by Ian Miller
"Deal!"
Chapter 6
Harvey Munro watched with pleasure as his niece left his office. She was undoubtedly a very beautiful young woman, well mannered, and polite. She had promise, and his idea of making her the head of the GenCorp social unit in England had been a stroke of genius. Not only did she have the ideal public image, one whose pure charm could melt the harshest critic, but she was also a good administrator. In the first five weeks in a new country she had found five senior staff milking GenCorp. Harvey Munro had two strong feelings about morality in business: he couldn't care less about what happened to other people's money, but he would crucify anyone who took that view with his money. Those employees were fired on the spot by Jennifer.
That was her weakness, something to be worked on. That may have been the end of it for Jennifer, but it was only the beginning for Harvey. He had them quietly brought to New York, and after a brief interrogation, they had been eliminated.
Harvey leaned back in his chair and looked around his expensive office. Everything in this office was antique, pre-twenty-first century. The chair was covered in genuine leather, the table and walls were genuine wood, the carpets genuine wool. The pens were even made of metal. Nothing was made by GenCorp, and there were no computers, Comscreens, or anything to connect with the outside world. If he needed to use such equipment, the most sophisticated in the world was waiting for him in an adjacent office. This was his own little world where he could sit and think. Staff did not see Harvey; when he wanted to see any particular staff member, he would signal. Outside was a barrier of offices, where the very senior and trusted administrators of GenCorp kept the giant corporation going. Only the top five executives were permitted to initiate access to Harvey, and then only if the matter was extremely serious. Other people attended when Harvey required their presence.
Harvey had one annoyance that morning, in the form of his nephew, Troy Munro. One of Troy's first tasks had been to interrogate and dispose of those slimeys who had tried to milk him. The report was not entirely encouraging. Troy had asked the questions, but he had received no proper answers. He had beaten them, then he had frightened them. That was the wrong way around. Then he had disposed of them; they had been taken to a rendering plant, and dropped into a mill. Now just possibly this could be considered innovative, but it had all been done too quickly. The remaining victims had not been given time to savour the situation; they had not been given time to talk. So at the end of this messy incident no more was known than at the start. According to the report, Troy had enjoyed his work. That in itself was no bad thing, until enjoyment got in the road of efficiency.
Troy had insisted they were working alone, and it was just a case of simple greed. Perhaps, or perhaps it was just Troy who was simple. One person might dare to cheat the Munros, but that many? No! It stank of conspiracy, and that fool was too dumb to see it. Or too lazy! Lazy or stupid, it hardly mattered. And now, for fun, he was training to be a space pilot. Good God! What next! Still, perhaps this could be an advantage. Thanks to the Munro influence, he was going to Tashkent. He leaned to his right and pressed a buzzer.
"Show Mr Munro in," he spoke quietly into the hidden intercom, "then bring me coffee. One cup only."
The door opened, and one of the attractive office workers entered. She signalled for someone to enter, and as Troy came towards the door, she gave a jolt. He said something to her, and she backed away slightly.
"Sit down!" Harvey commanded, as he pointed to a chair. The girl slipped back, adjusting her skirt. She quickly reappeared, and walked towards Harvey's desk, carrying a cup of coffee. As she passed Troy, she appeared to slip, and as she lunged forward, coffee spilt into the saucer. Somehow, she balanced the cup, and brought it down onto the table.
"That was clumsy," Harvey snarled.
"Yes, Mr Munro," the girl replied, in a very subdued tone.
"I cannot tolerate that."
"No, Mr Munro." Tears were beginning to well in her eyes.
"Punishment!" Harvey reached into the draw and brought out a riding whip. The girl instantly turned around, lifted up her dress, and bared her buttocks. There was a sharp swish, then another, and two bloody welts appeared. The girl gasped, and stifled a cry.
"Get out!"
"Yes, Mr Munro."
"You see that," Harvey mentioned to Troy, waving with the whip at the disappearing girl as he sat back in his chair. "That's power. That girl won't complain, and you know why?" And without waiting for an answer, he went on, "It's because if she does anything I don't like, her family lose everything they have. They'd be in the slums, and she'd end up in a whorehouse, with a life expectancy of about six months. So she does what I tell her, and she takes what's coming to her. Right or wrong, there's no protest."
"She's just common trash," muttered Troy.
"You propositioned her, didn't you?"
"Me?"
"Who else's here?"
"Might've. She's nothin'."
"Then you tripped her?"
"Teach her a lesson," Troy laughed.
Harvey got up and began pacing around the room, whip in hand. "You approve of lessons?"
"She's no right to pass on a Munro," Troy protested.
"Well, at least she can keep her punishment hidden," Harvey noted, then swung the whip ferociously down across Troy's face, "which is more than you will, you little shit."
"Hey, what the . . ." gasped Troy, wiping the blood off his cheek.
"You don't like that? You look as if you'd like to do something back to me?"
"Unk, you shouldn't have done that." Troy muttered as he started to move forward.
The whip flashed down again. "You're right. I shouldn't have stopped. You'll call me Mr Munro, and if there's anything you don't like about this, say it now."
There was a sullen silence from Troy.
"That's better," Harvey went on. "Now let's get one thing straight. Your name might be Munro, and you might think that's a ticket to get you everything you want, but there's a number of things you gotta do first. You earn the right, then you get to exercise it. Understand?"
"Yes," came a very sullen response.
The whip lashed down again, this time on Troy's legs, which made him jump with fright. "Yes, Mr Munro!"
"Yes, Mr Munro," a very sullen Troy said.
"Good. Because so far you've done a lot of taking, and not much earning. Now, I've got some jobs for you; you botch them, and you can kiss that lifestyle away. Understand?"
"Yes, Mr Munro."
"Right. Now somehow you've got yourself going to Tashkent. I dunno why, but as it turns out, this isn't too bad. You've got two tasks, for the time being. The first is, try to get through without disgracing yourself. Remember, there isn't much we can do for you in there. That may surprise you, but we can only exert a minimum amount of influence on the military, and quite frankly, I'm not going to trade favours on your behalf.
"Now, the second task. As you may know, if you focus any attention on the news, Defence is making a play to bring South America into the Federation. As a matter of general principle, we don't object, but we do object to the terms. MinCorp is even stronger on this; we want access to the South American markets and resources. We've got to be able to buy up everything of value before we allow any substantial integration. Do you understand that?"
Troy nodded sullenly.
"Good. Now, what Defence is doing is inviting a young Brazilian officer to Tashkent; a woman from one of the big families around Sao Paulo. Very attractive young woman too, I understand."
Troy's eyes suddenly lit up.
"Your task is to ensure she fails the course, and you will do that without undue involvement on your part. You will stay as far away from her as is possible, and you will most certainly keep your grubby little hands to yourself. Lay one hand on her, and I'll castrate you myself, with a rusty knife. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Mr Munro."
"A
nd if anyone else tries to rape her, I will hold you responsible."
"But I can't . . ."
"You're a Munro!" Harvey brought the whip down again, this time across his face, but more in frustration than in anger. "The military are disciplined. The rest are corporate climbers. If you can't devise a way to keep them in line, I'll make you wish you went down that rendering mill. Understand that?"
"Yes Mr Munro." Troy wiped the blood from his face. His hands were shaking, and this time he was cowering in his chair.
"Good. You'll have to get a number of things done. Here are the names of some people you can either threaten or bribe. You may spend what it takes, as long as it is fully accounted for. If any of that money goes anywhere near you, you'll end up just like those slimeys you disposed of. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Yes, Mr Munro!" Harvey raised his right arm.
"Yes, Mr Munro."
"Improving," Harvey nodded. "Keep this lesson in mind when you leave this room because I will not give you a second chance."
"Yes, Mr Munro."
"At Tashkent you will spend no more than the usual officer allowance on yourself. You are not to bribe anyone for yourself. You will be a model officer. That way, you just might get away with this job, if you can get around your natural clumsiness. Now, get out!"
As Troy left, Harvey knew that one day Troy would be back for revenge. So be it. The day the first sign of such a revolt appeared would be the last day of Troy's life.
* * *
Jennifer heard it again; a strange choked sob. She turned and saw the assistant standing awkwardly at her desk. Her shoulders gave a little convulsion.
"What's wrong," Jennifer asked, almost irritably, as she walked towards the assistant.
The girl jumped backwards, and Jennifer saw fear in her eyes. "Nothing! I'm fine."
"No, you aren't. Look, all I want to do's help."
"I've had enough help from you lot today," she sobbed, then realizing her mistake, quickly added, "Please Miss Munro. I didn't mean that. Really I didn't."
"You saw Troy?"
"Yes, Miss Munro."
"What did he do to you?"
Silence.
Jennifer turned to the intercom and buzzed.
"What do you lot want," growled the voice of Harvey Munro. "This had better be good."
"It's me, Jennifer," she replied, somewhat startled at the tone. "Please. I've got a favour to ask."
"I thought you'd gone."
"I wanted to check something in the files," Jennifer replied. "That's all right, isn't it? I mean, I didn't ask, and I don't want anyone here to get into trouble on my account."
"If you need to look, look. Now, what's the favour?"
"I've got a lot of work to do before going back to London," Jennifer said smoothly, "and I've got a lot of running about to do. I was wondering if I can have an assistant for a couple of days."
"Sure thing, Jenny. Sign out who you want, and they're yours 'til Monday."
"Uncle, I think they're a bit scared you won't approve once I've gone."
"Scared of me? Come off it! But OK, if it makes you feel any better, put the girl on the London staff, stationed here. Then she's always at your disposal. Come to think of it, you're always disrupting this office with requests, so it might be better if you had your own staff member. But remember, the wages come off the London account. She takes orders only from you, as long as she doesn't get in anyone else's way."
"Thanks, Uncle Harvey. You're really sweet."
"Nothin's too good for you, Jenny."
The line went dead. Jennifer turned towards the girl, who was, if anything, more apprehensive.
"Come on. Don't be frightened. I'm not going to eat you. We'll sign you on, then you've got your first assignment. You're going to show me somewhere good to eat. While you're signing over, get me your personal file, and we'll arrange your new salary."
This was somewhat naive, as the girl had no access to her personal file, but soon the paperwork was done, and Jennifer was quite surprised to see she had acquired an assistant with very good educational records. Over lunch, Jennifer finally drew out part of the account of what had happened. At first she felt that she might have made a mistake. She did not need a pathological liar as an assistant. But when they got up from lunch, Jennifer noticed the girl was in genuine pain.
"I didn't believe you at first," she said, "but I do now. Go and see a medic, then take the rest of the afternoon off. Come to my hotel room at twelve o'clock tomorrow, and we'll have lunch again. Then I'll give you details of what I want you to do for me. And don't worry. Nobody's going to treat you like that again."
"There's my family . . ."
"Give me their names and addresses, and I'll see they get moved. They won't be any worse off, and you, my dear, will be a lot better off."
"I'm still scared. I'm still going to be here, and with all due respects, Miss –"
"Call me Jennifer."
"Miss, I'm here and you're not, and if your uncle decides he doesn't like me, there's nothing you can do about it."
"I'm not so sure," Jennifer replied. "Whatever happens, buy time. See this Comcard? It's a personal connection to me. Use it any time, any place. If anything goes wrong, we'll get you over to England."
"They'd stop me at the airport. I'd never get out of the country."
"I'll let you into a little secret," Jennifer smiled. "I've got a boyfriend in England, and he's an officer in Defence. If he come's for you, nobody'll stop him."
"Would you do that for me?"
"Of course," Jennifer smiled. Whether she could was another matter, but now was not the time to raise that.
Chapter 7
The winds from the South Atlantic wafted gently across the empty beach. At each end of the bay lonely outcrops of rock jutted into the sea, marking the boundaries to this piece of paradise. To the west, the sun was setting behind the great Brazilian plateau, and the shadows now hid the remains of the rain forest, one of the isolated relics of what had once been one of nature's most diverse stores of life. A short drive to the south was the great port of Santos, and about three kilometers inland was the coastal highway. Between the beach and the highway was reconstructed forest, a private park, land kept private by the armed patrols. Beside the beach, at the southern end, was a great mansion, built in the style of an eighteenth century Portuguese palace, but this appearance was deceptive, and any close examination would show that many of the materials of construction were only available in the preceding forty years. The palace was fully automated, with the best of South American computer technology, and the outside grounds were perhaps the most difficult for an intruder to cross on the entire planet. This was the private seaside retreat for the Robeiros, one of the great Paulista families who controlled much of the wealth of Brazil.
The family was seated around the marble paved patio. A fifty-five year old patrician, with silvery temples and a browned taut face, was seated beside a plastic table and under a large brilliantly coloured sun umbrella. He was sipping a cocktail and doodling with a light pen on the computer screen opposite. His wife, once a beautiful woman, and still one to be noticed, was beside him. With age she had maintained her weight, but had gained presence, stature. She was lying back in a reclining chair, listening to the haunting melodies of the late twenty-second century Brazilian neoclassical revivalists. On the northeast side of the patio was a giant television screen. Two young men were staring avidly at it; the Flamengos were playing Santos, and to the dismay of the young men the Rio team was a goal ahead. Beside the outside bar stood a beautiful young woman. The skimpiest of bikinis if anything accentuated her figure far more than standing naked would have; her back glistened with drops of water, and her long black hair streaked down her back, with little rivulets of water dribbling from it. She received a drink from the immaculately dressed waiter and seated herself beside a small computer. She flicked a switch, accessed a programme, and as soon as the screen across the remaining wall
came to life she began keying numbers. She was soon connected to the Sao Paolo computer centre, and between sipping on her drink and wiping salt water from her arms with a brightly coloured towel she began carrying out a variety of matrix manipulations on the masses of data pouring across the screen.
Two other middle-aged men, both carrying briefcases, were ushered onto the patio. One gave a glance towards the young woman and a slight leer began to form on his face. His partner quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him around so that he approached the patrician with his back to the young woman, who was still furiously keying in commands, yet, strangely enough, was giving only the occasional glance at the screen to check the results of what she was doing. The patrician nodded to the men, indicated they should be seated, and indicated they would discuss matters when the football game was over.
The men sat and fidgeted. The woman suddenly produced a series of rather simple graphs on the screen, and again, with only the faintest of glances towards it, she began to send copies of the graphs through the optic lines to a series of offices around Brazil. A goal was scored, then, soon after, another. The men fidgeted. The young woman closed down the computer link, shuffled a series of papers, then handed them to the patrician. The patrician looked at them and smiled.
"Relax," he said, looking over towards the visitors. "Enjoy the game."
The men continued to fidget, until eventually the game was over. The screen was turned off, and the two young men pulled their chairs over towards the table. The young woman also approached the table, then noticing the glance at her breasts, she deliberately moved back slightly so that if the man wanted to continue looking, he would have to do so obviously.
"Mr Robeiro," the more self-controlled man started, "do you think we really should go along with Kotchetkova's offer?"
The patrician continued to play with his light pencil. "You know," he said sadly, "the reason I pay for advisors is that I want advice. The last thing I want is for you to ask me what I think, and then give it back to me. That sort of defeats the whole purpose of what I'm trying to achieve."
