The Lazarus Vault Part 17

'I thought Koenig were in Frankfurt.'

'There is no point speaking to them.' He picked up his file and turned to go.

'Koenig want to play the white knight. You know the easiest way to stop a charging knight?'

Ellie looked blank.

'Kill his horse.'

The Bentley purred down Commercial Road towards Limehouse. Traffic was light, but Blanchard ordered the driver to take a detour. When Ellie glanced up from her laptop, she was surprised to see long rows of warehouses crawling past.

'Is this the way to the airport?'

Blanchard murmured something about roadworks. Ellie went back to her work. When she looked again, the car had stopped at a dead end in a mazy industrial estate. She a.s.sumed they'd taken a wrong turn but Blanchard was staring out the window with purpose, waiting for something. Had he spoken?

Ellie followed his gaze, through a chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire. Behind it lay a wasteland: charred bricks and twisted metal beams, the remnant of a warehouse gutted by fire. The breeze blew up flakes of ash, as if the fire still lingered, though it must have happened some time ago. The rubble had been bulldozed into heaps, and the scorch marks on the adjacent buildings painted over. At the back of the plot, a derelict sign advertised Logical Components, a monument to the fallen company.

But she'd seen the name before. She remembered her first week at work, a proud old man defying Blanchard's offer so that his son could inherit a business he didn't want. The Rosenberg Automation Company, which had streamlined its supply chain to remain compet.i.tive. A skip behind the factory, waist deep in cardboard looking at logos on boxes. Logical Components the choice is Logical.

'That was the company that sold logic boards to Rosenberg. Their key supplier.'

'Their factory burned down three months ago. Without their components, Rosenberg were unable to continue manufacturing. Their customers deserted them, the bank denied them credit. They were about to declare bankruptcy when we made one final offer to acquire them. Reduced, obviously. The company was almost worthless.'

Ellie forced herself to look him in the eye. 'Why did you bring me here?'

'Rosenberg was your first deal. I thought you would want to know how it ended.'

'Not like this.' She stared at the wreckage, imagining the flames consuming the building. 'Did you do it?'

'Of course not.' He parted his lips, baring his teeth. Daring her to contradict him.

'But if I did is it wrong? A company, fundamentally, is merely the sum of its a.s.sets. An acc.u.mulation of value. Let us say I order our trading division to take an aggressive position regarding a certain corporation. They dump the stock, or short-sell it. A rumour goes around the market and others follow suit. In a matter of minutes I have destroyed hundreds of millions of pounds from a company's a.s.sets. All perfectly legally. Why is it any different if I destroy those a.s.sets in the form of buildings and machinery, rather than paper? If I use fire rather than the telephone?'

'It's illegal.'

'n.o.body dies. We have a sentimental attachment to physical property, but it is nothing more than an incarnation of wealth. And wealth is the material of capitalism. We create it or we destroy it; we work to acquire it and deny it to our enemies.'

'And what does all that wealth buy you?' Ellie murmured more audibly than she'd intended. Blanchard looked surprised.

'Power, of course.'

Paris Ellie had always wanted to see Paris, but not like this. They landed in darkness; half an hour later, a limousine was sweeping through the post-rush hour traffic. She felt on edge. Every time she looked back, a black Range Rover with dark tinted windows seemed to be behind them. If they changed lanes, it followed; when they turned, it turned. When a taxi tried to nip in front, it roared forward to close the gap, almost taking off the taxi's front b.u.mper. The taxi veered away with a squawk of outrage.

'Is someone following us?'

Blanchard glanced back and smiled. 'Destrier has arranged a babysitter. He says there is a gang of anarchists who have made threats against us. Nothing specific, but Destrier worries. He's like a grandmother.'

The Range Rover melted away in traffic as the limousine drew up in the Place Vendome outside the Paris Ritz. At check-in, their room keys came with a message.

'Mr Lechowski is awaiting you in the Elton John suite.'

Ellie's heart sank. 'Is he advising Koenig now?'

'He was a natural choice. He already knew the company inside out from trying to buy it.'

'Is that ethical?'

'It's efficient.'

The Elton John suite was more tasteful than Ellie had expected, a soft-lit symphony of pink and ivory. The heels of her shoes almost lost themselves in the carpet. Lechowski was waiting for them in the sitting room. Through an open door, Ellie could see an eight-foot-wide bed capped with a pink canopy.

'You are looking as beautiful as ever, Ellie,' he complimented her. 'May I get you a drink?'

'Just water.'

He picked up a pink telephone and ordered.

'This is an unexpected meeting. Your a.s.sistant would tell me nothing on the phone, but I a.s.sume you have come about Talhouett? You did very well in Luxembourg; we were disappointed not to win. Our bid was only five million euros less than yours.' He watched Blanchard carefully. 'But perhaps you knew that already.'

Preternaturally quickly, the waiter came with the drinks mineral water for Ellie, a brandy for Blanchard and a Jack Daniels for Lechowski.

'This is about Talhouett,' Blanchard confirmed.

Lechowski spat out his wad of gum. 'Off the record?'

'That depends what we agree.' Blanchard took out his knife and sliced the end off a cigar. 'Koenig gains nothing by buying Talhouett. Ellie?'

As briefly as possible, Ellie outlined the case. Lechowski listened without interest, staring the whole time at a point six inches below her throat.

'And even if Koenig win the company, we will still own ten per cent of it. You will find we can be a very disagreeable shareholder.'

'I thought Groupe Saint-Lazare owned that stake.'

Blanchard swatted the objection away. 'We think the same on this.'

'As ever.'

'Koenig have no shares to offer, so they will have to pay cash. In this market, only a fool pays cash. Especially one with debts to service.'

A pause. Lechowski sipped his whiskey. Blanchard exhaled a cloud of smoke.

'Eh bien.' Blanchard gazed at one of the pictures on the wall, an extravagant painting of a s.p.a.ce rocket. 'When I was a child I loved astronomy. Orion, Pegasus, Andromeda I could plot every one. Back then, s.p.a.ce seemed so exciting. Now, it seems more about bureaucracy than heroism. Did you hear about the landing craft NASA sent to Mars?'

Lechowski shook his head.

'A vehicle the size of a vacuum cleaner, but they spent more to build it than you or I would spend on a whole company. Ten years to prepare it, three more to fly however many hundred million kilometres through s.p.a.ce. And when it arrived, it crashed into the planet at three hundred miles an hour. Do you know why?'

If Lechowski knew, he wouldn't deny Blanchard his punchline.

'Because the scientists made their calculations in centimetres, but programmed the lander in inches.'

They both laughed. Ellie looked between them and wondered where Blanchard was going.

'There is another story like this, which perhaps you know,' Blanchard continued. 'A German private equity firm who wanted to buy a Hungarian property developer. They opened the books and did the due diligence. They put it into spreadsheets, models, valuations all by the book. They bought the company for a handsome premium they were so eager to get into the booming Hungarian property market. And then ' Blanchard smiled. 'They found out that the a.s.sets they paid for in euros had actually been quoted in forints.'

He laughed again. This time, Lechowski didn't join in.

A long roach of ash dangled from the end of Blanchard's cigar. He rolled it off in the ashtray and took a sip of brandy.

'Of course it is just a story. I mention it only because Michel Saint-Lazare has always wanted to expand into Hungary. If any of your clients had a.s.sets they were looking to sell, he would be eager to deal with them.'

Lechowski had gone very still, like a cat watching a bird in a tree. Ellie could almost see his jaw trembling.

'How much does Saint-Lazare have to spend?'

'Maybe two, three hundred million euros. Of course, he would be relying on the profits from Talhouett to fund it.

Lechowski took a long sip of his Jack Daniels. The gla.s.s came away empty. Ellie refilled it from the bottle that room service had thoughtfully left on the sideboard. Playing waitress seemed to be the only reason she was there.

'I will tell you a secret,' Lechowski announced. He had recovered some of his poise. 'The Koenig management do not want to buy Talhouett. They are only doing it because the board have ordered it. But the board do not really want it either. There is one man, Herr Drexler, who has forced this deal on them. Unfortunately, he is the chairman. It will take forceful advocacy to persuade them to change course. It can be done, but it will take a personal appeal.'

'Your bank will get its commission.'

'My bank, yes.'

'Three per cent could be six million euros. If you originate the deal, most of that will find its way into your pocket. You will certainly be able to afford your new Porsche.'

'Actually, I prefer Aston Martin. My colleagues say I am perverse, but there is something so oxymoronic about English craftsmans.h.i.+p.'

Lechowski drained his gla.s.s again. When Ellie went to fill it, he held it so she had to bend low in front of him to reach. His knee brushed her leg.

'I am a romantic, Blanchard. I prefer English cars to German, and American bourbon to Scotch. And a warm bed to a cold one.'

He smiled at Ellie. For a moment, even the smoke seemed to freeze in mid-air. Ellie gave Blanchard a desperate look and found no comfort in his eyes. He lifted himself out of his chair.

'I think I will go to bed. It has been a long day. He gave Ellie a bleak smile. 'I will leave you two to sort out the details of the agreement.'

Lechowski stood to shake his hand. 'I must just excuse myself for one moment,' he told Ellie. 'I hope you will be here when I come back.'

Blanchard delayed until Lechowski was out of the room.

'Lechowski was never meant to play the white knight,' he observed.

The smoke was making Ellie's eyes water. She felt hot, unwell. 'Do you really ?'

'Do whatever you have to.'

London City Airport Blanchard's phone started buzzing the moment they were off the plane. He listened, smiled, said a few words and hung up.

'That was the office. Koenig have just issued a press release to retract their bid. They say the market conditions are not favourable. The Talhouett board will meet tomorrow, and everyone expects they will announce that they have accepted our bid. I don't know how you did it.'

He slid an arm around Ellie's waist and leaned in to kiss her. But she twisted away, slipping out of his reach.

'Would it bother you if I said I'd slept with him?'

'Of course.' Blanchard met her gaze frankly. 'I am a man; I feel jealousy. You are very precious to me. But that is personal. This is business. And in business a certain ruthlessness is admirable.'

He inclined his head, waiting for her to speak.

'I didn't sleep with him,' she said. 'I told him I found him attractive, but I knew his reputation. I told him if I went to bed with him and then he broke our agreement, no one would ever take me seriously again. I said he could have me when the deal was complete.'

An admiring smile flickered across Blanchard's face. 'He will hold you to that,' he warned.

I'm not planning on being around to find out.

She let him kiss her as they waited outside the airport for the car. When they'd got in, she took her phone out of her bag and turned it on. Even in the short time she'd been in the air, a few dozen e-mails had come through. She read through them, half-listening to Blanchard as he talked about celebrations, about where they could get a table at such short notice.

'When the contracts are signed the whole bank will celebrate,' he told her. 'Tonight it will be just you and me.'

The last message told her she had a voicemail waiting. She dialled in and listened in silence.

'Probably it's Lechowski asking you out,' Blanchard joked. He stroked a strand of hair back from her cheek; he reached across to kiss her again, then paused. He must have read it in her face.

'What is it?'

XXVIII.

Torcy, France, 1136 They say the ground shakes when two lines of hors.e.m.e.n come together. If you're one of the riders, you don't notice: your whole world is a shaking anyway. The rise and fall of the horse, the sway of the lance, the creak of leather and the rattle of s.h.i.+fting armour. Some of the knights wear knotted cords tied to their helmets, to snap and crack as they blow behind them. It's vanity: just one more thing for an enemy to grab hold of.

But for now, everything is still. The drums and horns have fallen silent. The crowd are hushed. I sit in my saddle, feeling the cantle dig into my back. A cold wind catches the pennon on the tip of my spear. The horses stamp and blow hot air through their nostrils. Across the field, some two hundred mounted knights wait in line in front of a grandstand. It's draped with cloth which spreads and billows in the wind, so that the whole construction seems to wobble.

A herald calls 'laciez'. Four hundred men pull their helmets on. I tie my chinstrap tight under my chin. From under the brim, I scan the opposing line for any sign of Guy de Hautfort's banner. It's part of my ritual, part of the danger. We're far from Normandy, but men travel a long way for the tourney.

Something at the far end of the opposing line catches my eye. A familiar shade of blue, or perhaps the shape. It's too far away to see clearly: the device is hidden behind another knight's banner. But it worries me. Usually we get there with enough time to ask the heralds who's on the other side, but we were delayed on the road from Poitiers and only arrived last night.

A trumpet sounds. We charge.

This is my fifth tournament in Etienne's company. In my first, at Dijon, I captured three knights and five horses. Etienne sold four and let me keep one, a chestnut charger. I was just getting used to him when I lost him again, in the next tournament. It happened in the first charge: a lance caught me plum on the boss of my s.h.i.+eld and bowled me out of the saddle. I was lucky I only lost my horse.

Since then I've been more successful. Ada tells me to be careful, that the last thing I want is a reputation, but if you hold back in the heat of battle even a mock battle like the tourney you'll probably find yourself on the ground. Do you want me to do my worst? I ask her. Wheel and flee rather than face the other knights?

She never answers, but I can see it in her face. If you loved me, you'd flee. I don't know how to make her understand that the two aren't incompatible. I do love her but I have to fight.

I survive the first charge, though only just. I'm still worrying about the banner I saw, and don't have my lance properly sat in its fewter. But they call it the tourney because the true test is when you hear the shout of tournez. Turn again. Any fool with enough courage can risk the first charge. It's turning to go back that really tests your mettle, when your arm's s.h.i.+vering and your lance is a splintered stump, when you no longer have your comrades riding knee to knee. Reining in a horse from full gallop, bringing him round and spurring him to the next charge is no easy feat. If you're too slow, you'll get broadsided by the enemy who turned faster.

I wheel about and spur forward, trying to edge down the line to my left. I can't see where the banner's gone. There are no blunted weapons on this field: if Jocelin's here, it would be easy to kill him.