Читать книгу The Insider - Ava McCarthy - Страница 18

15

Leon turned the envelope over in his hands and studied it. It was slim and white, with the word personal printed above the cellophane window that framed his address. It was the type of envelope he’d normally toss into a corner with all his other unpaid bills, except for one important difference. This one was addressed to Harry Martinez.

He sank down on to the shabby sofa and tapped the envelope against one hand. The curtains of his bedsit were closed, even though it was almost noon, and the air smelled of stale sheets and chips from a brown paper bag.

How the hell had a letter meant for Harry Martinez ended up with his address on it?

Leon scratched his chest through his T-shirt. He needed to shower, but the thought of the vile bathroom across the hall made his bowels bunch up. He’d only got up so that he could call his wife, and after that he’d planned on crawling back to bed. But then the post had arrived.

Leon closed his eyes. Ever since he’d woken up, the enormity of last night’s poker losses had been pressing down on him like a ton of wet sand. He’d left O’Dowd’s pub with his wallet lighter by more than eighty thousand euros. Add that to the rest of his poker debts and his bill was now running close to a quarter of a million. Worst of all, he knew he’d be back in O’Dowd’s again tonight.

He squinted at the envelope in his hand. He reached over to the faded drapes and dragged them back a few inches, the curtain rings rattling like chains. A wedge of sunlight pierced his eyes, and he held the envelope up towards it. All he could see were wavy blue-and-white lines, the contents of the letter totally obscured.

The Prophet was responsible, no doubt about that. This was how he operated. Inexplicable letters, anonymous emails. Leon turned the envelope over again. He should just go ahead and open it. Nothing left to lose.

He set the letter down on the coffee table and stared at it. He didn’t like it that the Prophet knew where he lived.

The first contact Leon ever had from the Prophet had been through the post, ten years earlier in 1999. A thick brown envelope had arrived at his home in Killiney, and Maura had brought it up to him in his study, along with a glass of champagne.

‘Time you changed into your tux,’ she’d said, setting the glass by his elbow. They’d been invited to dinner by the chairman of Merrion & Bernstein, the firm of investment bankers where Leon worked.

‘Yeah, in a minute.’ He took the brown envelope from her and ripped it open. Inside was an official-looking document with a cover note attached.

‘How do I look?’ Maura’s voice was as seductive as honey, as she swirled the layers of her silver dress around her tanned legs. Ignoring her, Leon read the note and frowned.

Maura fidgeted. ‘Leon?’

‘You go on downstairs,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

She sighed. ‘Richard wants you to say goodnight to him before you go.’

Leon shook his head. ‘Tell him I won’t have time.’

Maura stood still for a moment. Then she turned and marched out of the room. Leon read the note again. It was brief and to the point.

Buy Serbio stock. TelTech bid has been accepted and will be announced next week. It was signed The Prophet.

Leon flicked through the document, but had only to scan the first few paragraphs to know what he was looking at. It was a highly confidential proposal for a hostile takeover bid. A ripple of illicit fascination stirred in his groin, and he felt like a teenager with his first porn magazine.

He leafed through the pages, checking the details. The takeover was being launched by a company called TelTech Internet Solutions. Leon raised his eyebrows. He’d heard of them. Who hadn’t? The Dublin-based software company had floated on the NASDAQ a couple of months earlier, its founders making fortunes in a matter of hours.

The target for the takeover was an American company called Serbio Software, a well-established outfit with the misfortune to be operating in the same e-commerce space as TelTech. Leon sifted through the finances of the deal, and gave a low whistle. These TelTech guys had more money than God. Jesus, what was it about the word ‘internet’ that justified such crazy economics? He could remember when software start-ups meant a collection of techie nerds in need of a bath. Now they were breeding grounds for multi-millionaires. The fact that none of them had yet to rack up a profit just didn’t seem to matter.

Leon set the document down on his desk as though it might explode in his face. Who the hell was this Prophet guy that he could access such a confidential document? And why had he sent it to him?

He checked to see which investment bank was managing the bid, hoping to Christ it wasn’t his own. Being in possession of information leaked from Merrion & Bernstein would really drop him in the shit. But he needn’t have worried. The document had been prepared by JX Warner. He’d worked for them a few years back, but they’d turned prissy about his ethics and fired him after three months.

Leon turned to his PC and checked the Serbio stock price on the NASDAQ. Just under eight dollars a share, low enough to make them vulnerable to a takeover. He read the note again. Whoever this Prophet was, he was obviously expecting the price to go up when the announcement of the takeover deal came through. If the announcement came through.

He tapped his fingers on the desk. Anyone buying Serbio shares now, before the price soared, would make a killing later on. The notion teased him with its simplicity. He picked up the document and peeped at the numbers again. Then he flung it back on the desk. It was too big a risk. His personal trading activities were closely watched by Merrion & Bernstein’s compliance department. Insider trading was a professional hazard that the investment banks worked hard to avoid.

He ground his teeth and locked the document away. He tried to forget about it, but every day for the next week he scoured the financial papers for any hint of the takeover. There was nothing. After two weeks he concluded that it had all been an elaborate hoax, and a curious mix of relief and disappointment washed through him.

And then, almost three weeks after the arrival of the brown envelope, Leon spotted a headline in the business press that made him clench his fists.

NASDAQ Darling TelTech in bid for Serbio.

He locked himself in his office and checked out the Serbio share price from his PC. Ten dollars and rising. He poured himself a large whiskey, loosened his tie and settled in for a long wait. For the next few hours he sat transfixed by the NASDAQ ticker prices. By the end of the New York business day, at 9.30 p.m. Irish time, the Serbio share price had closed at nearly twenty-five dollars. Leon did the sums, and glowered at the numbers in front of him. On a 30,000-share trade, he would have netted over half a million dollars.

Two weeks later, Leon received a second brown envelope from the Prophet and this time he didn’t hesitate. He set up a new trading account without disclosing it to Merrion & Bernstein, and made over $700,000. With the third envelope, the Prophet sent a demand for a cut of the takings and instructions on how the money was to be paid. That was how it had been ever since.

Someone retched in the communal bathroom across the hall and, not for the first time, Leon wanted to burn his bedsit to the ground. His hand shot out towards the white envelope on the table, but at the last second he snatched up the phone instead. Maybe things would be better this time when he talked to Maura. Maybe he could find a way back. Without the white envelope.

He wiped the palm of his hand on his T-shirt and dialled his old home number. He pictured Maura hurrying to answer the phone, her heels snapping against the black-and-white marble tiles that were laid out like a chessboard in the hall. Then he heard her voice.

‘Hello?’

Leon straightened his shoulders and focused on the meagre fireplace across the room. ‘It’s me.’

There was a short silence. ‘Leon. I’m on my way out.’

‘Oh, sorry. I just wanted a quick word.’

‘I really haven’t much time.’

He heaved himself up and began pacing the few steps over and back between the fireplace and the sofa, like a demented bear in a zoo. ‘Just thought I’d call round. You know, to see Richard.’

‘What, now? I have a lunch appointment.’

‘No, no of course not now, I know you’re busy. Maybe later this afternoon?’

‘Richard has rugby practice.’

‘Well, how about this evening, then?’ he said. ‘I could come over for tea.’

She was silent for a moment. ‘You want me to cook your tea?’

He stopped in front of the fireplace and squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers gripping the mantelpiece. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. After tea, then. I’ll come after tea.’

‘That’s not going to work either, he’s got studying to do. He’s doing the Junior Cert this year, in case you’d forgotten.’

Leon opened his eyes and stared into the empty grate. It was cold and black. ‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten.’ Shit, why hadn’t he remembered that? ‘I won’t stay long. Just a quick chat.’

‘Look, I really don’t want him upset.’

Leon trudged over to his unmade bed and sank down on it. ‘Come on, be fair, it’s been months since I saw him.’

‘It’s been longer than that, Leon.’

He could see the kitchenette at the far end of the room, with its stacks of dirty dishes and takeaway cartons. ‘Yes, well, things have been hectic here.’

‘I can imagine.’ Her voice was flat, with no hint of sarcasm.

‘Does he ask about me?’ Leon gripped his knee with one hand.

‘Not often.’

Something strangled his throat, and for a minute he couldn’t speak.

‘I don’t encourage it, tell you the truth,’ Maura said. ‘What am I supposed to say? “Your father’s doing great, apart from the white-collar crime and that little gambling problem he has?” You’re not an easy topic of conversation.’

Shit. Things were slipping away from him, sliding out of control the way they always did. He dragged his fingers through his sparse hair. ‘But that’s all changing Maura, I swear.’ He flicked a glance at the envelope on the table. ‘I’m sorting it all out. Soon I’ll be right back where I was. Leon-the-Ritch.’

‘I really have to go.’

‘But I mean it. Everything’s going to be okay.’

‘Can we do this another time?’

Leon took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Of course. Sorry. Didn’t mean to delay you. I’ll call again later in the week.’

‘Let’s leave it till after the exams.’

‘Oh.’ Jesus, another two whole months. ‘Right. Well, if you think that’s best. Say hello to Richard for me.’

But she had already hung up.

Leon leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head low between them. Hot tears stung his eyes, and he shook his head. Every time he talked to her it ended up the same way. No wonder he gambled, she drove him to it. Better to feel the gambler’s rush than the pain of failure with his son. He lifted his head and took in the squalid bedsit, furnished from pieces of crap hauled out of a skip. He could never bring Richard here.

His gaze settled on the white envelope. He clenched his fists and moved back over to the sofa. He traced the finger and thumb of one hand around his mouth as though trying to make up his mind, but he knew the decision was already made. He picked up the envelope and opened it.

Inside were two sheets of pale blue paper. Leon stared at them for a moment, and then he understood. This was the Prophet’s proof. Adrenaline sparked through him like a lit fuse. So the girl really did have the money. Well, not for long. Wait till he told Ralphy-Boy about this.

But first, he had another call to make. He grabbed the phone again and punched in a by now familiar number.

The call was picked up after two rings. ‘Mr Ritch. I was about to phone you.’

‘What’s happening? Where’s the girl now?’ Something about this fucker made Leon’s skin crawl, but right now he was the only option he had.

‘Back at her apartment.’

‘Look, we need to make a move. There’s been a development at this end.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s something funny going on here too.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean whatever your next move is, you’d better make it fast.’ There was a pause. ‘We’re not the only ones following her.’