The Marketmaker

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Panama, certainly. And the Cayman Islands, the Bahamas, even Miami. People made a lot of money. Then many of them lost it all.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The Real Plan. It was introduced in nineteen ninety-four, and linked the new currency, the real, to the dollar. Interest rates were high, and for the first time inflation was under control. The easy money was over. Banks and finance companies went bankrupt all over the place.’

  ‘But not Francisco?’

  Luís shrugged. ‘Not as far as I’ve heard. It looks as if he diversified into real estate and commodities trading. And he is supposed to deal with the narco-traffickers. If they bankrolled him, he would be OK.’

  Luís paused. His mouth tightened. ‘If that bastard has harmed my daughter, I’ll kill him,’ he whispered.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ asked Cordelia.

  ‘Tell him to give my daughter back!’ growled Luís. It was as though the anger he had felt at the loss of his daughter was emerging, now that he had someone to direct it against.

  ‘What will you say to him?’ asked Nelson.

  ‘I’ll tell him he’s the son of a whore,’ said Luís, reddening. ‘I’ll tell him that if he doesn’t give my daughter back I will tear off his …’ he searched for the English word ‘… testicles and shove them down his throat.’ Luís’s chest was heaving as he said this. The control he had shown over the last few weeks was finally in danger of breaking down.

  ‘I don’t think that will work,’ said Nelson, quietly.

  ‘Why not?’ Luís glared at him.

  ‘Because Francisco will deny he has Isabel,’ said Nelson. ‘And we have no proof. So he won’t let her go, and we won’t know where she is. On the other hand, it will warn him that we have figured out what he’s up to, and he and whoever are his accomplices will be able to cover their tracks.’

  Luís stood up from his chair, and began pacing up and down. We all watched him in silence. He was breathing heavily, trying to regain control. Eventually he stopped and turned to Nelson. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. This is not the time for anger. This is the time to be clear-headed. So what can we do?’

  ‘Find out a bit more about Francisco,’ I suggested. ‘What he’s up to now. Who he deals with. If he does deal with drug gangs, which ones.’

  ‘I can check up on that,’ said Luís.

  ‘I’ll ask my police contacts,’ said Nelson. ‘If he is close to these guys, they will know.’

  ‘And what about the kid who stabbed me?’ I asked. ‘If that was organized by a drug gang, might there be rumours in the favelas?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Nelson. ‘I can ask about that as well.’

  ‘So can I,’ Cordelia said. ‘My kids run all over the city. Normally I’d hate to ask them those kinds of questions, but in this case …’

  Luís looked at us over his glasses, his face finely balanced between desperation and hope. ‘Well, at least we can do something now.’

  Luís and I sat out on the balcony overlooking the bay. I was drinking a beer, he was drinking water.

  ‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper this morning,’ he said.

  ‘It’s understandable.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s been a hard six weeks.’ His deep voice was heavy with the fatigue of waiting and hoping. ‘I always believed she was alive, but it was fantastic to hear from Zico again. I’m just worried that if we don’t get her out by next Wednesday …’

  ‘We’ll find her.’

  ‘That soon?’

  I cleared my throat. Now was the time to try out my idea. ‘There is a way that we might be able to buy ourselves more time.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘You remember that you said Banco Horizonte was beginning to think about expanding overseas?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Is it true?’

  ‘Well, yes. We’re thinking about setting up operations in the other Mercosul countries, perhaps Argentina or Uruguay.’

  ‘What about Dekker?’

  ‘Buying Dekker Ward, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Luís creased his forehead. ‘It’s an idea. But no Brazilian bank has bought a major European firm before.’

  ‘You could probably afford it. Bloomfield Weiss are only offering Kerton ten million pounds.’

  ‘Yes, we could afford it,’ he said carefully. ‘And it would be a great strategic fit. We’d become the premier investment bank in South America. But the problem is the bond portfolio. From what you’ve told me, it’s huge and it’s heavily underwater. You’d need to be a Bloomfield Weiss to trade your way out of that. We just don’t have the capital.’

  I was disappointed. ‘So you couldn’t make a bid just to delay things?’

  Luís hesitated. ‘We could, but I don’t think Lord Kerton would listen. It wouldn’t be credible. He’d know we couldn’t take on the bond positions. He’d think we were just playing for time, and accept the Bloomfield Weiss bid instead.’

  My heart sank. ‘Well, anyway, let me get some of the information on Dekker, and see what you think.’

  I disappeared inside, and returned with my copies of the Bloomfield Weiss documents on Dekker.

  ‘I’m not sure you should be letting me see these,’ Luís said.

  ‘Why not? If there’s any way they can help to save Isabel, I’ll use them. And I’m not impressed by rules made up by one shark to help it swallow another.’

  Luís grinned and studied the papers. I looked out over the bay. It was almost the middle of the Brazilian winter, and there was a soft, cool thickness to the air as it blew in from the sea. The temperature was cold by Rio standards, but pleasant by mine. So although it was a Saturday, the beach wasn’t crowded, but there were still the games of volleyball, beach football, and that skilful hybrid of the two that so fascinated me. Towards the horizon the familiar cluster of half-domed islands lurked low in the sea, which shimmered in the weakening late-afternoon sunlight.

  ‘You know, there is a way,’ he said at last.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘KBN, the big Dutch bank. They’re the people who I introduced to Humberto Alves to resurrect the favela deal. They’re one of the biggest players in the emerging bond markets. They could handle the Dekker bond portfolio.’

  ‘So you’d suggest that they buy Dekker Ward.’

  Luís smiled. ‘Oh, no. I want to buy Dekker Ward. But they can take on the bond portfolio.’

  ‘Would they do that?’

  ‘We could structure it to make it worth their while.’

  I smiled. ‘Well, then?’

  Luís stood up, tucking the papers I had given him under his arm. ‘I have a few telephone calls to make.’

  Luís spent Sunday on the phone, interrupting the weekends of his partners at Banco Horizonte and some senior people at KBN. Cordelia spent much of her weekend in the shelter in the favela. And Nelson called in favours with his former police colleagues. I stalked impatiently around Luís’s apartment, occasionally providing him with information on Dekker Ward.

  In one of the brief moments when Luís was off the phone, I decided to ring Kate, to let her know what progress, or lack of it, I had made. I dialled her number, praying that Jamie wouldn’t answer. Kate was usually first to the phone in their house.

  But not this time.

  ‘Hallo,’ Jamie said.

  For a moment I considered simply hanging up. But that was silly. If I wanted to speak to Kate, I should just ask.

  ‘Hallo?’ Jamie sounded irritated.

  ‘Jamie? It’s Nick. I’m ringing from Brazil.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Can I speak to Kate?’

  Silence. Oh, come on, he couldn’t forbid me from speaking to her.

  ‘She’s not here.’ His voice sounded strained.

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Is she all right?’

  Another pause. ‘She left me. Last night. S
he took Oliver. She’s gone to her sister’s.’

  ‘Why did she leave?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’ The venom sped down the phone line, and then the receiver went dead.

  I stared at it a moment. Jesus, Kate had left. I should have seen it coming, I supposed, but I still couldn’t believe it. Oh, God, was it my fault? I’d persuaded her to help me against Jamie. Except it wasn’t Jamie I was conspiring against, it was Ricardo. And I was only trying to save Isabel. Without Kate’s help she’d be dead by now. But, of course, Jamie wouldn’t see it that way.

  I remembered their wedding. It was of the traditional English variety, in the large fifteenth-century church in the Sussex village where her father was a doctor. It was a glorious June day. Jamie looked dashing in his morning suit, and Kate gorgeous in her wedding dress. Both sets of parents beamed. I can’t remember the details too well. For most of it, I was worried about my best-man duties, but I held on to the ring, and my speech was short and even raised a couple of laughs. After that the champagne flowed, and with it a warm glow of pleasure that two people I liked so much had decided to live their lives together. At some weddings, the couple seem right for each other, and at others they don’t. At this one they seemed perfect.

  I still believed they had been then. But things had changed, or they had changed, or something.

  I had Kate’s sister Liz’s number in my address book. I dug it out and dialled it. Liz answered. She put me through to Kate right away.

  ‘Kate, it’s Nick. What happened?’

  She sighed. ‘I’ve moved out.’

  ‘So Jamie told me. Are you all right? You must feel awful.’

  ‘I do,’ she said flatly. ‘But it’s good to be out of the house. I need a few days to think it over.’

  ‘It’s not because of me, is it?’

  ‘Oh, no, Nick. Not really. Although I didn’t like the way he threw you out with nowhere to go. He’s changed, Nick. And I don’t like what he’s changed into.’ Kate’s voice was quiet. ‘Has he ever … you know, with other women?’

  I realized it was a question she had wanted to ask me for a long time. I thought of Luciana. I thought of Jamie with the ‘model’ on his knee at Eduardo’s party. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ I said, feebly.

  Kate sobbed. I heard her sniff as she tried to regain control. I felt badly: she’d wanted the truth and I hadn’t given it to her. But how can you tell a woman that her husband has cheated on her?

  Of course she knew.

  ‘Have you spoken to him about it?’ I asked.

  ‘Not directly. But he knows my feelings. I don’t like him selling his soul for some mythical million-dollar bonus. And I don’t like him messing around with other women. He’s not going to change, Nick. You know that.’

  ‘But he loves you,’ I said, and I really believed he did.

  ‘I used to love him. I still do. The old Jamie. But in ten years’ time he’s going to be a fat, crooked banker with a collection of slinky mistresses dotted round the world. And I don’t want to have anything to do with that.’

  Her voice was heavy with sadness. Silence stretched across the thousands of miles between us.

  Eventually she spoke.

  ‘I’d have been much better off with you,’ she said, and before I could reply, she had hung up.

  Luís went into Banco Horizonte on Monday morning, and came back at lunch-time with a smile on his face. Nelson, Cordelia and I were sitting round the table on the balcony, waiting for him. We were all anxious.

  ‘Well, they’ll go for it. Banco Horizonte will be putting in a bid for Dekker Ward of twenty million pounds, subject to due diligence. KBN will support us.’

  ‘Good,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll phone Lord Kerton with our offer this afternoon.’

  ‘But it won’t bring Isabel back, will it, Papai?’ Cordelia looked gaunt and irritated.

  ‘It will buy us some more time, Cordelia,’ said her father, more soberly. Her comment had destroyed his brief optimism, replacing it with guilt that he had succumbed to his natural enthusiasm for a deal when Isabel was still in danger.

  ‘Did you find out anything about Francisco?’ I asked.

  Luís sighed. ‘Not much. He is very secretive. But over the last couple of years he seems to have gained access to much bigger funds. He’s rumoured to have been involved in some major real-estate deals both in Brazil and the United States.’

  ‘Where’s the money coming from?’

  ‘Narco-traffickers, people say. And not just from Brazil. He’s supposed to have developed contacts in Colombia and Venezuela as well.’

  ‘That might explain why Martin Beldecos was murdered in Caracas,’ I said.

  ‘But no idea which particular drug gangs he deals with?’ Nelson asked.

  Luís shook his head. ‘It’s all vague rumour. Did you hear anything?’

  ‘He’s been seen with most of the big players in Rio at one time or other. Any one of them could be holding Isabel. I’ve found out where he lives and works, and I have a man watching him. But he hasn’t gone anywhere interesting in the last two days.’

  ‘Anything on the kids who attacked me?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I spoke to a detective who was involved with the case. He had a hunch that the attack was more than just a mugging, that it was planned. No one was talking in the favela, and my contact got the feeling that they were scared to talk, rather than that they just didn’t know. The police were under pressure to keep it simple. A mugging gone wrong was bad enough. It would not look good if a foreign businessman had been injured in some drug-related stabbing on Ipanema beach.’

  ‘So it looks as if Nick was right,’ Luís said. ‘There is a connection between the attacks on Martin and him, and Isabel’s kidnapping.’

  Nelson nodded, his round orange face grim. ‘Francisco is behind this, there’s no doubt in my mind at all.’

  Luís slammed his hand on the table rattling the plates and glasses that had been set for lunch. ‘OK, but now we know that, is there nothing we can do?’

  ‘All we can do is try to find out where Isabel is being held,’ said Nelson calmly.

  Maria brought lunch out on to the balcony – steak and a salad. We munched through it in silence, each wrapped up in our own thoughts. I shared Luís’s frustration. If we knew Francisco was responsible for Isabel’s kidnapping, surely there must be something we could do. I could see there was no point in going to the police without proof. Talking to them had almost got Isabel killed. And I could see that confrontation was a waste of time, Nelson was right. But what about negotiation? Suddenly, I had an idea.

  ‘We could talk to Francisco,’ I said.

  28

  We drove up a steep, winding road, Luís’s car shuddering over the cobbles. On either side, behind wrought-iron gates and walls dripping with flowers and greenery, stood colonial mansions, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Behind us stretched Guanabara Bay, above us hovered the statue of Christ, brushed by wisps of cloud.

  ‘These houses must have cost a bit,’ I said.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Luís. ‘Santa Teresa is one of the most expensive areas of Rio. It’s where the ambassadors’ residences used to be when Rio was the capital of Brazil. Francisco must have done well for himself.’

  There were four of us, Luís, his driver, Nelson and me. Nelson’s associate had told us Francisco was at home, so we had driven straight there. We passed a shabby Toyota parked at the corner of a side-road, and Nelson got out to join his friend. His anonymity was important to him professionally, so he didn’t want to meet Francisco face to face.

  Fifty yards further along the road, we pulled up outside some iron gates. Luís’s driver spoke into an intercom in the wall. We were told to wait.

  It took several minutes. An old yellow tram clattered down the road behind us, brown bodies spilling out from all sides.

  Finally, the intercom crackled, a motor whirred and the gates swung open. We drove into a walled
courtyard in front of a newly painted white colonial house with tall, elegant windows and ornate trimmings. As we emerged from the cool of the air-conditioned car into the warmth of the afternoon, I was almost overwhelmed by the scent of the blossom all around us, purple, blue, orange and white flowers draped over the walls and urns. Delicate blue and black butterflies skipped and danced beside our feet.

  A butler opened the door and ushered us into a hallway, cool once again. As we followed him to a door at the far end, a boy of about seventeen scurried down the stairs, and rushed past us out of the house, giving us barely a glance. He was tall, gangly, and dressed designer-casual.

  We entered a large, airy sitting room. In one half of the room was a big dark-wood desk, and some of the paraphernalia of modern office technology, and in the other was a suite of sofas and chairs. Behind them was a small garden and a stunning view over the city to the bay.

  A moment after the butler disappeared with our coffee requests, Francisco entered. He and Luís spoke quickly in Portuguese. I was impressed by Luís. He had controlled his anger completely. He was relaxed and urbane, as though this were simply a social visit with an old friend. As they exchanged pleasantries I was unable to understand, I watched Francisco. He was about forty, a bit below average height, bald and heavy. I could see the family resemblance to Luciana. But the genes that had given her a voluptuous figure had made him merely fat. His eyes were almost black, like hers, and they were hard. He had her flashing white smile, but between his thin lips it looked more like a snarl.

  I heard my name and the words ‘Dekker Ward’, as Luís nodded towards me.

  ‘Delighted to meet you,’ said Francisco in good English. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  Luís and I sat down next to each other on a low sofa. Francisco sat opposite. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked, opening his hands in a friendly gesture.

  ‘Well, Francisco, my daughter has been kidnapped.’ Luís managed to say this as casually as if he were telling him Isabel had caught a cold.

  Francisco put on an expression of polite shock. ‘Oh, no! That is terrible. One hears of these things in Rio, of course, but to have it happen to you is horrible. Have you heard from the kidnappers?’