The Twain Maxim

by Clem Chambers

  “Really?” said Jim, taking it back. “Really?”

  “I should think so.”

  “Wow.”

  Stafford picked up a tiny slice of what had been a disc. “A quarter-cut penny, thirteenth to fifteenth century. My word you have a sharp eye.”

  Jim took the tiny piece of stamped metal. “Wow,” he said again.

  There was a pair of ship’s dividers, corroded solid but open. Stafford picked them up and examined them very closely. “Very, very interesting,” he said, lost for a moment in thought.

  “Really?”

  Stafford looked at Jim queerly. “It depends,” he said mysteriously. He put them down. “Anyway, there’s someone I’d like you to meet, seeing how much you enjoy the ancient. The lady in question is currently excavating Mearde Street in the City. A huge development’s going up and they’re on a site picking over the Roman layer. Would you like to see?”

  “Bloody right!”

  Stafford picked up a grey piece of twisted metal with a blob on one end. “A sixteenth-century spoon handle.”

  Although it didn’t look like it, Baz owned 53 per cent of Barron Mining through a series of front companies spread around all the tax havens of the world. The arrangement wasn’t too elaborate but was complicated enough to confuse and stymie any investigation into who really owned the company. Once his holdings were anonymous he was free to do as he liked with the stock, so he lent it to himself in the guise of yet another company and sold it. When his good news was made public, he would sell into the buying, and when the bad news arrived he’d buy it back after the fall. In due course he would sell the stock into the ground and buy it back when the company had to raise more money to fund the expensive dig that wasn’t happening. The cash needed to pay the bogus costs went to him.

  The combination of his fabricated news, his rumour mill and the happy gambling muppets who punted his share was like the key to the back door of a bank vault. He was going to shovel money out of it and into his waiting van for as long as it was prudent to do so. His campaign had started well: the millions were already piling up.

  He had been doing broker presentations to institutions. They liked the story, and as the stock was cheap, they were happy to snap it up in the market. As they bought, he sold. The price might rise but soon enough it would fall again. He could sell it down to zero if he wanted to, and he could crash the price by releasing a news story or two. He was lining up to do just that.

  Jim gazed down at the door lying on the black mud. The archaeologist was squatting on her haunches. She waved her trowel in a large arc. “Isn’t that wonderful?” she said.

  “And it’s Roman?”

  “Yes,” she said, surreptitiously chewing Nicorette gum, “preserved in the mud. It’s basically waterlogged at this level.”

  “And why is it lying there like that?”

  “Good question.”

  “Is there like a Roman basement down there?”

  “Probably not. We think it’s symbolic.”

  “Symbolic of what?”

  “The door to the underworld.”

  “Hell?”

  “Not quite. Hades wasn’t considered hell, just a kind of heaven, an afterlife.”

  “And under the door is a staircase to hell?”

  “We’ll find out shortly, because we aren’t going to leave it behind.”

  “I’d love to be there when you open it.”

  “I think we’ll be more lifting it than opening it,” she said, a faint smile on her lips.

  “If I may,” said Stafford, stepping forwards, “I wondered, Jill, what your next project will be.”

  She stood up and looked rather sad. “I don’t know,” she said. “It depends on funding. There’s not much going around at the moment.”

  “Funding?” said Jim. “What does a dig like this cost?”

  “Oh, a lot,” she said, “hundreds of thousands.”

  “Is that all?” He laughed.

  No one joined in.

  Jim decided to press on with the thought. “Maybe we could organise a dig in my back garden.”

  “Your back garden?” Jill said, throwing Stafford a look.

  “The Thames, my dear,” he said. “I’m sure Mr Evans will be very happy to cover the costs.”

  “Wapping,” said Jim. “I’m bloody sure all the good stuff’s down deep. We could put a dam in and dredge it.”

  “That would cost a fortune.”

  “No worries.”

  Jill turned to Stafford for confirmation. He smiled reassuringly.

  “Planning will be tricky but I can sort that.” She rested her chin on the handle of her trowel. “A ten-by-ten-metre dam excavation could come in at over a million.”

  “Can you make it bigger?” asked Jim.

  “Probably,” she said. “Things can usually be done bigger.”

  “Can I touch it?” said Jim, pointing at the door.

  “Yes,” she said, “but gently.”

  Jim hunkered down and ran his finger over the rough wet wood. “Now I can say I’ve touched the door to hell itself,” he said.

  “Again,” said Stafford.

  Jim was about to query this but Jill clapped her hands. “I’m getting excited now,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to strip a piece of the river back to the beginning. It’s never really been done. Imagine what we might find.”

  Jim could see it now, right outside his window. It would be awesome, he marvelled. His thoughts were interrupted by his phone. He took it out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID on the screen

  It was Sebastian Fuch-Smith.

  16

  Sebastian rang the doorbell on the dot of one o’clock. Jim was sitting on the sofa, mournfully watching the tide go down. He could have been out there a full hour ago and now, in another hour, it would be low tide. By the time he’d finished with his old friend it would be coming up again. Not that there wouldn’t be another tomorrow, but this was a particularly low tide and a large stretch of river would be exposed that he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to explore. It was like missing an important football match.

  “Love the butler,” said Sebastian, as soon as Stafford was out of earshot. He got straight to the point. “I need your advice.” He took some charts out of a leather portfolio.

  “I don’t do that kind of thing any more.”

  “No, mate, just look at these.”

  Jim could see it was some crazy-arsed stock.

  “I’ve got myself into a bit of a mess, old chap, and I desperately need some guidance.”

  Jim got up. “Let me see,” he said, going to his screens. “What’s the ticker?”

  “BOM,” said Sebastian.

  “Bum?”

  “No BOM.”

  “Ah, right.”

  Jim pulled up the chart. “Ugh,” he said. “This one’s all over the place,”

  “Is it going up over a hundred and thirty?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Jim.

  “Thank God for that.” Sebastian sighed.

  “But it’s going all over the place by the look of it. It might go via 20p.”

  “Oh, God, don’t say that.”

  “It’ll probably go to the moon too but, like I say, it’s all over the place. This is totally fucking chaotic.” Jim pulled the chart around.

  “How far is the moon?”

  “Don’t know, mate. This thing’s just too crazy.” He looked at Sebastian, whose face was ashen. “What’s up mate?” he asked, suddenly worried for him.

  “I’ve bet the bloody farm on it, Jim. I’ve borrowed from the firm an absolute tonne and I can’t get out. My balls are in a vice on this one and I don’t know what to do.” Sebastian was clearly on the edge of tears.

  “It’s going to zoom, mate. Don’t worry yourself – it’ll go well over a hundred and thirty.”

  “I can’t sleep, mate, and my fucking hair’s falling out. Jemima’s wondering what’s got into me. Are you sure it’s going over the hundred and th
irty?”

  “How much of it have you got?”

  “At one thirty, at break-even … about three point five bar.”

  “Three and a half million? Ouch, so you’re down about a mil.”

  “Yup, and I’m worried it’ll cliff and hit, you know.”

  “Twenty p.”

  “Yup, you’ve got it. That would be curtains.”

  Jim looked at the chart. It could certainly go there in a hurry but it might also go to five quid. Which happened first was anyone’s guess.

  His tide was sinking fast. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll sell you a put call. You give me 10p a share and I’ll give you a twelve-month put at a hundred and forty. Meanwhile you give me a free call at a hundred and fifty.” He should have made it 140p, but the higher call gave his friend an extra 10p profit, if Jim could be bothered to take his shares off him when it rocketed. It meant his friend could compulsorily sell the stock to him at 140p a share at any time in the next twelve months, and Jim could compulsorily buy it off him in the same period at 150p. When, and if, the price rocketed he could buy Sebastian’s shares off him and sell them for a tidy profit, while Sebastian was covered for all his losses if he chose at any time to unload them on Jim. He had offered his mate a parachute halfway down a nosedive from ten thousand feet.

  “Christ, would you?” gasped Sebastian. “Would you really do that?”

  “Sure,” said Jim. “I’m going to make a packet.” He looked at the chart. “Maybe.” He laughed. “What is this fucking thing?”

  “It’s a mine in DRC. Well, it will be a mine.”

  “DRC?”

  “Congo – you know, Zaïre.”

  “Right,” said Jim. “That’s, like, Africa, right?” He grinned at the unconcealed relief on his mate’s face.

  “Yes, old chap, Africa.”

  “And what the fuck are you doing buying this kind of shit?”

  “It’s a long story, mate, and I’m not exactly proud of myself.”

  Even for Jim the chart’s trail was hard to read. In comparison with the big-cap stocks, currencies and commodities he traded, it was like a Bugs Bunny cartoon. And the rabbit was grinning cheekily at him with outsize incisors. He might as well have thrown three of his eight thousand million down the toilet. “Get the paperwork over to me as soon as you can,” Jim said, getting up. “I’m out the window.”

  “I’m sure it’ll come good for you.” Sebastian was about to make a fast exit. You’ve thrown your money out of it for sure, and God bless you, he thought. He’d get the paperwork sorted that afternoon. The ten-pence option price he’d have to pay, equivalent to £250,000, was a small price for the certainty of escape from impending ruin. At the first tick down of the share, he’d drop the lot on Jim. He’d even make a small profit. If only he could just get ink on the dotted line before Jim changed his mind.

  Surprisingly, Jim was actually climbing out of the window. Sebastian didn’t want to ask why so he headed for the door.

  Higgins surveyed the camp. It was set on a lush green plateau at the foot of a mountain jungle that led up to a volcanic range and Nyamuragira. Behind them he could see the snaggle-toothed Mount Kikeno, and to the right the giant cone of Nyiragongo. Some Congolese soldiers, a shambolic crowd if ever there was one, were quartered in a separate compound. The fifty men were a ragtag group with no discipline and an unfathomable structure that somehow contained as many officers as other ranks. They seemed very miserable to be posted in the middle of nowhere – and in a zone that had recently been a killing ground. They were a very unsatisfactory guard indeed.

  Once he had got the electrified fence up around the helipad he felt a lot happier. He could fuck off out of there in five minutes and make for Goma, Rwanda or Uganda. The whole region made him nervous. If it wasn’t the area’s dodgy past and present, it was the smoking mountains. The locals were pleasant enough, but he got the distinct feeling that, given half a chance, they’d recommend a swim in the lake with the friendly crocs and hippos.

  The staff lodgings were hardly five-star but they were functional. The building crew and support team were Chinese, and they had thrown up the construction with breathtaking speed. There was little in the way of luxury, not that he cared. Now the base camp was sorted, he had everything and nothing to worry about.

  Tulip was turning Jim’s insides to jelly and, regardless of her SMS, she clearly hadn’t come for a coffee. He felt himself slip into a different mode of operation. The trading nerd was morphing into a happy, laughing horny animal. He felt great. This girl was like a ripe peach and he wanted a bite. When he brushed her arm, her skin felt hot and she reacted as if he’d done her a favour.

  She was smiling at him as if he was the handsomest, smartest guy in the world.

  Perhaps he was.

  As they bundled down New Bond Street he caught her arm and kissed her. There was no shock or embarrassment, just a passionate welcome. That look she was wearing meant only one thing – but it was all too obvious and too fast for him, Jim thought.

  No, it wasn’t.

  They turned and ran hand-in-hand towards the Ritz. He knew London wasn’t going to be like Paris.

  When he woke up, it was nine a.m. She had disappeared, but there was a note on her pillow.

  “Gone for a hairdo, back in a mo.”

  He went back to sleep to be woken again by the door opening. Her hair was done up in the old-fashioned Hollywood style of waves and curls. “Nice,” he said blearily.

  She had something sparkly on her wrist. “What do you think?” she said, holding it out.

  “Nice,” he said again. “Where did you get it?”

  “Downstairs. It’s on kind of approval.” She sat down next to him and batted her eyelids. “Do you like it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It looks good on you.”

  “I thought so,” she said seriously. She fluttered her long eyelashes.

  The heat of her body rolled over him in a wave. “Would you like it?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, please.” She was smiling. “Are you sure?” she said. “It’s very expensive, but it’s so lovely.” She lifted her hand up to admire the bracelet.

  “Of course,” he said.

  She jumped on him and started kissing him. “You’re so marvellous to me,” she said, “so very marvellous.”

  She made him feel marvellous too.

  *

  St George, head of wealth management at the bank and his friendly financial handler, had called and Jim had missed him. Now he was sitting in a cab. Tulip had gone on her delicious way and left him feeling like a well-scratched tabby cat. He returned the call.

  “Jim,” said St George, “good of you to ring. I just want to confirm that you’d like us to look after the money in your trading account. The boys in broking don’t want to let it go. They’re making a fortune on interest from it, but it’s not doing you much good just having it sit about doing nothing.”

  “Good point, Jules,” said Jim. “Yes, please, get it working.”

  “Very good. I’m sorry to ask but they dug their heels in, greedy blighters.”

  “Go ahead whenever you like.”

  “As a matter of housekeeping, you appear to have bought a fair chunk of a scrappy mine in the back of beyond – off, if I may add, a rather unusual option agreement. We’ll have to make an announcement to the exchange.”

  “Blimey,” said Jim. “OK.” Sebastian had bottled it. He wondered what the price of the stock was. Sod it: it was only about three days’ interest.

  Baz sat forwards in his chair. “What the fuck’s that?” he muttered. Someone had bought about four per cent of the company at three times the current price. He checked the share register. It had to be the stake of the prat who’d got greedy in the pre-IPO; it was the only block of stock that fitted the size traded. What the fuck was going on?

  He’d been expecting to pick the stock up at 40p to cover some of his shorts and some idiot had bought the shares at a ridiculous price, imposs
ibly far above the current bid offer. It didn’t make sense. Ralph knew a ramp was coming up but he wouldn’t be so stupid as to fuck around like that.

  “I’ve seen it,” Ralph said, when he called and before Baz had said a word. “I’ve got someone digging under the nominees to find out who it is. Maybe it’s just a paperwork shuffle.”

  “That would be news to me,” said Baz.

  “Me too,” said Ralph, “but these big bank people are always up to tricks.”

  “I don’t like it, Ralph. I don’t like it one penny piece.”

  17

  Jim had a hell of a time remembering the name of the stock Sebastian had dumped on him. He didn’t want to call either him or St George to find out what it was – either conversation would be embarrassing. Finally he remembered the ticker: BOM.

  News had come in that drilling results would be delayed as, having finally got the rig in from Rwanda, it had fallen down the mountainside and been wrecked. Another was apparently being sourced. The share price had touched 30p. He felt less annoyed with Sebastian when he saw the price: he’d saved his mate’s skin as, in a way, Sebastian had saved his only a year or so ago in Venice.

  He chuckled at the chart. It was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen, and pretty soon it was going to take off vertically. He called up his broker, Kitson. “I want you to pick up as much of Barron as you can, please,” he said.

  “Of course. Cobalt in the Congo, if I recall. It’s a thin market. Hold on.” Kitson pulled up a screen. “It’s forty to forty-five p in ten thousand shares.”

  “Buy it up to a pound a share and try to get me, say, ten per cent of the company.”