For The Love Of Money, Brian Doswell [books for students to read .txt] 📗

on the balcony. He had also ordered a bottle of Orvieto Classico from his uncle’s vineyards in hills above Spoleto. Apart from a stale croissant and a paper cup of instant coffee in the departures lounge at Gatwick, the crisp dry Orvieto was effectively Chrissie’s breakfast and none the less welcome for it.
Arturo went to great lengths to explain in near perfect English, accompanied by extravagant hand gestures, that he had chosen this particular restaurant because the enlightened management were sufficiently discerning to appreciate the delicate flavours of his uncle’s wine. The owners were also cousins of his by marriage to another cousin whom he had not seen for many years but worked for Medicato in Milan.
A waiter emerged from the arched door of the villa with two plates of gnocchi coated in a light cheese sauce.
“A perfect compliment for my uncle’s wine.” Arturo continued to explain the reason for his call to Andrew.
Quite by chance, he had been preparing a documentary piece about HIV and Aids for a television programme when his cousin’s name appeared in the contact list. He had of course rung his cousin at once, hoping to get an inside track on the story. His cousin had explained in turn how the clinical trials results were exceptionally good and the dilemma that Medicato was in with regard to the takeover bid from Roche. Once the news was released, Medicato’s shares would certainly improve, this would affect the bid from Roche who would almost certainly want to reconsider their offer which would undoubtedly have an adverse affect on the value of Roche’s own shares. It was clear to Arturo that there were many ways to take advantage of these beautiful market forces, but he could not do this in Italy because everyone would know that he had used inside information, especially his uncle, not the one who owned the vineyards in Spoleto, but the one who was the deputy chairman of the Borsa Italiana.
The waiter returned to collect their plates and Arturo ordered the veal Milanese without consulting Chrissie. He poured more crisp pale yellow wine into Chrissie’s glass and continued.
“So, I need Andrew to arrange a suitable trade, or maybe two trades. My cousin informs me that the clinical trials will be released in two weeks time. Until then, they are still under lock and key in the depths of Medicato. Even the top directors of Medicato don’t know how good they are, which is just as well or they will be on the phone to Andrew as well. We have two weeks to set up an account and arrange the deal.”
Apart from a few courtesies, Chrissie had hardly spoken a word.
The waiter arrived with the veal and wished them, ‘Buon appetito.’
The breadcrumb coating on the veal melted in Chrissie’s mouth and the bottomless bottle of Orvieto washed it down with exactly the right after taste. Her initial thoughts were that the whole thing with Arturo’s cousin and Medicato was no less a subject for censure under the rules on insider trading in London than it was in Rome. She doubted that George would go for it but she had promised Andrew to find out the facts and what better way to do it than on a sunlit terrace in Rome.
Breakfast at Gatwick was becoming a distant memory as the waiter cleared their plates and then returned with a single large glass bowl of panna cotta, and two spoons. Arturo explained,
“In Rome, lovers always share a dessert of panna cotta. It is a pudding of air and beauty that lifts the spirits before an afternoon of passion.“
Chrissie smiled as kindly as she felt able without encouraging him, “In England pudding and passion are rarely spoken of at lunch time.”
They both laughed, sharing the feeble joke and respecting her hidden meaning.
Chrissie was beginning to wonder why McAllister had sent her to Rome for this information when it could easily have been passed by phone or email. There had to be more to this and Arturo was not telling. He fell to talking about the view, to the west you could almost see the blue Mediterranean, today it was just a soft blue haze. To the east lay the Seven Hills of Rome.
“You must come and see my office, there will be some television going on. It will be fun for you.”
Arturo made an excuse and strolled inside; she assumed he had gone to use the toilet, however, no sooner had he disappeared than the waiter returned with a fancy gift box which contained their bill. He deliberately placed the box in front of Chrissie, bowed a deferential head and turned to fiddle with the place settings at an adjacent table. Clearly she, or rather Wilkinson’s, was expected to pay. Chrissie dug out a pile of Euros that she had bought at Gatwick while waiting for departure and tucked a suitable amount into the gift box. As soon as the waiter had retrieved the box and returned inside the building, Arturo appeared and demanded that she follow him to his car and then to the studios. He made no reference to the bill and she chose to leave the matter where it lay, McAllister would pay.
Arturo drove the Maserati through the suburbs of Rome as though it was the only car on the road. Chrissie felt herself gripping the door handle with pure white knuckles. Her windblown hair had long ceased to be a concern, arriving alive would be good enough.
Eventually Arturo turned into a side street barely wider than the car, mounted the pavement and thrust the car into the darkened entrance of an underground car park, all in one fluid movement, without ever seeming to slow down. The tyres squealed on the painted floor surface as he pulled the car round endless concrete pillars and into a reserved space.
“We are here.” Arturo pushed open his door, climbed out of the car and headed for the elevator leaving Chrissie to follow on.
Chrissie deliberately took her time. Once out of the car, she spent a moment tidying her hair and smoothing down her jacket and skirt, then she eased her trusty laptop out of the front pocket of her cabin case and closed the zipper, spinning the numbers on the barrel lock. She called across the parking space to Arturo,
“Is it OK to leave my case on the seat?” she was concerned that the roof of the Maserati was still open.
“For sure, it is OK. My uncle is the chief of police in this precinct. It is as safe as a road of houses.” Chrissie smiled at his misquote and joined him at the elevator door.
The sign on the wall of the elevator said ‘4 Persons’ but the two of them filled the tiny space and Arturo’s arm wrapped unnecessarily around Chrissie to select the floor button. She did her best to pull back into the corner of the box.
The door opened on the ninth floor and Arturo led her along a passageway lined with photographs of television personalities, none of whom she recognised, to a wide double door over which a red ‘Recording’ light glowed. They waited for the light to go out then he opened the door into a studio where an audience of about a hundred people was watching a glamorous curly-haired blonde in the skimpiest of glittery dresses and heels, host a quiz show. The recording had stopped while a sound engineer made an adjustment to the microphone pinned to one of the contestants and the blonde girl stood at the edge of the set holding a glittering microphone and looking exceedingly bored. Arturo gripped Chrissie’s wrist and dragged her onto the set.
“This is Elaina my cousin.” The blonde girl’s eyes came alive and she kissed him enthusiastically on both cheeks. “. . . and this is Chrissie from London, she is here to see your show.” The blonde girl kissed Chrissie, equally enthusiastically, while a make up girl appeared from nowhere to repair her smudged lipstick.
The studio lights came on again and Arturo pushed Chrissie into a spare seat, indicating for her to keep quiet while the quiz show continued.
An hour later the recording came to an end with the final contestant having won 4,000 Euros and a holiday on a mountain in Treblinka. The whole thing had gone completely over Chrissie’s head as she had understood neither the questions nor the answers. The studio audience filed out and a gang of technicians began to rearrange the set. Elaina crossed the floor towards their seats pulling off her elaborate blond wig to reveal short mousy brown hair tied back under a bandeau. Elaina also kicked off the heels and Chrissie noticed that, close up, those long sexy legs were encased in what could only be called, support hose. Suddenly Chrissie felt a lot less wind swept.
Elaina led them from the studio to her dressing room where she began to remove her stage make-up while Arturo explained that Elaina was the long term partner of Catarina Cantini, who was the PA to the Marketing Director of Roche and who had copies of all the details of the Roche bid for Medicato.
“Now we go together to see Catarina. Bring your lap top Chrissie.”
The Maserati cruised along the duel carriageway of Via Appia Nuova, towards the Coliseum before turning off into a maze of apartment blocks on Via Alba. Elaina’s apartment was on the third floor of a red brick building that probably dated from the mid-eighteen hundreds. High ceilings and ornate plasterwork decorated every room, including the toilet that Chrissie headed for as soon as she decently could. She quickly tidied her hair and make up, deciding that the gurgling plumbing was probably as original as the plasterwork, before meeting Elaina’s partner.
Catarina Cantini might have stepped out of the pages of Vogue, elegantly coiffured in her white linen business suit worn over a black silk shirt-style blouse. Chrissie wondered about her relationship with Elaina as the mouse beneath the glamorous show girl façade and Catarina, well perhaps Catarina would look right as the classic dominant partner. Catarina had not offered kisses to anyone; she merely shook hands in a very no-nonsense fashion.
Chrissie followed Catarina into the room that served as a study where Catarina copied a number of files from her PC onto a memory stick which she then passed to Chrissie, who copied them onto her laptop before slipping the memory stick into her handbag. The text was in Italian but the spreadsheets were clear enough. Catarina checked the files on Chrissie’s laptop, deleting one of them before nodding her head and closing the screen. From the brief glimpse of the spreadsheets Chrissie could tell that the quality of information was good and probably more than enough for Andrew McAllister to buy into positions that would mask his illicit sources of information. She would check the details later; what she really wanted to know was why?
Arturo explained, “The man she works for is uncomfortable with Catarina because she lives with my cousin. He prefers that she lives with me or any other man come to that. But she tells him that she prefers my cousin and they fire her - simple as that.”
“So Catarina leaves with her handbag full of goodies?”
“Exactly so. Except, she will not give these goodies to a man, she spits on men, so I tell Andrew and he says you can deal with her. I say they are all crazy people.”
“So does Catarina require revenge, in cash terms?”
“No, she has a new job at the studios. She will be fine; she just wants her old boss to hurt a little bit. Andrew will know how to hurt him, in the wallet will hurt him best I think.”
At last Chrissie understood why this