A Stacked Deck

by S. H. Linden

part 2 of 10

London

At a busy intersection people were crossing a street and entering a modern office building. Above the doors was a sign: Bank of Finance and Development. The logo: “BOFAD” appeared on the front wall by the door. Parked Rolls-Royces, Jaguars and Daimlers were in front of the bank. Chauffeurs, with sinister faces, leaned against cars talking to each other or reading newspapers. The headlines on the papers read: Hong Kong Bank Panic.

A black stretch Cadillac pulled to the curb and Elton Green exited from the limousine. He motioned for the driver to go on. Elton Green was in his mid-fifties and a distinguished-looking former U.S. Senator. He entered the BOFAD building and walked quickly down a corridor and took an elevator car, accessed by a key, to the top floor. When the elevator doors opened, Elton Green stepped out and walked down a wooden-paneled hallway to some large doors guarded by two men. One of the men opened the door for Elton Green to step into the room.

The large room was occupied by a group of men: two English, one Chinese, one African, and one Arab. They were sitting around a huge table and chatting amiably with each other. At the head of the table was Sir Brian Rawson, the chairman of BOFAD. As Elton Green entered the room, Sir Brian looked at his watch. “Hello, Elton. A little delay on the Concorde this morning?”

“We had a bomb threat.”

“I didn’t know that former U.S. Senators had enemies, Elton?” Quiet laughter filled the room. “Well, now that Elton has made it here alive, let’s get down to business. I’ve got good news for all of you. I am pleased to tell you that our $15 billion junk-bond offering is now fully subscribed.”

Everyone in the room clapped.

“Second, our friends in the Hong Kong rumor mill have whipped up a nice little panic that’s created a fantastic opportunity for investments. Lord Rivington has the details.”

Lord Rivington, a rather heavy and pompous-looking man, took the limelight. He pulled out some notes from a briefcase and studied them briefly before speaking.

“Yes... Thanks to our sources, the Hong Kong papers all received copies of a leaked secret Chinese government report on plans that will go into effect after the Mainland takes control of the colony. According to the report, China plans to levy severe taxes on corporations, banks and real estate holdings, and limit the amount of profits foreign companies take out of Hong Kong.”

There were amused smiles throughout the room.

“Although the Chinese denied issuing the report, press coverage has touched off panic. People with real fears about what the Communists will do are looking to “fire-sale” the choicest real estate holdings.”

“That’s where we come in,” Sir Brian said. “The Bank of Engjand is eager to shore up the Hong Kong economy. We can use our $15 billion in cash to buy $60 billion in Hong Kong bonds guaranteed by the Bank of England. With $60 billion in guaranteed bonds as collateral, we could buy $200 billion in Hong Kong real estate, corporations, even the airport. We could control the colony if we play our cards right.”

George Chang, in his late forties and studious looking, raised a hand to speak. “The Communists will also profit from this panic selling. We could get into a bidding war...?”

“Cowboy capitalism isn’t their style, George.”

Sir Brian turned to look at Elton Green. “Elton, what do you Yanks think of my idea?”

Elton Green put down his cigarette. “Clearly Washington and Wall Street are banking on the Communist takeover. But we’ve got $5 billion in freshly laundered cash sitting offshore in Panama, waiting for packaging. Instead of using it for risk arbitrage, we could transfer it to Hong Kong to support your plan.”

The smile on Sir Brian face showed his delight. “Excellent! Anyone else...?” No one responded. Sir Brian then turned to the Arab. “Sheik Baraka, what can we scrape from the gulf?”

Sheik Baraka, a handsome, slightly gray-haired man, dressed in Saville Row attire, lit a cigarette with his jeweled cigarette lighter. “As you know, we are owed more than $50 billion by Saddam Hussein, but we can part with a half billion from our reserves. We were thinking of using that money to pay off loans on property acquired in the United States, but let them wait when we can make money like this.”

“I offer the Baraka family my deepest thanks, said Sir Brian. “And what about you, General Dashman?” Sir Brian was now looking at the African General, who had on a tailored suit. “Now that oil is moving up, what can the good General do for us today?”

General Dashman spoke with a British school accent. “The good general is depressed, Sir Brian. Last week more than thirty thousand people stormed the National Palace demanding lower prices of basic food items. Thirty were killed after we called in the troops. To make matters worse, we just signed a new restructuring agreement with the International Monetary Fund. But we can part with a half billion cash from our oil reserve fund to take advantage of this opportunity.” Sir Brian gave the general a knowing smile.

Now, Sir Brian addressed the group. “Fifteen from junk. Five from Panama, another billion; that adds up to twenty-one billion dollars... We are a young company, barely twenty years old. Yet nobody can come up with cash like we can. A show of hands will approve my strategy for Hong Kong... Gentlemen...?”

Each board member raised his hand in support of the plan.

“Done. Gentlemen, please have your funds wired in by tomorrow morning. Any other business?” Sir Brian looked around the room but no one spoke. “Well then, today’s meeting of the Board of Directors is adjourned. Let’s go to White’s for a drink and some lunch.” The directors got up from the table and moved toward the exit.

General Dashman walked over to Lord Rivington. “That’s quite a coup you’ve pulled off. How did you do it?”

“Simple, old chap. We had someone from the London School write up the report, and had a public relations firm plant it with some Hong Kong financial journalist.”

“And what did it cost to run up this panic, Lord Rivington?”

“Fifty thousand pounds,” Lord Rivington said, pleased with the statement. “Isn’t it nice to realize, General Dashman, that money still goes a long way in the Crown Colony.”

The two men laughed at the private joke. “In spite of our Prime Minister’s stated intention to turn the colony over to the Reds, we aim to keep things as they are.”

‘That sounds reasonable,” General Dashnian said, as he pulled out a cigarette. “I like the way people think in Hong Kong. They seem more interested in making money than revolutions.”

* * *

Ten Downing Street

It was late in the evening when the Rolls-Royce pulled to the curb. A British security man opened the back door and Ambassador, Kwang Chen Lung, of mainland China, stepped out and entered the residence of the Prime Minister. Security men checked over Kwang Chen Lung, then led him down the hall to the library.

Inside the room and standing and waiting for the ambassador was Alan Lankford, the British Prime Minister, and the heads of British Intelligence, MI-5, and MI-6. Lankford was a handsome, athletic-looking man, in his early sixties. Lankford spoke in a friendly voice. “K.C., what is so urgent that we have to meet at this time of night?”

“Alan, my government has learned that there’s going to be an attempt on your life while you’re in Hong Kong.” The Chinese ambassador paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “We feel that a banking consortium is trying to destroy the Hong Kong Treaty between our two governments...”

The smile disappeared on Lankford’s face. “Who told you this?”

“I cannot tell you the name of the source. But I can tell you his information has always been reliable... Alan, for the sake of the treaty and your life, please cancel the trip to Hong Kong. And please take extreme precautions from here on out.”

“Do you know who’s behind the plot?” MI-6 asked.

“An international group of financiers. They want Hong Kong to remain under British control and plan to hire the mercenary, Faust, to do the assassination.”

“An American, isn’t he?” MI-5 asked. “One of those rogue types that hires out his services.”

“Yes... and extremely dangerous. This man knows every trick of the trade,” said MI-6 as he turned to the Prime Minister. “Sir, if this information is true, you are in extreme danger. I suggest you cancel the tour of the Colonies.”

“Nonsense!” The Prime Minister went to the bar and fixed a stiff drink. “I will not be intimidated by threats from any quarter! The tour will remain as planned.”

The men in the room look at each other as if their pleading with the Prime Minister was a lost cause.

“Well... it looks like we have our work cut out for us, doesn’t it, sir,” MI-6 said, while putting on his coat. “I’ll call the head of the CIA and see what they have on this Faust.”

“Maybe they know his identity?”

MI-5 walked to a sofa and put on his overcoat. “Be careful. They may not give you the straight time of day. I’ve heard they’ve used Faust, on occasions.”

K.C. Lung took this last sentence in with a worried expression on his face.

* * *

Russian Hill, San Francisco

The street was lined with rich-looking mansions. The entire neighborhood had a sedate look to it. A mailman was delivering mail when he stopped in front of a large gray-stoned house. He took out a letter from his mail bag, read the address carefully, then dropped the letter in a slot embedded in the door. He then continued on his route.

After a few minutes a black limousine backed down the driveway. Its windows were tinted, but one could make out a chauffeur, dressed in uniform, and a passenger sitting in the back seat. Inside the limousine the passenger was opening his letters. An envelope had come from Switzerland with a Swiss bank deposit slip for one million dollars to a numbered account.

Faust looked at the deposit slip for a long time, almost as if to tear it up, then he slipped it into a breast pocket billfold. With a distant, almost a sad look on his face, Faust turned to look out the limousine’s window. Something had caught his eye. It was a scene of little girls playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. They were laughing and playing in their own innocent world. A slight smile cracked Faust’s lips as the limousine continued down a hill and was lost from sight after a few moments.

* * *

An Art Gallery, San Francisco

The sky was gray when the limousine stopped at the curb. The chauffeur opened the back door and Faust stepped out and went inside the gallery. A few people rushed over to greet him. He smiled, made some polite comments until an usher showed him to a seat. An auction was about to take place. The pieces were rare Chinese artifacts from the estate of a late millionaire banker.

Faust seemed unaware of the looks he was getting from rich-looking women, who watched him with what seemed to be envy. The Faust that was here was just as cool and self-assured as the Faust that was on the sailboat, leaping to the trawler and killing the man who helped him kill EI Brujo.

As the auction progressed, an exceptional piece from the Ming dynasty was brought out on stage. It was a vase. Dealers and collectors started bidding in rapid style. Near the end of the bidding, Faust won the vase with a bid of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Some people rushed up to congratulate him. Faust was charming but didn’t linger with the crowd.

Two auction representatives approached Faust, but before anyone could say a word, Faust handed one man a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The check was signed by a man called Mark Reason.

The lead auction representative, who was gay and friendly, seemed surprised that the check was already made out. “Why you devil, Mr. Reason. How did you know the bidding would stop at two-fifty...?”

Faust was friendly and polite in his answer. “Because I knew the Museum would never go above two-twenty-five.” He threw a quick glance over at a dejected museum curator. The auction representative smiled, knowingly. “You must study the character of your opponent, my dear friend, if you want to win the game. Have the piece delivered to my home before noon tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mr. Reason.” The gallery representative turned to his assistant. “Tell Devlin to take a security guard with him when he delivers the vase.”

“Thank you.” Faust said, as he shook the man’s hand. Faust started to leave the gallery, and the auction crowd opened a path for an easy exit. Suddenly, Faust stopped, as if stunned for a moment by something he saw. He was looking across the room at a Sotheby’s expert and a beautiful Chinese woman called, Mai Ling Chong. They were examining a porcelain bowl. Mai Ling said something to the Sotheby expert, then walked over to Faust, smiling with delight at seeing him.

Mai Ling was graceful, elegant, and the personification of a Chinese beauty. “It’s Mai Ling, isn’t it...?” Faust said, but not quite sure if it was so.

“Yes, surprised?” Mai Ling gave Faust another warm smile.

“Well it’s been a few years. What brings you to San Francisco?”

“Father had some pieces at the auction today... But that’s not the only reason.”

“Why don’t you tell me the other reason over a drink? There’s a nice bar down the street.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m buying a piece for father, and I have an early flight back to Hong Kong. Will you give me a rain check?”

“The daughter of my former agent shall always have a rain check. So... I suppose this is goodbye...?”

“Not yet... Let me look at you a while longer... Yes, you’re still a handsome bastard.”

“My God! Is this the kind of language they taught you at the convent?” Faust said, laughing.

“I’m no longer a schoolgirl, or haven’t you noticed?”

“I’ve noticed.”

Their eyes locked for some telling seconds, then Mai Ling looked at a letter she was holding in her hand, and with hesitancy, she handed it over to Faust. “Father asked me to give you this.”

Faust took the letter, but his eyes never left Mai Ling’s face. He was like a collector studying a piece he was about to buy either now or later. Reaching into his pocket, Faust pulled out a small switch blade knife and snapped it open. The glint from the blade shone for a brief moment in Mai Ling’s eyes.

“Did you ever hear the saying: The bearer of bad news is the first to be hanged?”

Mai Ling laughed. “Yes, I’ve heard it.”

Faust read the letter: Old friends would like you to pay the British Prime Minister a visit while he’s in Hong Kong. Come quickly. China Chong.

“Well, it looks like the drinks will be sooner than I expected,” Faust said in a tone of voice that sounded almost sad.

* * *

To be continued...