Paterson smiled and put his mouth close to Ramesh’s ear.
‘Then fuck you, Mr Banerjee. Fuck you.’
The President of the World Bank pinched his arm and walked off.
Ted asked, ‘Are you sure you want this off the record?’
‘My word against the Chairman of the World Bank? His army of lawyers?’
‘But they do some good. With all that money?’ Ted persisted.
Ramesh smiled grimly. ‘The way to get on in the World Bank is to have the biggest investment budgets to spend on the highest profile projects. If someone can find a way of spending $500 million on a project to build a dam in Africa then he gets noticed and gets promoted.’
‘But these projects are useful surely? Maybe the motivation is wrong, but the results are worth having?’
‘Are they? Who gets the money? Not the poorest. Not the locals even. The money goes into the pockets of the international companies with the tools and the expertise to build big dams, or roads or airports. It goes to the consultants and the money men who fly in and out first class, and stay at the nearest Oberoi.’ Ted wondered if he was being watched. ‘And most of all, it goes to the middlemen, the government backers and intermediaries. We might as well send it straight to their numbered accounts in Switzerland.’
Ted switched his recorder back on.
‘What have they got on you? Or are they making it up?’
For the first time Ramesh’s trained ear heard no cynicism in the last question. Maybe he was getting through to the big man.
‘They are bribing influential people and planting evidence which is then leaked to the press.’ He looked meaningfully at Ted. ‘Including the foreign press.’’
‘What else?’
‘For some months now we have been hit by a series of technical problems. It is a moot point whether we will be shut down by the Supreme Court or sabotage.’
‘Who do you blame?’
Ted saw the pieces beginning to form an uncomfortable picture, part of which showed a spineless reporter being guided like a dumb steer.
‘I fear we have little proof at this stage. And I don’t want a libel suit on top of the present problems.’
‘Maybe I can do a little fishing in my column?’
‘I will be most interested to see how you portray our little chat, Ted. One never knows with the press, does one?’ His tone left no doubt about how low he set his expectations.
‘But I almost forgot. I have a small present for you.’ Ramesh pulled open his desk drawer. ‘Unless you have already read it?’ He placed a pristine paperback of E M Forster’s ‘A Passage to India’ on the table.
Ted smiled to hide his surprise. ‘Am I being bribed?’
‘Enlightened perhaps?’
Ted took the offering and stood up, towering over the little man. ‘Thanks Ramesh. Make sure you check tomorrow’s Tribune.’
EIGHTEEN
Anila spoke to first one then the other. It was easy to get their attention. Everyone knew that Anila was trying to break away from the money lender and do her own business. What they had not expected was her call to revolution!
‘We would form an agreement to buy the wood direct from Mr Roy. We would not borrow the money from Mr Chowdury.’
‘But Anila Jhabvala, where would we get the money from? We have no money.’
‘I have enough to get us started. I could afford to buy five days of Mr Roy’s entire wood if we had to. But we would not even need five days. The agent comes every week, so it would only be another four days before you sold your work. Then you would pay me back and pay back Mr Chowdury for the loan for the last three days. And then we could afford to buy the next week’s wood for us all.’
‘But how is that better Anila? It sounds like you have become Mr Chowdury! What is the difference between one money lender and another we want to know?! Except you are inexperienced and maybe you will run out of money and we will all have to beg Chowdury to help us and he will probably put up his rates.’
‘It is much better, because I don’t want to make a profit from you. All I want is to be able to buy my own wood. But Mr Roy is committed to selling it all to Chowdury because Chowdury puts pressure on him. If I cannot buy the whole pile of wood at a better price, then Mr Roy will not sell it to me.’
‘You really mean we could buy the wood cheaper from you and you would not want any profit?’
‘That is right. On my word. In the name of Laxmi, goddess of wealth, this is what the arrangement would be.’
‘And we would then sell the stuff we make directly to the agent? And we would keep the profit?’
‘Now you see.’ Anila hoped they did. They broke into voice.
‘It is too good to be true…
‘I will have to ask my husband…
‘I will have to think about it…
‘I will only join the cooperative if everyone else does…
‘I will wait and see how it goes for a while and then maybe…’
And so on and so on. The excuses for not joining in with Anila’s proposal piled up. But she knew if she could persuade more than half, the others would fall in. She now had the entire group of women round her – twelve in all – and she let them argue and debate the issues for a long time. This needed time. She could not push them. She let them gnaw the idea to shreds. Then as the debate was going round the same point for the third or maybe fourth time, she reached inside her sari and pulled out the small leather bag that hung by a cord round her neck.
She quietly tugged at its top and pulled the neck apart. She reached inside knowing she’d caught the attention of several of the sitting women. They in turn nudged their neighbour as Anila brought out a thick wad of Rupees. She began to count it slowly in front of them. She laid one bill on top of another and counted out loud until she’d reached 3,000 rupees. It was the total amount given to the three of them by the bank. It was more than most of them had seen in one pile in their lives. Anila was breathing hard as she finished. Only 1000 belonged to her, and neither Leena nor Divya were here to defend their share. She had no right to be flaunting the others’ money, but she knew it would give her more credibility. They all looked at her and then at the pile.
‘Here is our start. Tomorrow when Mr Roy comes back with his truck I will give him 600 rupees on behalf of this cooperative. Then you will each take the wood you need and make your chair or your basket or your mats. Then four days after, you will sell your chair and give me the cost of the wood. You will keep the profit and make your husbands very happy!’ Anila braved their looks.
One of them, a big woman called Sandip, cursed with four daughters, broke the spell. ‘It sounds like a good deal to me. I will join your cooperative Anila. Think what I can buy with the extra money? Why, I could get a whole chicken every week for the profit I would make! Instead of always eating rice!’
It was the breaking of the dam. The others began to do quick sums, scratching in the dust with fingers and twigs. The numbers made sense. In a state of excitement and anxiety, the entire group of women rose up like a startled cloud of birds-of-paradise. They clasped hands and swore to work as a cooperative. They vowed to meet at the same time tomorrow and support Anila in transacting their first deal.
As Anila watched them go, chattering in little groups, she hoped their enthusiasm would last the night. Anila turned and headed home. She had planned not to tell her mother what had happened until everything was in place and working, but a village gossip mill pours out its news at the speed of a monsoon river. By the time she got home her mother was waiting for her in tears.
‘You have gone too far, Anila! This is the end of you and your daughter and your mother! Don’t tell me, I know! You are trying to become a big trader and a money lender. I hear it all round about. And the Panchayat will meet and throw us out of the village and we will be destitute and die in the hills! Or we will have to go to the city and beg or become prostitutes. I am too old to do this and I will just kill myself rather than face s
uch a life. How can you do this?!’
Her mother was wailing and weeping now. She knelt and pulled her shawl over her grey head and smote her head on the ground. Anila quickly knelt alongside her and pulled her up into her arms.
‘Mother, mother, you have it all wrong. It is not like this at all. Mr Roy is going to sell me all his wood every day and we will work with the other women as a cooperative. In four days’ time when the agent comes, we will sell all our work and the women will give me back the money for the wood.’
Her mother wailed harder. ‘How can you buy so much wood every day!? You will use up all your money and we will starve. This is madness, daughter. Stop it before we are all lost!’
‘Listen to me. There are twelve women now who are working together. Like the cooperatives that have been set up in other places. I am only helping with the first few days of funding. Then once we are going, the other women will pay me back. You will see.’
In her heart, Anila was terrified of tomorrow. Then she would know if the women would stand by her. Overnight, people have a chance to cool down. They might not think it such a good idea in the morning. Husbands have ways of applying pressure. But she smiled and looked confident in front of her mother.
Her mother’s tears were drying. They were face to face in the dust in front of the hut. Behind them Anila could see her daughter clinging to the door post, her thumb in her mouth, and looking scared.
‘Are you sure, daughter of mine? This is so big! No-one in this village has ever done anything so big. What if it doesn’t work out?’ Her mother’s eyes searched hers.
‘It will, mother. It will. Now get up and come inside. Everyone is looking at us.’ She lifted her mother up and shook the dust from both their saris before gathering her own daughter under her arm and walking them both inside to wait for the morning.
NINETEEN
In Warwick Stanstead’s mind was a familiar image. It was a runner. Thin and wiry, breathing hard and forcing the pace. Behind was the pack. The runner occasionally looked behind him but mainly faced forward, into the distance. He waved to the viewer – a shadow figure on one side of the rugged cross country track – as he scythed past, arms pumping and legs flailing and feet thumping on the frozen ground. The runner smiled and kept going. It was a winter scene with the trees frosted and rimed, and the sun hung without warmth on the horizon. But its light was strong, and sometimes when the runner erupted from the cold dark places where the tall fir trees kept the sun out, he had to fling his arm up to see where he was going.
The runner always shouted something to the viewer as he went past. But Warwick could never catch it. Nor could he hear the words flung back by the viewer as the runner receded quickly into the shadows ahead. He knew it was a warning, but it was always tantalisingly indistinct. He was never sure if the runner or the viewer was him.
Warwick tumbled forward, feeling he’d fallen a great distance. But it was only a fraction of an inch. Enough to wake him with a start. He’d been nodding on and off for some time without becoming fully conscious. He checked his watch. He’d been ‘out’ for half an hour following the first glorious warm rush, the delicious weighting of his limbs, until he was swept into unconsciousness. Into the dream. He could never quite recall it. The shreds clung to his waking mind for a moment but not long enough to remember details.
He stumbled to his washroom. He tidied away his kit, throwing the used syringe in the metal bin. Duschene would empty it later and leave a clean needle. He needed to clear his head. He threw water on his face and took a cold drink from his fridge. He took out his silver tin and the polished steel plate. From the tin he took out the solid silver tube and blade, and tipped a small heap of white powder onto the plate. He drew three ‘rails’ with the blade. He pressed the cold tube into his nostril and hoovered the plate clean. He wet his finger and cleaned off all trace of white. He rubbed his finger on his gum and towelled his nose. Light flooded his head. Confidence and well-being poured through his body. Better. Much better.
He went back into his office, unlocked his door, and returned to his soft leather seat. He called up the discreet bank of video screens that folded seamlessly into the polished surface of his desk. He began playing his keyboard, opening up a different picture on each screen. They showed scenes inside offices. Seven of the ten were occupied. A steady murmur washed over him as the occupants talked on the phone, dictated or spoke to other people in the office. Now and again the volume on one screen rose above the others until Warwick leaned over and quietened it with a touch.
He was pleased with the system installed by Joey Kutzov and his team. A hidden camera and microphone sat in each of his subordinate’s offices continually monitoring their every word and deed. He could input key words at any time. Triggers. Whenever any of his first line reports uttered them, the volume rose to an audible level. Warwick was currently running with a list of forty words including his own name and a set of swear words that indicated high emotion.
There wasn’t an idea floated, or a problem bubbling that he didn’t know about before the executive belatedly brought it to Warwick’s table. He was always one jump ahead. As though he could tap into their thoughts. Warning him of any sign of revolt. Telling him of any whispered negative word or doubt about the bank’s direction. Flagging up any weakening of faith in his own infallibility. Enabling him to snuff out the faltering sparks before they caught light.
Kutzov had persuaded him to install the system – or a rudimentary form of it – after one of the several upheavals that had threatened to tear the bank apart. It had proved its worth many times over. Each time, he knew how to smooth the waters, who to back, who to cut, and which strings to pull. The great conciliator.
Lately, running the bank had seemed to require harder skills. People were becoming more difficult, less tractable. Like Doubleday about a year ago. Stirring up his fellow executives to form a cabal to confront him with demands – demands! – for an easing of the spending restrictions. Well, he was history now. And not just with Global American. Warwick had made sure there wasn’t a bank in the country – maybe the western world – that would take him on as anything higher than a messenger. Kutzov’s boys, with their special bent in negative PR had seen to that. Doubleday had the problem of disproving it. In this community, you didn’t need to have evidence of doing something wrong. Shit sticks.
But now there was a problem of a different order. José Cadenza, regional head of Central and Latin America – had begun asking questions about his old boss, Bill Yeardon. Cadenza was one of the old American Mart guys, and Warwick had assumed that like all Latinos, Cadenza would be even more susceptible to being bought off. He was also a born leader, and his numbers were some of the best around. It was such a pity he’d begun digging up old bones.
He’d almost missed it. It had been so long since anyone had mentioned him. But the word Yeardon was still there in the system from the early days when Warwick needed to be vigilant for disaffection after the merger. So the incoming call to Cadenza from Yeardon’s wife, or more accurately, his widow, had surprised Warwick. When Yeardon dropped dead six months back, it seemed like that was end of story. Loose ends all tied up.
Warwick remembered meeting Veronica Yeardon three years back when they were all trying to put on an amicable front for the shareholders. She was a stuck-up Southern Belle. A drawling, charming blonde who hid a tough streak behind lace and breeding. So when the volume on Cadenza’s screen went up, Warwick found himself listening to some very bad news indeed.
Veronica was bitter and distraught. She’d finally got around to clearing out his desk and found a key to a safety deposit box at her local bank. Inside was material about the merger. What the hell was it?
Cadenza was a smart guy. Warwick was sure none of his directors knew about the surveillance – otherwise there would be hell to pay - but some of them were naturally more cautious than others. He cut her off and arranged to call her later and meet up with her.
Kutzov had tail
ed them and tapped Cadenza’s cell phone. They’d met on Saturday at a discreet Village restaurant. A directional mike got the details. The safety deposit held political dynamite. Maybe enough to blow up Warwick Stanstead, Global American and a number of senior officials in the banking business.
TWENTY
Erin Wishart – not knowing her boss was watching – was also staring at her office screen, stomach knotted, silently cursing Ted Saddler. She was calling up various old emails and spreadsheets to see if she could see anything amiss. Oscar had assured her the Lone Ranger programme was undetectable and would self-destruct leaving no trace if anyone started poking about. Erin wasn’t so sure. She reached for the pill pack and washed two down with a swig of cold tea.
She just prayed that Warwick wouldn’t summon her today. She couldn’t stand even the mildest questioning. She knew nothing stood in Warwick’s way when he wanted something or someone, so Erin had Madge Peters, her PA, fix a slew of meetings with her team leads. Back-to-back, no lunch and no interruptions unless it was life or death.
At 3pm Erin was interrupted by death.
Madge called her to the outer office where there was already pandemonium. José Cadenza hadn’t made it in today. After checking all known locations, Viv Stanley, the head office assistant for the regional bosses when they were in town, had called his apartment block. The concierge was persuaded to ring the door of his apartment, then when there was no reply, to use his pass key to enter.
José’s body was found draped in black PVC and dangling from a hook in the ceiling. Around his head was a plastic bag. The TV was in a loop advertising a hard core streaming service. The last movie played was about large men having sex with small children. Forensics had found that the time of download tied in roughly with the time of death. The police’s initial diagnosis was an auto-asphyxiation that had gone wrong. Further evidence of sexual perversion was found in a library of videos and magazines in a locked cupboard. His home computer was full of similarly harrowing download material. It looked like a tragic accident to a closet paedophile.
MONEY TREE Page 10
