"Nicholas Beswick's light was off at two-thirty? You're sure of that?"
"Yes."
"When did you wash that night?"
"I had a shower before I started getting our supper ready, then I had another after I left Edward."
"Were you using the Bendix at all on Thursday?"
"Yes, most of the afternoon."
"Did you access any external 'ware systems?"
"No."
The last question slid from his cybofax's little screen. He couldn't think of any more. Isabel already looked like he'd physically wrung the answers from her.
It was raining outside again, big warm drops beating incessantly on the high window.
"OK," he told Vernon. "Let's have Nicholas Beswick in."
Chapter Eight
It was raining over Peterborough again. Sheet lightning sizzled through the covering of low cloud, highlighting the new tower blocks which stood on the high ground to the west; austere monoliths looking down on the organic clutter of the smaller buildings in the city's original districts.
Julia hated flying in thunderstorms. Her Dornier tilt-fan might have every safety system in existence built in, but it seemed so insignificant compared to the power outside.
Another flash burst over the city. Glossy roof-top solar panels bounced some of the light back up at her, leaving tiny purple dazzle spots on her retinas. She had seen the Event Horizon headquarters building dead ahead, a seventeen storey cube of glass, steel, and composite panels. There was nothing elegant about it, thrown up in twenty-six frantic months so that it could accommodate the droves of head office data shufflers necessary to manage a company of Event Horizon's size, as well as Morgan's security staff. A monument to haste and functionalism. Its replacement out at Prior's Pen would be far more aesthetic; the architects had come up with a white and gold cylinder which, with its panoply of pillars and arches, resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Only straight this time, of course. Event Horizon didn't build crooked.
She poured herself a chilled mineral water from the bar, and switched the bulkhead flatscreen on, flicking through the channels until she came to the Northwest Europe Broadcast Company. Jakki Coleman was on, a middle-aged woman with iron-cast gold-blonde hair, wearing a stylish mint-green satin jacket. She was sitting behind a Florentine desk in the luxurious study of some mansion.
Julia grinned gamely as she sprawled back on the white-leather settee, propping her feet up on the chair opposite.
Jakki Coleman was the queen of the gossipcasts; rock stars, channel celebrities, aristocrats, sports personalities, politicians, she shafted them all.
"Pauline Harrington, the devoutly Catholic songstress, seems to have mislaid her religious scruples," Jakki said, her French accent rich and purring. "At least for this weekend. For whom should I see but the delightful Pauline, who is at number five with "My Real Man" in this week's white soul chart, with none other than Keran Bennion, number one driver for the Porsche team."
The image cut to a picture of Pauline and Keran walking through the grounds of a country hotel, somewhere where the sun was shining. They were hand in hand, oblivious of the fountains playing in stone-lined ponds around them, in the background bushes blazed with big tangerine blooms. The recording had obviously been made with a telephoto lens, outlines were slightly fuzzy.
"Perhaps Keran's wife sent him for singing lessons," Jakki suggested smugly. "The three days they spent together should certainly have got his voice in trim."
A swarthy young male in a purple and black Versace suit walked into the office and put a sheet of paper in front of Jakki. She read it and 'Ohooed' delightedly. "Well, fancy that," she said.
The item was about a Swiss minister and her toyboy. After that was one about a music biz payola racket.
Julia took a sip of the mineral water, then noticed her boots. They were crusted with mud from the tower site. She tried rubbing at them with a tissue as Jakki stage whispered that certain pointed questions were being asked about a countess's new-born son, apparently the count was absent the night of the conception.
Julia chortled to herself. It was the set she moved in which featured in the 'cast, Europe's financial, political, and glamour elite; snobbish, pretentious, corrupt, yet forever projecting the image of angels. And she had to deal with them on that level, the great pretence, all part of the grand game. So it was a joy to watch Jakki spotlighting their failings, taking a machete to their egos; a kind of second-hand revenge for all the false courtesies she had to extend, the interminable flatteries.
"The big event in England yesterday was the Event Horizon spaceplane roll out," Jakki said. "Simply anybody who is anybody was there, including little moi."
Julia held her breath. Surely Jakki wasn't going to lampoon the Prince's haircut? Not again?
"And I can tell you several self-proclaimed celebrities were left outside explaining rather tiresomely that their invitations had been squirted to their holiday houses by mistake," Jakki gushed maliciously. "But leaving behind the nonentities, we enter the interesting zone. Appropriately for an event so large, and très prestigious, it boasted the greatest laugh of the day." Oh, dear Lord, it was going to be the Prince: "Mega, mega-wealthy Julia Evans has spent a rumoured three and a quarter billion pounds New Sterling on developing the sleek machine intended to spearhead England's economic reconstruction."
Julia scowled. Where had Jakki got that estimate from? It was alarmingly close to the real one. Not another leak in the finance division, please!
The flatscreen image switched to the roll out ceremony, showing her escorting the Prince and the Prime Minister around the spaceplane.
"Unfortunately," Jakki continued, "these daunting design costs must have left poor dear Julia's cupboard quite bare. Because, as you can see, her otherwise enviably slim figure was clad in what looks to me like a big Valentine's Day chocolate-box wrapper."
* * * *
The Dornier landed on the raised pad at the centre of the headquarters building's roof. Caroline Rothman held a broad golfing umbrella over Julia as they made their way to the stairwell door. Rachel and Ben marched alongside. Nobody was looking at her. It could have been coincidence. But then they had all been incredibly busy when she came out of the tilt fan's rear lounge as well.
Be honest, girl, she told herself, stomping out of the lounge. That bitchsluthussy!
Sean Francis, her management division assistant, was waiting for her inside the building. She actually quite liked Sean, although he annoyed a lot of people with his perfectionist efficiency. She had appointed him to her personal staff soon after inheriting the company.
He was thirty-four, a tall dark-haired man with a degree in engineering administration who had joined Event Horizon right after graduation. It said a lot for his capability that he had risen so far so fast. Greg had checked him out for her once; his loyalty was beyond reproach.
He was wearing the same conservative style of suit as every other data shuffler in the building. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she let it be known she preferred employees to wear tank-tops and Bermuda shorts. Knowing the way people jumped around her, they probably would all turn up in them.
Might be worth doing.
"Did you have a nice flight, ma'am?" Sean asked pleasantly.
Julia put her hands on her hips. "Sean, it's pissing down with rain, and the bloody plane nearly got skewered by lightning bolts. What do you think?"
His jaw opened, then closed. "Yes, ma'am," he said humbly. "Sorry—"
She caught a tiny flickering motion from the corner of her eye, and thought Caroline was making a hand signal. But when she turned her PA was rolling up the umbrella, a guileless expression in place.
It's a conspiracy.
She took a grip on her nerves. I am not affected by what that senile whore Jakki Coleman said. I'm not.
"My fault, Sean." She gave him one of her heartbreaker smiles. "Those thunderbolts are frightening when you're so close to them."
"
That's all right, ma'am. I'm scared of them, too."
* * * *
The conference room was on the corner of the headquarters building; two walls were made from reinforced glass with a brown tint, giving a view over the rain-dulled streets of Westwood. It was decorated in the kind of forced grandeur which was endemic among corporate designers the world over: deep-piled sapphire-blue carpet, two Picassos and a Van Gogh hanging between big aluminum-framed prints of the Fens before the Warming, huge oval oak table, thickly padded black-leather chairs, pot plants taller than people. Everything was shameless ostentation.
Julia was all too aware that her boots were leaving muddy footprints as she walked to her chair at the head of the table. There were several startled glances among the delegates when they saw her Goth clothes. Damp hair hanging in flaccid strings didn't help.
Eight of her own staff were sitting along one side, premier executives from each of the company's divisions. Lined up against them were Valyn Szajowski, Argon Hulmes, Sir Michael Torrance, Karl Hildebrandt, and Sok Yem, the representatives from Event Horizon's financial backing consortium. There were over a hundred and fifty banks and finance houses in the consortium, making it one of the largest in the world. In the first two years after the fall of the PSP they had extended seventy per cent of the money which Philip Evans had needed to re-establish the company in England. Event Horizon under his guidance had proved to be an ultra-solid investment; even though there had been some nervousness about his enthusiasm for the company's space programme, he had never missed a payment. With the global economy at that time still extremely shaky, membership of the consortium was highly prized, and jealously guarded.
But then two years ago, after Julia inherited the company lock, stock, and barrel, the once eagerly proffered loans became suddenly hard to obtain and those that were available had inordinately high interest rates. The conservative financial establishment had zero faith in teenage girls as corporate owner-directors. They wanted more say in the way Event Horizon was run, a position on the management board, possibly even the directorship. Just until she was older, they explained, until she understood the mechanism of corporate management—say in about twenty years. Their reluctant but firm insistence had turned into the biggest tactical error in modern financial history. Respected financecast commentators were already calling it the Great Loan Shark Massacre.
Armed with the giga-conductor royalties, and (unknown to the consortium) her grandfather's NN core, she stuck up a grand two-fingered salute, and carried on expanding the company at an even faster rate. Existing loan repayments came in ahead of schedule, with corresponding loss of interest payments, and fewer loans were applied for. The consortium's income began to fall off while Event Horizon's cash flow and profits grew; their golden egg was tarnishing rapidly.
Sean pulled her chair out, and she sat down, glowering at the artificial smiles directed towards her. Sean and Caroline sat on either side.
Open Channel To NN Core.
Well hello there, Miss Grumpy Guts. And what’s today's temper tantrum all about?
I am not in a temper, Grandpa.
Ha! I'm plugged in to the conference room's security cameras. If looks could kill, my girl, you'd be in a room of corpses.
Did you see ... Never mind. No. Did you see Jakki Coleman's 'cast this morning?
Bloody hell, girl, I haven't got time for crap like that, not even with my capacity.
She was on about what I wore yesterday. I had three fittings for that outfit, you know. Three.
Really.
Sabareni is one of the best haute couture houses in Europe. It's not like I'm going to Oxfam.
That's a great relief to hear.
Seven thousand pounds it cost.
I wouldn't want you stinting, Julia.
Don't be so bloody sarcastic. Seven thousand pounds! Well I can't possibly wear it again. Not now.
Juliet, could we possibly start the meeting, please.
Yah, all right. I bet they all saw the 'cast. Seven thousand pounds!
Oh, Gawd ... The silent voice carried a definite air of pique.
The management team and consortium representatives sat down, their earlier bonhomie fractured by her black mood.
Good. They might cut short the usual smarmy attempts to ingratiate themselves.
The terminal flatscreen recessed into the table in front of her lit up with the meeting's agenda.
"I am happy to report that, as I'm sure you all saw yesterday, the Clarke spaceplane project is on schedule," Julia said. "First flight is due in a month, first orbital test flight should take place ten weeks later. Assuming no catastrophic design flaw, deliveries will start in a year."
"That's excellent news, Julia," Argon Hulmes said. "Your Duxford team is to be congratulated."
"Thank you," she replied equably.
The consortium representatives had all been changed over the last two years until not one of the original members remained. This new batch were all younger, a not very subtle attempt to make her feel more comfortable. Although even now the banks still couldn't quite bring themselves to appoint anyone under thirty-eight; Sok Yem from the Hong Kong Oceanic Bank was the youngest at thirty-nine. Rumour said that Argon Hulmes's superiors had ordered him to have plastique before he got his seat, bringing his appearance down from forty-three to thirtyish.
Thirty and then something, Julia thought. He was always trying to talk to her about groups and albums and raves; his Christmas present had been a bootleg AV recording of a Bil Yi Somanzer concert. She imagined him dutifully plugging into the MTV channel each evening, updating himself on current releases, who's hot and who's flopped. A fine occupation for a middle-aged banker.
"We will break even on three hundred spaceplanes," she said. "That should come in about three years' time. My spaceline, Dragonflight, has just placed firm orders for another fifteen, and options on thirty-five, to cope with the nuclear Waste disposal contract we were awarded yesterday. We are expecting additional disposal contracts from five or six more European governments to be signed over the next few months, and of course national aerospace lines will want to get in on the act."
Sean Francis took his cue flawlessly. "Nuclear waste disposal has enabled us to upgrade our estimates on space-related industry turnover by forty-five per cent over the next four years," he said. "It is a completely untapped revenue source. Should it be exploited fully, its potential is staggering. No government on the planet will be able to refuse its electorate a safe and final solution to disposing of radioactive material. And there are currently forty-three redundant nuclear power stations in Europe alone, with a further seventeen scheduled to be decommissioned over the next decade."
"Such a pity the consortium didn't consider my Sunderland vitrification plant a worthwhile investment," Julia said. "You could have shared in the profits. The margin is considerable, given that I now have a virtual monopoly on the technology."
Sir Michael leaned forward earnestly. "We would be very happy to fund any expansion to the vitrification plant, Julia. Now that the requirement has been proved, and very ably proved if I might say so. The nuclear waste disposal contract is a marvelous development, we're all very pleased."
No, Juliet, absolutely not, cut them out of the vitrification. Squeeze the bastards.
She gave Sir Michael a smile which withered his sudden display of enthusiasm. "The vitrification plant was a five hundred million pound risk," she said in her lecturer's voice. "And having taken that risk all by myself, I intend to benefit all by myself. The profits generated by this new venture will be more than sufficient to fund its own expansion. Thank you."
"Julia, I think we are all agreed that your handling of the company is impeccable," Sir Michael said. "And in view of this we would like to offer to set up a floating credit arrangement of three billion New Sterling which you can call upon at any time to fund new ventures. This way we could avoid the delays and queries inherent with having to process loan requests through the consortium'
s standing review committee."
The other representatives murmured their approval, all of them watching her, willing her to accept.
We've got 'em, Juliet. They don't offer anyone a blank cheque unless they're under a lot of pressure. Now, remember what we agreed, girl?
Hit them with the wind-up scenario. Then the Prior's Fen scheme.
That's my girl.
She tented her fingers, and gave them an apologetic look. "Oh dear, how embarrassing. I believe my finance director has a summary he wanted to present. Alex, if you would, please."
Alex Barnes stood up, a fifty-three-year-old Afro-Caribbean with a receding cap of grizzled hair. His suit with velvet lapels did at least lift him above the level of corporate clone.
He began to recite a stream of accounts; figures, dates, and percentages merging together in a wearisome drone of statistics.
The representatives were looking very itchy by the time he finished.
"What it means," Julia said sweetly, "is that the loans which the consortium has so far extended to Event Horizon will be repaid in seven years. After that, the company will be totally self-financing. Now, as the company's expansion plans have already been finalized for that period, with the exception of Prior's Fen, I really can see no reason to extend my period of indebtedness. Certainly not at the level of your floating credit proposal, which I have to say is disappointingly paltry given Event Horizon's size."
There was a moment of silence as the representatives exchanged a comprehensive catalogue of facial expressions. Interestingly, only Argon Hulmes allowed any ire to show. So much for solidarity amongst fellow youth-culture subscribers.
Some clandestine and invisible voting system elected Sir Michael as their spokesman. "Exactly what were you proposing to do out at Prior's Fen?" he enquired in a chary tone.
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