Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Maximilian, London – New York 1989
A man who stormed and captured so many citadels which in his boyhood and youth must have seemed as fantastical and unobtainable as Ali Baba’s cave. A man of many lives.
Rich: The Life of Richard Burton
by Melvyn Bragg
He came out of the imposing house on the corner of Chesterfield Hill and Charles Street and stood for a moment poised on the front step. It had rained earlier and the dampness lingered and the air was raw on this chilly Thursday evening in January.
Normally oblivious of the weather, he found himself shivering and turned up the collar of his black trenchcoat. The weather underscored his morose mood, his sense of desolation. For a long time there had been a deep sadness inside him; tonight, for some reason, it seemed more acute than usual.
Pushing his hands in his pockets, he forced himself to stride out, heading in the direction of Berkeley Square. He walked at a rapid pace along Charles Street, his step determined, his back straight, his head held erect. He was dark-haired with dark-brown eyes, tall, lean, trimly built. There was an athletic hardness about his body, which was echoed in his lean and angular face, its raw-boned sharpness softened by a deep tan. He was an exceptionally handsome man, in his early fifties: his name was Maximilian West.
He cursed mildly under his breath, wondering at the heaviness he felt and suddenly regretting that he had agreed to this meeting set for such a late hour. He had done so impulsively – he who was rarely impulsive – out of deference to his old schoolfriend, Alan Trenton. Alan had made his presence sound so vitally important. But eight-forty-five was late even for him, renowned as he was for being ready to do business at any time of day or night, any day of the week, especially since he had another appointment that evening. What saved the situation for him was the fact that Alan’s office was only a stone’s throw away from the late-night dining club where he had a table booked for nine-thirty.
He circled Berkeley Square, dodging the traffic as he made for the far side, wondering why Alan needed to see him, what this was all about. When Alan had telephoned the house earlier his voice had vibrated with urgency, yet he had been curiously reticent. Intrigued, Maxim had agreed to stop by, but now he was acutely aware of the time, reminding himself that Alan was talkative, could be a bit long-winded on occasion. He would have to keep his eye on the clock, move the meeting along quickly if he was to stay on schedule.
Oh what the hell, he thought, as he reached the corner of Bruton Street. Alan’s been special to me most of my life. I owe him … we go back so far, he knows so much – and he’s my best friend.
Crossing the street, his eyes focused on the Jack Barclay showroom on the opposite corner, and when he reached the plate-glass windows he paused to admire the sleek Rolls-Royces and Bentleys gleaming under the brilliant spotlights. He was always promising himself one of these super-deluxe models, but he never seemed to get around to buying it. On the other hand, he did not have much need for a car for his personal use anymore. Corporate jets that sped around the world were more his style these days, and when he was on the ground there were always company limousines at his disposal.
He walked on past the Henley car showroom and Lloyds bank, and pushed through the doors of Berkeley Square House, the best commercial address in town and a powerhouse of a building. Here, floor upon floor, were housed the great international corporations and the multi-nationals, companies that had more financial clout than the governments of the world. Maxim thought of it as a mighty treasury of trade, for it did hundreds of billions of dollars’ worth of business a year. And yet the buff-coloured edifice had no visible face, had long since blended into the landscape of this lovely, leafy square in the very heart of Mayfair, and most Londoners who walked past it daily were hardly aware of its existence. But it was the British base for an amazing number of mega corporations and the spot where the big bucks stopped.
Maxim crossed the richly-carpeted, white-marble hall, and nodded to the security guard who touched his cap in recognition. He stepped into the elevator and rode up to Alan Trenton’s offices on the sixth floor. Trenton’s secretary of many years responded to his knock and opened the door. She smiled warmly when she saw him standing there. ‘Good evening, Mr West. Oh dear, I’m so sorry, do excuse me. I mean, Sir Maximilian.’
He swiftly brushed aside her apologies, flashed a dazzling smile. ‘Hello, Evelyn,’ he said, stepping inside briskly, shrugging out of his trenchcoat.
She took it from him, ushered him towards Trenton’s inner sanctum. ‘He’s waiting for you.’
Maxim nodded, went in.
Alan Trenton was standing next to a carved mahogany console of Chippendale design, pouring Roederer Cristal Brut into a silver tankard. He was Maxim’s age, yet appeared older. His figure was stout, he was of medium height, fair of colouring, and slightly balding above a ruddy face.
‘Maxim!’ he exclaimed, his pale-blue eyes lighting up with the most obvious pleasure. He put the bottle of Cristal down with a clatter, hurried across the faded but highly valuable Aubusson carpet, grasped Maxim’s hand, put an arm around him, half embraced his oldest and dearest friend.
Maxim returned the gesture.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Trenton said.
‘And you, Alan. It’s been too long this time. My fault.’
‘No problem. I understand.’ Alan’s face filled with sudden glee, and he beamed. ‘I know I’ve said it on the phone, but I feel I must say it to you in person … congratulations, Maxim, on your great honour.’
‘Thanks, Stubby,’ Maxim said, reverting to his old nickname for Trenton from their schooldays. He grinned hugely, punched Alan lightly on the arm. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’
‘I would, Duke, that’s who,’ Alan shot back, following Maxim’s lead, using the name he had bestowed on the other man some forty-seven years before. ‘And thanks for coming at such short notice, I know how pressed you are.’
‘And why am I here?’ Maxim’s gaze turned quizzical. A dark brow lifted.
Trenton did not at first respond. He stepped over to the console, lifted the bottle. ‘A drop of bubbly, old chap.’
‘Thanks, but not really,’ Maxim said, then instantly changed his mind, realising the champagne was in his honour. He added quickly, ‘Of course, why not? But do make it a drop. A quarter of a tankard, please, not a full one like yours, Stubby.’
Maxim watched Trenton dispensing the champagne, waiting for him to open up, but when nothing was said about the reason for his presence, he