Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

Prologue

‘Jörg, expect $7 million from Crédit Parisien in the No. 2 account by 6 pm tonight, Central European time, and place it with first-class banks and triple “A” commercial names. Otherwise, invest it in the overnight Euro-dollar market. Understood?’

‘Yes, Harvey.’

‘Place $1 million in the Banco do Minas Gerais, Rio de Janeiro, in the names of Silverman and Elliott and cancel the call loan at Barclays Bank, Lombard Street. Understood?’

‘Yes, Harvey.’

‘Buy gold on my commodity account until it reaches $10 million and then hold until you receive further instructions. Try and buy in the troughs and don’t rush — be patient. Understood?’

‘Yes, Harvey.’

Harvey Metcalfe realized that the last instruction was unnecessary. Jörg Birrer was one of the most conservative bankers in Zürich and, more important to Harvey, had over the past twenty-five years proved to be one of the shrewdest.

‘Can you join me at Wimbledon on Tuesday, June 25th at 2 pm, Centre Court, my usual debenture seat?’

‘Yes, Harvey.’

The telephone clicked into place. Harvey never said good-bye. He had never understood the niceties of life and it was too late to start learning now. He picked up the phone, dialed the seven digits which would give him the Lincoln Trust in Boston, and asked for his secretary.

‘Miss Fish?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Remove the file on Prospecta Oil and destroy it. Destroy any correspondence connected with it and leave absolutely no trace. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The telephone clicked again. Harvey Metcalfe had given similar orders three times in the last twenty-five years and by now Miss Fish had learned not to question him.

Harvey breathed deeply, almost a sigh, a quiet exhalation of triumph. He was now worth at least $25 million, and nothing could stop him. He opened a bottle of Krug champagne 1964, imported from Hedges & Butler of London. He sipped it slowly and lit a Romeo y Julieta Churchill, which an Italian immigrant smuggled in for him in boxes of two hundred and fifty once a month from Cuba. He settled back for a mild celebration. In Boston, Massachusetts, it was 12.20 pm — nearly time for lunch.

In Harley Street, Bond Street, the King’s Road and Magdalen College, Oxford, it was 6.20 pm. Four men, unknown to each other, checked the market price of Prospecta Oil in the final edition of the London Evening Standard. It was £3.70. All four of them were rich men, looking forward to consolidating their already successful careers.

Tomorrow they would be penniless.