The Twain Maxim (7 page)

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,” he
grinned, “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 month he would hit the ten billion, and on he would go to a hundred billion and continue until he was the first trillionaire in the history of the world.

The moustache was good: he looked like a serious fellow. He had scraped the beard off the week before.

Every now and again he would minimise his trading software and look at the wallpaper on his desktop. He thought about resetting the default, but instead he stared at the picture of Jane. He wanted to call her, but how could he?
She had said it all in her email. He wasn’t the guy for her. Of course he wasn’t. He was no brick-shithouse special-forces officer, with a chiselled chin and muscles on his muscles. He was no martial artist, PhD genius superhero. He was just a common bloke with some freaky crystal-ball-reading skill. Princesses didn’t marry milkmen, goddesses didn’t fall for mortals, and money didn’t buy love. In fact, it poisoned it.

He was trading so big now that he could tell the market knew he was there. When he went long the market rose, and when he went short it fell. He was becoming part of the market itself. That was strangely gratifying. He was bullying the world.

The phone rang. He brought up his trading software to cover the picture of Jane.

It was Davas. “Jim, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m trading.”

“I can see that.”

“I know. So what?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Making money.”

“You’re making too much. You’re bending the markets.”

“So?”

“If you keep bending them, they’ll break.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. How much have you made? Four, five billion?”

“Eight.”

“Eight.” Max paused. “And where do you think all this money’s coming from?”

“You?”

“No, not me. From everyone else.”

“So?”

“It’s too fast, Jim. If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, you’ll break the bank.”

“There is no bank.”

“Of course there is. It’s the Bank of Everybody.”

“Why should I care?”

“Because you’ll end up hurting people, so many, many people. You’re producing an inefficient market that will choke and die. Without the market we all perish.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“What are you going to do with all this money? Don’t you already have enough?”

“That’s fine coming from you, Max. You have more than Bill Gates.”

“Yes, Jim, but it’s the gains of a lifetime of work, not treasure plundered in a few weeks.”

“I’m not plundering – you sound like Jane.”

There was a short silence. “Jim, you have to stop. If you go on there’ll be untold suffering. You’ve already driven the markets into panic.”

“Me?” said Jim. “What are you talking about? I’m just surfing this.”

“You’re not. You’re causing it. Can’t you tell?”

“You’re not serious, right?”

“I’m very serious, Jim.”

He began to laugh. “Have I cracked the game?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what the models say?”

“Yes.”

“I knew I could,” he said. “I just knew it.”

“You know you must stop, then, don’t you?”

Jim’s mouse hand was aching. He flexed his fingers. “Tell me again, Max – tell me I’ve beaten the market.”

“You’ve won, Jim. The moment I realised what you could do, I knew it was a risk you’d try and then might not stop.”

“And did you win the game, too, Max?”

“Yes, my friend, and I, too, had to stop. You know my game is different now.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “Ten billion would be nice, though.”

“Jim, you can always revisit it. Take it slowly. Put it in my treasuries and it will be ten billion soon enough.”

“A hundred billion would be nicer still.”

“Would you want the attention that would bring? I think not. What you have now will be hard enough to keep secret, and if it becomes known, your life will be spoilt. Trust me on that.”

“What am I going to do?” said Jim. “This is the only game I can play.”

“It’s a cosmic joke, Jim – you, the richest man in the world with no job and no girlfriend.”

“Oh,” said Jim, “you know about that.”

“Yes,” said Davas.

Jim was rather annoyed now. “Do you know everything?”

“Pretty much,” said Davas.

Jim minimised his trading software and looked at the picture of Jane. “OK, Max,” he said sadly, suddenly feeling extremely tired, “I’ve stopped. Hell, it was an amazing run.”

“Yes, and thank you. You’re a good, wise and smart man – thank God for that.”

Sebastian’s eyes glazed over as he watched his motionless screen. He was about as low as he could get. It was two days since Jim had stopped trading and his team no longer had anything to mirror. Using Jim’s trades as their guide was legal and extremely lucrative, but the gravy train had stopped on the tracks.

By the time they had got clearance from the risk managers to coat-tail him, big-time, Jim’s stunning campaign had been practically over. The team’s profits would turn into a reasonable addition to Sebastian’s bonus, but nothing like the bonanza it might have been if Jim had carried on for a few more weeks. Jim had kept up a pitched battle for eighteen hours a day in an orgy of indiscriminate trading. Some of his traders, Jim’s old compadres on the floor at the bank, thought he must have developed some kind of robot that had found a magic trading algorithm, but the IT department had confirmed their software, operated manually, was doing the work. Everyone knew Jim was out there and, once again, he had proved what a bunch of tossers they all were, scratching about for scraps in the dirt.

Now Jim had just made an obscene amount of money while Sebastian had snagged just a tiny part of it. That was very depressing indeed.

Why had the bastard stopped like that?

At that moment life seemed an impenetrable but painful mystery to Sebastian. Now he understood why his great-great-grandfather had hanged himself in one of the stables. Sometimes when things were good, they just weren’t good enough.

“Hi, Al,” said Jim, “nice to hear from you.”

“That was an outstanding set of trading, Jim. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Really?” said Jim. “I hope you guys can keep it under your hats.”

“Sure,” said Wolfsberg. “What’s up next?”

Jim’s eyes narrowed. For Wolfsberg to call him, they must have made a packet off his back. Of course they had. Now they wanted more. “Don’t know,” he said. “Have another break, probably.”

“You should take a stake in the bank,” said Wolfsberg. “With your sort of money you could have quite a piece and be on the board.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Jim. “I’ll do that next year when the stock price is back at five bucks again.” It was now at forty dollars.

“It’s going to five bucks?” whimpered Wolfsberg,
horror-stricken
. “You’re kidding me.”

“Yes, I am,” said Jim.

“Ha,” grunted Wolfsberg. “You had me there. Where’s it going?”

“Don’t know,” said Jim. “I’ve got to be careful with my predictions.”

“You’re probably right,” said Wolfsberg. “So, now you’re
among the super-rich do you want to put your name to a university or something? I’m fixed up with the philanthropist networks so I can hook you up.”

“Thanks,” said Jim. “I’ll let you know.” He hung up on him, as he used to do with the junior muppets who called him when he was on the trading floor.

Jim was watching the market ticking. Davas had been right. Now he wasn’t yanking the Forex pairs and the international stock indices, the volatility had drained away. He had made the world economy writhe with pain as he had hit the same sensitive spot time and again with his huge trades.

Stafford put a tray with tea and toast next to him. “May I make a suggestion, sir?”

“Go ahead.”

“Perhaps you might consider going out. It’s been approximately three weeks since you left the apartment.”

“Yeah,” said Jim. “That’s quite a long time, isn’t it?” He felt a little told off. “But I did just make eight billion pounds.”

“Eight billion pounds?” The butler’s grey eyebrows rose. “That’s an awful lot of money.”

“Yes,” Jim said, smiling to himself. “It’s a fuck of a lot, isn’t it?”

An SMS buzzed on his phone. It was Smith. “Curry?”

“Bingo,” said Jim. “I’ve got a date.”

“Very good, sir,” said Stafford. “On another subject, sir, if I may, I’d like to invite my two godchildren over to see me.”

“Of course,” said Jim, and picked up his phone to call Smith. Stafford left as he listened for the dial tone.

“Jimbo,” said Smith, by way of greeting.

“Agent Smith,” said Jim, knowing it would be equally annoying to Smith. “What’s up, doc?”

“Well, I could say that I find myself at a loose end, but that would sound like I’m a Billy-no-mates, so instead I’ll imply that I need to see you on a matter of some urgency.”

“Do you?”

“No,” said Smith, “none whatsoever. Just a catch-up.”

“When have you got in mind?”

“Tonight’s a goer but next week’s looking chaotic.”

“Tonight,” said Jim.

Jim looked sceptically at Smith’s
phal
. It was allegedly four times hotter than the wickedest vindaloo and had been responsible for people keeling over dead of a heart attack.

“I don’t normally eat this particular delicacy in company,” said Smith, “but seeing as it’s you … Did Jane tell you about the Black Hand?” He spooned curry on to his rice.

“Jane? The Black Hand? No,” he said. “We’re not together any more.”

“That’s what she said, and that’s why I wanted to meet.”

“Who are the Black Hand, and why should I need to know about them?” said Jim, thinking of how much he missed Jane.

“They were the robbers you bumped into – or, rather, bumped off – in Paris. The Black Hand is a smallish Serbian terror organisation. They started the First World War.”

“Bloody hell,” said Jim. “They’re a bit old, aren’t they?”

Smith nodded and took his first forkful. As he savoured the moment, tiny beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “They are indeed, but that’s Balkan politics for you.”

“So what does that mean for me?”

“Well, you should avoid any trips to Serbia for a start.”

“OK,” said Jim. “That should be easy.”

“Otherwise, I just thought you should be aware – you know, friend to friend.”

“How’s Jane?” said Jim, trying for nonchalance.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Smith. “All women are a complete and utter mystery to me. When they look happy, they’re sad, and they cry when they should be laughing with joy. You buy them flowers and they think you’ve done something wrong. I’ve long since given up trying to read them.”

“Did she talk about me?”

“No,” said Smith. “Not in any meaningful way.”

Jim looked at Smith’s
phal
and determined to commit suicide. “Can I have a mouthful of that?”

“Are you sure, Jimbo?”

“Yes,” he said, his fork poised over the dish.

“Gently does it,” said Smith.

Jim forked some into his mouth. Someone had poured molten metal on his tongue. He went bright red. His mouth puffed out and his eyes bulged. “Faaarkin’ ’ell,” he spluttered, reaching for his lager.

Smith was catching the eye of the waiter.

The lager extinguished the pain for as long as it was in his mouth. When he’d swallowed it, the heat came back with a vengeance. He was panting and glaring at Smith.

“I did say.”

Jim emptied his glass. The pain was still fierce.

“
Raitha
,” Smith told the waiter, “and pronto.” The man smiled and scooted off. “Help is on its way.”

Jim eyed Smith’s beer.

“Beer’s no good,” said Smith. “The active ingredient of chilli is only fat soluble and right now it’s glued to your tongue. Only fat’ll get rid of it.”

Jim nodded, mute.

“Hence my order of yogurt” said John. “Shortly the antidote will be on hand.”

Much to Jim’s relief, after two small dishes of cucumber yogurt the sensation had all but gone.

“Chillies are poison to birds,” said Smith, “which is why the bird-eating spider, usually called the tarantula, has venom made of the active ingredient in chilli. It’s the only poison common to plant and animal.”

“That’s good to know,” said Jim, through a mouthful of his own curry. “I won’t eat tarantula curry and I won’t go to Belgrade.”

Next morning Jim found himself watching the markets. He wanted to trade but it was pointless. Instead he surfed the Net and looked up the Black Hand. He found nothing that referred to any event later than the 1920s. He listened to music and started to buy hundreds of tracks from iTunes.

He was becoming a little bored when Stafford came in with two gorgeous girls. Jim was immediately on his feet.

“These are my two godchildren,” his butler informed him. “Lavender and Tulip. Lavender and Tulip, this is Mr James Evans.”

“Jim,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. “Nice to meet you.”

“Come now, girls,” Stafford said, “we shouldn’t waste any more of Mr Evans’s precious time.”

“Don’t worry, that’s fine,” said Jim.

Tulip gave him a cheeky look as they left the room.

Jim felt suddenly invigorated. Blimey, he thought. He sat down and closed his browser. He looked at the desktop wallpaper of Jane and her lovely muddy smile. It had to go.

Later that day he was staring out at the river. He should buy himself a boat and park it outside his window, he mused. Maybe he should extend the basement and build a submarine pen so he could pull out in secret at full tide. How cool would that be? And maybe he’d buy a mansion and fill it with cool toys. He could afford anything and everything. How great was that? Even things that weren’t possible now, he could fund and make happen. But what would bring him the most happiness? He’d never really had much fun. Happiness and pleasure had been in short supply all his life. His training for happiness had been pretty much limited to an unexpected ice-cream, a hoped-for present on his birthday or at Christmas or a quick kiss in the corridor at school. And his adult life had been one of ever-increasing drama and stress. Happiness and pleasure were pretty much strangers to him. He needed some kind of guide, he realised.

Tulip came into the room and headed for his screens. She picked up his phone and dialled a number into it. A phone somewhere on her person rang and she hung up. She smiled cheekily at him and walked out.

Something was wriggling in his guts – and it probably wasn’t last night’s curry.