The reporter nodded, agreeing. He’d liked the line about the nation’s civic lifeblood. Was Barnaby serious? In terms of democracy, was he saying that the situation was terminal?
‘I simply don’t know,’ Barnaby answered. ‘I don’t know where it will end. All I know is that down here, in our own small way, we’re trying to make a difference. A month ago people thought Pompey First was a joke. It isn’t. It’s a reality. It’s something you can feel and measure. In votes. And, come Thursday, that’s exactly what we’ll do.’
The young reporter stepped back, delighted. Barnaby shook his outstretched hand. The camera crew were already packing up their gear, returning the sound equipment to its silver box and collapsing the big tripod. Barnaby gave them a final wave as they drove away, and then climbed the path that led to the castle battlements. From here, the southernmost point of Portsea Island, he could see east to the pier and the long sweep of shingle each that stretched away towards Hayling Island. Behind him, furrowed by a passing warship, were the approaches to the harbour mouth.
He began to walk, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, happier than he could ever remember. Whole areas of his life – his marriage, for instance – were in chaos but with Pompey First he’d caught a wave that had somehow lifted him above the daily grind and was pushing him forward, faster and faster. Adjoining the seafront were the wide green spaces of Southsea Common and he paused, shading his eyes, remembering the way it had looked a couple of years back, June 1994, the weekend Bill Clinton and his entourage had descended on the city for the D-Day Commemoration. The memories of that weekend, the feeling of sour frustration, of creeping middle age, of having missed some indefinable opportunity, now seemed to belong to another life. He’d heard the trumpets, he thought, he’d answered the call and, God willing, life would never expose him to that kind of humiliation again. He mattered. He truly mattered. There were people, clever people, who’d just driven seventy miles to listen to what he had to say. His name was in print, in local papers, national papers, even the international press, doubtless cross-indexed in countless cuttings files. Soon, perhaps, there’d be similar clips on video, archived for ever.
Barnaby glanced down at the patch of worn grass where he’d just conducted the Newsnight interview, reflecting on the slightly unreal sequence of events that had brought him in front of the camera. Then he retraced his steps towards the Mercedes, thinking once again of Bill Clinton. Two years ago, he’d seemed a remote figure, defined solely by the world’s headlines. Now, to Barnaby’s intense satisfaction, he was simply flesh and blood.
The meeting with Zhu was brief. Tully took the lift to his top-floor suite at the Imperial, accompanied by Mr Hua, Zhu’s chauffeur. Zhu was sitting at a desk in the window. It was the first time Tully had seen him wearing glasses.
Zhu offered him a small cup of Chinese tea but Tully shook his head. He’d developed the prints himself. He laid them on Zhu’s desk. To Tully’s quiet satisfaction, they were excellent.
Zhu examined them for, perhaps, a minute. Finally, he looked up. ‘This is the man you described?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The one who …’ Zhu looked pained ‘… wrecked our opening day?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And he’s here?’
‘Very definitely.’
‘You have an address? Directions? Where to find him?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ Zhu indicated the stocky figure by the door. ‘Leave the details with Mr Hua.’ He smiled. ‘I’m deeply grateful.’
Louise took Ellis for a late lunch at a pub along the hill from the Defence Research Agency. He’d arrived only minutes before, stepping out of a car at the main gate, pale with exhaustion. Now he sat beside her, looking out at the countryside to the north of the hill, amazed at how this fold of chalk could separate such wholly different landscapes.
‘Big, isn’t it?’ Louise was looking at the city. ‘Much bigger than I’d thought.’
‘You’re right.’ Ellis closed his eyes. ‘And not too pretty, either.’
The pub had a modest restaurant. Louise studied the menu while Ellis did his best to brief her. The investigators at the Commercial Affairs Department had been pleased with the file he’d delivered on Barings. It filled in various holes in their own enquiry and resolved one or two key issues on which they’d found no collateral evidence. In return, with some bewilderment, they’d told him a good deal about Raymond Zhu.
‘Bewilderment?’
‘They think he’s straight. In fact, they think he’s the jewel in their crown. Mr Private Enterprise. Very canny. Very shrewd.’
‘Very rich?’
‘Immensely. Even richer than we thought. They capitalized him at between three and four billion. That’s dollars, of course.’ He waited while Louise examined the menu. Today’s special was monkfish in batter.
‘Nothing for us, then?’ she asked at last.
‘Nothing startling.’ Ellis consulted the summary he’d prepared overnight on the plane. ‘Except the command and control equipment.’
‘Oh?’
Ellis described what Lim had told him in the car on the way to the airport. Zhu had evidently bought the riot gear, plus ancillary communications, on behalf of officials in Beijing. He was using Singapore as a conduit country, camouflaging the real end-user.
‘Was this a surprise at the DTI?’
‘Frankly, yes. The order wasn’t that big. It could have gone to any one of half a dozen regional players. Or it could have stayed in Singapore. China barely figured.’
‘So why Beijing?’
The waiter had arrived for the order but Louise was ignoring him, a sure sign to Ellis that her interest was aroused.
‘The Chinese have tasked a military force to take over in Hong Kong,’ he said slowly. ‘We’re talking police duties, maintenance of civil order. There’s nothing covert about it. It’s been in the papers. Photos, even. I’ve seen them myself.’
‘And?’
‘They need equipment. State-of-the-art stuff.’ His hand went to the file. ‘Zhu bought British.’
‘On their behalf?’
‘So it seems.’
‘How interesting.’ Louise at last placed her order. Ellis settled for a salad. The waiter disappeared.
Ellis opened the file, offering it to Louise, but she shook her head.
‘Talk to me,’ she said. ‘Tell me more about Hong Kong.’
Ellis bent forward across the table. ‘Hong Kong’s crucial,’ he said. ‘Hong Kong’s where it begins and ends. It turns out Zhu was born in Shanghai. He fled during the revolution, in ’forty-nine. His parents were killed by the Communists. He and his brother got out of Shanghai on a barge of some sort.’
‘They went to Hong Kong?’
‘Yes, along with thousands of others. He stayed until the mid-sixties. That’s when he and his brother set up Celestial Holdings. Until then they’d been general traders. Celestial took them into the big time. Construction to begin with. Then associated development. The guys at Commercial Affairs have the brothers down as typical Shanghai Chinese. Very nimble, very sharp, always looking for the next opportunity.’ He paused. ‘In ’sixty-eight we announced we were pulling out of Singapore. Several months later, Zhu applied for citizenship.’
‘Of?’
‘Singapore. The place was newly independent. Economically, it was buzzing. Cheap labour. Lots of foreign investment. Annual growth rates of twenty-three per cent. For someone like Zhu, all that would have been irresistible.’ He paused. ‘His brother stayed in Hong Kong but Zhu registered Celestial Holdings in Singapore as soon as he got his citizenship. That’s why we got confused about his passport, incidentally.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘We thought he was born in southern China, not Shanghai, but it seems he put Amoy to get himself sponsored. At the time, Singapore was awash with Chinese from the south. Not that it matters now.’
‘And the brother?’
‘He’s still running the Hong Kong end of Celestial and he’s doing very well. That’s partly why Zhu’s worth so much. Hong Kong generates a lot of the profits but the brothers obviously feel that Singapore’s a safer home for the cash than Hong Kong. And given next year, he’s probably right.’
‘So Celestial clean up in Hong Kong while they can?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And the Commercial Affairs people don’t mind?’
‘Not at all. Money’s money. The more of it ends up in Singapore the better.’
Louise nodded, testing a bread roll with her fingers. ‘This riot equipment,’ she mused, ‘the stuff that’s going to Hong Kong. Doesn’t Zhu have a conscience about that? Arming the Chinese militia against his own kith and kin? Or am I being naïve?’
‘You’re being naïve. Big business and the Communists have a great deal in common. Neither are very keen on democracy. Especially if it hurts the profit stream. The last thing Zhu wants is a breakdown in law and order.’
Louise was pleased. Very pleased indeed.
Ellis consulted his summary. She wanted more detail on the sources of Zhu’s fortune in Hong Kong, how exactly he and his brother were making their money, and Ellis listed the areas he’d targeted for his major investments. Shipping and transportation was one.
Louise stopped him, laying her hand on his. ‘What kind of scale?’
‘Big. Everything Zhu does is big.’
‘Hong Kong to where?’
‘Anywhere. US. Europe. Australia. The Zhus are merchants. They trade wherever they can turn a profit.’
‘So Zhu’s been shipping goods here? Into the UK?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s still doing it?’
‘Absolutely.’
Louise leaned back in her chair, looking pleased again. Her prawn cocktail had arrived, a tent of shredded lettuce, oozing pink sauce. She tapped her watch. ‘Your Mr Tully,’ she said briskly.
‘Who?’
‘Tully. The one you told me about. Your ex-Marine.’ She plunged her spoon into the prawn cocktail. ‘He’s expecting you at three. I must remember to give you the address.’ She added, ‘I sense he’s got a lot to get off his chest.’
When the phone rang Liz Barnaby was on the point of going out. She closed the door again and retraced her steps across the lounge. The caller introduced herself. She said she was a reporter. She worked on the Sentinel. She wondered if Liz could spare a couple of minutes on the phone.
‘Of course.’ Liz pulled a stool towards her. The reporter wanted to check that she was married to Hayden Barnaby. ‘Yes,’ Liz frowned, ‘I am.’
‘The same Hayden Barnaby who’s involved with Pompey First?’
‘Yes.’
There was a pause. Then the reporter was back again. She understood that Liz had a connection with a young German, Haagen Schreck. True or false?
Liz blinked. Had Mike Tully run Haagen to earth? Was he under arrest? ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why on earth do you want to know?’
The reporter sidestepped the question. She wanted to confirm that Haagen Schreck was the same young man who’d been involved in the riot outside the Imperial Hotel. Back last year.
‘Yes,’ Liz said. ‘He is. But why? Why all these questions?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Barnaby, I’m just confirming a report.’
Liz was alarmed now. The last few months hadn’t been easy and she’d developed an instinct for impending disaster. I shouldn’t have answered the phone, she thought. I should have shut the door and left home.
The reporter was asking her to go back to last year. In March, she’d written a cheque for £3,000. The cheque had been made out to Haagen Schreck and had been lodged with a local travel agency.
Liz shut her eyes. Her attempts to get Haagen out of the country had haunted her for months. Not because they had failed, but because she’d felt such a fool to trust him. Her instincts had been right but her faith in human nature, as ever, had been sadly misplaced. Haagen had taken the ticket and the currency. God knows, he may even have gone to Germany. But he’d certainly reappeared, making the headlines outside the Imperial Hotel.
The reporter was talking about drugs.
‘Drugs? What kind of drugs?’
‘Heroin, Mrs Barnaby. We have evidence that Haagen Schreck bought heroin. In Amsterdam. With your money. It’s a serious allegation, Mrs Barnaby. And, as I say, we have the evidence to prove it.’
‘What is this evidence?’
‘Photographs, Mrs Barnaby, and a copy of the cheque. Do you have a white raincoat, by any chance? And are you still banking with NatWest?’
Ellis took a cab to the address Louise had given him for Tully. Number 66 Selbourne Place was a three-storey building at the end of an attractive terrace. The brass plate beside the door read ‘Quex Ltd. Corporate Security’.
Tully answered Ellis’s ring. He was already wearing a raincoat and he looked left and right up the street before leading Ellis to a 200-series Rover parked across the road. He unlocked the passenger door, standing back to let Ellis clamber in. Only when he was behind the wheel, reaching for the seat belt, did he bother with conversation.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Who?’
‘That boss of yours.’
‘Louise Carlton.’
‘OK.’ He reached for the ignition key.
Tully had a maisonette in a new development five minutes’ drive away. There were clumps of dead daffodils in the neatly edged flower beds and two bottles of milk on the doorstep. Tully unlocked the front door and stooped to pick up the milk.
The tiny sitting room was upstairs, adjoining the kitchen. A desk occupied one corner of the room and there was a cheap MFI sofa beneath the window. Tully waved Ellis onto the sofa and retreated to the kitchen. Ellis looked round. On the mantelpiece, over the gas fire, was a framed photograph. It showed a younger, leaner Tully. He was wearing some form of tropical battledress. He had a carbine in one hand and a radio in the other. In the background, rolling away into the distance, was a series of thickly wooded hills.
Ellis got up to study the photo more closely. He didn’t hear Tully returning from the kitchen.
‘Brunei,’ he said briefly, ‘’seventy-two.’
Ellis took the proffered mug of tea. It was far too sweet for his taste but he was grateful nonetheless. Tully sat down at the desk. He unlocked a drawer and took out a loose-leaf binder. Inside it were pages of lined paper. A thick vertical line formed a margin on the left-hand side of the top page, and the rest had been divided into blocks of information. Ellis looked at the lines of impeccably neat handwriting. Tully’s, he thought. Had to be.
Tully reached for one of the audio-cassettes stored on the shelf above the desk. He weighed it in his hand very carefully, as if something inside might spill. ‘There are twelve of these,’ he said. ‘Did that boss of yours tell you?’
Ellis shook his head. ‘I’ve just come back from Singapore,’ he said defensively. ‘Flew in this morning.’
‘She didn’t mention anything?’
‘No.’
Tully shook his head in disbelief, then gave Ellis a little of the background. Haagen Schreck was the junkie boyfriend of the daughter of a woman called Liz Barnaby. Liz was a friend of Tully’s. Schreck was big trouble and Liz was keen to keep him away from her daughter. Hence the tapes.
‘I don’t follow,’ Ellis muttered.
Tully explained about Charlie Epple’s house and the intercept he’d plumbed in. The electronic trawl had netted a number of items including a great deal about an outfit called Pompey First. Pompey First was a brand new political party. And Charlie Epple was one of the founding fathers.
Ellis at last began to understand. Over lunch, Louise had told him about the dockyard fiasco and about the extraordinary rise of Pompey First. Together, these two events signalled a major crisis for Tory Central Office and the shadow extended as far as Downing Street. Tomorrow she and Jephson were due to brief the Pr
ime Minister ahead of parliamentary questions. Whatever Tully had to say might contribute to that brief.
Ellis was looking at the row of cassettes. If each one lasted ninety minutes, he and Tully could be here for days.
Tully tapped the binder. ‘Most of the conversations are between Epple and a bloke called Hayden Barnaby.’ Ellis nodded. Louise had mentioned Barnaby. He was a local solicitor. He’d been in at the birth of Pompey First. Lately, he’d taken to styling himself ‘President-Elect’.
Tully showed the binder to Ellis. In the left-hand column, he’d listed various headings. They began with ‘Constitution’. Underneath came ‘Suffrage’, ‘Currency’, ‘Defence’, ‘Education’, ‘Health’, ‘Pensions’, ‘Investment’, ‘Utilities’ and ‘External Relations’. Beside each heading, Tully had meticulously noted details of tapes, dates and specific conversations. Each conversation had a separate index number which, Ellis assumed, referred to a transcript or perhaps a summary. The analysis was extraordinarily detailed. It must have taken Tully weeks to sort it out.
‘Why go to so much trouble?’ Ellis queried. ‘What’s the point?’
‘Point?’ Tully looked shocked. He picked up the file. ‘Choose a heading. Anything. Go on.’
He pushed the file at Ellis. Ellis’s finger stopped on ‘Utilities’. Tully began to leaf through the file. More writing, pages and pages of it. At last he found what he was looking for, quotes from dozens of conversations, carefully correlated, all addressing the provision of electricity, water or gas.
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