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Authors: Clem Chambers
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suppliers. They would drill, survey and assay to a choreographed timetable that would see the share price rise and fall as he insider-traded it, both long and short.
At the end of the process all that would have been generated were some funky maps, disks of fictitious data, some drill holes and acres of media carefully orchestrated through the financial grapevine. There would be no evidence to probe, even if anyone could be bothered, only drill holes in the jungle of a war zone in a faraway fetid cesspit. An empty drill hole was an empty drill hole, and whether it went down ten thousand feet or a hundred – or even whether it was there at all – no one would ever know. In the old days when someone might have checked up, he’d had concrete poured down the holes for “environmental reasons”. But his final gambit probably wouldn’t need such care. Things would go pear-shaped rather more cleverly than merely not finding anything. This time his man on the inside would make sure that the licence to the mine was pulled just as they were about to hit it big. Bloody tin-pot countries had no rule of law, no land rights or tenure. Everyone would believe that venal, greedy, kleptomaniac politicians had seized his Eldorado at gunpoint. That would be his exit.
It wasn’t uncommon for amazing mineral deposits to be indefinitely mired in third-world politics, and he’d use that as the coup de grâce when all possibility of sucking more money out of gullible investors had been exhausted. There would be one last ramp, then goodbye.
“How’s it going?” he said, distracted.
“We’re done.”
“That was quick.”
“They lapped it up,” said the broker.
Baz looked down at the pretty little tart performing on him. He ran his fingers through her hair. “I thought they would,” he said, and hung up. “Life is good,” he said, to the naked girl kneeling before him. People would risk all forms of danger and humiliation for money. The only question was: were they the fuckee or the fuckor?
10
Jane rolled through the recent email on her phone. It had been three weeks since she had broken up with Jim and she hadn’t had a word from him. The jerk, she thought.
John Smith was regarding her with a toothy sarcastic smile. “You’re not being very forthcoming.”
“Is this an interrogation?” she said. “Because if it is, you’ve come to the wrong country to do it.”
“No, no,” said Smith. “I’m just concerned.”
“So you flew over to see me on your government’s tab to find out how your old co-worker was shaping up.”
“Well, not exactly.”
“So why did they send you?”
“It’s not often that two important people end up offing two members of the Black Hand in a Paris boutique.”
“One member.”
“Two.”
She didn’t respond.
“The gentleman with the sore head? His troubles are at an end.”
“Really?” she said. “Good.” John was waiting for her to say something more. “Well, you can take it from me I didn’t know that there still was a Black Hand.”
“Neither did I,” said John, “but my co-workers,” hegrinned, “just want a report on what happened.”
“Simple. We go shopping across the street from where we’re staying, we get into a situation and it’s resolved quickly. The end.”
“And how’s Jim?”
“I don’t know. We’re not together any more.”
“Why?”
“That’s a personal matter,”
“Come on,” said Smith, “you can say, you’re with a friend now.”
She rolled the pearl on her BlackBerry. “At this rate you might not be a friend for much longer. Work it out for yourself.”
“I’ll ask Jim.”
“You do that.”
The markets were getting wilder. The indices were thrashing around three and four per cent a day and the Forex markets were gyrating like an Internet dancing parrot listening to Gabba.
Jim rammed his buying and selling into every twist and turn in the markets with his multi-billion-pound positions. By the end of the
At the end of the process all that would have been generated were some funky maps, disks of fictitious data, some drill holes and acres of media carefully orchestrated through the financial grapevine. There would be no evidence to probe, even if anyone could be bothered, only drill holes in the jungle of a war zone in a faraway fetid cesspit. An empty drill hole was an empty drill hole, and whether it went down ten thousand feet or a hundred – or even whether it was there at all – no one would ever know. In the old days when someone might have checked up, he’d had concrete poured down the holes for “environmental reasons”. But his final gambit probably wouldn’t need such care. Things would go pear-shaped rather more cleverly than merely not finding anything. This time his man on the inside would make sure that the licence to the mine was pulled just as they were about to hit it big. Bloody tin-pot countries had no rule of law, no land rights or tenure. Everyone would believe that venal, greedy, kleptomaniac politicians had seized his Eldorado at gunpoint. That would be his exit.
It wasn’t uncommon for amazing mineral deposits to be indefinitely mired in third-world politics, and he’d use that as the coup de grâce when all possibility of sucking more money out of gullible investors had been exhausted. There would be one last ramp, then goodbye.
“How’s it going?” he said, distracted.
“We’re done.”
“That was quick.”
“They lapped it up,” said the broker.
Baz looked down at the pretty little tart performing on him. He ran his fingers through her hair. “I thought they would,” he said, and hung up. “Life is good,” he said, to the naked girl kneeling before him. People would risk all forms of danger and humiliation for money. The only question was: were they the fuckee or the fuckor?
10
Jane rolled through the recent email on her phone. It had been three weeks since she had broken up with Jim and she hadn’t had a word from him. The jerk, she thought.
John Smith was regarding her with a toothy sarcastic smile. “You’re not being very forthcoming.”
“Is this an interrogation?” she said. “Because if it is, you’ve come to the wrong country to do it.”
“No, no,” said Smith. “I’m just concerned.”
“So you flew over to see me on your government’s tab to find out how your old co-worker was shaping up.”
“Well, not exactly.”
“So why did they send you?”
“It’s not often that two important people end up offing two members of the Black Hand in a Paris boutique.”
“One member.”
“Two.”
She didn’t respond.
“The gentleman with the sore head? His troubles are at an end.”
“Really?” she said. “Good.” John was waiting for her to say something more. “Well, you can take it from me I didn’t know that there still was a Black Hand.”
“Neither did I,” said John, “but my co-workers,” hegrinned, “just want a report on what happened.”
“Simple. We go shopping across the street from where we’re staying, we get into a situation and it’s resolved quickly. The end.”
“And how’s Jim?”
“I don’t know. We’re not together any more.”
“Why?”
“That’s a personal matter,”
“Come on,” said Smith, “you can say, you’re with a friend now.”
She rolled the pearl on her BlackBerry. “At this rate you might not be a friend for much longer. Work it out for yourself.”
“I’ll ask Jim.”
“You do that.”
The markets were getting wilder. The indices were thrashing around three and four per cent a day and the Forex markets were gyrating like an Internet dancing parrot listening to Gabba.
Jim rammed his buying and selling into every twist and turn in the markets with his multi-billion-pound positions. By the end of the
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