Serendipity Foundation_292

by The Serendipity Foundation (retail) (epub)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  After stints working in South Asia, Sam Smit is now based in Cornwall, where he helps develop Eden Projects around the world. The Serendipity Foundation is his debut novel.

  His musical project and other miscellany can be found at www.allthenumerals.com.

  This edition first published in 2016

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  © Sam Smit, 2016

  The right of Sam Smit to be identified as the author of this work

  has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied,

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form

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  on the subsequent purchaser.

  While every effort has been made to trace the owners of copyright material reproduced herein, the publisher would like to apologise for any omissions and will be pleased to incorporate missing acknowledgments in any further editions.

  Text Design by Ellipsis Digital Limited, Glasgow

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-78352-270-5 (trade hbk)

  ISBN 978-1-78352-272-9 (ebook)

  ISBN978-1-78352-271-2 (limited edition)

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK)

  To Mum and Dad,

  This, I suppose, is my thank you letter

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  Founders

  Sins against hope are the only sins beyond forgiveness and redemption.

  Carlos Quijano

  For all the large-scale political solutions which have been proposed to salve ethnic conflict, there are few more effective ways to promote tolerance between suspicious neighbours than to force them to eat supper together.

  Alain de Botton

  PROLOGUE

  Two Negotiations

  The Crest Voyager Hostage Crisis

  4 years earlier

  The boardroom of GoldBlue Oil, City of London

  ‘This will be the hardest conversation you’ve ever had. Remember, no matter what they say, it’s not your responsibility. You won’t be killing the hostages. They will be.’

  Richard looked away from the negotiator, up at the grainy photographs of his five employees. The pixilation robbed them of their present tense, as if destined for tomorrow’s papers: obituary portraits for those caught up in tragedy.

  ‘So, is everybody happy with how we’re going to play this?’ The negotiator paced at the head of the boardroom table. His ex-military realism consoled GoldBlue’s executives, convincing them that five lives would be a sad but necessary sacrifice for the protection of principles. It was easier to romanticise martyrdom when you weren’t the martyr.

  Opposite Richard was the new Foreign Minister, Michael Reyburn, with an adviser on either side, ushering their fledgling minister away from voicing the concerns written over his face. Richard imagined him better suited to a post in Youth and Sports. His anxiety was foregrounded against a panorama of the City from the thirty-third floor. Such scale quickly showed up those who weren’t comfortable with it.

  Richard scanned the table. His eight board members looked more enthralled than nervous, having relinquished their moral responsibility to him.

  The phone rang. The negotiator looked around the table and nodded, before one of his team picked up the phone and placed it on loudspeaker.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m the lead negotiator for GoldBlue Oil. My name is—’

  ‘Give me the CEO. Put on Richard Pounder.’ The male voice had a light Nigerian accent. It was deep and deliberate, betraying no signs of tension. Ted Monroe, the chairman, nodded to Richard.

  ‘This is Richard Pounder.’

  ‘Good, good. Richard. I like your voice. Powerful. Authoritative. You practise with your negotiator? Give first impression that you won’t be bullied?’

  Richard looked at the negotiator, who shook his head, silently mouthing to him to stay silent. Deep laughter came through the speakers.

  ‘It’s OK, Richard. No need to look at the negotiator each time I ask a question. Tell me, who else is in the room with you?’

  Richard instinctively looked up. The negotiator pointed to his team, Monroe, and two other directors, bypassing the panicked Reyburn.

  ‘There’s me, a three-man negotiating team, and three of my board members.’ He was met by a few seconds of silence.

  ‘Richard, you need to be honest with me. Put the minister on.’

  ‘What minister?’

  ‘You think I’m an idiot, Richard? You’re a big British company and I’ve got five British hostages. Put the minister on.’

  The ministerial advisers shook their heads at Richard before glaring at Reyburn. The negotiator had warned them that they would have to be strong and stick to what they had agreed on. Government anonymity was high up the list.

  ‘In front of me, I have five men. They’re on their knees. They are yours. And there are two other men with guns. They are mine. I will count to three by which time the minister will say hello, or we shoot them. One . . .’

  The advisers urgently gesticulated with Reyburn, jotting notes on pads.

  ‘I promise you, there really is no minister here with us,’ said Richard.

  ‘Two . . .’

  The advisers stared intently at Reyburn, who closed his eyes and covered his face with his right hand. They heard the intake of breath from the speaker. ‘Th . . .’

  ‘I’m here. This is the Foreign Secretary Michael Reyburn.’

  His advisers shook their heads. The negotiator turned his back and stroked his hair. The others watched transfixed.

  ‘Welcome, Minister. I commend your humanity. The others in the room will call it weakness. Tell me, Richard, are you angry at your minister
?’

  Richard looked at the negotiator, who mouthed, ‘Take control,’ with a clenched fist. Richard nodded and took a deep breath.

  ‘Enough of these games. You arranged this call because you wanted to negotiate. So let’s focus on that. You’ve asked GoldBlue to abandon drilling on our rigs in the Niger Delta. I think we all know that’s imposs—’ Laughter interrupted him mid-sentence.

  ‘Richard, Richard. When did I say we wanted to negotiate?’

  Ashen faces turned towards the negotiator, who paused out of concern rather than strategy.

  ‘Let me guess . . . you were waiting for us to come back with something a little more . . . reasonable?’ came the voice.

  The negotiator nodded his head tentatively.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about how we’d react,’ said Richard. ‘You know it’s impossible for me to pull my company out of an area that has billions invested in it overnight.’

  ‘Come, Richard. You have your rules of the game. Your procedures. Stories you tell yourself. But the stories I tell myself cannot live alongside yours. I see our children die from pollution from your rigs, from starvation by your theft, from murder through your collusion with power. For me, unreasonable is asking for what you think is reasonable.’

  The room was silent. Richard no longer looked at the negotiator.

  ‘Imagine you are me. Is it unreasonable to try to rid yourself of the cancer that is killing everything around you?’

  Richard sank his head into his hands. With his eyes closed, the voice reverberated throughout his body.

  ‘Tell me,’ the voice said, becoming louder and impatient. ‘I repeat, am I being unreasonable? As one human being to another, tell me.’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ As Richard stumbled, the negotiator strode urgently to the intercom system and switched off the microphone.

  ‘Mr Pounder . . . Richard. Look at me. I know this is hard. I do. But remember what we talked about. You aren’t negotiating with him. Don’t let him engage you like this. Take a step back and start—’

  ‘Your negotiator telling you to take charge, Richard? Here’s something for you to discuss. Unless you tell me it’s your company that’s unreasonable, I’ll shoot them right now. I need to hear you take responsibility. You have one minute.’

  Richard took in the room. The once familiar corporate art, the plasma screens and whiteboards, coffee cups and assorted biscuits offered no comfort now.

  ‘They’re words . . . they’re just fucking words,’ said Richard to no one in particular, the mic still muted. ‘You can’t risk the lives of five men for a few meaningless words.’

  ‘But they’re not just words, are they?’ said Monroe calmly, as if unaware of the timeframe. ‘They would be words undermining our reason for being.’ He had a confrontational drawl, contrasting sharply with his small, ageing frame. ‘Start allowing the story of what we are to become complicated . . . it all falls down. The company has its own ethics, Richard, which overrides our own. We are not the problem. Humanity is, and we’re a necessary product of it.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ shouted Richard.

  A seething silence descended.

  ‘Thirty seconds,’ came the voice.

  Monroe leaned forward and took a sip of water. ‘These words mean nothing. I don’t hear a deal here. Meanwhile they’ll know we’re chicken-shit. You really think they’re serious? They’re going to kill the hostages, just like that? They’re the same as all these other motherfuckers who ring in thinking the world gives a shit about them, and we offer them a few hundred thousand and ride off into the sunset. This is the first play of a long game, and we stay strong. Gimme a show of hands. Who’s with me on this?’

  They looked to their stricken board members. All, tentatively, raised their hands.

  ‘And you, Minister?’

  Reyburn, his hands visibly shaking, stared at the table, unable to square their consensus with his own instincts. ‘Surely we need to view this as a way to buy more time,’ he said. ‘How can we be debating something so trivial, based on your hunch that they’re bluffing?’

  Several board members shuffled uncomfortably in their seats; the others tried to avoid making eye contact.

  ‘May I clarify,’ one of Reyburn’s advisers said nervously, ‘that the government is not party to this negotiation, and our presence cannot be used as an endorsement of any decision taken here.’

  Monroe nodded.

  ‘Ten seconds.’

  No one said anything, not wishing to undermine the fragile resolve of the group – one many would later deny sharing.

  The negotiator turned the microphone back on.

  ‘So, Richard. It’s down to you and me now. The others don’t care. Tell me you are the problem. I need to hear it now.’

  Richard could feel the eyes of the room upon him. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this. We can work this out. Just give us a bit more time.’

  ‘We’re not bluffing, Richard. We’re not fucking bluffing. You can stop this.’

  Richard covered his face with his hands, unable to think. ‘Please, you don’t need to do this.’

  ‘Is there anybody there willing to stand up for these men?’ came the voice angrily. All eyes were on Reyburn, who in that brief moment shrank in surrender to the deafening silence.

  ‘Very well,’ shouted the man. ‘You’ve made your decision, now live with the consequences.’

  Five shots rang out. The phone went dead.

  The Kidnap of Police Commissioner El Sayed

  January this year

  A ramshackle first-floor room off a secluded street

  in Old Cairo

  Thin beams of light streamed through the shutters. A ceiling fan struggled in the thick humid air. Black and white portraits hung from the wall: sinister clues to an impenetrable puzzle.

  ‘Come, sit.’ The kidnapper motioned her rifle to a small wooden seat. Opposite sat a silent second figure, similarly dressed in black, with a balaclava hiding their face.

  ‘You know why you’re here, don’t you?’ said the one with the gun.

  He shrugged ironic innocence. Her voice sounded young. Fourteen? Fifteen? The silent one seemed older.

  ‘Come on, why have we kidnapped you?’

  ‘You think your grievance against me is special?’ He smiled and shook his head dismissively. ‘You think I remember everything that happens, everyone who gets hurt along the way? Tell me who you want released or how much money you want. I can do that for you. But you think you’ll make me . . . regretful?’ He sat back defiantly. ‘Do what you’ve got to do.’

  The gunwoman laughed, perched on a cabinet near the window. ‘We’re here because the community needs us to be.’

  El Sayed snorted contemptuously. ‘And what community might that be? And who put you in charge to save it? If it wasn’t me, others more ruthless would take my place. You think being the law is all black and white? Look at you, saving your community with a gun.’

  ‘I am the law!’ impersonated the gunwoman.

  The other figure sat back and crossed her legs. The eyes seemed to smile at El Sayed.

  ‘Are you anything else apart from the law, Mr Commissioner?’

  El Sayed narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I mean, do you also see yourself as a father, as a husband?’

  He glared. ‘You touch my son and I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Relax, Mr Commissioner. Your family is safe. Did you think about what we asked you?’

  El Sayed wiped the sweat from his forehead and moustache.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what? Let’s stop playing. What do you want?’

  ‘It will help us both if you take our request seriously.’

  They locked eyes. He grunted, before staring aimlessly at the ceiling. The two kidnappers exchanged a glance.

  ‘Your son,’ she said, starting to pace behind El Sayed. ‘I asked if you thought of yourself as a husband or father, and you
responded by only defending your son.’ She left the sentence hanging. ‘You love him very much, yet spend no time with him.’

  El Sayed’s tone softened. ‘How would you know?’

  She continued pacing. ‘You used to play football with him every week. He looked up to you. Then you stopped coming to his school matches.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant.’

  There was silence. El Sayed heard each footstep as a subtle judgement on his parenting. ‘Life isn’t about kicking a football around in a park,’ he said. ‘Life is violent. It’s war. What I do, I do for him.’

  ‘How happy that must make him.’ She stopped and stared at him.

  ‘I don’t have the time to do everything.’ He breathed out heavily and rubbed his face. ‘This is ridiculous. Justifying missing a football match when I’m dealing with the fate of the country.’

  ‘Maybe the fate of every country rests on fathers watching their sons’ football matches.’

  ‘The terrorist philosopher speaks. Do you have any idea how the real world works?’

  ‘And how is that real world working for everybody? How many problems has it solved recently?’ She continued pacing, slowly, deliberately, patiently disarming El Sayed’s defences, letting him move the conversation on when he was ready.

  ‘And what would you have done with the real world, then? Suspend it? Ignore it? Turn it upside down?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, exchanging glances with her accomplice, before taking the seat opposite El Sayed. ‘Why else would you be here?’

  With the commissioner missing for a week, many had presumed, and hoped for, the worst. He was a man who inspired no empathy. He had betrayed the community that had raised him: arbitrary arrests, selective justice – a home-grown example of how power corrupted.