‘Hi, Chris, thanks for waiting.’ It was Eric. ‘I hoped I could get away early this evening, and I think I still can, but something’s come up. I’ll be another twenty minutes or so.’
‘Can I wait in your office?’
‘Sorry,’ Eric said. ‘You’re not allowed beyond those doors. Security is everything in M&A these days.’
‘I understand,’ Chris said. ‘But I wonder if I could ask you a quick favour. I thought I’d try to track down George Calhoun tomorrow. I know he got the boot from here a year ago, but I don’t know where he is. Who can I ask?’
‘George Calhoun, eh?’ said Eric. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get someone to find out,’ and with that he disappeared back behind the mysterious glass doors.
Chris spotted a phone in a quiet corner of the reception area, and asked the woman behind the desk whether he could use it. No problem. Chris dialled Carpathian’s office. Ollie was still there, and he was agitated.
‘Bad news.’
Chris’s heart sank. ‘What now?’
‘It’s Melville Capital Management. They want out.’
Chris closed his eyes. Melville was a small firm, based in Princeton, that managed the endowment funds of half a dozen private colleges across the United States. They were a relatively small investor in the fund, at three million euros. But after his disastrous meeting with Rudy, the withdrawal of another three million was the last thing the fund needed. And two investors jumping ship could be enough to scare the rest of them.
‘Did they give any reason?’
‘No. Just that they wanted to give their thirty days’ notice.’
Although Lenka was the main point of contact with all of the investors, Chris had met most of them a couple of times. But not Melville. He remembered his phone call to them to inform them of her death. ‘Who’s the man there? Something Zissky, isn’t it?’
‘Dr Martin Zizka,’ said Ollie.
‘Give me his number.’
Ollie read out the digits.
‘Thanks.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Ollie.
‘Tell him he’s staying in the fund.’
‘Good luck.’ Then, in a tentative voice. ‘How did it go with Amalgamated Veterans?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
Chris hung up, and punched out the number Ollie had given him.
‘Zizka,’ a voice answered, so quietly Chris could barely hear it.
‘Dr Zizka?’
‘Yes?’
‘This is Chris Szczypiorski of the Carpathian Fund.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Zizka didn’t sound exactly pleased to hear from him.
‘I understand you are thinking of withdrawing your investment.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Melville Capital is a very important investor to us, and we’d be sorry to lose you. I wonder if it would be possible to meet you to discuss this further.’
As Chris had expected, Zizka didn’t sound thrilled with this proposal. ‘Aren’t you based in London?’
‘I’m in New York at the moment. I could come and see you tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m very busy all day tomorrow. I’m not sure I have any free time.’
‘Dr Zizka. All I need is half an hour. As I said, you are an important investor to me. And I know you were important to Lenka as well.’ Chris winced as he said this, but he knew he had to use Lenka’s name all he could if he were to keep Carpathian intact.
Zizka sighed. ‘All right. Four o’clock. But it really will be half an hour. I have a meeting at four thirty.’
‘That’s fine, Dr Zizka. I’ll see you then.’
Chris was just putting the phone down when Eric returned. ‘What’s up?’ he asked, noticing the expression on Chris’s face.
‘Don’t ask. It serves me right for checking in with the office.’
Eric smiled sympathetically. ‘Always a mistake. Now let’s get out of here before someone else grabs me.’
They swept out of the building, and just as Chris was wondering whether Eric would insist on taking a taxi to the train station rather than the subway, a black limo swept up, leaving half a dozen similar vehicles behind it. A driver leapt out and opened the door for Chris and then Eric.
‘This is Terry,’ Eric said. ‘He’ll take you to see George Calhoun tomorrow morning. You are staying the night, aren’t you?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘That’s great. You don’t want to come all the way back into the city late at night.’
‘So where do you live?’ asked Chris, as the limo, which was really just a large saloon car, pulled away from the front of the Bloomfield Weiss building.
‘On Long Island. A place called Mill Neck. It’s right near Oyster Bay.’
It was rush hour, and it took them over an hour to fight through the traffic. Eric spent most of his time on the phone. It wasn’t for show, there seemed to be two live deals going on at the same time. Chris pretended not to listen, but of course he did. Eric was frustratingly vague, and kept on telling people he ‘couldn’t talk now’, although he did mention Rome, Munich and Dallas a lot. He was talking to someone called Sergio about someone else called Jim. Some big Italian deal, perhaps with a US company based in Texas?
After a particularly obscure session, Eric turned to Chris. ‘Do me a favour. Don’t try to guess what’s going on.’
‘Of course not,’ said Chris.
Eric sighed. ‘You’d think just one night I’d be able to leave at five o’clock, wouldn’t you?’ Then his phone chirped its tune again.
Eventually they were on a small country road that wound its way through woods, past mansions surrounded by high walls and snatches of sea shifting darkly in the moonlight. After a couple of miles, they rounded a bend; Terry pressed a remote control, a set of iron gates swung open, and the car pulled up in front of a rectangular white house bathed in a soft light from the lamps placed strategically around it.
‘We’re here,’ said Eric.
‘Is this the place you showed me on the boat? The place you said you always wanted to buy? Wasn’t it designed by some fancy architect?’
‘Meier. That’s right. I’d forgotten I’d shown you that. You have a good memory.’
‘I remember that night, at least.’
‘Yeah. Well, come inside.’
They got out of the car, and Terry drove off. Chris was almost expecting a footman, but it turned out that Eric had his own set of house keys, and was capable of using them himself. ‘Hi!’ he shouted, as they entered a huge hallway, with a wide set of stairs heading upwards.
A slender woman in jeans and socks, with her fair hair tied back, appeared and gave Eric an affectionate kiss.
‘Chris, this is Cassie.’
‘Hi,’ she said with a friendly smile, and held out her hand to be shaken. There was a cry of ‘Dad!’ and a small boy with blond curly hair, who looked very much like his mother, hurtled into the hallway and grabbed his father’s leg.
‘And this is Wilson.’
‘Howdeedodee,’ said the boy, from between Eric’s legs.
‘Hello,’ said Chris.
Eric heaved the boy up into his arms. ‘Do you mind if I go up and read him his story?’
‘No, go ahead,’ said Chris, and followed Cassie into a huge kitchen. He passed an Hispanic woman who was putting on her coat.
‘Good night, Mrs Cassie.’
‘Good night, Juanita. Thank you.’
Cassie poured Chris some white wine and attended to the cooker, set on a kind of marble island in the middle of the vast room. ‘Wilson’s thrilled to have his dad home in time to put him to bed,’ she said. ‘He won’t be long.’
‘Are you working at the moment?’ Chris asked.
‘Part time. Since Wilson was born and we bought this place, it seemed a shame to spend the whole time in the city. I have a PR company. Fortunately, my partners are extremely good, but there are lots of evening functions that I still have to go to, which are kind of a drag.’