“Jörg, expect seven million
dollars from Credit Parisien in the Number Two account by six o’clock tonight,
Central European time, and place it overnight with first-class banks and triple
‘A’ commercial names. Otherwise, invest it in the overnight Euro dollar market.
Understood?”
“Place one million dollars in the Banco do
Minas Gerais, Rio de Janeiro, in the names of Silverstein and Elliott and
cancel the call loan at Barclays Bank, Lombard Street. Understood?”
“Buy gold on my commodity account until you
reach ten million dollars and then hold until you receive further instructions.
Try and buy in the troughs and don’t rush–be patient. Understood?”
Harvey Metcalfe realised the last comment
was unnecessary. Jörg Birrer was one of the most conservative bankers in Zurich
and, which was more important to Harvey, had over the past twenty-five years
proved to be one of the shrewdest.
“Can you join me at Wimbledon on Tuesday,
June twenty-fifth, at two o’clock, Centre Court, my usual debenture seat?”
The telephone clicked into place. Harvey
never said good-bye. He did not understand the niceties of life and it was too
late to start learning now. He picked up the phone and dialled the seven digits
which would give him The Lincoln Trust in Boston, and asked for his secretary.
