Paper Money by Ken Follett Page A

social acceptability: it was the only Jewish thing about him, Hamilton thought wryly.
    He put his glass down and said: “Were you reading about me?”
    “Just skimming. A predictable reaction. Ten years ago, results like that from a company like Hamilton would have made waves from audio shares to zinc prices. Today, it’s just another conglomerate in trouble. There’s a word for it: recession.”
    Hamilton sighed. “Why do we do it, Nathaniel?”
    “I beg your pardon?” Fett was startled.
    He shrugged. “Why do we overwork, lose sleep, risk fortunes?”
    “And get ulcers.” Fett smiled, but a subtle change had come over his demeanor. His eyes narrowed behind the pebble-lensed spectacles, and he smoothed the bristly hair at the back of his head in a gesture Hamilton recognized to be defensive. Fett was retreating into his role as a careful advisor, a friendly counsel with an objective viewpoint. But his reply was measuredly casual. “To make money. What else?”
    Hamilton shook his head. His friend always had to be beckoned twice before stepping into deeper water. “Sixth-form economics,” he said derisively. “I would have made more profit if I’d sold my inheritance and put it into the Post Office. Most people who own large businesses could live very comfortably for the rest of their lives by doing that. Why do we conserve our fortunes, and try to enlarge them? Is it greed, or power, or adventure? Are we all compulsive gamblers?”
    Fett said: “I suppose Ellen has been saying this kind of thing to you.”
    Hamilton laughed. “You’re right, but it pains me that you think I’m incapable of such ponderings on my own.”
    “Oh, I don’t doubt you mean it. It’s just that Ellen has a way of saying what you are thinking. All the same, you wouldn’t be repeating these things to me if they hadn’t struck a chord.” He paused. “Derek, be careful not to lose Ellen.”
    They stared at one another for a moment; then they both looked away. There was silence. They had reached the limit of intimacy permitted by their friendship.
    Eventually Fett said: “We might get a cheeky bid in the next few days.”
    Hamilton was surprised. “Why?”
    “Someone might think he can pick you up at a bargain price, while you’re depressed and panicked by the interim results.”
    “What would your advice be, then?” Hamilton asked thoughtfully.
    “It depends on the offer. But I’d probably say ‘Wait.’ We should know today whether you’ve won the oil field license.”
    “Shield.”
    “Yes. Win that, and your shares will strengthen.”
    “We’re still a poor prospect for profits.”
    “But ideal material for an asset stripper.”
    “Interesting,” Hamilton mused. “A gambler would make the bid today, before the Minister’s announcement. An opportunist would do it tomorrow, if we win the license. A genuine investor would wait until next week.”
    “And a wise man would say no to all of them.” Hamilton smiled. “Money isn’t everything, Nathaniel.”
    “Good Lord!”
    “Is that so heretical?”
    “Not at all.” Fett was amused, and his eyes sparkled behind the spectacles. “I’ve known it for years. What surprises me is that you should say it.”
    “It surprises me, too.” Hamilton paused. “A matter of curiosity: do you think we’ll get the license?”
    “Can’t say.” Suddenly the broker’s face was unreadable again. “Depends whether the Minister believes it should go to an already-profitable company as a bonus, or to an ailing one as a life belt.”
    “Hm. Neither, I suspect. Remember, we only head the syndicate: it’s the total package that counts. The Hamilton section, in control, provides City contacts and management expertise. We’ll raise the development money, rather than supply it out of our own pocket. Others in the team offer engineering skills, oil experience, marketing facilities, and so on.”
    “So you’ve a good chance.”
    Hamilton smiled again.