2

CRACKING THE CODE

Everybody had worked hard across this special event, including over the weekend, and so I manned the shop on Monday, which was traditionally a quiet day and gave me a chance to stare one more time at Harry’s nagging list, the unfathomable names refusing to unlock their mystery.

Frank had the day off and Jillian was coming in for the afternoon and evening shift.

Kevin was busy fielding some of the other unlikely wine adventures that came across our desks on a surprisingly regular basis, including some from Harry. For example, an investment banker that Harry had known his entire life knew somebody who apparently had a collection of the original artwork labels done by the artists for each vintage of Château Mouton Rothschild. Given this was exclusive artwork done on commission for the château and now entirely housed in a gallery at the château, such a claim was impossible. Meanwhile, another tip to the store revealed that somebody was allegedly digging tunnels under Woolloomooloo to store or hide a huge collection of wine and also, inexplicably, Fabergé eggs. Or we could have a shot at thousands of bottles of rare Château Margaux wine, reportedly housed in Jakarta, which would need to be bought unseen. Kevin waded through them all, sniffing for an opportunity that might even be real.

I was content to quietly man the store along with a casual staff member after such a big weekend. I think I was on my third coffee of the day when a middle-aged man in an expensive suit wandered in, explained he had been away for the weekend and asked if we still had any of the rare and museum wines from our advertised event.

Hardly any, I told him. ‘Sorry, it was a very popular event.’

He said, ‘Can I ask: do you still have any Chat-oh de Eye-key-em?’ Pronouncing it like ‘Ikea’.

‘The Château Ee-qu-emm,’ I translated. ‘No. It went quickly, as you can imagine. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, well,’ he said, peering at other labels before drifting off.

And then it hit me.

I stood there, frozen to the spot. My heart was pounding. I picked up the phone and called Kevin. ‘I’ve got it!’ I told him. ‘I’ve cracked the code.’

‘The code?’ he asked.

‘On the list! Harry’s crazy list.’

‘I’m on my way,’ he said, and hung up.

By the time Kevin arrived, I’d called Harry to check he was at his office and told the uni student behind the counter that they were in charge until Jillian arrived.

Kevin walked in, took one look at me and said, ‘You’re pacing. It always means something when you pace. What’s up?’

‘I’ve cracked the code,’ I said. ‘The List. I’ve got it. Come on, Harry is waiting for us.’

I explained my theory to Kevin on the way and he laughed out loud.

‘Even crazier than I could have dreamed up,’ he said. ‘You think you’re right?’

‘Yeah, I do. It just seems like it would work.’

Harry’s office overlooked Darling Harbour. Lots of glass partitioning. Mostly his business was property development, where he would invite others into his property deals so they would provide the capital. Wine was more of a hobby, but of course one that he looked to profit from at every opportunity. For Harry, that’s what the game was all about: the scoreboard.

We joined him in his private office and he opened a bottle of white wine, hiding the label so we couldn’t see if it was a reputable producer, poured us a glass and then sat there, hands clasped on his stomach, waiting.

I tasted the wine. It was actually very drinkable.

I announced, ‘The list is phonetic.’

And knew I was right by Harry’s sly smile.

I turned to Kevin and took from him the now battered list. ‘Wherever this list was created, it was made by somebody who didn’t speak French but had to read the French labels to somebody else. So, they’ve said them as they’ve read them, as best they could, and then the person compiling the list has written them down as they heard them, again, as best they could in their own language, which was obviously also not French. Then when the list was recently translated back, again as best they could, we end up with phonetic names. Therefore, Château d’Yquem became Ikem, like Ikea. Château Margaux became Margot.’

Kevin ran down the column, reading them out. ‘1877 Château Lafite, an 1891 Yquem . . .’ He looked up. ‘It all lines up. Harry, if John is correct, it’s a list of some of the greatest wines in the world.’

Harry’s eyes were gleaming with the pure enjoyment of future profit.

‘See, I knew you’d have fun with it,’ he said. ‘And it’s true. In fact, it gets better, believe it or not.’

‘How could it get better?’

He poured himself another glass and offered us one. We shook our heads.

‘The cellar is real,’ Harry said. ‘It’s in Georgia, formerly a member state of the Soviet Union, now enjoying the budding shoots of capitalism since the Iron Curtain came down a decade ago. They’re big fans of international investment. A friend of mine, Neville, recently bought into a Georgian goldmine. There’s a winery nearby which is owned by one of Neville’s new mining buddies and he told Neville about the collection, including having the Georgian cellar book translated from Georgian, as best they could, and hence this list.’

Harry sipped his wine and leaned forward for emphasis. ‘John, Kevin, there are tens of thousands of bottles under there, and they’re all real. You’ve read it, some go back to the early 1700s.’

I asked, ‘How well do you know this Neville guy?’

Harry shrugged in his expansive way. ‘We’ve done some minor pieces of business together and we both owned wineries in the Hunter Valley. He came to me with this.’

‘He’s in mining?’ I asked.

‘Yes, gold, nickel,’ Harry said. ‘Is doing some major exploring in South Africa at the moment, as well. He’s looking beyond Australia’s resources boom.’

‘So where do we come into this?’ Kevin asked.

Harry shrugged. ‘The price tag from the Georgians to buy the lot is one million dollars, US.’

‘Cash?’ I asked, eyebrows raised.

‘No,’ Harry chuckled. ‘Unfortunately, this is one time that international law demands the whole deal is done correctly and above board. Well, maybe.’

‘Why’d you come to us?’ I asked again. ‘I don’t have that kind of money sitting around, Harry.’

‘I know, but we need your skills,’ Harry said. ‘You and Kevin know great French wines and how to manage cellars, and I knew you would appreciate the scale of this. Somebody needs to authenticate the wines, and pack them – not by the fucking neck, John – and get them to an auction house in London or New York. This needs to be done correctly and well. Our idea is to form a partnership and do it together.’

Kevin was scanning the list again. ‘There’s well over a million dollars’ worth of wine if this list is true,’ he said. ‘Well over. Maybe three or four million at a decent sale, and that’s only at first glance.’ He looked at me. ‘How do we find out if it’s real?’

I grinned. ‘Do you speak any Georgian?’

‘Well, probably we visit this Neville bloke before we dig out our passports,’ Kevin said. ‘Is he around, Harry?’

‘Of course. He’s got an office in the city, at Circular Quay. We’ll need to cut him in on the deal if we do it, and you need him anyway, to hook you up with the locals. My understanding is that they’re colourful.’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘You’ve always told me you like adventures, John.’

Kevin and I looked at one another and Kevin just shook his head.

‘A goldmine,’ Kevin said.

‘A wine goldmine,’ I replied. ‘If this list is even vaguely accurate, this may be one of the great wine treasures on the planet.’

‘Going to Georgia is a lot different from heading out to Terrey Hills,’ he said.

Harry sipped his wine, letting us digest it all.

But then he sat back in his chair, sipped again, and said, ‘Fellas, there’s one more thing. I still haven’t told you the best bit.’

We were silent. He had our full attention.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I know you’re enjoying yourself, Harry, so I’ll play along. How could it possibly get better?’

Harry said, ‘Wait until you hear who the wine belonged to.’

‘Who?’ Kevin asked.

Harry smiled an infuriatingly smug smile. ‘I couldn’t possibly tell you. You have to hear it from Neville.’

‘Harry,’ I said. ‘You’re a lot of fun to do business with but you can also be a major pain in the arse.’

He laughed happily. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, John,’ he said. ‘But trust me, you’ll thank me later.’