Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) (32 page)

'We did that in stages, Aram. First a bit. When the market confirmed that we were right, we bought some more coffee. If we were wrong we could get out with a small loss.'

'That's what I'm doing Jack. This is just the start. Take a look at the screen. Oil's trading around $30 and gas is $3.10.'

'You've borrowed $100 million and also bought options and futures,' I said angrily. 'That's dangerous. Borrowing to speculate on margin. One hell of a risk!'

'Take it easy, Jack. That's what leverage is all about. Borrow to lever profits upwards. We'll have enough capital. When oil and gas take off, more investors will come in.'

'What about the interest on the borrowings?'

'That's in hand. Besides buying shares in oil and gas companies, I'm purchasing their bonds as well. The interest on their bonds is offsetting the interest on our loans.'

'Corporate loans? What if the companies are risky?'

'Why not Jack? They're solid companies with either large oil and gas resources or seriously exciting exploration rights. The income from the bonds is much higher than the interest on our loans.'

My fund manager course in investments had taught me about bonds, a multi trillion dollar market, far bigger than equities and commodities. US Treasury, British, German and French government bonds, i.e. major nation loan issues, are regarded as top notch safe havens. Companies issue bonds to borrow money. So corporate bonds are dependent on the financial strength of the company and long term profit prospects. A start-up company or oil or mining business is generally regarded as a higher credit risk as the business could fail. So the market demands much higher yields or interest from their bonds, than from government securities. In some instances the yields are so high that the market calls them 'junk bonds'. Despite these risks, a shrewd investor can make big gains if companies do better than expected. The price of their junk bonds rise and the investor receives better interest. The downside is if the companies get into trouble. In those instances, the prices of their bonds fall.

I wondered if I should brief Leash about Aram's investment and trading strategy, but decided against it. The Aquarium drawing showed that oil and gas prices were breaking through to higher levels of the tank. The shares and bonds seemed OK as Aram, a qualified accountant, had made shrewd investments in the past. There was a good chance that he would be proved right and we would make it big time.

*   *   *

That afternoon, Cy, Maisie and I climbed into a taxi and went on our way to a seminar at the Armourers' Hall. Cy shuffled through the papers for the presentation. Relaxed, I sat back and looked out the window. The taxi wound its way through the traffic to Piccadilly Circus, then down Haymarket past a night club and Georgian theatre, towards Trafalgar Square. Tourists were happily taking pictures of each other next to the fountains and Nelson's Column. South Africa House overlooks the square and I thought of Maffie and Ruff. Wondered what they were doing and decided that I would go to South Africa at Christmas to find them. See Ivor Ensworth and the twins again. We had kept in contact with emails at first, but that had petered out. I continued to daydream, absently observing us drive up The Strand and past Bush House, where the
BBC Overseas Service
had interviewed me about coffee. The taxi trundled through the traffic on Fleet Street, passed the old
Telegraph
Building, which housed Goldman Sachs and the old
Reuters
building on the right. Then it accelerated up Ludgate Hill towards St Paul's Cathedral, which still looked magnificent on that grey, cloudy day. We continued on our way past the Bank of England, turned left towards Moorgate and into a narrow street, stopping outside the Armourers' Hall.

On one side of the stairs were medieval suits of armour that the city Armourers' Guild used to make. At the top of the stairs was a room full of bankers, pension fund managers and men and women who managed money for the super rich. Cy began to network.

At the seminar, three different hedge fund managers would present their funds to potential investors. We were giving the final presentation, a psychological ploy of Cy. It would be brief and to the point and since we were last, it would be fresh in the minds of the audience. When the delegates left, Maisie would stand at the exit and pass them folders about Aquarium. I wasn't interested in listening to the boring presentations of the other fund managers. So I sat down on a chair in the cocktail room and paged through the
Guardian.

'Hello you, long time no see.'

The voice and Australian twang were unmistakeable. I looked up. It was Sandy, her brown hair much shorter than when I last saw her. Her dark eyes, lively and enticing; face and arms bronzed. Her light blue suit by coincidence matched mine. Looking at her again, it wasn't surprising that I was once crazy about her. Yes, Sandy, who I had followed to London; who had changed my life, without knowing it.

'Sandy! What are you doing here? Thought that you were at University in Perth,' I said trying to be casual.

I felt myself blushing. She noticed, laughed and touched my face.

'Decided to travel with my mates,' she said. 'You know. The Australian thing. Through Thailand, India, then Europe. If we make enough money, the States as well.'

'Sounds great.'

'Wow Jack! I saw your name on the programme. Didn't dream it was you.'

Some coincidence. She had probably spotted my name on the Net. Read the articles on how I had made it. Saw that I was to speak at conference and applied for a job as an organiser. Very convenient. I decided to play along with her.

'How's that friend of yours? The guy who drove the Golf convertible?'

'Come on Jack! He's history. You've just reminded me of him. Time sure flies. What's been happening with you, Jack?'

'As you see, I'm a hedge fund manager,' I replied, with a smile that had a deliberate touch of superiority.  'What a hedge fund?'

I did my best to explain the arcane world of hedge funds. She touched my hand and I felt a tingle up my spine. Two years had passed and though she had hurt me, I still couldn't help but fancy her. She looked at me with that knowing, mischievous, grin of hers: 'I'm not sure what you're talking about, Jack, but it sounds that you take punts on the market. Guess you win some and lose some, right!'

'That's about it.'

She looked at my Savile Row suit, my silk, dark blue Hermes tie and Gucci shoes: 'Seems you're up at the moment, Jack. The last time I saw you . . .'

'I was down and out. Broke! One of the cleaners at Lord's.'

Sandy shook her head in mock amazement and noticed her agitated boss beckoning.

'Do you want to come to a fancy dress party with me on Saturday?' I blurted out.

Her number was ready and she pressed it into my hand: 'Sure Jack, see you later.'

Despite my cynicism, I floated into the conference room. Cy described my presentation as a brilliant performance. Sandy slipped in, waved and slipped out.

'Jack, you had them in the palm of your hand,' said Cy when I'd finished. 'An energy and commodities boom! You really think there's going to be one?'

'Who knows? Oil and gas are already rising. Long may it continue, we're up to our necks in the stuff.'

'I think those guys are going to give us a lot of money,' Cy said. 'You sounded like a natural gas evangelist. From what I could tell, you converted them. They went out believing that demand will soar because it is much cheaper than oil and it is clean energy.'

'They believed me because I believe it,' I said. 'It won't stop global warming, but it will help curb pollution.'

18 -
GOLDEN DAYS

Later that week, Sandy and I were on our way to Angels, a fancy dress hire specialist, not far from Soho. We had to choose a costume from the eighteenth or nineteenth century. I spotted a Nelson costume and tried on the white breeches and navy blue jacket with tarnished medals. The costume was tight. Not surprising. I was a lot heavier. Luckily there was a bigger Nelson costume and I fitted easily into that. The Admiral's famous hat fitted perfectly. It was much easier for Sandy. As Emma Hamilton, Nelson's mistress, she looked ravishing. The full-length, white, early nineteenth century dress clung to her sensuous curves and showed off her perfect cleavage.

I decided to leave the Ferrari outside the shop and didn't bother if there was yet another parking fine. Sandy tucked her hand under my arm as we walked about a quarter of a mile towards Soho. We chose a Moroccan Restaurant, ordered chicken couscous and caught up on the last two years. The meal lasted for hours, but was over too soon. I decided not to tell Sandy that it was she who had originally motivated me to make money. After being dumped before, I wasn't going to make a fool of myself again.

I drove her to her place in Bayswater and parked outside a decaying Edwardian building. The paint had faded and the walls were dirty grey. She didn't want me to go inside, but I insisted. Sandy turned the key of the front door and we entered a dusky passage, with poor lighting and a shabby dirty carpet. We climbed two floors on rickety, squeaky stairs. Sandy unlocked the door of her bedsit and put on the light. Clothes were strewn on the floor. The armchair, with two pairs of knickers hanging over its back, was decrepit and the bed was roughly made. Her kitchenette was shabby with unwashed dishes in the sink. I went into the bathroom to relieve myself and wash my hands. Both the toilet and bath were dirty and stained. The place smelt musty.

'How can you live in this dump, Sandy?' I asked.

She was busy picking up clothes in a desperate attempt to tidy up the place.

'You can't imagine rents in London these days, Jack. It's just temporary. I'm waiting to get a proper job.'

Money makes you fussy. The untidy filth turned me off Sandy and I decided not to stay. Instead of making a pass, I gave Sandy a kiss on the cheek and told her that I would pick her up early Saturday afternoon.

*   *   *

Saturday was a perfect spring day; sunshine and blue skies. The Ferrari's hood was down. While I was driving, I touched Sandy's knee by mistake. She pushed aside my hand and looked at me warily. Thinking that she was playing hard to get and my date would go nowhere, I acted out a sulk. It mostly worked with others. I put on some reggae and stopped talking for about an hour, drumming my hand on the wheel in time to the loud music. Sandy was unfazed and ignored me. When we reached the open highway and the speed restrictions were raised, I stepped on the accelerator and the car took off. My eyes were mostly on the road. But I managed to glance at Sandy as she ruffled her hair, leaned back, closed her eyes and relaxed. I could see why I was mad about her when I was sixteen.

We arrived at Yevgeny Faramazov's mansion late in the afternoon. The house looked as if it was once a gothic nunnery. A tower was on each corner of the house, which appeared to have thirty to forty rooms. Farmland surrounded the large garden and in the distance I could see cows, calves, bulls and horses. Several hundred people, looking like eighteenth and nineteenth century aristocrats were milling about. The garden was magnificent with thousands of daffodils and tulips in full bloom. It led down to the Thames where I could see a motorboat and a ferry full of guests.

Yevgeny Faramazov, as Tsar Alexander, and his wife, as Catherine the Great, were in the centre of the garden. They received their guests who bowed and kissed their hands. This was part of the fun, but I couldn't help thinking that people were fawning over them. We went up to introduce ourselves. Instead of kissing his hand I shook it. He looked at me warily, knowing that I knew about him and Pearl. He introduced us to his wife, Katya. She was beautiful and for the life of me I couldn't understand why he needed to stray.

Since we had left without any breakfast or lunch, we were both starving. Sandy grabbed some smoked salmon and caviar canapes. We then rushed for the punch, finished our drinks quickly, pulled out the sodden apples and grapes and ate them. They had absorbed lots of alcohol and after allowing my glass to be filled again with champagne, it was not long before I was drunk.

Late afternoon, guests moved towards a stage that was in front of a tent. Two miming artists came out. The show began and straight away I recognised the artist. Boris Krepolovitch was demonstrating his acrobatic and juggling skills. It then came back to me. I had seen Faramazov before I met him at Pearl's place. It was at the Edinburgh festival when I was with Ivor Ensworth and the twins, after we had seen Krepolovitch's performance there. Another figure was at the back of the stage helping with props. It could have been the drink, but I don't think so. It was the big bearded thug who I had seen at the Russian Samovar. Since he was with Krepolovitch, there was now no mistaking. He was definitely one of the murderers on Charing Cross Bridge. He was dressed as a Victorian undertaker, all in black. An apt costume! There they were, the two hangmen together again.

It was twilight, but I put on my dark glasses and clasped Sandy's hand so tightly that I felt the sweat. She tried to pull it loose.

'Hey Jack, your nails are digging into me,' Sandy cried, as she used her right hand in an attempt to free herself. She managed to pull her hand away, as I felt myself hyperventilating. Following Danny's advice, I blew slowly into the side of my fist using the closed fingers as a tunnel; 'Sh . . . sh . . . sh . . . relax, relax.'

Sandy, not realising what was happening to me, angrily slapped me hard on my back.

'What's wrong with you, Jack?' she said, shaking her hand in pain. 'Are you a sadist or something? Look what you've done to my hand.'

I took my eyes off the thug and saw the nail marks on her left hand. They had drawn blood.

'I'm sorry Sandy, I don't know what got into me. It was a bad memory,' I gasped, trying to kiss her hand.

She pulled it away: 'What happened, Jack?'

'Never mind,' I said, swiftly dragging her away from the makeshift stage and crowd of eighteenth century dandies and their ladies. We went to the buffet table, where I filled a glass up with iced water, wet a table napkin and gently placed it on Sandy's hand. By now, I was breathing normally and was in control of myself. Since most of the other guests were watching the show, we were virtually first in line to choose from the assortment of delicacies on the buffet table. We chose lobster, asparagus and artichoke hearts and we sat down at one of the round tables. Sandy tucked in, but I just picked at mine. Didn't feel like eating. Afterwards, when I was more relaxed, I took off my dark glasses. They made me more noticeable, especially in the Nelson costume. It was unlikely that the murderers would remotely recognise me. Other people joined us, but they spoke Russian and some other Eastern European languages, so it was difficult to mix. That suited me.