The Twain Maxim (3 page)

The garage door swung up and Jane rode inside, stopped the bike and jumped off, keys in hand. She unlocked the side door into the house and went into the den. There was a bowl of fruit on the table, a plate of cookies under cling-film and a little basket of silver-wrapped sweets. The mail was in a pile. It had been opened and annotated, with yellow Post-it notes poking out at the top, detailing what had been dealt with and what needed her attention.

She slipped off her leathers and boots and took them with her as she sprang up the stairs. She had a shower – always more refreshing in her own place – then put on her favourite pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. She noted the difference a little weight loss had made and determined to put it on again.

Downstairs, she went back to the den. Thanks, Mom, she thought, as she picked up a satsuma and the mail. She went into the kitchen, opened the door to the patio and stepped outside. A worn wooden table stood beside the pool with a few chairs. Jane sat down and peeled the fruit, popped a segment into her mouth and began to leaf through the envelopes.

“$16 overcharge,” said the Post-it note on her bank statement, in a tight barely legible scrawl. “Have complained and requested refund. TBA.” Jane smiled. Her mother
wouldn’t let anyone get away with taking a penny from her daughter that they hadn’t earned. The next note was attached to the phone bill: “Switched carriers. Better deal!” The bottom line on her savings-account statement showed $183,284.92. Her mother had ringed the balance in pink marker and noted “+$5327.48” on the yellow tag.

Jane ate another piece of satsuma and turned over the next sheet. “We’re so proud,” said the note. It was confirmation of a second oak leaf to her Purple Heart. She smiled again. It was a perfect afternoon.

The front-door bell chimed.

She dropped the sheaf of papers on to the table and jumped up. Friendly neighbours must have spotted her come in. Doubtless, some urgent community action needed her support – paving had to be replaced or a gate changed. Whenever she was at home they always collared her fast. They knew they had to catch her while they could.

She opened the door to a smartly dressed guy and two of the shiniest Ferraris she had ever seen.

“Jane Brown?” said the guy, smiling.

“Yes,” she said, a little surprised.

“Brad Wilson. I’ve brought you your Ferrari Enzo.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the shiny red shark.

“Sorry, you’ve got the wrong Jane Brown.”

“Pardon me, ma’am, but I don’t think so. You are Ms Jane Brown and this is your address, right?” He showed her the paper on his clipboard.

“That’s me,” she said.

“It’s a gift, I believe, from a Mr James Evans.” He beckoned her to follow him. “Come and take a look.”

It was an amazing-looking car. She walked towards it,
taking in its fabulous lines – and stopped in her tracks. “No,” she said.

Brad paused mid-pace and turned. “Ma’am?”

“I don’t want it.”

Brad flashed white teeth. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever had that reaction before.”

“I prefer bikes,” she said. “Tell him I don’t want it and give him his money back.”

“We can’t do that, ma’am.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Five …” Her voice died.

“Why don’t you take it for a spin, then make up your mind?”

“I couldn’t afford the gas,” she barked.

Brad’s partner, in the other Ferrari, was looking at her from behind dark sunglasses as Brad gently threw her the keys. She let them fall to the ground.

“Look, lady, take the car for a drive and if you don’t want it then I’ll buy it off you for three hundred grand tomorrow.” He took out a pen and offered it to her with the clipboard. “Care to sign this?”

“No.”

He scribbled in the signature box. “If you don’t want it I can just take it away?” he offered, with a grin.

She bent down and picked up the keys.

“You’ll love it. You won’t be sorry.” With that, he turned away and climbed into his partner’s car.

Jim snatched up his phone. “Jane –”

“What were you thinking?” she snapped.

His heart plummeted. “What’s wrong?”

“How could you buy me that car?”

He wanted to say, “What car?” but that would be ridiculous. “What car?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Stop repeating me.”

“Repeating you?”

There was an extended silence, which, eventually, Jane broke. “I’m a special agent in the employ of the American Government. I can’t afford a Ferrari.”

“Oh,” said Jim, crestfallen.

“Five hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Jim! That’s a hell of a lot of money.”

“Not for me,” he said indignantly.

“But it is for me,” she said, exasperated

Jim sighed. “I guess.” Within seconds he had gone from elated to miserable. “Stupid of me,” he said. “I just wanted to buy you something nice, something to make you happy.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, “but I can’t accept it.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I’ll sell it and give you your money back.”

“Don’t let it worry you.”

“It will. I’ll get my mom on to it.”

Jim’s side was aching. “You still coming Saturday?”

“You bet. I’m about to get a last-minute deal on a flight.”

“I’ll send the jet.”

“No, Jim.”

“For pity’s sake,” he heard himself shout, “it’s my plane! I can pick up who I want in it.”

She backed off. “OK,” she said, “that’s really kind.”

“That’s settled, then. Sorry about the car. I got carried away.”

“I’m sorry too, Jim,” she said, “I really appreciate the gesture.” She hated lying. “Got to go,” she said. “Love you.”

What had she just said? “Oh, crap,” she muttered.

What
had
she just said? A big smile spread over Jim’s face.

She had said, “Love you.” He squeezed the phone. “Yes.” He felt his whole body inflate. He wanted to call straight back, but he knew she’d burst his bubble

Jane’s mobile signalled an incoming SMS. It was from Jim: “I love you too.” She groaned. She must be losing it.

Jim looked at the foreign-exchange charts. Nothing meant anything to him. For a change, he couldn’t see the coming moves. He switched off the monitor. He’d better get tidying.

“It’s a lovely car, dear,” said her mom. “Are you sure you want me to sell it?”

Jane gazed out of the front window. Her dad was standing by the Ferrari with the next-door neighbour, admiring it. The local kids had all cycled up to stare at it respectfully too. It was like a magnet. The journey to her parents’ home had been one long, uncomfortable stare-at-Jane extravaganza. She turned away. “I’m sure,” she said.

Her dad came in. “You’ve got yourself one hell of a guy,” he said, “someone finally good enough for my little girl.”

Jane scowled.

“It’s not that simple,” remonstrated her mom.

“Looks pretty simple to me,” he said. “Anyone want a soda?”

“Beer,” said Jane, flopping into an armchair that almost swallowed her.

“Ice T, please – the peach one,” said her mom.

Jane heaved a despairing sigh. “How am I meant to keep up?”

“I know, sweetie, I know,” her mother murmured soothingly.

“Keep up?” came a voice from the kitchen. “He doesn’t want you to keep up. He just wants to make you happy.”

Mrs Brown gave a girlish giggle. “But it is rather exciting, don’t you think? Does he love you?”

Jane grabbed a cushion and grappled with it. “That is not the issue.”

“Sure,” agreed her mom.

“That is the
only
issue,” called her dad.

“You keep out of this,” her mom told him. “It’s strictly girl-talk.”

Mr Brown came in with two bottles and a beaker of Ice T. “He sounds like a keeper to me,” he said, grinning. “And you both know it.”

Baz looked at the FedEx package in the delivery man’s hand. He signed for it. “Thanks.” He went into the kitchen of the Mayfair maisonette and tore open the envelope by the thin red strip. “My little ducks,” he said, pulling out the contracts and kissing them. “My sweet little ducks.” He had the unfettered rights to explore and mine forty square miles of the Democratic Republic of Congo. It might as well be carte blanche from the British stock market to steal tens of millions of pounds from greedy speculators everywhere. He had done the difficult bit: he had created the truth on which he would build his lie. Forty square miles of mineral rights were not easy to come by, even in the arse end of the world, and they were priceless, whether or not there were any minerals to be had. Human optimism and avarice would do the rest.

Now the trawl line was set for the huge and hungry shoal of investors that lived the dream of getting rich quick. There would be a feeding frenzy for his fabulous mine and he was about to turn the greedy dreams of many into a river of gold for himself. Rather than dig treasure from the ground, he would lever it from other people’s brokerage accounts and
rebury
it among his invisible deposits. He had been running the same scam for twenty-five years in Australia, Canada, South Africa and London. He wasn’t the only one at it –
many others were playing the same game – yet no one, except a few terminally stupid individuals, had ever been caught. Mining fraud was the perfect crime.

He laid the contracts to the mineral rights on the black slate kitchen counter. There it all was. The rest would be easy.

Jim heard the distant sound of urgent buzzing and looked round from his screen. He got up from his desk and walked towards the front door, tucking in his T-shirt. The market was too vague for him today. Nothing seemed to be trending with any predictability so he hadn’t entered into any positions. It was a rare morning when nothing was cooking but sometimes the charts just didn’t speak to him. He was tempted by a few boredom trades but resisted. Instead he thought about Jane.

He was faxing fewer and fewer analysis reports to his old firm, but they kept paying him his enormous retainer. The bank was a vast financial organisation, one of the “vampire squid” that had wrapped itself around the face of the world economy. It thought in billions and aimed for trillions. His fees were less than small change compared to the scale of their schemes. Some time soon they’d stop paying him, but with
£
100 million in the bank he didn’t care. Money had lost all meaning for him. It was like water from a tap to a man who owned a vast lake. As a kid he had been as poor as a church mouse. Now he owned the church but had no idea of what to do with it.

Jim peered through the spy-hole on the front door. A rotund old man, dressed as if he was going to a wedding, stood outside. He was bald, with a strip of grey hair round the side of his head. He had a beak of a nose and an eagle-like
expression. The buzzer sounded again as Jim was wondering who the man was, so he pressed the intercom. “Hold on a second.” He turned the latch and opened the door.

“Good morning, sir,” said the man, and stood to attention. He smiled. “I’m not sure whether you’re expecting me, but your friend Mr Davas suggested I pay you a call. My name is Stafford Lees.”

“Max sent you?”

“That is correct, sir,” said the man.

“You’ve come for the butler job?”

“Yes, sir.”

Crikey, thought Jim. He’d forgotten about it. “Come in.”

“Thank you, sir.” He walked into the hall and was immediately eyeing the place up like a burglar.

“Through here,” said Jim, pointing him into the lounge.

“May I say what a wonderful view you have, sir?”

“Thank you.” He smiled nervously. “And it’s Jim. Please.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the weight off your feet.” He gestured to the two sofas that stood at ninety degrees to the picture window, facing each other over a low coffee-table. He sat down and Stafford, with some difficulty, lowered himself into the other.

Jim noticed that the coffee-table was piled with crap. Apart from letters and magazines, there was a huge stack of
fifty-pound
notes. He realised, with horror, that it probably looked a bit sick. He had got the bank to run him over ten grand in cash and had plonked it there to dip into it when he needed to. There were heaps of coins, too, a couple of mobile phones, a dismantled PlayStation 3, three notebook computers, four mugs, an empty takeaway pizza box, a clear plastic bag full of
random papers and a plastic rabbit. He felt rather disgusted with himself.

“These are my credentials,” said Stafford, passing him a wad of paper.

“Blimey.” The first page was headed “1980–2005, Royal Household” He turned the page. “That’s impressive.”

“Have you any questions?” asked Stafford, in a strong military voice. His eyes sparkled behind circular glasses.

A little switch flicked on in Jim’s head. If he had learnt one thing it was that he had to get on the front foot. You couldn’t react to a situation by letting it wash over you. He had to grab it and shake it by the collar. “Well, yes, I do,” said Jim. “Why did you leave the Royal Household?”

“I had to nurse my wife, which was not compatible with the demands of my job.”

“And how is she now?”

“She passed away last month.”

“Oh.” Jim felt awful. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a blessed release.”

Jim took a breath. Then he said, “Stafford, to be honest, I have no idea how this is meant to work.”

“Well, first off, sir,” he said quietly, “I would expect the master to address me by my surname while I will address you as ‘sir’.”

“Can’t I call you Stafford? It sounds pretty much like a surname anyway.”

The butler smiled. “You may, of course, call me whatever you wish.”

“What else?” said Jim.

“Well, I take it, from the size of the house, that you have quarters for staff?”

“There’s a couple of bedsits on the top floor and, like, a small flat in the basement,” said Jim.

“Very good. Now, are you a gentleman who likes plenty of staff, a cook, a housekeeper, an assistant, a gardener – well, perhaps not a gardener, but you follow my general drift – or would you prefer me to look after everything?” He raised his right eyebrow and his look drilled into Jim.

Jim glanced around the sparsely furnished lounge. A cook, a housekeeper and an assistant? His home would turn into a zoo. “I’m a minimalist,” he said.

“Very good, sir.”

“If that’s OK?”

“Leave it all to me,” said Stafford, hauling himself to his feet.

“Right,” agreed Jim. He got up and offered his hand, feeling rather as though he had been hired rather than the other way round.

Stafford shook it. “I’ll be in contact.” He smiled. “I’ll let myself out, sir.”

“OK,” said Jim, catching sight of the pound shooting up against the dollar on his central monitor. He ran over to the screens. He hadn’t seen that one coming.

The pilot had called to say Jane was on the way. Jim knew he could have gone to the airport, but with the private jets, an immigration officer met you at the bottom of the plane’s steps, glanced at your passport and you were straight into a limo.

So he should have been in the limo waiting for her, he thought. Perhaps that was the kind of thing Stafford would fix up for him. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the
bell rang. He ran to the door, where he took a few deep breaths. There she was on the TV screen. At last.

He threw open the door. “Da-
nah
!” he said, with a grin as wide as his face.

She dropped her kit-bag and he swept her into his arms. Immediately, he felt an agonising shooting pain in his healing wound and collapsed backwards.

“Jim!”

His face was contorted. “Ow,” he said, clutching his side.

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” he said, and raised his hand. She hauled him to his feet. He staggered, then found his balance. “Come on in,” he said, limping backwards as he rubbed his watering eyes.

“You need a medic?” Jane asked.

“No,” he replied. “Just got a bit carried away, that’s all.” He stopped, turned and kissed her slowly. “Nothing wrong with my snogging muscles.”

“Let’s go upstairs and have a look at that abdomen. I’m not having you dying on me.”

“Now you’re talking,” he said, squeezing her.

“No more fun for you, mister, until I’m sure it’s safe.”