The American Broker

by Andrew Hill

  "It's just not fair," sobbed Collette.

  "It will be," whispered Gill, kissing her cheek. "It will be, give him time."

  Chapter XVI Sally

  Sally lay sprawled on the verge. Her jeans were in the hedge a yard away where they had landed after being pulled off and flung away in anger. Blood seeped from scratches on her white legs and a Coke bottle protruded grotesquely from the dark triangle of hair, just visible beneath the blood-stained tee-shirt she tried to stretch to cover her nakedness. Her left arm was twisted behind her back and she made no attempt to use it. Her short blonde hair was flecked with mud and her face was bleeding from a blow to her cheek.

  There was a bicycle behind her, coloured tins and packets cascading from the basket lying on its side. The front wheel spokes were distorted and the wheel itself misshapen. She cried out as her hand grasped the bottle and eased it out of her. No one could hear her. She was in a small lane a couple of miles from her house. It was a short cut home from the lane across the recreation field into her back garden.

  She sat up and touched her face gingerly, wincing as her other arm swung limply. In a brave effort to stand, she rose slowly, holding her broken arm still with the good one. Reaching the basket she fumbled amongst the shopping and pulled out a bunch of keys. Turning again she looked around her and then along the lane. It was deserted. Slowly, very slowly, she staggered forward, the keys jangling, the only noise. The evening air was mercifully warm and a bright moon helped her pick her way. One thought forced her on. "Get home. Get home. It'll be all right there. John must stop. No more. No more. Home. I can make it."

  Chapter XVII Girls Alone

  "She's alive, that's the important thing. But shocked. Well, who wouldn't be? It's terrible what people do these days." Sally's mother had cleaned up the scratches and dressed the wounds and Sally was now at the hospital nearby. "'Best to keep her there for a day or two,' the ambulance men said, 'just in case there's something they can see straight away.'"

  "Oh, Mrs Jones, I am sorry." said Gill. "Look, I'm sure I can get a message to John this evening and he'll want to get straight back. Tell Sally that, won't you. It'll comfort her...No, I've no idea who would do such a thing. It's an evil world and so often people like Sally, who never do anything to hurt anyone, get the worst of it."

  Gill had, in fact, called to see if there had been any more mysterious calls to Tyler. She couldn't ask directly now for fear of worrying Sally's mother who had enough to cope with already.

  "Are there any messages on the phone pad at all?" she asked, not even knowing if they kept one.

  "Oooh, I don't know anything about that," said Mrs Jones. "Let me see. Of course, Sally didn't say anything. Well, she couldn't, could she? No, I don't see anything. Sorry."

  "That's alright, Mrs Jones. Don't worry. Anyway, send my love to Sally and tell her I'm sure everything will soon be alright." She knew it sounded pretty weak but just couldn't find the words for anything better. After the news of June the day before she was shattered. Chris had deliberately left her no way of contacting him or anyone that she could talk to about it all. She put the phone down and brushed her hair back, then clasped both hands together under her chin. "Please God," she whispered, looking up at the ceiling, "please help me. If there is any meaning in this crazy world, help me to understand."

  "Chris will be calling soon," she thought to herself. She collapsed in a chair and closed her eyes. A second later she opened them again. Wide. She looked frantically in a little book and impatiently cursed the old-fashioned phone, which seemed to take an age to dial.

  "Oh thank God! Collette. Are you alright?" she said as soon as she heard Collette's voice.

  "I'm alright," said Collette, in a warm way which said 'thank you' too.

  "Sally isn't." said Gill, simply. "Look you've got to go somewhere safe..."

  "Oh no..." Collette listened as Gill told her what little she knew about Sally.

  "What about you, Gill?" Gill desperately wanted to tell her that she was in a small inn in the Cotswolds. She managed to resist the temptation but hated herself for it. She wanted to be with Collette. It would make so much sense for her to come over to where she was. She would ask Chris, she decided. "I'm OK for now," she said, "but I really do think you should be careful. I don't know. It's none of my business but...."

  "We've got a lot in common, Gill. It is your business. It's nice that you care. We all need friends at the moment. I'll get hold of Harry right now and see what I can find out. Then I'll call you back."

  "No, I'll call you - I may be out this evening - I don't fancy being alone in the place with Chris away."

  "Alright, but make sure you do." Collette's voice was firm. She was determined to get to the bottom of it all.

  "I will." said Gill.

  After the call she returned to the chair and, this time, slept soundly.

  Chapter XVIII News

  The Chronicle dropped through the door. Collette picked it up. The front page confirmed what June had said. Photographs showed three men, quite similar in general looks but the paper made no attempt to explain it. Even Inspector Tomlinson's comments were restricted to a plea for information. No one had apparently seen or heard anything regarding the latest Newlands death. "A complete mystery" the article had ended.

  Chapter XIX Evelyn

  The arrival of a cup of tea on Evelyn's bedside table was a surprise. "I don't remember ordering that," he mumbled, "but, er, thanks!" He focused on Claire's splendid little figure and noticed she was wearing only a thin dressing gown.

  "Mr Austin did," she smiled. "All part of the service!"

  Evelyn wondered if everyone else was being treated the same and laughed to himself at the thought of her finding Paul and Bob locked in a room together. Today, though, the time had come for some serious talking. Time to find out who or what was behind Bob Lindon. He tended to agree with John Tyler's view that being nice to the fellow would get them nowhere. He could easily strangle him with his bare hands and, although rather more subtle than Keith Reilly had been on previous occasions, he wondered whether Bob had not suspected his inner discontent. Fortunately, Herr Stimmer's glorious introduction to Swiss wines the previous night had kept him well away from much direct conversation with the man. Now he would have to be more careful. Particularly so, as the team had agreed in England that Evelyn should effectively lead the venture. This was his big day.

  Chapter XX Cut!

  The five men gathered downstairs in the main room. A circular, solid wood table lay between them. They were all serious now - the laughter of the last few days being no more than an echo in their minds.

  "Gentlemen," started Evelyn as he rested both arms on the table and leaned forward. A glimmer of a smile flickered across Tyler's face as for the briefest instant he recalled the way Keith Reilly would make the same movement at board meetings but, on those occasions, it would be accompanied by a loud fart, closely followed by the sound of a sash window being drawn down. His attention, however, quickly returned to the speaker.

  "We've all been through hell. Due, we are all prepared to be frank and admit, to our own stupidity." He glared at Bob, who stared down at the table, obviously restraining a natural desire to object. "We were asked by one man to show faith and trust. Faith in him and trust in a word. There was to be no other way. No papers, no recognisable normal security. 'Money moves on a word'", he quoted, "and a young man, sitting next to me," his hand clasped Chris's, firmly, and Chris looked down, sensing the warmth of Evelyn's grip, "did just that. He put his faith in that man. So much so that he kept most of his actions from others close to him." The grip tightened for a moment, as if he were holding himself back from leaving the script to ad lib. Chris prayed he would not do that, however accurate the ad-lib may have been. "He also trusted in the word. Words that reassured him that anything he did would be covered by the man in whom he had such inordinate faith. Words which escalated from hundreds of thousands to millions and on... on to billions. Words that he
was then able to speak himself, not with the nervousness one would normally expect from such unimaginable future wealth, but with a confidence and clarity of thought that convinced many others of the soundness of his otherwise extraordinary actions.

  "That young man has since been through a most terrifying and unbelievable series of experiences which few others of his generation can comprehend, yet alone match. Even those of us who remember the war do not have to live with a conscience for our actions as he does. We can turn to an officer or commander or..", nodding in Paul's direction, "an identifiable cause to excuse our killing and the hurt we caused others. Along with him, not only did others round this table lose, but many more besides. We lost money, credibility; in some cases we lost close friends and jobs.

  "But, gentlemen, we have not lost our dignity. That is why we are sitting here with that man - Bob Lindon - and that young man - Chris. It would have been easy to blame both of them. Drop them. Have them banged up for a few years and start again somewhere. I, for one, don't mind admitting that there was a time when I could have strangled you, Bob, with my bare hands." Evelyn turned towards Chris. "And smacked your arse!" He didn't smile.

  "We have, instead, decided to keep the faith and to continue the trust. To give you, Bob, a chance to show us the truth about what happened and to give you, Chris, a chance to repay that money you have lost.

  "I have here a list of bonds and securities which will yield a guaranteed £130,000 sterling for each £1 million invested and another which will produce no income but growth factor of 3.105 over ten years. Again, guaranteed. Guaranteed by the British government and confirmation available from a leading merchant bank in London.

  "Now, Bob, we have the collateral and it can be confirmed in advance. What we want you to do is to contact your colleagues in the States and offer them 10% on as much as they like, guaranteed ten years. First, though, we want you to contact Gabrielle, or whoever's got what's left of the £300,000 she had off Chris and get them to put all of it on the line; offer them the same deal.

  "There's over sixteen points in this one, Bob. That means £1.6 million profit - that's p-r-o-f-i-t - for every £10 million you can find. The whole job can be done from here and we'll keep at it until we succeed or get some answers as to why it can't."

  Evelyn had made a superb speech. Glancing only occasionally at the notes Michaelis had prepared, the expected midstream interruptions from Bob had not arisen. Instead, Bob had sat through it all, gazing at the table, nodding slowly from time to time. All attention was now on him. Paul began to drum his fingers on the table, impatiently. John Tyler got up and made a call.

  "You got it." Bob was still looking at the table. "I gave my word to this young gentleman over here." He raised his head and looked straight at Chris. Chris held his gaze and guessed that Bob would see in his eyes the truth there. "He knows the pain and suffering that I've had for over six years. I never wanted the responsibility for the programme but to save this man I took it. Everyone wanted to know what I had but no one found it. Evelyn, if it was easy, everyone would be doing it. It's tough. They'll eat your lunch. I appreciate your bringing me here and I guess you fine people now realise that this crazy Jew was right. Everyone took my idea, said 'Gee! Thanks Bob!' then dropped me in the river going round to the bank for the cash. All came running back when the bank said 'No deal, boys' didn't they? No deal my ass - they get what they want and they steal it! I've been there, Evelyn. I - have - seen - it. Who was that guy at Citibank? Rutter, Ritter.. something like that... anyway he was sitting on the steps with no balls one day after one of our clients tried to close a deal there. What did he do? He issued one key-tested telex with full bank authority, confirming that they held 1.5 b. Our guy trotted in with his little bag under his arm with real collateral and Ritter's big white chief gets a call from some tin-pot little outfit asking whether their half point is written in. One lousy half point is 7.5 million. The big white chief calls up Nat West or whoever it was and says 'Hey, you guys offering 1.5b at 92 over 10 years?' They say 'Sure' and he picks up the deal. Ritter walks in and screams the place down. I get my tail out pretty smartly. I ain't losin' my balls for anyone. One call loused up the whole thing. I'll say it again. Money moves on a word. I gave Ritter my word that he'd get his half point. Christ, we were making 8 - but he didn't trust me. He lost the lot and turned on me. That's life."

  Although everyone looked as if they understood him, none could really follow the unchanged style and flow of Bob's speeches. He would be going fine up to a point then lapse into cursing the world, presumably when his knowledge of the facts wouldn't carry him further, or, as had often been the case in the past, when someone challenged him on an issue and he could see he was losing.

  "I'll talk to my people." he continued, "but I'll need to see how the figures stack up - have you got them down on a piece of paper - head it 'Think Tank' for now ..."

  "We're calling it the Kingfisher Project," said Evelyn

  "Great."

  Claire came in with coffee and a variety of biscuits, putting the tray down in the centre of the table.

  "Danke schon" said Bob.

  "Bitte" replied Claire.

  "That's all the Swiss I know," he said, laughing loudly.

  "Mine's not much better - and it was German, actually," she corrected him.

  "Well, you're English!" he exclaimed. "What's a nice English rose like you doing with a bunch of ugly old thorns like us?"

  "Speak for yourself!" said Tyler

  "Wouldn't you like to know!" teased the girl, blushing though, at her own words.

  Bob had that effect on women - at first, at any rate - they took to him and immediately basked in his uncompromisingly blunt compliments. Always well-intended, he seldom received rebuke in return. Only later, when he had left, would that come, along the trail of broken dreams that lay behind him. His brief play with Claire jolted the others who, except Tyler, had lapsed a little and perhaps begun to start to believe again, as the almost hypnotic power of the American took effect. It was Paul who brought the conversation back to the task in hand.

  "Bob, I listen to you just like I listened before. But I hear nothing new. Where is Gabrielle? Where is Winsley? Where is Edwards? Brown?..." He reeled off several more names. Some Chris recognised; others he didn't. Bob stiffened and Tyler waited for the explosion. It didn't come.

  "Paul. I don't know where they are. Those bastards haven't given me a dime. When I was in a little shed in Spain, Violet and I ate eggs for seven days. We had one goddam 1000 peseta bill! She ran out of her happy juice and I got hell. Gabrielle... and I know what you guys think, but I'm telling you... Gabrielle sent 5000 after I'd put 250 into that goddam payphone for Chris. She still calls Violet and they talk a bit but don't ask me where the others went. They only call me up when they want something."

  "Bob," Chris had caught Tyler's warning glance and decided it was time to say something. "Back in December '84 I asked you for a favour. Well, you could hardly call it a favour - I asked you to send me a letter confirming more or less the position regarding the money I had lent out as you suggested and confirming that there was something somewhere in this world in which this had acquired an interest. I deliberately worded that letter so that it gave you a let-out and there was no way you could have been risking yourself by it. You shouted and screamed at me but eventually agreed to do it. You know and I know that nothing came. Our mutual friend was willing to meet you in Zurich, where you were staying at the time, to collect it but we couldn't even afford to pay his fare. I also asked for help - a job, contacts, something. What do you do? Nothing. Time and time again you built up our hopes. For what? For nothing. Now that was over a year ago. Two years since we started. Time has healed a few wounds and I reckon I understand a lot more now than I did then. Despite all that's gone before, I forgive you, Bob.

  "Just let's get the job done now, properly. Don't try and give us 'comfort levels'. We're not interested. Give us facts and we'll give you whatever back-up you
need. If a deal can be done - fantastic. If it can't - OK, fair enough. But until we have a few answers, you've just got yourself a permanent, full-time job, Bob. The only difference is that you pay us. Every penny, cent, franc or whatever you get comes to us. I don't care if it's begged, borrowed or stolen. You'll be looked after OK but if a few grand's going to be blown on a trip somewhere, a hotel, a deposit or anything, it'll be our decision.

  "We'll do the details later. Evelyn's given you the basic scheme. It's real and it's clean. Maybe for the first time in your life we're talking about real money and a real deal, not some broker bullshit like we had before.

  "I'm giving you the deal. Either you go along with it and do things our way – slowly, sensibly, with faith and trust, sure, but no fairy stories - or you walk out that door. How long do you really believe you can keep the lid on that time bomb of a guilty conscience inside you, Bob? Walk away from us, me... easy. But you can never walk out on Bob Lindon. I'm telling you - every time you look at a dollar bill it'll be your own face staring back at you. That's the deal - and we're prepared to lose it. Talk... or walk."

  Chris was surprised to have got away with that. Bob had been visibly shaken by the change of scene but had composed himself, only the hand clutching his forehead gave away any sign of strain. His complexion had tuned scarlet and Chris dreaded the show of rage to follow.

  "Cut!"

  Bob swung round in his chair. Chris froze.