘This deal could tr
ansform Hatherleigh Pacific. It won’t be our skill that does it. It’ll be your own management talent and energy. But we do offer you a key to the door. And ...’ Zack paused, then continued, ‘and, hell, Jack, it would be fun, wouldn’t it?’

  Phyllis Wang, Hal Gillingham, Scottie and Zhao were dumbfounded. You don’t say that. You just don’t talk about launching a one point four billion dollar bid for fun. This young man had overstepped the mark and would surely be bellowed out of the door. All eyes were on Lord Hatherleigh. It was for him to pass sentence.

  Hatherleigh too stared at Zack. It was an amazing thing to say. In all his years of business, he’d never heard anything like it.

  ‘Fun?’ he said. ‘Fun?’ He continued to stare, and as he did so, his thin aristocratic features warmed slowly into a broad smile. ‘Yes, dammit, it will be fun.’

  8

  Blind and impenetrable stood the fortress. Off limestone ramparts, sunshine glittered and blazed. Beneath the ancient gate-tower, George stood drenched in clear autumnal light.

  His hired two-seater Mercedes convertible was parked amidst a motley collection of Renault Clios, Fiat Puntas, and other small cars. George couldn’t fathom it. Why would one of the most eminent families in France - Europe, indeed - put up with the discomfort of living in this forbidding castle? Where were the luxury cars, the great entrance, the gardens and the peacocks?

  Still, his not to reason why, all he wanted was to track down his quarry after more than two months of fruitless pursuit. He pushed at the picket gate set inside the huge mediaeval doors and looked around for help. Inside, an old man in overalls was talking with a laundrywoman. A nasty, vicious little dog, ugly as a gargoyle, leaped to the end of its chain, barking and snapping.