At the Sharpe End

by Ashton, Hugh

  “You are absolutely correct there, Kenneth-san. Bang on. For the past six months she is doing nothing but that sort of very thing in the back office for the traders.”

  “Do you know how easy it is to set up a foreign exchange brokerage?” Sharpe asked Vishal. “I must admit that I’ve really only just thought of the idea.”

  “No bloody idea, man. That is your next job.”

  “Look, before we go too far on this, Vishal, I want to know a few things. How much money does your sister need to go to America or Germany and have the operations?”

  “The doctors are telling us that it will take at least one million dollars. Not as much as two million, but at least one million. If she has the operation, there is a very good chance indeed that she will live a normal life. About eighty or ninety per cent, I am being told. But without the operation,” he paused, “it is about twenty per cent only that she will live more than five years.” Steaming plates of curried vegetables, together with pickles, and a plate of chapattis, were placed in front of them, and Vishal seized one of the rounds of bread, tearing off a piece and dipping it into the aubergine curry. “I know it may seem to be a lot of money, but she is my eldest sister, and I am very fond of her indeed.”

  “I understand that, Vishal, and who’s to say that you won’t have the money and your sister will be cured? But quite honestly, let’s think big. One or two million dollars is not a lot of money for this program to produce. I have a friend who needs twenty-five million dollars and I was thinking that we could use the program for that as well.”

  Vishal’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. A piece of vegetable slipped from the bread he was holding and dropped into his water glass. Vishal didn’t seem to notice. “You are telling me twenty-five million dollars?” he asked, wide-eyed. “What sort of friends do you have? What will he do with all that money? Is he starting a competitor to Microsoft or something?”

  “He’s going to take over a country. Just a little one, though,” explained Sharpe, taking his first mouthful of curry and watching Vishal’s expression with amusement. “I think there’s enough money in that program to send your sister to the USA, or anywhere else she needs to go, and to help my other friend, and to leave something for you and Meema, and me and Mieko. But you and Meema would almost certainly have to leave your jobs here, and work for the new brokerage. Conflicts of interest and so on.”

  “It’s a terrible risk, Kenneth-san. I am thinking this may be being too much for me, after all.”

  “It’s a risk worth taking, Vishal. You saw those lines on the screen. Anyone with a decent trading strategy could make a fortune. Remember the margins and the leverage in foreign exchange – you can trade with many times the amount of capital you actually put in. You can play with calls and options and all kinds of other fancy things. Meema understands them, even if you and I don’t know it all. Even a small change in the rates could make us a lot of money.”

  “Yes, but I am thinking it will cost a great deal of money to get the Bloomberg lines and the data feeds and everything else.”

  “Vishal, you’re just making problems for the sake of it. Those would be my problems to solve. I think I can get all this sorted out. You know I can. I’ve managed projects for you and the bank in the past.” Sharpe didn’t remind Vishal that he had had the full power of the bank behind him before, when he had needed to bully vendors into meeting delivery deadlines.

  They bickered back and forth. Sharpe knew Vishal well enough to know that many of his objections were simply ways of ensuring that there would be no future problems, and that he was playing devil’s advocate to make entirely sure of his ground.

  “Who’s the friend?” Vishal came back to the point. “And what are you talking about when you talk about taking over a whole country?”

  Without going into too much detail, Sharpe explained about Kim, and his supposed desire for change in North Korea. Vishal was sceptical, but admitted that he knew very little about the country or its politics other than what he’d learned from the Japanese media.

  “Now let me get on and enjoy this food for now,” said Sharpe at length. “What’s left of it. It’s pretty good, by the way. I agree with you it’s not as good as Meema’s cooking, but it comes pretty damn’ close.”

  “I’ll be thinking about this all afternoon,” said Vishal as they left the restaurant.

  “Do that,” said Sharpe. “I’d like you and Meema to come round to our place this evening, if you don’t mind, and talk about it together with me and Mieko.”

  “I think we can manage that. About 7:30?”

  -o-

  That evening, Sharpe was pleasantly surprised to find both Mieko and Meema strongly in favour of the proposed currency exchange brokerage. He’d expected some opposition from Mieko against what seemed to him to be a rather risky proposition, but she had been reading a lot of prospectuses from banks extolling the virtues of foreign currency investment accounts based around exchange rates. This was a currently popular Japanese fad, since the exchange market was largely unregulated, and she was strongly in favour of the idea. Meema’s reaction was, if anything, even more surprising, once she’d accepted the idea that a computer program and a collection of DSP chips could predict the future movements of the currency markets.

  “I’ve spent the last few months working on trading strategies for a bunch of rich spoiled brats,” she explained, referring to the traders. “You know I heard one on the phone to HR the other day. Guess what? He was threatening to go back to London the next day unless they changed the colour of the sheets in his company flat.” Sharpe got the feeling that she would have spat in disgust if she had been sitting anywhere but in his living room. “It will be a pleasure to use these ideas for myself.” She did raise one objection, though. “Who’s this friend who wants to take over North Korea for himself?”

  Uh-oh. This was going to take a bit of tact and finesse, Sharpe told himself. Last point first. “I don’t think he wants to take over North Korea for himself. All he wants to do is to get rid of the lot who are in power right now and then get the South Koreans to take over.”

  “I’m sure it’s going to be a lot more complicated than you make it sound,” said Meema. “I don’t have any experience at this sort of thing, but I can’t believe it’s going to be as simple as all that to merge the two countries. And who is he, anyway?”

  “He’s a gangster, I suppose,” admitted Sharpe.

  “He’s very nice, though,” Mieko added helpfully, to the horrified Meema, who sat there with her eyes and mouth opened wide.

  “What do you mean, ‘very nice’?” asked Meema.

  “He kidnapped me once,” said Mieko, as calmly as if she’d been describing an everyday conversation she’d had with someone.

  “And you like him?” asked Meema incredulously. “I always thought you were a sensible woman, Mieko-san. You’ve been hanging around Kenneth too long. It’s turned your brains, I swear.”

  “No, seriously,” Mieko insisted. “I had no choice about going, but once I was there he treated me very well. Very kind and polite. And when he came round here, he couldn’t have been nicer.”

  Meema was obviously far from being convinced by this. “What sort of gangster?” she asked. “Drugs, women, loansharking, gambling, pachinko?”

  “I’m not sure,” admitted Sharpe.

  “Gambling, mainly, from what I heard,” said Mieko. “At least that’s what he and his people were talking about.”

  “Well, that’s all right, I suppose,” said Meema. “At least the victims choose to go their own way and it’s their own fault if they suffer.” Sharpe wasn’t sure about the logic of this morality, but he was glad that she wasn’t raising any stronger objections. As a postscript he added to himself the fact that the four of them were discussing a massive gambling operation, much bigger than the pachinko establishments or wherever Kim was probably making his money.

  “What about the legal side of all this business?” asked Vishal.
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  “Well, it seems that we have to register with the Financial Services Agency and get a license. I’m pretty sure that’s the case, even if we’re not open to outside clients. It just looks like a formality, as long as we have the capital to back us up.”

  “That was going to be my next point,” said Meema. “Quite honestly, Vishal and I can’t afford to put a lot of money into this. I know we get paid well by the bank, but so much is going back to India, and our families are depending on it. And if we have no money coming in because we’re not working at the bank …” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’m not asking you to put any money in there,” said Sharpe. “I’m hoping that I can provide most of the starting money. And the rest – we need 120% capital compared to the at-risk assets, as far as I can tell – can be provided by our Korean friend.”

  “Is he serious about North Korea?” asked Meema, returning to an earlier point, as was her habit. “Like I said, I’ve never taken over a country’s government, but it would seem to me that you would probably need a little more money than that to do it.”

  “That’s exactly the point I made to him,” replied Sharpe. “His response was that we’re thinking in terms of Japan or Europe. How far could you go in India with twenty-five million dollars?”

  “A bloody long way,” said Vishal, after a second’s thought. “And India’s being a damn’ sight more advanced and expensive than North Korea, I am thinking. But it still does not seem to me as though it is being a really vast amount of money for the job that it has to do.”

  “I think we’re talking about financing a surgical coup,” replied Sharpe. “We’re not talking about equipping a large revolutionary army or anything along those lines. More along the lines of assassinations and strategic stoppages of vital services.”

  “Isn’t that called terrorism?” asked Meema, pointedly.

  “Depends whose side you’re looking at it from, I suppose. Technically, I suppose it is. But I don’t think anyone in this room is too keen on what they’ve heard about the North Korean setup?” Everyone dutifully shook their heads. “So we’re not financing terrorism, we’re helping a liberation movement.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like Ronald Reagan or one of those nutty Americans talking about the Contras or the mujihadeen or something,” objected Vishal.

  “I do,” admitted Sharpe. “But I think I have a little more reason to sound self-righteous.”

  “Look, Vishal, we all agree that North Korea is bad and that almost any change is for the better,” pointed out Meema.

  “I think we all agree with that,” chimed in Mieko. “And I want to add that I personally believe Mr Kim.”

  “One thing,” added Sharpe. “I don’t want my name anywhere on the company documents or anything. There are too many people who are interested in me.”

  “Oh?” Vishal asked.

  Sharpe wished he hadn’t brought up the subject, but he ploughed on, giving a brief account of how Ishihara had interviewed him, and how Al Kowalski had been responsible for the burglary of the flat. Without going into too many details, he mentioned the British and American interest in the software, which they knew only as face-recognition technology, and talked a little about the times he had met Kim, as well as the trip to Hanoi.

  “Kenneth,” countered Meema. “All these spies and these funny people are interested in the face-recognition software, right?”

  “No-one’s said anything different,” admitted Sharpe.

  “So why would they be interested in a foreign exchange venture? I don’t think you need to worry about this.”

  “I agree with you, Meema, in theory, at least. As far as I know, no-one knows about the currency trading side of things. But I really do want to keep somewhat out of sight on this. I don’t want my head to appear above water for longer than is absolutely necessary.”

  “So whose company is it going to be?” asked Mieko.

  “Yours, of course,” Sharpe answered her. “It will be much easier if a Japanese person is named as the owner and president.” Mieko looked a little dubious.

  “I agree there,” said Vishal. “Believe me, Mieko-san, it will make all our lives much easier.”

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to be a company president?” Meema asked Mieko. “Now’s your chance. But there’s one more big thing. I want to meet your Mr Kim. You may be right about him. He may well be a wonderful person, but I have to meet him for myself.”

  “Good,” said Sharpe. “To be honest with you, I haven’t talked to him about it yet.” Three mouths opened as their owners turned their heads to look at him. “Come on,” he protested. “I wanted to know if you were interested before I started to talk to him. Vishal, if I’m late to work tomorrow, you know why.” He didn’t mention his secret fears to the others – that if he told Kim about the true purpose of Katsuyama’s invention, Kim would simply seek to obtain it for himself, using whatever means were available to him.

  When Vishal and Meema had left the flat, Sharpe told Mieko that he was going out for a moment. At the gates to the apartment building, he noticed Kim’s henchman standing guard, but there was also another figure on the opposite side of the road who looked as though he was independently doing the same job. He went back to the building entrance and picked a leaflet advertising dry-cleaning services out of someone’s mailbox, scribbled a note on the back of it, and set off through the gates again.

  “Give this to your boss,” he said as he passed close by Kim’s man, passing the folded note to him, hopefully unobserved by the other shadow.

  He went to the convenience store to buy two cans of beer, and came back, followed each way by both watchers. Ah well, he thought, letting himself back into the flat. Exercise for both of them.

  -o-

  As he was washing up the breakfast things the next morning, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” said Mieko. “It’s probably the man to repair the window.”

  It wasn’t. Kim stood in the doorway, his bodyguard behind him. “Is Mr Sharpe in?” he asked in Japanese. “I think he’s expecting me.”

  “Kenneth-san!” called Mieko. “It’s Mr Kim.”

  Sharpe emerged, drying his hands on a towel. “I was expecting you to telephone,” he said to Kim.

  “Telephones can be tapped,” said Kim. “Even mobile phones. Get a coat and come with me.”

  Sharpe followed Kim to the large black car with the lace curtains, which was parked, Sharpe noticed, out of sight of the watchers at the gates. Kim chuckled as Sharpe showed his recognition of the car. “No need to worry about this thing. We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

  “Of course,” said Sharpe, getting into the back seat after Kim. The bodyguard shut the door after him, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Forgive this melodrama,” said Kim. “But you understand that meeting me may not be good for your health. So just keep your head down out of sight as we go out of the gates. I’ll tell you when you can get up.”

  Feeling that this was being overly melodramatic, Sharpe did as he was asked. After a few minutes, Kim tapped him on the shoulder. “OK, get up now.”

  “Thanks. I feel really stupid.”

  “You shouldn’t. There’s a lot riding on this.”

  Sharpe took a deep breath. Now or never. “Do you know exactly how much is riding on it?”

  “No, not exactly. I have a good idea how much the face-recognition technology would be worth to the right people, though.”

  “Think bigger. Much, much bigger,” Sharpe told him.

  Kim looked at him quizzically. “It’s an interesting toy, but I really don’t see it being very much more than that, even to the CIA.”

  “There are other patterns beside faces,” Sharpe went on. “Patterns that people watch to make money.” Kim continued to stare at him. “Like currency exchange rates,” suggested Sharpe.

  “I’m really not sure that I understand what you’re trying to say,” said Kim.

  “All right
. Very simply, the gizmo your son-in-law has invented and that everyone’s looking for does a lot more than match faces in a database. You have a very clever son-in-law indeed, and he has developed a way of predicting currency exchange rate fluctuations extremely accurately, up to three minutes in advance.”

  “Is that important? Three minutes doesn’t seem like a very long time.” Kim seemed somewhat underwhelmed by the information.

  Sharpe reminded himself that not everyone lived in the world of financial services. “Currency exchange rates, Mr Kim, change from second to second. Within fractions of a second. Maybe not by a lot, but they change. Many people in large banks all around the world watch these rates and try to bet on whether they’ll go up or down. Buy low, sell high. Many times an hour in some cases. Three minutes is an eternity to these people. And there are all sorts of other games they play which I won’t even bother to try and explain to you, even if I was sure I could. My point is that millions and millions of dollars change hands every day on the foreign exchange market. And so three minutes is a very long time to these people.” He explained a little more about the Katsuyama hardware and software, and how it could be used in the currency markets.

  “I see,” said Kim, shaking his head slowly. “With my son-in-law’s technology, we’d be betting on a horse race, but we’d know which horse was going to win before we made the bet?”

  “That’s exactly it,” agreed Sharpe. “A really good way of looking at it.”

  “How on earth did you find this out?”

  “Dr Katsuyama gave me a few hints, and so did a friend of mine.”

  “So,” asked Kim. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because we need your help,” replied Sharpe, and explained the idea behind the proposed currency trading brokerage. “We think this could help you and your plans,” he finished.

  “You really think this idea could make the money I need?”

  “I’m pretty certain it would only take a month or two to collect that sort of money.”

  “And they really allow you to gamble with money that you don’t actually have?” asked Kim. “You’re sure of that?”