The Money Makers (67 page)

Matthew stepped into the booth. The glass wall closed. There was a flash. He held his hand out against the grey panel, and in a second or so, the opposite glass wall hissed open. He waited on the other side for his companion. The security guard followed, and escorted Matthew down the final stretch.

Punctual to the minute, at six thirty exactly, they arrived at the north end of the vault. Two people were waiting, deep in conversation. One was dressed in the grey uniform of the Madison security staff, the other dressed in a nondescript grey suit. He must be the ValCom policeman. Matthew’s escort reminded him of the way out, then left.

Everyone was present. It was time to open the vaults. The doorway was closed by a green-painted steel door. The door had three dials on it, each one numbered from one to a hundred. In the centre of the door was a glass panel with a liquid crystal timer unit set above a few controls. Below that, there was a metal wheel like a steering wheel.

When the vaults were closed in the evening, the timer was set to six twenty-eight the following morning. Even if you had knowledge of all three combinations, you couldn’t release the door until the time on the timer had expired. A green lamp indicated it was OK to proceed.

The security guard went first. He flicked the top left dial expertly round, first clockwise, then anticlockwise. Each time he went slowly as he came to the exact number which made up the combination, then once he had positioned the dial exactly, he flicked it back round to find the next number. Six times in all. When he found the last number, the dial locked into position. Now it was the policeman’s turn.

The man from ValCom was just as speedy as the security guard, and just as accurate. The upper right-hand dial also locked into position. Matthew’s turn.

Matthew had been given the combination by his predecessor, a vice president in the equity research department. Matthew was allowed to write down the combination, but only once and only on condition that the codes were disguised. Matthew had written them down like a phone number in his address book. If it were lost or mislaid at any point, he needed to call the Head of Security. The combinations would be changed immediately.

Matthew twirled the dial. The dial worked a heavy drum inside the door, but the balance was so perfect that the motion was very easy. Matthew almost overshot his first number, sixty-two anticlockwise. When he found it, there wasn’t the tiniest click to tell him he was right, just the same oiled silence as there had been with all the numbers. He twirled the dial back the other way. Eighteen clockwise. By his fourth number, Matthew became confident, but as a result, he overshot on his fifth twist and ended up at forty-five anticlockwise, instead of forty-four. He needed to start again from the beginning.

Eventually he got it. The third and last dial was locked in position. The security guard turned the big circular wheel. As he turned, a hum became audible. The hum turned into a whistle. The whistle turned into a deep roar. The guard and the policeman made no move to open the door.

‘What’s that?’ asked Matthew.

‘Once the door’s shut, it’s airtight. Any temperature difference between the inside and outside creates a pressure difference. The wind is just balancing out the pressure. You can’t open the door till the pressure’s balanced.’

Sure enough, the wind began to subside. The guard pulled at the wheel, and the door swung easily open. It was perhaps eighteen inches thick, its sides studded by steel rods each an inch and a half thick. When bolted shut, the rods fitted snugly into bolt holes all round the frame of the door. You could put a barrel load of explosives against that door and you’d only dent the paintwork. You wouldn’t have much joy with the surrounding walls either. Sheets of steel ran right round the entire area and every inch was wired with anti-tamper sensors. The Bank of England has some pretty secure hidey-holes, but for purpose-built modem technology you don’t get safer than the vaults of Madison.

The security guard, the policeman and Matthew walked on in. It was a regular part of vault duty. You opened the vault, then made a brief tour of inspection. Belial had been right about that, as he had been right about everything else.

First, the bullion vault. Beneath cold overhead lights, on a thousand steel racks, the wealth of nations lay gleaming. Bars of gold, silver and platinum lay stacked, orderly and dead. Gold is easy stuff to look after. It’s not like books which mustn’t get damp. It’s not like wine which mustn’t get cold. It’s not like paintings, which mustn’t get damp, or warm, or cold, or dry. Gold just sits there, ready for when you want it.

‘Jesus Christ,’ whispered Matthew. ‘How much is that lot worth?’

The security guard was unimpressed. Everybody seeing the vault for the first time said that.

‘I don’t know, mate. But put it this way, when we moved to this building ten years ago, it took fifty-four lorryloads to shift it all. We’ve got a lot more now, mind you.’

Matthew was sceptical. There was a lot of metal here, but not that much.

‘It doesn’t look that much to me.’

‘Have you tried lifting one of these babies? Fill a truck with them and you’ll break both axles. Little by little, that’s the only way to do it.’

As they spoke, they walked quickly round the three chambers which formed the vault. Matthew wanted to stop and touch the gold, feel the weight of a bar, feel the chill of it against his cheek, see if he could dent it with his teeth. But they hurried on. Nothing was awry. Routine stuff.

If Belial was right, there was one more vault to see, the exciting one. Matthew followed his two escorts through the next door.

They emerged from the bullion vault into a general office area. There were desks, phones, computers, calendars, coffee machines. It was like any office anywhere. A few billion dollars’ worth of gold next door didn’t make it interesting. They walked through another door, into an anteroom containing a steel cutting table and circular saw. A stack of cardboard-wrapped spare blades lay next to the machine. Next to an Air France calendar, open on the wrong month, was a rack of safety goggles.

‘What on earth is that for?’ asked Matthew, who already knew. Belial had mentioned the saw and why it was there.

‘Coupon cutting. We could do it with scissors, but it would take for ever.’

The security guard pushed at a final door as he spoke, and they walked on into the last vault. The Eurobond vault.

It was a large tatty-looking room. Ceiling tiles were missing in places. The carpet tiles on the floor were worn and stained. Tinny metal racks stretched from floor to ceiling, reminding Matthew of his college library. The racks were labelled the same way too. Someone had written out some signs in black felt-tip, then Sellotaped the signs to the racks. The signs ran A-B, C-E, and so on.

The racks weren’t full. They probably weren’t more than a third full. Bundles of paper sat there. Some of the bundles were wrapped in cellophane. Others were tied together with plastic strips. Some just sat loose. Some of the piles were fat, others thin. In one comer of the room, a neon light flickered annoyingly. It didn’t look like much.

It didn’t look like much, but here was wealth beyond the dreams of princes. Matthew stepped forward in awe and walked reverently down the aisles.

As he walked, he looked at the names on the bundles of paper to either side of him. Ford, France Telecom, Fuji, General Motors, Generali, Hoechst, Honda, IBM, ICI, Japan Airlines, J.P. Morgan, Kodak, Krupp. The names were a directory of the world’s most powerful companies.

Then Matthew let himself glance at the numbers. Fifty thousand dollars. A hundred thousand Euros. Twenty thousand pounds. Two hundred thousand francs. Not each bundle. Each bit of paper. Matthew stopped at the IBM bundle, which stood about twelve inches high. Each bit of paper in the stack had a face value of fifty thousand dollars. Matthew guessed there must have been a thousand bits of paper in the bundle.

These bundles explained the saw outside. Every Eurobond has a certain number of coupons attached. Each coupon entitles the holder to claim one interest payment, usually every twelve months. Unusually, in this world of computers, it’s the physical bit of paper which you need to claim interest. No bit of paper, no payment. Madison used saws to clip the coupons.

Matthew walked on. As he stepped into the next aisle (Lloyds TSB, Lufthansa, Microsoft, Motorola) he banged up against something standing in the way. He felt a searing pain in his knee and foot.

He had walked into a librarian’s trolley standing in the middle of the aisle. The trolley, like the shelves, was piled with bundles of paper. Matthew looked down at it. There was some miscellaneous stuff on the upper shelves - Ericsson, Electricite de France, Glaxo Wellcome. The lower shelf was solid with a General Electric bundle so big it needed to be split into five piles. Each bit of paper in those piles was worth a hundred thousand bucks.

Matthew had stubbed his toe on a billion dollars.

Eurobonds are the world’s way of borrowing money offshore. Don’t be fooled by the name. They’re called Eurobonds just because the marketplace is situated in Europe. But everyone uses it. American companies. European ones. Far Eastern ones. You can borrow pounds or euros if you want to. You can borrow dollars or yen. If your name covers the globe from Kansas City to Kyoto, you can borrow what you like and as much as you like.

So popular is this method of borrowing, the entire Eurobond market is now valued at over four trillion dollars. Madison looked after about seven and a half percent of all Eurobonds in issue. Seven and a half percent was three hundred billion dollars. Matthew was standing in the presence of three hundred billion dollars.

There’s another thing about Eurobonds which Matthew knew. He knew it anyway, but Belial had taken great pains to emphasise it. Eurobonds are bearer instruments. That means there’s no central record of ownership, no company register recording who owns what. A Eurobond is like a banknote. If it’s in your pocket, it’s yours. You don’t need to ask permission to exchange it or sell it. You don’t need to say where you’ve got it from. Eurobonds are the highest denomination currency in the world.

The security guard and policeman were bored. They hung around by the door waiting for Matthew. First­timers were always like this. Gobs open in awe. Silly, really. It was only paper. The guard and the policeman wanted to get back for a cup of tea.

Walking towards the way out, Matthew bent to tighten a shoelace. As he did so, he swept the floor with his eyes. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he looked anyway. The floor was tidy. There was a loose ventilation grille in one comer. Apart from that, nothing at all. The ceiling had a couple of security cameras that he could see, but there might be others that he couldn’t.

‘Are we done?’ asked Matthew.

‘Yup. Till this evening. Back seven o’clock tonight. Don’t be late.’

They left the way they’d come.

5

‘Goodbye Atomic Energy people,’ said Kodaly, as Josephine exited from the Atomic Energy Authority’s highest security system. ‘Thank you for your secrets.’

The screen cleared and a cursor blinked, awaiting its next mission with a steady heartbeat. Internal Revenue Service? The AEA? A well-known bank, whose security measures had caused Kodaly to snort with contempt and send rude e-mails to its head of IT?

The cursor had been there, done that, would have got the T-shirt if it had found one skinny enough to fit. Josie logged off and Kodaly powered down, finishing the last of the wine as he did so.

‘Next week maybe go to Hungary. Play with Central Bank accounts, see if anyone notices.’

Josie had rolled out of bed and was getting dressed.

‘I won’t be coming next week, Miklos.’

‘Not coming? Not find anyone to look after your mother?’

‘It’s not that. I just think it’s time we had a break. We’re not really going anywhere together.’

‘Having a break? This is the same as break-up?’

‘What do you think? You’re a part of the decision too.’ Miklos spread his hands, but he wasn’t genuinely uncertain. Josephine had been coming pretty much every Thursday for eighteen months now. They had fun, had sex, played with computers, and that was that. Neither of them had really expected to move further forward together. An end had always been inevitable.

‘I think I maybe return to Hungary,’ said Kodaly, for whom the thought was about five seconds old. ‘It’s good money in London, but if I marry . . . I marry Hungarian lady.’

Josephine was dressed now, ready to leave.

‘I hope you find her. I’ve enjoyed being with you.’

‘Yes.
Igen.
Me too.’

‘Bye, Miklos. Thanks for everything.’

‘Szervusz,
beautiful lady.
Csokolom,
I kiss your hand.’

6

A Ford Puma in metallic silver and the latest registration plates swept into the yard. A man and a woman stepped out. They were both tall, fit and tanned. He was good-looking, but she was exceptional, her flawless face surrounded by abundant auburn hair. He held a briefcase, she carried a portable computer. Both wore brand-new navy boiler suits and carried unused yellow helmets under their arms. They locked the car and walked over to the reception area.

The receptionist gawped at the two strangers. Beneath their overalls, they wore expensive office suits and nice shoes.