‘Did you get your emails done?’ she asks.
Parlabane takes a beat to remember the pretext for enquiring about the Wi-Fi.
‘Settled for the 4G,’ he tells her.
She taps her card against the sensor and leads him into a small lobby where a secretary is seated at a desk adjacent to two closed doors. There is a modernist painting dominating the wall behind her. It looks like the artist drank several tubs of paint and then puked on it.
‘Are they about done, Carol?’ Tanya asks.
‘Any minute. Miryam is due to give them a tour of the labs on the hour.’
Even as Carol speaks, one of the doors opens and Parlabane gets his first sight of Leo Cruz in the flesh. He is glowering as he grips the door handle, switching to a neutral expression as he notices that there are witnesses outside.
Cruz looks unsettlingly young, as though he has stepped out of a magazine portrait of himself from twenty years ago. He was famously prodigious in his business success back in the day, but upon closer inspection it’s apparent he’s had work done. His hair is unnaturally black and shiny, the skin on his cheekbones conspicuously stretched. Parlabane sees a man clinging too tightly to the vestiges of youth, maybe trying to be the man he once was instead of settling for the one he has become. He has been through that struggle himself, and knows the only way to end it is to accept defeat. Unfortunately, to reach that understanding usually takes a sustained period of kidding yourself.
It is all handshakes and politeness as three men and two women file past him into the lobby, but Parlabane can sense tension escaping from the office like Cruz loosened the lid on a pot.
Finally a fourth male emerges, for whom Cruz cannot even muster a fake-and-shake. The other suits are already being greeted by Carol in readiness for being escorted to meet this Miryam person she mentioned, and thus their attention is elsewhere, but Parlabane has focused on where the action is.
It lasts only a couple of seconds, but there is a palpable enmity crackling in the doorway.
Something is spoken quietly. Parlabane doesn’t catch it. Then the other guy strides into the lobby to join the others.
He looks like a prick, Parlabane thinks. He’s not being purely pejorative: the guy has a manner about him that reminds Parlabane of a bulging erection. He holds himself super-straight, tensed up and restless, giving off an unsettling aggression. Parlabane recognises someone who needs to assert himself in any situation, perhaps as a schooldays legacy of looking like a cross between Kinski’s Nosferatu and Plug from the Beano.
Cruz stares down at the carpet, taking a moment. Parlabane feels like he caught him naked. It’s a mutually awkward start. When the CEO looks up again, however, he’s got his PR face on.
‘Mr Parlabane. Sorry to keep you. Come on through to my office.’
There is no third-party introduction from Tanya. Cruz knows who he is talking to. In Parlabane’s experience this is seldom a good thing, but given that he’s planning on robbing the place in the near future, it seems particularly unwelcome news.
Cruz shakes Parlabane’s hand and leads him through an adjacent door into what is apparently the CEO’s personal office. It is large and airy, tall windows affording a view across the river. Cruz gestures to him to take a seat across an expanse of desk, while Tanya asks if either of them requires anything and is dismissed when the answer is a mutual no.
Parlabane wonders how long he’s got, what silent signal will summon Tanya back to get rid of him.
Cruz has barely sat down when something seems to occur to him.
‘Excuse me a moment.’
He gets up and exits in a hurry, apparently in pursuit of his assistant. Perhaps he forgot to agree the signal.
Parlabane is alone in the office. Documents are scattered untidily about the desk in front of him, Cruz’s PC unguarded only feet away. It seems too good an opportunity to be true, and he wonders if it is some kind of trap. A glance up towards the ceiling reveals a CCTV lens, and that’s the camera he can see.
Nonetheless, he is close enough that several of the documents are legible, albeit upside down. Most are lists of figures or data reports that are incomprehensible without any context, but two catch his eye. One appears to be an acquisition proposal regarding a company named Optronix, and the other is a bulk purchase order for e-cigarettes.
Cruz returns, apologising for having left so abruptly. He is wearing a professional smile, but there is something unmistakably flustered about him.
‘Tough meeting?’ Parlabane suggests.
‘Nothing I haven’t been through before.’
He takes a seat, looking more relaxed to be in his office chair: home advantage.
‘So, now we’re both here, what do you want to talk about?’
‘As I’m here from Broadwave, and as we have an unashamedly geeky streak running through us both personally and editorially, I’m here to ask what your plans are now that you are back where it all began at Synergis.’
Cruz sits back in his chair and says nothing, regarding his interviewer carefully as he weighs up his answer.
‘No, you’re not,’ he states.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’re not here to ask about some vague business strategy I might have. That’s not something I can see Broadwave running with, not even if I was Mark Zuckerberg. It’s also not what you said on the phone to Tanya when you asked for this interview.’
Parlabane is on the back foot, trying to recall his initial pitch. Cruz jogs his memory.
‘You said you had heard that we were working on a new device. You wouldn’t have got in the door otherwise.’
Parlabane isn’t sure where he’s going with this, but these self-made business types can be somewhat unto themselves. Sometimes its affectation, sometimes it’s insecurity and sometimes it’s coke-fuelled psychosis.
‘Sure,’ he agrees. ‘That is what I said. So can we talk about that?’
‘No. We can talk about where you heard this. That’s the only reason I agreed to speak to you.’
‘Well, I fear it might be a very short interview in that case. I can’t disclose my sources.’
‘I appreciate you can’t tell me who you heard this from. But can you tell me what exactly you heard?’
‘That you have a new product in development; nothing more specific. I didn’t realise this in itself was sensitive information.’
Cruz puts his knuckles to his chin, reflecting on this. He doesn’t seem displeased, but it hasn’t calmed his soul either.
‘It’s sensitive inasmuch as I think it means we have a leak. No offence, Mr Parlabane, but when someone of your reputation knows something he’s not supposed to regarding my business, it makes me very jumpy.’
‘None taken. But nothing I’m hearing is making it sound like you don’t have something in the pipeline. Something top secret, it would appear.’
Cruz gives him an odd smile, conceding the point.
‘I’m not here to break Synergis up, that much should also be apparent.’
‘So I’ve been hearing. But the disposal of your profit-making educational electronics subsidiary was grist to that particular rumour mill. Do you have any comment on that?’
Cruz responds with a wry smile.
‘I understand how that might be interpreted. But the truth is that I made the sale in order to streamline operations and raise capital.’
‘So you’re filling a war chest rather than wielding a wrecking ball? Again, the “exciting new product” hypothesis seems to be gathering momentum.’
Cruz scrutinises him again, evaluating very carefully before his next response. Parlabane can see a glint in his eye. This guy has got something big in the works, and though it remains imperative he keep his cards close to his chest, he is bursting to tell somebody something about it.
‘I’m sorry I can’t go into any detail, but yes, Synergis does have a new innovation under development. Everything is so delicate at this stage, you know? I’m treading on eggshells.
I feel like an expectant father, though I’m not pacing outside the delivery suite. That’s a way off yet. More like I’m waiting for a scan and hoping it says everything is still okay.’
‘Was that what the meeting was about earlier? The atmosphere seemed a wee bit fraught, I couldn’t help noticing.’
‘Yes. There are some complex negotiations still in progress. And to be honest, I can’t help feeling like karma’s about to bite me on the arse.’
‘How so?’
He sighs, looking torn, though it isn’t clear whether he is conflicted by what is troubling him or merely by the notion of telling Parlabane about it.
‘I assume you’re familiar with my career. Or at least other people’s accounts of my career.’
‘I’ve done my homework,’ Parlabane replies, politely neutral.
‘Then we both know there aren’t many articles out there in praise of my altruism or morality. I know what people think of me. Truth is, they’re right. I became all of the things they said I am: a shark, a predator, an asset-stripper, a spiv, a vulture. But I wasn’t always those things. I was an idealist once.’
‘They say all cynics are disappointed idealists,’ Parlabane suggests.
‘Then I’m living proof. I won’t bore you with the details of my disaffection. It was a gradual process rather than some origin-story moment of transformation. But at some point, instead of being frustrated by the fact that business rewards predators rather than innovators, I stopped waiting for the world to make sense according to some notion of natural justice. You embrace the absurdity or you let it drive you mad.’
‘Absurdity? Isn’t it simply harsh reality?’
Cruz lets out a laugh. It’s not bitter, but it sounds like it might have been, at one time.
‘The London stock exchange once rallied after a slow morning when a rumour swept the trading floors that Reg Holdsworth had been appointed to the vacant chief executive’s position at Tesco’s. On the wires it was reported that market confidence increased because he was known to be a safe pair of hands, and there was a knock-on effect across the whole market. He was a fictional character. He managed the supermarket on Coronation Street.’
‘I remember the story.’
‘Then I’ll raise you another. Someone got a five-year-old girl to pick hedge-fund trades for six months. She outperformed several funds whose supposed hot-shot managers were taking home seven-figure salaries for making choices that worked out worse than hers.’
‘I heard about a similar experiment where the trades were picked by a dog.’
‘Dogs, sure. Monkeys too. The point is it’s these people’s decisions that often mean your business stands or falls. There’s no justice to it because there’s no reason to it. So I quit whining and went to work. Won some, lost some. Mainly made a handsome living, “looting corpses” as someone described it. But even for me there was a cost to the soul. I tried to deny it to myself, but it catches up with you eventually.’
Parlabane opts not to relay the scepticism of those who believe this impossible due to Cruz not actually having a soul.
‘I had an epiphany. I know, I know. Other people change their minds. Pompous, self-serving arseholes have epiphanies. But it’s true. Something happened, something I didn’t necessarily deserve, but it put me in the position to build something again, and to do so at Synergis. I’m not a religious or superstitious man, but you can’t ignore the symbolism when it’s screaming at you.’
‘So how is karma threatening to bite you in the arse?’
‘Because I’m vulnerable now. In order to fund this project, I’ve had to bring in investment, and that means diluting my stock, which in turn means loosening my grip on ownership. Now there’s someone out there – one of the new investors – who is making overtures towards buying Synergis out from under me. If the other investors are tempted by his offer, there’s little I can do. It’s a guaranteed return for them, and a fast one too.’
Parlabane recalls the human prick and the atmosphere between the two men when Cruz first opened that conference-room door.
‘How likely is it they’ll sell?’
‘It can be a domino effect. But individually it comes down to whether they think they’ll do better if they stay for the long haul.’
‘You would get a return on your own investment, though, wouldn’t you?’
‘If I chose to sell, sure, but my whole point is that this isn’t about the money.’
‘Words that I predict many people will find hard to believe actually emerged from your mouth,’ Parlabane says.
Cruz looks ever so slightly wounded for a moment, but his expression is stoic.
‘That’s fair. That really is fair. But let me show you something.’
Cruz gets to his feet, that mercurial look on his face once again, like he’s managed to keep his mouth straight but is unable to hide the smile that’s in his eyes. Parlabane can’t quite read the expression, but it’s more than merely the satisfaction of knowing something his interviewer doesn’t.
Cruz leads him through a single security door, one that opens into a stairwell. Parlabane spots a CCTV camera monitoring the space, and notes an infra-red sensor high up on the wall.
They ascend one level to a landing with two security doors. One leads to the next flight of stairs and thus into Neurosphere’s premises, so Parlabane figures nobody’s swipe card works on that any more. Cruz taps his ID against a panel next to the other exit, which opens into a further corridor.
Ten yards along, they turn a corner and pass through another set of double-wide security doors, above which a sign states: ‘Research and Development: Strictly No Unauthorised Access’. A line of slightly smaller type underneath warns: ‘Tailgaters will be reported to Security. If you forgot your pass, get another.’
As they step through the doors, a security guard emerges from a tiny office, little more than a cubicle.
‘I need to see your guest pass, sir,’ he tells Parlabane. ‘And I need you to give me your phone.’
‘Oh, yeah, sorry,’ Cruz says. ‘Forgot to mention. We don’t allow visitors to take phones inside. Or any recording devices, flash drives, USB keyfobs. You got any of that?’
Parlabane feels a shudder of paranoia about the concealed cameras. He can’t fess up to this stuff now. He’ll have to take his chances.
‘I have a USB,’ he says, handing over his keyring.
‘You can pick them up again here,’ the guard informs him.
Parlabane has a quick glance inside the cubicle. He sees four monitors arranged in a square on the wall, switching between views every few seconds. Beneath these upon a shallow desk is a tray full of mobile phones, USB sticks and iPads, and on a bracket clipped inside the doorframe is some kind of wand, like a metal detector. The guard hasn’t opted to deploy it, for which he is truly grateful. Perhaps being in the company of the boss has conferred certain privileges. The spycams remain his secret.
They pass through into a passageway with windows on one side. Tanya was right. It looks like another open-plan office area: lots of desks and monitors, staff working intently at their screens. At the far end, Parlabane can see the execs that were at the meeting, being given their guided tour.
Cruz leads him past this and through a security door on the other side of the corridor. They emerge into another open-plan area. There are more desks and monitors, but there are also workstations equipped with bafflingly technical electronics tools, the purposes of which Parlabane can merely guess at. In here the staff are dressed in paper-like overalls, anti-static devices strapped to their wrists.
There is a grey wall extending halfway across the floor at the end of the room, a cube-like enclosure with two doors side by side.
‘Is that the sub-zero room I heard about?’
‘Yes, on the right. Everyone finds it rather impressive, but I’m actually more taken by what’s next door. That’s where we have our server farm. Nothing to do with me, it was put in by Neurosphere, but the clever thing is that
it’s all part of this amazing thermal exchange system. Server farms generate a tremendous amount of heat, which gets pumped around the building to save on fuel costs.’
The atmosphere is hushed, almost monastic in its studied calm. Cruz has stopped against a wall, making sure they are in nobody’s way and offering no distraction, but everyone is working with such quiet purpose that Parlabane feels like he could be watching through a two-way mirror.
He glances at Cruz, who has that glint again, and this time Parlabane understands.
It is pride.
Whatever they are working on here, he is invested in it more than just financially.
‘Can you give me a hint?’ Parlabane asks.
Cruz shakes his head.
‘All I can say is that the Synapse was once overtaken by new monitoring systems, and we’re working on an RBA.’
‘RBA?’
‘Right Back Atcha.’
Cruz leaves Parlabane to consider this, having been summoned by a gesture from one of the staff who wants to show him something.
Rather than remain there like a lemon, Parlabane opts to take a wander, reckoning that as Cruz didn’t tell him otherwise, he can play daft if he is challenged. He takes a closer look at the grey cube. The doors to the sub-zero room and to the server farm are both controlled by card sensors, but there appears to be an emergency override for the first, perhaps in case somebody gets stuck in there without their thermal undies and a flask of monkey.
It is as he walks around the enclosure that he sees a distinct single door on the opposite wall. It is made of steel, as is its frame. From its position in the building, Parlabane estimates that it is quite shallow, maybe only ten feet from the thick stone of the exterior wall. It is possible that he is not merely seeing a steel doorframe, but an embedded steel chamber. A small laminated sign above the handle and lock mechanism states ‘Strictly No Admittance’. Not ‘No Unauthorised Access’; Strictly No Admittance.
Whoever you are, you know you have no access. So fuck right off.
As he walks back towards Cruz, he stops to let a woman pass. She is carrying a tray of circuitry components that looks like someone went mad with a hammer in Dixons.
Want You Gone Page 14
