MONEY TREE

by Gordon, Ferris,

  Inside, the decor was branch-line British Rail, circa 1960. Walls and ceilings that were once a shade of blue were now decomposing back to the original steel. There were nameless smears on floors, seat backs and walls. Nameless, till breakfast was served, Ted remarked. A dull metal tray was placed in front of every passenger. It contained two pieces of white bread whose like he’d last encountered in giant catering packs in army canteens. A hot tin-foil covered an egg dish supported on a bed of tepid chipped potatoes. And tea bags. Two. Later to be converted to tea by the application of hot water from the giant urn wheeled through the carriage by the chai wallah.

  They set off exactly on time. Arctic blasts of air conditioning competed with Indian taped music to see which would be first to drive the passengers insane. The flat brown countryside ran by like old news-reels through windows yellowed by sun-filters and dirt. Trees flicked past. And people, bent over and pecking at the iron ground, or scything dead grass before the sun took full charge of the day.

  Agra station arrived, but it felt like they’d been conned, as though the train had looped back to New Delhi. The same bodies stretched on the platform. Same dark faces inspecting the new arrivals for signs of hand-outs. Ted watched in admiration as two Kiwi girls with packs as big as sheep on their back and small ones on the front for balance, cut their brown-limbed way through the ruck and headed out into the sunshine of the station yard. For one piercing moment of regret, Ted Saddler wished he were going with them. Wished he had the time again.

  The train jolted into life and the process repeated itself six more times, though the stations were visibly more decrepit and the crowds thinner. The journey was passed in long silences. Meera seemed to have an unending amount of laptop work to do, and Erin finally gave up trying to make conversation. Once when Meera had gone to the toilet, Erin turned to Ted.

  ‘I don’t think she likes us here.’

  ‘Would you? This is your first big job and you get stuck with a pair of middle-aged – sorry! – whities. We’re an encumbrance. I don’t blame her.’

  Erin dozed off and on, and noticed Ted left his seat a few times. When he came back the second time, she was certain. There was the whiff of alcohol.

  ‘Is there a bar on this train?’

  ‘It’s a do-it-yourself arrangement.’

  ‘You’re not getting canned are you?’

  ‘What else is there to do on this converted refrigeration unit?’

  It was true, she thought. There was nothing romantic about this trip; it was freezing in the carriage, noisy, smelly and dirty. For a moment she pined for the soft carpets, the sumptuous leather and the monastery quiet luxury of the First Class compartment of the airlines she normally travelled in. Used to travel in, she reminded herself. Her anxiety grew about the toilet arrangements up ahead.

  Ted Saddler sat fuming. He was prepared to admit that he woke every morning – had done for as long as he could recall – with his end of day drink as his first thought. So what? It was the solitary high spot of the day. The hours between waking and that first sip were only there to postpone and enhance the pleasure. Like delaying orgasm, if he recalled rightly. The really annoying thing was that he’d eased up a fraction since Erin had arrived, but obviously not enough for her highness. He was still getting grief. No good telling her it was medicinal; that during yesterday’s brush with the muggers a big muscle in his left arm had been pulled. The booze soothed, as did the memory of the satisfying impact of his fist on the attacker’s head.

  The physical pain had been a wake-up call. It wasn’t anything as simple as a near-death experience provoking a stack of fine new resolutions. It was more the realisation that there was still something there, some ability to perform, to take risks and make things happen. In his head he’d written himself off a while ago. Now he thought of Erin and the agreement, the vow, over the table the other night. To be 17 again. That would never happen, but he didn’t have to be 70 either. Not sure exactly what he was going to do about it, he let the scorched continent seep into his eyes as the train rocked through the day.

  THIRTY FOUR

  The challenge was to get the mix just right. That perfect combination of depressant and stimulant; smack and snow, the legendary, the high of highs, the speedball. He trusted Joey to get the best stuff, no adulterated shit laced with rat poison. But then you didn’t want it too pure. The ideal was heroin and cocaine cut to about 50% using some soluble but inactive substance. Not, absolutely not, Fentanyl, for example. Twenty deaths in the past month. Maybe the dealer thought he was being nice, offering something special. Fentanyl was surely special, an anaesthetic and painkiller about a hundred times more powerful than plain old smack. Must have been a wild way to go. That was part of it wasn’t it? Walking the cliff edge. Skis running too fast to even think about turning. Working the Porsche round the mountain tracks at the limit, feeling the tail go.

  His washroom was big enough to have a walk-in shower, Jacuzzi tub, toilet, sink and leather lounger. He set out his equipment on a pristine white towel by the sink. A syringe, two silver pots, a Velcro strap, a sachet of Vitamin C, a pack of alcohol wipes and a little burner with a receptacle sitting above the wick. Carefully he spooned a small measure of coke into the pan and added a mound of Vitamin C. He added a dash of water - enough to let the mix dissolve and fizz. He lit the wick below the small bowl. As the solution began to bubble, he spooned in a larger amount of brown smack, a little more water, and carefully mixed it till all the lumpiness had gone. The sharp vinegary smell filled the small room and made his eyes smart. He flicked the extractor fan to high. Ready. . .

  Bare the left arm. Check the soft skin on the inside of the elbow. Old puncture marks studding the lines of the veins. The only downside; playing tennis in long sleeves. Maybe try the ankle next time. Wind the Velcro strap round the bicep. Flex the arm and ping the skin until the vein stands prominent. Turn off the flame in the cooker and let the mix cool. Swab the elbow area with an alcohol wipe. Stay clean, stay safe. Poke the needle into the melt. Pull the plunger and see the warm brown fluid rise inside the tube. Tap and check for air bubbles. Breathe. Smile for the mirror. Now the skill. Point of needle against the vein and gently, sweetly, break the surface and slide it in. Test the aim. Pull the plunger back. A tiny red line appears. Got it first time. Smile, release the strap and push the plunger.

  Watch the level drop steadily in the glass chamber. Long before empty, feel the first rush. Mirror. Face and upper body flushing red. Eyes widening. Jaw slackening. Deep breath, sigh, shift weight and ease onto the lounger, still clutching the needle. Peer at the glass chamber. A last drop left. A final push.

  Rocketing bliss in head and body. Fingers numb. Needle falling clattering on the wood floor. Head orgasms. God’s presence.

  The slow fall from the coke high into the longer, laid-back bliss of the heroin. All pressure gone, all tensions dissolved. Rolling happiness. Body heavy and slow and hot. . .

  Warwick Stanstead began drifting to the surface. He dragged himself upright and stood swaying. He dropped his clothes and stepped into the shower. He sat beneath its tropical rainfall until some of the euphoric lethargy lifted. He dried off, donned his clothes and checked the time. Two hours gone. He cleared the kit away except for a sachet of white, his silver tray, tube and blade. He emerged in his office and sat at his desk. He drew three lines on his silver plaque and snorted them clean. He slid the equipment into a drawer. New energy coursed through him. Well-being, confidence and super clarity. He buzzed his secretary.

  ‘Show in the first one.’

  After yesterday’s debacle in Delhi and this morning’s washroom session Warwick was just in the right mood for the one-to-ones with a chosen few of his executive team. On a rotating basis, without fail, regardless where anyone was on the planet, Warwick Stanstead lined them up for ‘coaching sessions’, in the flesh or by video link. Death or incarceration were the only excuses for opt-out. That they were less about coaching and more about roasting, was simply
a question of style. His view was that men worked better if they were frightened or bribed. Fear and greed were much more reliable drivers than self-actualisation or any of that caring management bullshit.

  His take on human nature meant he was never surprised how many of the sessions seemed to be carried out by video-link. Even if the office had been swarming the day before and the day after, it was astonishing how many of his first reports had to be away from their desks the day of the one-to-one.

  First up was Marcus Nightingale, Senior Vice President for Global Retail Banking. As luck would have it, Marcus had had to fly to the West Coast two days before. It seemed he’d rather connect by video at 3 am San Francisco time than face to face. Warwick studied the man for a minute or two before switching on his side of the link. Marcus was in his usual state when facing his boss. Fat and flustered. Flapping around making sure his tie was straight and all his papers were set exactly where they needed to be to answer any of Warwick’s penetrating questions. He was having a last minute confab with two of his minions who’d no doubt spent the last two days briefing and rehearsing Marcus for his inquisition.

  ‘Ready, Marcus?’ Warwick’s voice cut into the room in San Francisco without warning. Marcus’s face went stiff and he shooed his colleagues out of the room. He clutched at his papers for support.

  ‘Good morning Warwick. I can’t see you yet.’ His deep voice rumbled back at Warwick with hardly a quiver. ‘Ah that’s better.’ Warwick chose to switch on his camera so that he could be seen as well as heard. He gave him no time for pleasantries.

  ‘How are those ATM costs, Marcus?’

  ‘All the upgrades are done and we’ve pushed the costs out beyond Q3.’

  ‘The analysts will be pleased. When will they show up, and how much?’

  Marcus Nightingale’s eyes flicked to the tablet in front of him.

  ‘Q4 this year and Q1 next. We’ve also gone back to the suppliers and told them we’re taking out a writ against them for failing to supply us with fully Internet compatible kit in the first place. Told them we’re not paying any bills till we get a settlement. They’re pretty upset but we’ve got them over a barrel. Either they play ball or we go elsewhere for the next tranche.’ Marcus looked smug.

  ‘A bit dirty Marcus? A bit underhand? You’re learning.’ He watched the smugness grow, then, ‘So that’s all the costs out on the table. No more to come?’

  Marcus was confident, over-confident. ‘That’s it. Should be no more hiccups this year.’

  ‘So Project Hannibal is complete too. On time and budget?’

  A tick began under Marcus’s left eye. He began flicking at his keyboard.

  ‘Last lap, Warwick.’

  ‘So all customer accounts transferred to the single customer file by … when exactly?’

  ‘Year end. No later.’

  ‘Sure? No cost over-runs? I mean this $350 million project isn’t going to cost me - let’s think of a number - $500?’

  Marcus’s face crumpled and he began opening new tabs and scrolling.

  ‘There might be some tidying up. Some loose ends. I’m looking for the figures. . .’

  Warwick’s voice shifted from cream to razor-wire.

  ‘Save your time. You won’t find them there. But I know it’s going to cost me 500. I know it’s going to be delayed till March next year. The question is why the fuck don’t you?!’

  Marcus was lost. His wits were scattered with his screen full of opened tabs. Warwick hit the zoom button to see the sweat breaking out on his florid face. He was probably wetting himself under the table.

  Warwick let rip. ‘You fucking disgust me! You know that? You’re supposed to be on top of your fucking department, and you’re nowhere near! You get your ass over to your project team and find out what the fuck is happening. And then you tell me. Right?! And that means face to face, you fucking cream puff!’

  Warwick cut off the stammering reply. He got up from his desk and walked out onto the balcony. His blood was zinging with the confrontation. He was fever-high on righteous anger. He broke out a cigarette and inhaled deeply as he looked out across Manhattan, king of this castle. This was what he was good at. This was how to keep GA on top. He threw the butt over the side and watched it spiralling away into the cavern below. He wondered whom it would hit. He walked back to his desk and flicked the intercom.

  ‘Who’s next, Pat? On screen or in the flesh? Anyone with the balls to actually show up?’

  ‘Europe, Middle East and Africa in person. Mr Abraham Kubala. Here in the flesh.’

  ‘Send him in!’

  The tall African-American walked in. He was a similar height and build to Warwick and carried his head high. He showed dignity and control. Warwick didn’t like that. Not from someone that would never be allowed into his country club. Abraham stalked in and laid his folder carefully down on the table in front of him. He made no move to open it. He sat back, hands clasped casually in his lap, waiting for Warwick to begin. Warwick decided he was being patronised. He’d break his cool soon enough.

  ‘At our last exec meeting you said you’d fix things in Q3. Did you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Europe is on plan, providing our Corporate Finance boys bring in the big Russian telecoms deal. But you know the Russians. At worst it could slip into Q4. That would dent our top line by $50 million in Q3 but I have some cost items to play with to minimise the hit. We’ll know Friday.’ Abraham’s voice was mellow and slow paced, as though he was always in control of events. It infuriated Warwick.

  They went through the region country by country, business line by business line with Abraham Kubala showing complete mastery of his turf. Several times Warwick thought he’d found a weak spot, but each time Abraham was equal to it. He knew to the last penny what was going on and had put in place workable plans to keep the business on track in a region which ran from London to Moscow, across the Middle East and on down to Cape Town. Warwick was grudgingly impressed that at least one of his men was on top of his job. But Warwick had kept one throw for last.

  ‘You personally meet clients?’

  ‘It’s essential.’

  ‘No problems? They’re welcoming?’

  Abraham looked at Warwick with one eyebrow raised.

  ‘It’s fine. We meet and establish working relations.’

  ‘Take your wife with you much, Abe?’

  Abraham tensed. He didn’t like the Abe much. ‘Not often. But, yes, sometimes she comes with me. I travel so much it makes sense for her to join me on some of the trips.’

  ‘And that causes no problems either? You and her.’ Warwick was slouched back in his seat, hands above his head, clasping the back of the chair.

  ‘Why should it?’ Now Abraham was seriously on edge. He smelled where this was going and yet couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it.

  ‘It must turn a few heads. Especially in Dubai or the old white colonies down in Africa. A big black guy like you and a pretty white lady like your wife. She’s blond too, right?’

  ‘So what? And why is this of concern to you, Mr Stanstead?’

  Warwick couldn’t seem to get his tongue working. At last he managed to swallow. His words were slurred.

  ‘No need to get upset, Abe. It’s perfectly understandable that my boys acquire the best things in life. Shows they’ve made it. I mean old Marcus is into Porsches. Charlie likes property. Erin’s into pictures. I can’t blame your taste. Man to man, it’s what I would have done in your shoes. I guess it’s the dream of all you boys.’

  Abraham Kubala’s face turned purple under his smooth black skin. He shot to his feet.

  ‘I think this session is over don’t you, Stanstead?’

  Warwick was still laughing as he flicked on the intercom.

  ‘Pat, you’ve probably been passed by a seriously pissed Kubala. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid - like resign. If need be, get Joey to have a word with him. Give me five, then send in the next clown.’

  Stanstead pulled open his drawer
and reached for his silver box.

  THIRTY FIVE

  Oscar was in full gallop after a snatched sleep. Between answering queries from Delhi and plundering the emails, data files and voice recordings of Global American, he and Albert were working eighteen hour days. They were in their element. Oscar loved the accolades and recognition he got from his new friends in the People’s Bank. As keyboard wizards themselves they were well aware of the top dogs in the hacking echelons. The Lone Ranger handle got him immediate admiration, making him throw his best efforts into everything he did for them. Oscar intended to dazzle.

  He was also impressed at the quality of the work coming back to him. The counter-measure programs wrapped round his own code were elegant and tightly woven, with little redundancy, even when written under massive pressure. The resulting routines were like something produced by Benny Goodman and his Orchestra; a complex and harmonious blend of free-wheeling improvisations on a majestic structure.

  After the near miss of the attack on Erin and Ted, Oscar and Albert were working in parallel on virus combat and GA eavesdropping. Albert was taking the heavy end of the GA analysis. It was exhausting and boring. It required him to page through email after email, and open up all the copies they’d made of the folders using the Lone Ranger spy programs. The sheer quantity meant that he could do little more than sift the material into two piles: ‘killers’ and ‘krap’. The first pile was pumped down to the web site Oscar had set up. This was to be accessed by Ted and Erin to do the second level of sifting. The criterion was simple: whether it would help to hang Warwick Stanstead. It was a thin file, but growing.

  In the background, just audible, Albert played the recordings from Stanstead’s office. Oscar and Albert relied on their ears switching on to something unusual in the conversations. Any phone call or face-to-face with Joey Kutzov was listened to avidly and usually compressed as an MP3 file and uploaded to the web site for retention. Much of the stuff was dross; mundane operational discussions, or more usually, instructions going out from Stanstead to his hapless lieutenants. It was frustrating at times, amusing at others. Amusing if you weren’t on the receiving end of the sarcasm and venom. Stanstead was out of his office frequently, and key meetings took place or decisions were made which were then referred to back in his office. This took some disentangling and interpretation.