However, as he emerged onto the landing, he saw a small party of people gathered in front of the event room door.
“I’m sorry,” he said pompously, “this is a private meeting. I’m afraid you’ll have to conduct your business elsewhere.”
The moment he spoke, an old man with his back towards him turned and smiled. “Ah, Mr. Faraday, good evening to you,” he said, his English heavily accented with the deep bass of his Afro-French heritage.
Quentin stopped in his tracks, surprised the stranger had addressed him by name. Indeed, studying him, he now saw something vaguely familiar about the white-haired, dark-skinned elderly gentleman before him. Then the penny dropped.
It had been many years and Niger’s former Minister Of Interior had aged much in that time. In fact he had turned into an old man. But there was no mistaking it was him and Faraday felt a prickle of annoyance. Clearly the old fool was intent on causing some sort of disturbance.
“Well, Minister Sekibo,” he said with a sneer, “what a thoroughly unpleasant surprise.”
Ekon smiled at the slight. “Believe me, the displeasure is all mine,” he replied, his voice calm and measured.
“Listen,” the South African snapped, his attitude brusk and intolerant, “if you’ve got something to say then I’m afraid you’re out of luck as I’ve got important business to attend to and I quite simply don’t have the time - or frankly, the patience - for whatever stunt you’re trying to pull. In fact, the truth is, I just don’t care. Now if you’ll excuse—”
“I assure you, Mr. Faraday, this is no stunt,” Ekon interjected. “I have merely come here to introduce you to my friends.”
“Friends?” Faraday queried, looking at the three young people standing beside the old man. “Why the hell should I care about—“
“Please, if you would just permit me,” Ekon broke in again. “This young lady beside me is Dr. Miriam Dufour, my daughter’s dearest friend. And this fine gentleman to my left is Vasily Voronin, who was also extremely close to her.”
Faraday glared at them. “So? What do I care?” He scorned, his manner defiant and unapologetic.
But Ekon ignored him. “And this gentleman to my right is someone I believe you may already have heard of - indeed, his name was the last one on the lips of all those men you sent to kill my daughter.”
Faraday jerked his head to Ekon’s right, dread churning in his belly, sure in the knowledge that he was now staring into the face of the man whom he had long feared; the very same person whom Miles DeVilliers had warned him against and whom James Locke had been hired to protect him from.
Suddenly the air of self-assurance was gone, all the pomposity and swaggering arrogance evaporating in an instant as Ekon Sekibo spoke again.
“He has been waiting to meet you for eleven long years,” he said. “So please, allow me to finally introduce you.”
Ekon then gestured grandly to the man beside him, “Quentin Faraday, meet Sam Beresford.”
Upon hearing his name, Sam stepped forward, deliberately invading Faraday’s personal space so that their faces were mere inches apart.
Faraday’s legs were trembling with fear, but he somehow managed to remain standing as he quailed under the intensity of the other man’s glare.
Indeed, Sam’s expression conveyed all the loathing, all the hatred, all the terrible, unrelenting wrath that had been boiling inside him since that fateful afternoon in the glade. His eyes finally fixing on the very cause of that anger - the man who had ordered Claudette’s death.
Sam wanted to rip him limb from limb, but he did not.
Quentin Faraday was visibly stunned yet incredibly grateful that he was standing within the very safe, very civilised confines of The Dorchester Hotel, doubting that Beresford would have the audacity to start anything there.
Yet as he studied the person who had been hunting him, he appeared to be nothing like the crazed madman he had imagined. On the contrary, he was handsome, impeccably dressed in a smart suit and tie, as befitted the elegance of their surroundings, and looked every inch the wealthy young man Quentin now knew him to be.
In actual fact, the more Faraday thought about it, the less frightened he was as he realised there was simply nothing Beresford could do. He could not make a scene, not there.
Furthermore, he had shown his hand much too soon, alerting Quentin to his intentions, thus giving him the necessary time to protect himself against any possible threat. Very stupid.
As these thoughts occurred to him, his arrogance quickly returned and the self-assured smirk reappeared on his face.
“So, Mr. Beresford, we meet at last,” he scoffed, “although I’m sure you feel somewhat neutered by our surroundings.
Sam said nothing.
“But then, that’s the difference between you and me, I suppose, isn’t it?” Continued Faraday, his manner condescending and dripping with disdain. “I plan things implicitly whereas you, it seems, rush in without thought or design. Which is why I will always remain one step ahead.”
Still glaring into Faraday’s eyes, Sam smiled coldly.
“Oh, I’ve got a plan alright,” he whispered. “And believe me, you’re gonna find out what it is real soon.”
There was a definite air of menace in his tone which made Quentin suddenly feel decidedly uneasy.
However, he brushed it off. “Yes, well,” he said nervously, “this has all been very enlightening I’m sure, but now, if you’ll excuse me, I have urgent matters to attend to.”
With that, he carefully side-stepped Sam and edged past Miri, Vas and Ekon as he reached for the door that led into the room in which his investors were waiting.
As Faraday’s fingers touched upon the handle, Sam spoke again.
“I assume these urgent matters relate to your nasty little development in the Ténéré Desert,” he said, with a wicked glint in his eye. “Would I be right?”
Faraday froze and looked back at him, a cold stab of fear piercing his belly. How the hell did he know?
“Well, good luck with that,” Sam grinned.
Vas, Miri and Ekon were standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder, presenting a united front.
They all smiled knowingly at Faraday for a long moment, Ekon Sekibo’s face in particular an inscrutable picture of complete satisfaction, clearly aware of something he was not.
Then, as one, they turned and walked down the short flight of stairs which led to the lobby, leaving Quentin Faraday alone with his doubts.
He watched them go, his hand poised on the door handle and a wave of uncertainty flooding over him.
What was he missing?
However, with his impatient investors waiting, he dare not delay a second longer, so pushed open the door and stepped inside.
***
They stood in the bar downstairs, none of them touching their drinks as Sam concentrated on his watch.
It was two minutes to ten, the lights of Park Lane visible through the window and out to the contrasting darkness of Hyde Park beyond.
Yet Sam was blind to it all, his focus solely on the second hand of his silver Brietling, just a couple more minutes to go.
Miri removed the walkie-talkie from her handbag and handed it to him. As he took it from her he smiled and squeezed her hand reassuringly.
He then lifted the radio and spoke into it in fluent Russian. “Spartak, it’s me,” he said. “Stand by for my countdown.”
***
Quentin Faraday walked through the door, his previous confidence no longer in evidence. In fact he felt queasy and anxious - and it showed on his face.
The room was one of The Dorchester’s smaller meeting rooms, ideal for gatherings of less than thirty people.
Indeed, there was considerably less than that number in there; just his six investors and two each of their bodyguards.
Sudd
enly Quentin was sweating as he looked at those who had ploughed such vast sums of money into his financially draining desert project; tyrants and murderers all.
And they were extremely pissed off.
Yet he had to reassure himself that what he was about to show them would get them back on side.
He would be victorious and in so being, would emerge a more powerful, much wealthier man.
However, Sam Beresford’s words had unsettled him, knocked him off balance, and therefore his focus was somewhat distracted.
But he pushed through it and pressed on with the presentation.
He jumped up on the low stage at the front of the room and greeted his invited guests, thanking them for bearing with him and assuring them that they would be pleased that they had.
He also promised that when the presentation was over, a fabulous spread awaited them in the adjoining room - as much food as they could eat and as much champagne as they could drink by way of celebration. He also made mention of the girls waiting upstairs with whom they were free to have their pick.
However, his investors remained stony faced throughout his speech and were yet to be convinced that he had actually delivered on all that he had promised.
Sensing their growing impatience, Faraday thought it best to cut short his address and instead run the tape which would prove conclusively that the facility in Niger was now finished and open for business.
So without any further ado, he dimmed the lights, pulled down the cinema screen at the back of the stage and flicked on the short promotional movie he had commissioned specifically for the event, designed for the sole purpose of validating his achievement and restoring the faith of his seriously disgruntled backers.
Nonetheless, as the film opened with a sweeping shot of the Ténéré Desert, taken from above by helicopter, and swooped upwards over the escarpment to reveal the gleaming new facility beyond, Faraday could still not get Sam’s words out of his head.
What was it he was missing?
***
At 9.58pm precisely, the satellite came online and Marcus Ellison placed his hand on the technician’s shoulder, thereby instructing him to initiate the live feed.
Within just a few seconds, the signal was then beamed via another satellite directly from the editing suite on Madison Avenue to London.
***
At 9.59 and thirty seconds, Sam advised Spartak to get ready to switch the feed.
Spartak, in turn, intercepted the signal from New York and tapped a couple of buttons on his laptop to launch the procedure. Then, cramped up in the sweaty confines underneath the dais, he sat with his finger poised over the ‘enter’ key.
A moment later, over the crackle of the walkie-talkie, Sam began his ten second countdown.
***
At 10pm precisely, Pyotr nodded at Mikhail. His brother grinned in response then immediately pressed the red button on the small remote control handset he was gripping to set in motion an irreversible chain reaction.
They then pushed their fingers into their ears and waited expectantly.
***
There was much cooing and gasping from the gathered zealots and warmongers as the evidence of Faraday’s fabulous accomplishment was laid out before them in glorious Technicolor, the production values of the movie rivalling that of any summer blockbuster.
No expense had been spared in proving to these evil despots that they were getting exactly what had been promised. Indeed, as the film played on before the enrapt audience, their faces were alive with joy as their minds greedily pondered all the dreadful possibilities the facility now afforded them.
Faraday looked on from the sidelines, witnessing their delight, revelling in his towering success, all thoughts of Sam Beresford now suddenly forgotten as he was lost in the glorious reverie of his own achievements.
However, as the movie panned over an early morning shot of the shiny new building, it suddenly juddered and froze as unbeknownst to those watching, Spartak switched the feeds directly beneath the stage upon which Faraday was standing.
After a momentary pause, the movie flickered and whirred into life once more, this time filling the large screen with an entirely different view of the facility.
This one was more grainy and filmed at night. The building was deserted, void of life, the workforce clearly having finished for the evening.
The words Live Feed now also appeared in the top right hand corner of the frame.
Evidently those gathered in the room were now watching events as they were happening in real time, witnessing them as they were unfolding at that very moment.
Immediately realising the film had been sabotaged, Faraday felt his panic rising as Sam Beresford’s words came back to haunt him. ‘Oh, I’ve got a plan alright,’ he had said, ‘And you’re gonna find out what it is real soon.’
Was this what he had meant?
With a sickening sense of impending doom, Quentin quickly fumbled for the switch of the controller in his hand, desperately trying to turn off the film.
But it was not working, the device was unresponsive, totally useless, even though he was pressing ‘stop’ repeatedly.
However, his guests were still glued to the screen, unaware of what was about to ensue, thinking it to be a continuation of the promotional movie they had been watching just a moment before.
It was then that the first of the charges went off.
As they watched in disbelief, an enormous explosion ripped out the eastern corner of the building on the screen. A second later another smashed through the western section, followed by the north and then the south.
Next, a ripple of huge blasts reverberated down the entire spine, blowing huge fragments high into the night sky; towers of flame bursting from every quadrant as explosion after explosion tore the place apart.
Debris was scattered far and wide as thick, acrid smoke pothered all around the ruined site.
In less than thirty seconds, with his murderous investors looking on, Quentin Faraday’s glorious new uranium enrichment facility in the desert had been completely and utterly destroyed.
And, as the explosions finally ceased, whatever vestiges of the place remained were left simply to burn.
Finally, the movie flickered again and the screen went black.
***
The room was now completely silent as Faraday’s investors stared agog at the blank screen, trying to comprehend the enormity of what they had just witnessed.
Their money had gone up in flames before their very eyes.
After years of waiting, years of promises - years of excuses and delays - they were left with absolutely nothing.
Indeed, they had been made to look like fools.
Slowly, as the realisation sunk in, each of them turned to stare at the cause of their misfortune; their eyes filled with violence and outrage.
Quentin Faraday’s bowels voided with terror as he backed shakily towards the door, tears streaming down his panic stricken face and his heart pounding in his chest as he hastily tried to escape.
There was no coming back from this. Nothing he could possibly do which might appease them.
His only hope left was to run.
However, as his six angry investors closed in around him, two of their burly bodyguards stepped in front of the door, blocking his exit.
Now there was no way out either.
He knew in that instant that this was Sam Beresford’s plan. Moreover, everything that had happened that evening was according to his specific design.
“Please, no - I can explain—“ Faraday begged, his investors now circling him. “Please! It wasn’t me!”
Yet his pleas fell on deaf ears.
As their arms reached out angrily to grab at him, Quentin Faraday at last knew that he had been beaten.
Sam had won.
And
this was his sweet revenge.
***
Faraday was swiftly escorted from The Dorchester Hotel and bundled into a unmarked transit van where he was immediately rendered unconscious.
He awoke sometime later in what appeared to be the inside of an empty shipping container.
It was dark, cold and dank.
He was completely naked and suspended by his shackled wrists from a chain attached to a metal ceiling joist above his head.
Each of his investors stood before him.
Six evil men, different to the six who had murdered Claudette, but six nonetheless, which was somewhat poetic in its irony.
An African warlord, a Libyan arms dealer, an Islamic extremist, a megalomaniacal businessman, a Chechen rebel and a South American dictator.
All of them now working together for the sake of a common purpose, which was to seek some small consolation for the fortune they had lost to Quentin Faraday.
Indeed, they all wanted a piece of him and it was agreed he should be divvied up according to the size of their investment.
Furthermore, they would make certain he did not die until each had received their rightful quota. Yet, he would not be spared any of the tortuous pain that their terrible retribution demanded.
So, with him screaming in excruciating agony, The Warlord took Faraday’s eyes and The Arms Dealer his ears. The Extremist opted for his hands whilst The Businessman chose his tongue. The Chechen was reserved the gift of Faraday’s cock and The Dictator, as the largest of the six investors, was awarded the prize of his balls.
Then, when the men were satisfied that they had each received an appropriate settlement, Quentin Faraday was left to bleed out alone.
Justice had been served.
Epilogue
Portsmouth, New Hampshire, one year later.
Vasily was thankful he had lost a little weight as he rather liked the way he looked in his tuxedo. What is more, Alina liked the way he looked in it, too. In fact, she had been hard pushed to keep her hands off him since they had arrived.
Although her husband was definitely not complaining.
Today, however, he had to concentrate on more serious matters and she had her hands full with little Claude, their cute, ten-month old son, who had recently discovered how to crawl.
Perfect Day Page 53
