“Mr. McGregor, I presume?”

The man sat down behind a comfortingly solid mahogany desk. He gestured for Gabe to take the chesterfield chair opposite.

“Robin Hampton-Gore. Marshall told me you’d be coming. Waxed quite lyrical about you, in fact. He assures me you’re going to be the next Donald Trump.”

Gabe laughed uncomfortably. For a ritzy banker, Robin Hampton-Gore seemed suspiciously friendly toward an ex-heroin addict, just out of prison for burglary and aggravated assault, whose only recommendation came from a convicted fraudster.

“Marshall’s an old friend of mine,” Robin explained, as if reading Gabe’s thoughts. “He made me in this business. He was my first big client and he stuck with me, long after he became so rich he could have insisted on someone far more senior handling his account. I owe him a lot.”

“So do I,” said Gabe.

Robin Hampton-Gore unlocked the drawer of his desk with an old-fashioned brass key and pulled out a crisp white envelope.

“This is cash,” he explained unnecessarily, handing it to Gabe. “Marshall thought you’d need some immediately.”

Gabe broke the seal and gasped. Inside was a small fortune. There was a smattering of tens and twenties, then hundred after hundred after hundred, the distinctive red-inked bills fluttering between Gabe’s shaking fingers like rare butterflies as he thumbed through them, trying to count.

“There’s only ten thousand there. It’s a float. The rest is in an account in your name. I have all the details here.”

Robin Hampton-Gore passed Gabe a second envelope. This one was already open, with a sheaf of Coutts letterheaded paper sticking out of the top.

Gabe stammered, “I…I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘the rest’? I think there must have been a mistake. I only need a couple of hundred quid.”

Robin Hampton-Gore laughed. “Well, you’ve got a couple of hundred thousand.” He handed Gabe a third envelope and his business card. “It’s a letter from Marshall. I trust it explains everything, but if you’ve any further questions, don’t hesitate to call me.”

Gabe’s hands were still trembling. As ever with Marshall Gresham, the letter was short and to the point.

Dear Gabriel,

It’s not a loan. It’s an investment. Fifty-fifty partners.

Love, M.

P.S. Don’t forget to write from Cape Town.

Gabe felt a lump in his throat and swallowed hard. Now was not the time to get emotional. He had too much to do. There were so many people he was indebted to. Marshall Gresham, Angus Frazer, Claire, his mother. He couldn’t let them down.

I’ll pay you all back. Every penny.

I’m going to Africa to make my fortune.

I won’t be back till I’m as rich as Jamie McGregor.

EIGHTEEN

AUGUST SANDFORD GRIPPED THE SIDES OF HIS CHAIR AND ground his perfectly straight white teeth with frustration.

The team meeting of Kruger-Brent’s new Internet division had run over by almost an hour now. Max Webster, Kate Blackwell’s twenty-one-year-old great-grandson and Kruger-Brent’s probable future chairman, was on his feet, pontificating.

August thought: I didn’t spend eight years at Goldman Sachs to sit here and listen to some business-school freshman talking out of his ass. Or did I?

August’s girlfriend, Miranda, had warned him about joining Kruger-Brent.

“It’s a family company, babe. However huge, however global, at the end of the day the Blackwells will always call the shots. You’ll hate it.”

August had ignored her warnings for three reasons. The headhunter from Spencer Stuart had promised to triple his salary and bonus; he’d be fast-tracked onto the Kruger-Brent board, and he wasn’t in the habit of taking career advice from his girlfriends. August Sandford picked his lovers according to a strict set of criteria involving largeness of breasts and flatness of stomach. He wanted a lioness in the sack, not a life coach.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” August told Miranda patronizingly. “I know what I’m doing.”

But he didn’t know shit. Miranda was right. On days like today, August Sandford yearned for his old job on the Goldman derivatives desk like a shipwrecked man yearns for dry land. No salary was worth this.

“You’re being shortsighted.” Max Webster’s black eyes blazed with passion. “Kruger-Brent should be allocating more money to its Internet businesses, not less.”

His speech-more like a sermon, thought August bitterly-was directed entirely at his cousin Lexi Templeton. As if the two Blackwell heirs were the only people in the room. Both Max and Lexi were on a six-month leave from Harvard Business School. When they graduated, both would join Kruger-Brent. But only one would ultimately take on the mantle of chairman, a position reserved for family members only.

The general consensus was that that person would be Max. Aside from the obvious drawback of her hearing, Lexi was seen as too much of a party girl to be taken seriously. She showed up for the first day of her internship on the back of a Ducati, her long legs wrapped around its owner, Ricky Hales, and her trademark blond hair flying in the wind. Ricky Hales was the drummer with the latest hot rock band, the Flames. More tattoo than skin, with a heroin habit that made Courtney Love look like Mother Teresa, Ricky was almost as much of a paparazzi favorite as Lexi herself. Lexi gave Ricky a lingering kiss on the steps of the Kruger-Brent building, a shot that made the front cover of every gossip rag in America the next morning.

Lexi Templeton was an enigma. Part vulnerable child, part vixen, she kept the press guessing and the Blackwell-obsessed public intrigued. But August Sandford sensed that Lexi’s little show with Ricky Hales was not intended for the media. It was a deliberate attempt to goad her cousin, the brooding Max Webster.

The rivalry between the two Blackwell heirs was intense.

They reminded August of the Williams sisters, announcing at their first Wimbledon tournament that they considered their only competition to be each other, thereby instantly alienating every other women’s tennis player on the international circuit. Unlike the Williams sisters, Lexi and Max further fueled the flames of their competitiveness with a sexual tension so strong you could practically smell it in the air. Not that either one of them would admit it, even to themselves.

Miranda’s voice rang in August’s ears: It’s a family company. The Blackwells will always call the shots.

August looked around the table. Apart from Max, Lexi and himself, there were three other Kruger-Brent executives at the meeting. Harry Wilder, a gray-haired former academic with mad-scientist eyebrows, was nominally the most senior. A board member for a decade, Harry Wilder was a golf buddy of Peter Templeton’s, Kruger-Brent’s current chairman. Other than a decent handicap and an affable clubhouse manner, however, it was hard to see what value he added to the company. Nobody took him seriously, least of all August Sandford. The fact that Harry Wilder was the board member chosen to head up the Internet division did not bode well for any of them.

Next to Wilder sat Jim Bruton. Jim Bruton was an up-and-comer at Kruger-Brent. A dead ringer for a young Frank Sinatra, Jim’s most meaningful personal relationship was with his mirror. Second came his busty personal assistant, Anna. In distant third was his loyal wife, Sally, mother of Jim’s three legitimate daughters, Corinna, Polly and Tiffany, always referred to pretentiously by Jim as “the heiresses.” (His two illegitimate sons, Ronnie and Carlton, lived with their mother in Los Angeles, unbeknownst to Sally and the girls.)

To say that August Sandford despised Jim Bruton would be an understatement. But even August had to admit that Jim was sharp. He’d tripled the profits of the biotech division during his stint as head in the early nineties. Jim made no secret of the fact that he intended to make Kruger-Brent Internet his next money-spinning fiefdom.