From Wall Street messenger-boy to president of his own multi-million-pound company at dazzling speed, though not without a few dubious deals, Harvey Metcalfe rose to dizzying financial heights and was determined to stay there. Harvey loved England. Every June he sailed over in the QE2 to reinstate himself in the Royal Suite at Claridge’s for the two weeks of Wimbledon. From there he flew down to Monte Carlo to join his yacht for two weeks before returning to London to watch his filly Rosalie from his private box at Ascot. He had also found Britain an excellent place for one of his shadier ventures: the massive sale of shares in a fraudulent non-producing North Sea Oil company, conning the heir to an earldom, a Harley Street doctor, a Bond Street art-dealer and a Harvard Fellow at Oxford. But for once Harvey Metcalfe had conned the wrong men. The Oxford mathematician in particular had a methodical, ingenious, complex mind, the like of which Harvey Metcalfe had never yet come up against. When he next checked into Claridge’s Royal Suite, Harvey was unaware of the four young men watching his every move, intent on retrieving their million — not a penny more, not a penny less