Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less by Jeffrey Archer

said
Adrian, “and as it’s your own company, it might be worth a risk.”
    “I don’t think there is much risk,” said
David, “as long as the oil is actually there.”
    “Well, I will certainly consider it most
seriously over the weekend.”
    They parted after lunch, David to a
conference on the Energy Crisis organised by the Financial Times, Adrian to his home in Berkshire. His two young
sons were back from prep school for the weekend and he was looking forward to
seeing them again. How quickly they had passed from babies to toddlers to boys,
and how reassuring to know their future was secure.
    One of the first calls David received on the
Monday morning was from Adrian.
    “Did you read the article on ‘The North Sea
Oil Boom’ in The Observer this
weekend?”
    “Yes,” replied David, “I certainly did. Closely.”
    “It did rather indicate that the smaller
companies might head the field in the search for oil. After all, when the
British government allocated the sections of the North Sea they were bound to
do it totally indiscriminately, as they were not to know where the oil was
themselves.”
    “That’s right,” said David, “and I believe
we are one of the lucky ones. The North Sea is going to do Britain a lot of
good and I think you would do well to invest in us.”
    “Yes,” said Adrian. “Well, I think it would
be a fairly substantial investment, but I will be pulling out long before they
reach twenty dollars. No need to be greedy.”
    “Yes, I’m sure that’s wise. You must come
and have lunch with me some time.”
    “A very nice idea. Keep in touch.”
    Bernie Silverstein was pleased to hear of
the possibility of a further investment.
    “Congratulations, my boy. We are going to
need a lot of capital to finance our pipe-laying operations, you know.
Pipe-laying can cost two million dollars per mile. Still, you are playing your
part. I have just had word from the head office that we are to give you a five
thousand dollar bonus for your efforts. Keep up the good work.”
    David smiled. This was business in the
proper Harvard way. If you do the work, you get the rewards. No messing about.
    “When is the announcement on the strike
being made?” he asked.
    “Some time in the next few days.”
    David left Silverstein’s office with a glow
of pride.
    Silverstein immediately contacted Harvey
Metcalfe, who set the routine in motion again. Metcalfe’s brokers released onto
the market 35,000 shares at $7.23 and approximately 5,000 each day onto the
Open market, always being able to feel when the market had taken enough so that
the price remained steady. Once again, the shares climbed, because of Dr.
Tryner’s substantial investment, this time to $7.40, keeping David, Adrian and
Stephen all happy. They did not know that Harvey was releasing more shares each
day because of the interest they had caused, which had created a market of its
own.
     
    David decided to spend some of his bonus on
a painting for his little flat in the Barbican, which he felt was rather grey.
About $2,000, he thought, something that was going to appreciate. David quite
enjoyed art for art’s sake, but he liked it even better for business’ sake. He
spent the Friday afternoon tramping round Bond Street, Cork Street and Bruton
Street, the home of the London art galleries. The Wildenstein was too expensive
for his pocket and the Marlborough too modern for his taste. The painting he
finally picked out was at the Lamanns Gallery in New Bond Street.
    The gallery, just three doors away from
Sotheby’s, consisted of one vast room with a worn grey carpet and red faded
wallpaper. The more worn the carpet and the more faded the walls, the greater
the success and reputation of the gallery (or at least that is the theory).
There was a staircase at the far end of the room, against which some unregarded
paintings were stacked, backs to the world. David sorted through them on a whim
and found, to his surprise, the sort of painting he was