We've nowhere to go with them, Chris. The market looks bad and the subscriber numbers spooked everyone. If we buy them from you, we're wearing them.'
Chris did the sums. At a price of seventy, the loss he would realize on the sale of ten million would be three million euros. The unrealized loss on the rest of the Eureka Telecom position would be another five. Basically, the value of Carpathian was eight million euros lower than it had been a week before.
'Listen,' Ian was whispering now. 'Don't sell them, Chris. Trust me. They're worth hanging on to.'
'Why?' Chris asked.
'Just trust me.'
Trust Ian! No way. Chris had a real problem, but trusting Ian wasn't the best way out of it. 'Send me the press release on the subscriber numbers. I need to look at this deal a bit more closely. We'll speak again tomorrow.'
Chris slammed down the phone and put his head in his hands. This was a problem. A big problem.
He spent the rest of the afternoon going through the information in Lenka's files on Eureka Telecom. It was a dog. Sure, it was an ambitious idea, to set up a mobile telephone network in Hungary, Poland, the Czech Republic and Slovakia, with the possibility of extending it to Romania and the Baltic States later. The networking agreements and licences were in place. But there was no cash, and precious few subscribers. Investment requirements over the next five years were huge. That was what the junk bond was for. But Eureka would get through the cash raised from that in eighteen months. Where the further money for investment would come from was a mystery.
Ian sent details of the subscriber information by e-mail. It was disappointing. For a company that was supposed to be entering a dramatic growth phase over the next few years, a five per cent increase in subscribers over a six-month period was pitiful. No wonder Bloomfield Weiss's trader was worried.
Chris put down the prospectus and stared at Lenka's empty desk. Why had she bought it? She was no fool. She could see this was a bad deal. He was surprised she had bought any, let alone twenty-five million, nearly half the value of the fund.
Oh, Lenka, Lenka. Chris felt a flash of anger. Not only had she gone and left him, but she'd left him with an enormous screw-up to deal with. He smashed his fist down on his desk with a crash that caused Ollie to look up in fright.
Chris put his head in his hands. Why was Lenka gone? How could such a horrible thing have happened to her? He wanted her back. Now.
'Are you all right?' said Ollie.
Chris looked up and forced a smile. 'Not really, but thank you.' He glanced back at the papers in front of him. 'Ollie?'
'Yes?'
'Lenka didn't tell you why she bought this Eureka Telecom deal, did she?'
'No. I asked her. She just said she had a good feeling about it.'
'You didn't hear her discussing it with Ian?'
'Not really. They did have a few conversations before the deal came out. He's been calling quite a lot recently, hasn't he? And then at the end of last week, Lenka said she didn't want to take any more of his calls. It was a bit embarrassing, really. I had to take messages for her.'
'Huh,' said Chris thoughtfully. 'Did she say why she didn't want to talk to him?'
'No. She was quite off-hand about it.'
Chris thought about that. Lenka being off-hand often meant that Lenka was angry. Angry because she had been sold a dog, perhaps.
'There is something else I've been meaning to mention to you, though. About Lenka.'
'Oh, yes? What is it?'
'Well, one day last week, when you were away, someone came round here to speak to her.'
'Uh-huh.' People always came round to speak to Lenka, or Chris for that matter.
'Yes. He wasn't a broker or anything like that. He didn't look like he worked in an office at all. Tall thin guy, in jeans. Big long coat. American accent.'
'Young?'
'Oh, no,' said Ollie. 'Old. Thirty-five, something like that.' Ollie saw the look on Chris's face. 'Well, not exactly old, but not young either. You know.'
'OK, OK, I know,' said Chris. 'What did they talk about?'
'No idea. Lenka took him into the boardroom and shut the door. They were in there about an hour. When he left, he looked angry. And she looked really upset. She went off to the loo for ages.'
'Interesting. Did Tina see this bloke?'
'No. She was out, I think. I remember I was the only one here, apart from Lenka of course.'
Pity, Chris thought. Tina would have been able to give him a much more accurate description of what had happened.
'And Lenka didn't say anything afterwards?'
'No. I tried to talk to her, to see if she was all right, but she told me to go away. So I went off and did some photocopying.'
The photocopier was Ollie's equivalent of the gooseberry bushes. It was where he always liked to go when Lenka shouted at him.
'Can you be more precise about this guy? Hair colour, eyes, nose, face?'
Ollie screwed up his face, thinking. 'It's hard to remember. Eyes? Brown, I think. Although they could have been blue. Brown hair. Yes, definitely brown. Longish. Stubble – I don't think he'd shaved.'
'That's very helpful,' said Chris. 'But we've no idea who this man is.' He tapped his fingers on the desk. 'Can you remember what day it was?'
'Monday, I think. Maybe Tuesday.'
'Let's have a look.' Chris turned on Lenka's computer and opened it at her diary. There was only one entry that was not easily explainable. Against two o'clock on Tuesday 15 February was the word 'Marcus'. That was all, just 'Marcus'.
'Know who that might be?' Chris asked Ollie.
Ollie shrugged. There's a Marcus Neale at Harrison Brothers. But it definitely wasn't him.'
'I wonder who it was,' said Chris.
3
It was eight o'clock and Ollie and Tina had already gone, when Chris was disturbed by a loud buzz. The security guard had left at six; after that time, visitors had to use the buzzer out on the street.
'Who is it?'
He couldn't quite make out the reply, beyond identifying the voice as belonging to a woman, but he pressed the button to unlock the entrance to the building, and told whomever it was to come up to the fifth floor.
He opened the door to a young woman with long dark curly hair tied back behind the nape of her neck, blue eyes, freckles and a turned-up nose. She was dressed in jeans and was carrying two large bags. She looked familiar, but Chris couldn't place her.
'Chris?'
The voice was familiar as well. From a long time ago.
'Chris? It's Megan. Megan Brook. Eric's friend?'
'Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Of course.'
He recognized her now. She hadn't changed much. She looked older – perhaps twenty-five rather than eighteen, although he realized she must be closer to his own age of thirty-two. He didn't understand what she was doing there.
She marched into the reception area and dropped her bags. 'Very nice,' she said, nodding towards the swirling mural. 'So, where is she?'
Chris couldn't answer.
'Don't tell me she's not here! We agreed we'd meet here at seven thirty. I know I'm a bit late, but she could have waited.'
'No, she's not here.'
Megan heard the tone of his voice, saw his face. 'Oh, God,' she said. 'What's happened?'
'She . . . she's dead.' Chris said.
'No.' Megan slumped back into a chair. 'But I only spoke to her last week. When? What happened?'
'Monday. She was murdered. In Prague.'
'Murdered? Oh, how awful.' Megan's face reddened. Tears appeared in her eyes. She covered her face with her hands.
Chris didn't know what to do. He stood awkwardly in front of her for a few moments, and then touched her arm.
'I'm sorry,' said Megan, sniffing. She took a deep breath. 'It's just such a shock.'
'Yes, it is,' said Chris. 'For everyone.'
'How did it happen?'
'We were walking through an alley. Someone came up with a knife. It was ve
ry quick.'
'How horrible. Oh, my God.'
'You were meant to be meeting her now?' Chris asked.
'Yes. I'm supposed to be staying with her for a few days. I've just gotten in from Paris.'
She looked exhausted, slumped in the chair. Chris glanced down at her luggage. 'What are you going to do now?'
'I don't know. I guess I'll find a hotel.'
'Come back to my place,' said Chris. 'I have a spare room. You don't want to spend the evening tramping round looking for a place to stay.'
Megan hesitated, and then smiled. 'No. I guess I don't. Thanks.'
Chris locked up, and they took a taxi from outside the office to Chris's flat in Hampstead. Megan stared out of the window of the cab at the London streets.
Chris felt awkward. He wondered whether he had been right to invite her to stay with him. The offer had been honestly made, and Megan had accepted in the spirit it had been intended, but they hardly knew each other. Perhaps she was having second thoughts now, as she gazed blankly out of the window. Perhaps he should give her a way out: he could help her find a hotel that evening. Then he realized that would be even worse. He was being too English: an American would have had no hesitation in doing the hospitable thing.
The traffic was light, and they soon arrived at his flat. He carried her luggage to her room and she followed him into the kitchen.
'Wine?' he asked.
'I'd love some.'
He opened a bottle of Australian red and poured out two large glasses.
'Pasta OK for dinner?'
'You don't have to cook for me.'
'Are you hungry?'
Megan smiled and nodded.
'Well, then?'
'Pasta would be great. Thanks.'
Chris put a pan of water on to boil. Megan sipped her glass of wine and examined his flat.
'Nice place.'
Thank you. You're lucky. The cleaner came today.'
'Did you do all this?'
'Yes. Or at least I paid for someone else to do it. It was a few years ago now.' Emboldened by his first big bonus at Bloomfield Weiss, Chris had spent a considerable sum on doing up the flat. Interior walls knocked down, blondwood floorboards laid, rooms remodelled, walls repainted. He had been very proud of it until the day he had been fired, since when it had become just a place to live. In fact, in the last year or so, he had become faintly embarrassed by it. It was taste that had been purchased: much more stylish than its owner.
'Where's that?' Megan asked, pointing to an eerie black and white photograph of factory chimneys clinging to an impossibly steep hillside.
'Halifax. Where I grew up.'
'Wow. Now I know what they mean by "dark satanic mills".'
'They're not satanic any more,' said Chris. 'They stopped working long ago. But I like them. They're dramatic in their own way.'
'Alex would have appreciated it.'
Chris smiled. 'Yes, he would. I thought of him when I bought it.'
She sat at his small kitchen table with her glass of wine.
'Sorry I didn't recognize you,' said Chris.
'It was ten years ago.'
'But you recognized me.'
'I was expecting you to be there.'
'Of course. Lenka didn't say anything to me about you coming to stay with her.'
'I only asked her last week. A grant just came through for me to study for my dissertation at Cambridge for six months. I thought I'd take a week's vacation first: spend a few days in Paris and then stay with her in London.'
Chris took scissors to plastic packaging. 'This won't be the greatest home-cooked meal you've ever tasted,' he said.
'I don't care,' Megan replied. 'I'm starving.'
'Good. I'd forgotten that you and Lenka were friends. But, come to think of it, didn't you go on holiday together a couple of years ago?'
'That's right. To Brazil. That was some vacation.'
'I can imagine a vacation with Lenka would be fun.'
'It was.' Megan sighed. 'We haven't seen each other much since then. The last time was in Chicago about six months ago. I'm doing my PhD at the University of Chicago. She was seeing some investors in her fund. We met at a Thai restaurant downtown. It was only for a couple of hours . . .' She tailed off, remembering.
'How did you two become friends? I didn't realize you knew each other on the programme.'
'It was afterwards. After what happened with Alex. As you know, Lenka felt responsible. She felt guilty about leading Alex on. All she wanted was for Duncan to give up on her. She never thought Alex would be hurt, let alone killed. She needed to talk to someone. You guys had all gone back to England, so that left Eric and me.'
'She must have been a mess.'
'She was.' Megan paused, remembering. 'Then, after Georgetown, I went to Columbia for a couple of years. I had fixed that up so that I could be with Eric in New York, but we split up a month before I got there. Lenka was still working on Wall Street and we saw quite a lot of each other. We got on well. We were very different, but we were good for each other.'
'I know what you mean.'
'She said she thought you and she would make a good team,' Megan said.
'We did, I think. We had different strengths and weaknesses. But we respected each other. She was right. A good team.'
'Lenka always liked to play the extrovert. But she seemed to prefer being around quieter people. Perhaps so she would shine next to them.'
'She was quite a serious person in her own way, too,' said Chris.
'You knew her well,' said Megan.
'So did you, by the sound of it,' said Chris, with a smile.
Chris served the pasta and the sauce, poured some more wine, and they sat down.
'So, are you still studying medieval history?' he asked.
'Yes,' said Megan. 'You studied history, didn't you? I can remember boring you about it on the boat.'
'You have a good memory,' said Chris. 'But I don't. I doubt if I can remember much more than the date of the Battle of Hastings.'
Well, my field was the Carolingian Renaissance. I spent some time in France a few years ago. But I'm writing my dissertation on the effect that had on monastic reform in tenth-century England. That's why I'm going to Cambridge.'
That was all medieval gobbledygook to Chris. 'Are you still enjoying it?' he asked.
'I have good days and bad days. Teaching I like, if the students are interested. And I'm still fascinated by the history itself. But I've got my dissertation to finish before I can get my PhD. There's so much pressure to be original, you wind up having to study some tiny subject simply because it's so obscure no one else can be bothered to write about it.'
'No job's perfect,' said Chris.
'At least in this six months at Cambridge I'll get some time to do some proper thinking. I've been looking forward to that.'
Megan was tucking into the pasta with gusto. She was hungry. When they had finished, Chris offered coffee, or more wine. Megan went for the wine, and Chris opened another bottle.
'I don't usually drink this much,' she said. 'But I need it.'
'I know what you mean,' said Chris. As they began the second bottle, he felt some of the pressure of the last few days lifting off him. It was cheap solace, and he would pay for it the next day, but he needed it too.
'She was a special woman,' said Megan.
'She was,' said Chris. He took a gulp of wine. 'She saved me.'
'Saved you?'
Chris nodded.
'What do you mean?'
Chris stared into the deep red liquid before answering. It was painful bringing back what had happened, but he wanted to do it. He wanted to talk about Lenka.
'Did you know I was fired from Bloomfield Weiss?'
'No.'
'You obviously don't read the financial sections of the newspapers.'
'I have much better things to do with my time.'
Chris smiled. It was true. There were millions of people who had never heard of him, o
r had never even heard of Bloomfield Weiss. The trouble was, they were never the ones he was asking for a job.
'Well, I was fired for losing six hundred million dollars.'
Megan blinked. 'Wow.'
'Yes. Precisely. Wow. It was written up in all the papers. It wasn't my fault, but no one believed me.'
'I believe you.'
Chris smiled. 'Thanks. I wish I'd known you then, or people like you. But I didn't. Everyone I knew assumed it was my fault.' He took a deep breath. 'I tried to get another job as a trader. I was good at it, and I thought everyone realized that. But they didn't. Then, two weeks after I'd been fired, Tamara left me. Do you remember Tamara?'
Megan shook her head.
'You met her once. At Eric's party. Actually, it's probably a good thing you don't remember her. Anyway, at the time I thought she was wonderful. I thought I was lucky to be going out with her. When she rejected me, after the City had rejected me, I thought I was just a fraud. I gave up.' Chris glanced at Megan to see if she was listening. She was. He had thought he was going to talk about Lenka, but now he found he was talking about himself. He also found he wanted to.
'I moped around here for a few weeks, not seeing anyone, except perhaps Duncan, reading the newspapers, watching TV, sleeping. I slept a lot. Then I decided I'd travel the world. I had quite a lot of money saved, and I thought I just had to get away. So I bought a one-way ticket to India.
'I thought I'd always wanted to travel to India, although I'd never quite thought through exactly why. I hoped that going to a strange country might help me to find myself. If I wasn't really a young successful investment banker, what was I?
'India was a total disaster. It's a stupid place to go to when you're alone and miserable. I barely spoke to anyone the whole time I was there. I saw the Taj Mahal on a cloudy day, and all I can remember is how crowded it was and how difficult it was to get a bottle of mineral water. I got stuck in some godforsaken town in Rajasthan where it seemed to be impossible to get a seat on the train out no matter how long I stood in a queue. I got sick. I think I can remember the Coke that did it. It was in a place called Jaipur. You weren't supposed to drink anything with ice in it, because it could have been made from contaminated water. I was really ill. I couldn't eat, I had barely the strength to drink, and I spent days holed up in a dusty, decrepit hotel. Somehow, I managed to get myself to Delhi and a flight home.
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