Death of a Pharaoh (23 page)

“How long will it
take to be operational?”

“Less than a
week,” Ethan assured him.

Safe House, Le Plateau, Dakar, Senegal, 05:11
GMT October 19, 2016

Zach smuggled Ryan out of Chief Mbaye’s compound in the
back of a vegetable vendor’s truck under cover of the pre-dawn darkness. He
drove him to the safe house by a circuitous route that lasted almost two hours.
Only Ethan, Zach and now Ryan knew the location of the new operations center.
Ethan was waiting with a smile to greet them. The Head of Security stayed
permanently at the safe house on the presumption that enemy agents might have
Chief Mbaye’s compound under watch. It was just past 7 am GMT on October 19
^th
.

“You
smell like onions!” Ethan observed.

“Good
morning to you too,” Ryan replied grumpily. “Got any coffee?”

“Follow
me.”

Ethan
escorted the Pharaoh into the new operations center. Several communications
specialists and traders sat in front of banks of computer screens. They all
stood and bowed as he entered.

“Everything
is ready,” Ethan assured them as he poured Ryan and Zach cups of coffee.

“Anything
happening yet?” Ryan asked.

“Crude
is currently trading at a high of $127 for Brent Sweet Crude and we don’t
expect any movement until just before the markets open in the United States at
3 pm GMT.”

“How
did we do on strategic petroleum reserves?”

“The
big three, United States, Japan and China are all on board.”

“What
about gold?”

“The
morning fix in London will take place in just over two hours and that should
get their attention. The afternoon price will probably send them into a panic.”

“Do
our traders have everything they need?”

“We
were able to free up about forty-two billion in cash and we have arranged
facilities with major banks around the world that will allow us to leverage our
trades substantially.”

“What
about the hedging plan?”

“Dr.
Golding is on a dedicated line in London and he will signal when we should get
out of the market, or about halfway into the decline. Panic selling will take
over from there and we should actually make a decent profit before trading ends
tomorrow.”

“Excellent,
pour me another coffee and then why don’t we generate the perfect storm?”

Ethan
walked over to a trader and authorized him to start selling gold. The Asian
markets would still be open for another hour. The Falcon investment fund had
more than 10 billion in gold bullion. The first sell order went through at 7.21
am at $1542 per ounce. Two hours later, the price had dropped by over a hundred
dollars in afterhours trading in the Far East. Rumors began to circulate that
several countries were considering selling some of their gold reserves to take
advantage of the high price.

Ethan
brewed another pot of coffee.

“How
are things going with Mariam?” he inquired.

Zach
smiled knowingly.

“Super,
she is teaching me how to decipher hieroglyphics.”

“Very
romantic!” Ethan assured his friend.

One of
the traders walked over with a message.

“My
Lords, the Chinese government has just announced that they will begin drawing
down part of their Strategic Petroleum Reserves effective immediately. Crude
prices are tumbling.”

Ryan
high-fived Ethan and Zach.

Stuart Bartlett parked his bicycle in the hallway of his
building and bounded up the stairs to his elegant office with views of the
Tower of London. Pedaling to work was an eccentricity he refused to give up,
even in inclement weather. As Chairman of his own trading firm, he could well
afford a car and driver but he adored the ride across the Thames every day. He
settled in his leather executive chair on wheels and turned on the first of the
four computer screens on his desk.  He noticed that he had one hundred and
seventeen new emails. They would have to wait.

“Not
before my first cup of tea!” he stated aloud in defiance of the tyranny of
technology.

He had
thirty minutes before the London Gold Fix would come out and he was certain
that there would be little change over yesterday. He was thoroughly enjoying
the tinkling of the silver spoon against the china cup when the telephone on
his desk rang.

He
sighed and picked up the phone. It was George Cummings, his head trader.

“Have
you checked the Asian markets?” his caller asked without even a good morning.

“I
just got in and I haven’t even finished my bloody cup of tea yet?” Stuart
complained, “Why? What’s up?

“Gold
is down 10% in Asia and crude is heading south. The Chinese just announced that
they are going to reduce imports and draw down their strategic reserves.”

Bartlett
spilt half a cup of tea in his lap as he sprang forward in his chair.

“What
the hell is happening?”

“Beats
me but it might make this a painful week if we can’t stop the downward trend.”

“Get
your people buying and call me back right after the morning fix.”

Stuart
had every reason to be concerned. As the main architect of the Consortium’s
investment strategy, he had bet heavily that commodity prices would continue to
rise in response to the artificially tight supply orchestrated by the group. An
unusually large number of three-month contracts were due in the following days.
A major drop in gold and oil prices would be disastrous. He glanced at his
watch; the morning fix for gold should be out any moment.

Stuart
Bartlett stared at his computer screen, willing the number to be in line with
his estimates. He was expecting $1,525 to 30, despite the selling pressure in
Asia. The notification started to dance across the monitor in green letters. He
couldn’t believe his eyes. The price was $1,381. A 10% drop from yesterday. He felt
sick to his stomach.

The
red telephone rang. It was the direct line with the Chairman of the Special
Operations Committee for the Consortium. He knew him only as David. Stuart
reached for the phone and swallowed before picking it up.

“Good
morning, sir.”

He had
to hold the receiver several inches from his ear because of the torrent of
expletives that followed his greeting.
The tirade ended with, “Turn it around or
else!”

The
bad news came in waves throughout the day. Just before the markets opened in North
America, the White House announced two Executive Orders. The first authorized
the Department of Energy to begin drawing down the Strategic Petroleum Reserve
by a total of four million barrels of sweet crude every day. Stuart knew the
figure represented 25% of that nation’s daily requirements. It was insanity.
The second was even worse. The President announced that his government would
immediately sell fifteen million fine troy ounces of gold from their reserves.
At this morning’s price, the total represented over two and half trillion
dollars.

Barely
half an hour later, the International Monetary Fund and the European Central
Bank announced similar measures that would dump an additional twenty-five
million ounces on the market. The unofficial spot price was already below
$1,250 and dropping fast. He could only hope that the afternoon fix would
restore some stability to the market.

The
news from the International Petroleum Exchange was almost as frightening. The
United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia issued statements that they would
unilaterally raise oilfield production by a stunning 25% without even
consulting their partners in OPEC. It was a nightmare. These people were making
completely irrational decisions.

The
phone range from the trading floor; it was George again.

“Stuart,
I’m getting a flood of margin calls. We have several large future options that
we have to settle before close of business today, both in gold and petroleum.
Current prices are already well below the average contract price. We are going
to take a heavy hit. I just got off the phone with treasury and they say that
we can’t keep buying since we will need all of our cash to cover our exposure.”

There
was no response from Stuart. He was in shock.

George
insisted, “What should I do?”

“Nothing,”
he spat, “people will start to jump on the lower prices any time now. We’ll
wait for the afternoon fix.

It was
the longest few hours of his life. A colleague phoned to report disagreement
among the five members of The London Gold Market Fixing Ltd. That was a good
sign. He knew the current Chairman, the representative of Scotia-Moccata, he
wasn’t the type to let things get out of control.

The 3
pm fix was $1,165. He buried his head in his hands. Gold had lost 25% of its
value in one day. He jumped as his mobile phone rang. It was his wife’s number.

“Darling,
I am at the school to pick up Janet but she’s not here,” she announced. “The
monitor told me that you sent a car for her and she left ten minutes ago. Is
she there with you?”

Stuart
Bartlett hung up the phone without responding. They had his young daughter.
They hadn’t even waited for the afternoon price. He knew that he would get
parts of her in a box and he couldn’t live with the thought.

He
searched in his vest pocket for a silver key and opened the top right drawer of
his desk. A thick pile of credit card receipts covered the polished mahogany
box tucked in the back. He pulled it out and set it in front of him. His
fingers shook and despite fumbling the key, he managed to open the top to
reveal a small derringer nestled in red velvet, a gift from his late father who
acquired it at auction. The gun once belonged to a famous broker on Wall Street
who used it to commit suicide on October 29, 1929. His father thought it
humorous in a macabre sort of way. Thank God he wasn’t alive.

Bartlett
took it in his hands and made certain it was loaded. He heard the street
entrance open and the sound of someone heavy racing up the stairs. He placed
the gun in his mouth. His last sensation was the spreading warmth in his lap as
he pissed himself. He pulled the trigger.

Safe House, Le Plateau, Dakar, Senegal,
11:06 GMT October 21, 2016

Ryan
and Ethan had barely moved from their chairs in the past 48 hours, except to
take alternating naps. They were in continuous contact with Herbert Lewis in
Philadelphia. The first day of Operation Baal was an unqualified success. Gold
prices dropped 25% and crude was down a whopping 32%. Prices recovered slightly
at market opening on the second day but quickly plunged on rumors that the
International Monetary Fund would do nothing to support gold. Earlier, it
dipped below $1000 before recovering. The petroleum market was in free fall.
Only the warning that a further drop would force producers to shut down a
significant part of oil sands production in Canada returned some stability to
the market.

Mr.
Golding was still tallying up the damage to the Consortium, but his initial
estimates put their direct losses at more than four trillion dollars. The Falcon
Investment fund actually turned a profit and now held more than seventy-four
billion in cash. Ryan ordered that they distribute 50% of that amount to NGOs
to purchase wheat, rice and other food staples for immediate distribution to
areas suffering famine.

Delighted with
the results,
Ryan
indicated to Zach that he wanted to return to Chief Mbaye’s compound. He was
looking forward to seeing Mariam again. He missed her smile. Ethan would remain
in the safe house to monitor the financial markets and any reaction from the
Consortium. They had already heard of the broker’s fate and that of his
daughter. They would need to be vigilant.

On the long drive back to the compound, Ryan made a major
decision. He had just waged the equivalent of an economic nuclear war and spent
sums of money with more zeroes than he could even imagine. He equated himself
well and his grandmother would have been proud. All he needed now was a pair of
royal balls and the guts to ask Mariam on a date.

As
soon as he arrived, the Chief invited him for tea. Ryan had grown fond of the
ritual. They talked about the heat and the lack of rain. Senegal was near the
end of its wet season but precipitation had been well below normal that year.
The Chief waited to serve the third cup before he even commented on the
economic tsunami that swamped the Consortium’s economic armada.

“My
accountant tells me that my pension fund has been decimated and I presume that
I have you to blame for that,” he complained with a twinkle in his eye. “I
might need to ask for relief from the royal treasury.”

“No
problem, we actually did quite well in our trading,” Ryan assured him, “I can’t
say the same for our enemies.”

“Remember
your wise words about a wounded animal,” the Chief reminded him.

“Ethan
is beefing up security.”

“Despite
these dramatic events, you mustn’t neglect your preparations for the
coronation, my Lord.”

“That’s
one of the reasons I came back this morning,” Ryan informed him.

“And
the others?” The Chief was intrigued.

“Do
you think I could invite Mariam out for dinner tonight?”

“That is a
question you must ask her,” the Chief replied trying to hide his delight.

“Right, it’s just
that, um, I thought maybe, uh…”

Chief Mbaye said
nothing to make it any easier on him.

“What time should
I have her back?”

“That is your
decision but any adverse reaction from me as her guardian would pale in
comparison to Lord Thoth’s ire,” he warned.

“Great, I’ll keep
that in mind,” his voice less confident all of a sudden.

“I’ll inform my
niece you wish to see her and I’ll ask Ethan to come by later to coordinate any
security arrangements for the occasion.” Chief Mbaye then added, “Another cup
of tea?”

It was much easier than Ryan feared. She seemed thrilled and accepted
right away. The news spread like wildfire through the compound. Chief Mbaye
called his cousin to request the use of a modest beach house on the coast not
far from Lake Malika. He explained it was for friends from America. There was a
traditional boat available for some line fishing before sunset. An atmosphere
of excitement invaded the afternoon and Ryan couldn’t remember so many smiles
among the staff. The chambermaid giggled every time she looked at him. It felt
good after so much accumulated tension. He recalled his last experience with
Maria Fanelli over a year ago and his ignominious escape through the back gate.
So much had happened since then. As a precaution, he requested lots of candles.

Ryan expected a different reaction from his friend Ethan.

“I just won five
hundred bucks,” his Chief of Security exalted. “I was starting to lose hope.”

“Is there anyone
who didn’t bet on my private life?”

“Not that I know
of,” he responded honestly, “there was an even bigger pool running in
Philadelphia.”

“How much did you
bet?”

“Twenty dollars.”

“Must have gotten
great odds.”

“Yeah, most people
thought you’d take much longer.”

“Where was the
even money?”

Ethan hesitated.

Ryan’s look
demanded an answer.

‘When
Hell Freezes Over,” his friend replied.

 “I
guess I deserve that,” Ryan replied sheepishly.

“What do you have
in mind for the date?”

“A romantic sunset
dinner on the beach, Chief Mbaye has arranged a place.”

“I’ll get to work
on the transportation and security,” Ethan promised with a huge grin. “I’ll
leave Zach and Tony in charge here.”

“OK, but brief
your security team on discretion.”

“Speaking of
protection, do I need to stop at a pharmacy for anything?”

Ryan felt himself
blushing.

Stevenson was having a bad week. On Wednesday, he watched
in horror as the Consortium lost hundreds of billions in a matter of hours. The
call from London came that same evening. They were furious and wanted to invoke
the clause in Sonkin’s contract where the monies in escrow would revert to them
in case of his death. The fact that he was very much alive didn’t seem to
bother them. They were having cash flow problems. He broke into a sweat when
they told him about the broker and how his wife learned of his suicide in a
phone call, a moment before a courier service delivered the four boxes
containing her young daughter’s remains. The poor woman collapsed on the spot.
She was in hospital, heavily sedated, and under police protection.

Both
Stevenson’s parents were dead. He’d never liked his two siblings to be honest
and cared less if anything happened to them. His concern was for his own
throat. The end of the last conversation with his Consortium contact dripped
with more threats than a vampire drooling over someone’s exposed neck. He
desperately needed a success.

Vinnie
accepted the contract on Sonkin with his usual paucity of words.

“I’ll
even spring for the Russian whore if she is with him,” Stevenson offered just
to tie up loose ends.

The
Italian grunted his agreement.

“By
the way, have some fun,” he exhorted, “use your imagination.”

“Thanks
boss!”

The
lawyer almost detected a quiver of excitement in Vinnie’s voice before he hung
up.

He had
never revealed the identity of his paid killer to the Consortium for fear that
sooner or later, they might hire the sociopath to get rid of him in some
gruesome manner he preferred not to contemplate.