Predator: A Crossbow Novel

by Wilbur Smith

  “So,” the man was saying, “market-makers are waking up to two major stories that could have significant impact on early trading on the Dow this morning. We’ll be returning to one of them momentarily, the loss of Bannock Oil’s Alaskan oil-drilling barge Noatak.”

  Cross gasped out loud. Now he knew why the message had been so insistent. He went online, looking for more information, while the presenter continued, “But before that, you can bet Slindon Insurance CEO Thornton Carpenter didn’t enjoy opening his inbox this morning, because it contained one of Seventh Wave Investment’s founder Aram Bendick’s legendary flamings.”

  Cross was only vaguely aware of a photograph of a balding, pugnacious white male in a suit filling the screen as the presenter continued, “Bendick has made billions thanks to his hyper-aggressive, extremely personal attacks on corporate bosses, made in the form of personal emails that he simultaneously releases online. His strategy is to force company boards to ditch their existing strategies and run their businesses the way he sees fit, and which usually involves aggressive cost-cutting measures that boost short-term profits and stock prices but, say critics, including many of Bendick’s victims, leave previously healthy businesses hollowed-out and easy prey for competitors.”

  Now an image of a letter with a few lines superimposed in much larger type appeared. Cross had gone on to the BBC News site and was working his way through the several stories that had already been posted about the sinking. He was only catching the odd word as the voice from the screen informed more attentive viewers that, “Bendick’s letter accuses Carpenter of, quote: ‘running Slindon for the benefit of himself and his fellow senior executives, rather than shareholders . . . wasting millions on golf tournament sponsorships that gave board members the opportunity to hobnob with top golfers and golf groupies, but did nothing to promote the Slindon Insurance brand’ and ‘indulging in orgies of over-eating, over-drinking and obscene overspending, only barely disguised as strategic-planning retreats for senior decision-makers.’

  “Mr. Carpenter has yet to respond to these allegations, but Aram Bendick joins us now from his New York City apartment—good morning, Mr. Bendick.”

  “Good morning, Tom.”

  So now Cross had half the presenter’s name, at least.

  “Slindon Insurance profits were up three percent last year, the company paid record dividends to stockholders, and that was all on Thornton Carpenter’s watch. So why the attack on him now, and why make accusations that some might say have nothing to do with his performance as CEO?”

  Bendick’s reply was as confrontational as his appearance. In an abrasive “Noo Yoik” accent he sneered, “Because they’ve got everything to do with his performance, which is lazy, ineffective and lacking in any clear vision for the future of the business he’s supposed to lead.”

  “And this is because Slindon—like a lot of major corporations—sponsor a PGA tournament? Really?”

  “Yeah, really. Look, you said the company’s profits were up three percent. Their three closest competitors averaged over five. Why? Because their CEOs and their boards and their executives were thinking about growing their markets and cutting their costs, not about buying Bermuda shorts and suntan oil for a five-day, all-expenses-paid luxury holiday in Hawaii, dressed up as a chance to think outside the goddamn envelope—excuse my language but this kind of corruption, because that’s what it is, really offends me.”

  “So you stand by all your comments in the letter?”

  “I wouldn’t have written them if I didn’t.”

  “And what do you want to see happen next?”

  “I want, and expect, my fellow stockholders in Slindon to demand—and get—major changes in corporate policy. And if that means changes in personnel, so be it.”

  “And do you have any other corporations in your sights right now?”

  “Always, Tom . . . always.”

  “So, Aram Bendick laying it on the line there, the way he usually does. We’ll be following this story as it develops and as soon as we get a response from anyone at Slindon, you’ll have it. Now to Alaska, where a Bannock Oil drilling barge sank at around eleven last night, local time.”

  Now Tom had Cross’s complete attention as he continued, “This marks the latest in a string of setbacks for Bannock and a number of other oil companies trying to open fields in the Beaufort and Chukchi seas, north of Alaska. They’ve been dogged by the difficulty of working in one of the most hostile environments on the planet, and by constant criticism and hostile lobbying from Green campaigners opposed to any further exploitation of Alaskan oilfields. I’m joined by Maggie Kim, noted Wall Street petrochemicals analyst and founder of the Daily Gas blog and newsletter. Maggie, what effect do you see this disaster having on Bannock Oil, going forward?”

  Maggie Kim was a Eurasian woman who could, Cross thought, be damn good-looking if she ever took that stern “take me seriously” expression off her face and risked an occasional smile. But once she started talking he forgot all about her looks. This woman clearly knew what she was talking about, and it wasn’t good news for Bannock Oil.

  “As you say, Tom,” Kim began, “the Noatak is not the first drilling barge to be lost in Alaskan waters. On New Year’s Eve 2012, the Shell barge Kulluk ran aground and had to be scrapped. A little over a year later, Shell halted its entire drilling program in the Alaskan Arctic, which had cost around five billion dollars to that point and announced an immediate six-hundred-and-eighty-seven-million-dollar write-off. Now, a loss like that is a serious blow, even to Shell which regularly ranks among the world’s three largest corporations. But a business like Bannock, which is much smaller, is correspondingly less able to withstand such a shock.”

  “So was Bannock biting off more than it could chew, going into the Alaskan Arctic in the first place?”

  Kim nodded thoughtfully. “That’s certainly a valid question. For the past several years, first under the leadership of Hazel Bannock, widow of the company’s founder Henry Bannock, and her successor as President and CEO John Bigelow, Bannock has had an aggressive, high-risk, expansionist policy. And I have to admit that it’s worked up to now. Hazel Bannock bet the farm on what industry experts believed was a played-out oilfield in the Arab Emirate of Abu Zara and hit an untapped subterranean chamber filled with five billion gallons of sweet and light crude. Now Bigelow and the Bannock board are playing double or quits, because they’re also opening a field off the West African state of Angola. The company won’t release precise figures for its combined investment in Alaska and Africa, but it has to be close to ten billion dollars.”

  “Well, Bigelow lost his chips on one half of their bet when that barge sank last night. Can he and Bannock afford it if both bets go down the pan?”

  “You know, I hesitate to give you a definitive yes or no on that right now, without knowing the exact numbers. But I can tell you for sure that John Bigelow’s got to be praying that nothing goes wrong in Angola. And when I think about all the security issues that have plagued the oil industry in West Africa—bombs, corruption, even hijacked ships—I’ve got to wonder if Bannock can possibly survive another disaster like the one last night.”

  “Thank you, Maggie, and to answer the points that you raised, I’m joined now by John Bigelow himself. Good morning, Senator. I guess I should first ask you, have all the crew from the Noatak been recovered safely?”

  “Good morning, Tom,” said Bigelow, who looked as exhausted, anxious and tense as any other 62-year-old man would do who’d been dragged from his bed in the early hours to be told that one of his ships had just sunk. “I’m delighted to be able to report that thanks to the hard work and courage of the fine men and women of the U.S. Coast Guard, all fifteen members of the crew were taken off the Noatak before she sank and are safe and well. And can I also say how glad I am that you led with that question, because our concern right now, as a company, is for our people, not our bottom line. At times like these, human lives matter much more than dollars and cent
s.”

  “That’s very true, Senator, but like it or not, dollars and cents will very quickly become the issue. Maggie Kim has just been giving us her view that you have been playing double or quits, trying to develop two fields simultaneously . . .”

  “Yes, I heard that.”

  “Is she right?”

  Bigelow faked a smile and gave a hollow, joyless chuckle that made Cross wince: if a man’s laughter was that unconvincing what did that say about his words? “Well, you know, Tom, I’ve enjoyed listening to Maggie over the years. She’s always got something to say, that’s for sure. But she’s in business, just like we are, and hers consists of saying things that will grab people’s attention. Mine is running a profitable, stable, successful petrochemicals business, and that’s what I plan to keep doing.”

  “With due respect, Senator, you didn’t answer my question: has Bannock’s ambitious development program left it over-extended?”

  “My answer to that is very simple: no. With respect to our Alaskan operations, the Noatak was fully insured, we will be able to commission a replacement and the oil will still be waiting when operations begin again. As for Angola, as I’m sure you know, Tom, I served for many years on the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, so I know a little about global affairs and have a great many contacts upon whom I can call for advice. And from everything I have been told, I can assure you, Maggie Kim and your viewers that the situation in Angola is nothing like that prevailing in Nigeria, where the government faces a serious threat from Islamist militants. Those people do not exist in Angola. The government is secure, the country is peaceful and there is no cause for alarm.”

  “Well, that’s bloody well asking for trouble,” Hector Cross muttered to himself.

  “So you’re confident that your bets on Alaska and Angola will pay off?”

  “They’re not bets, Tom, that’s what I’m saying,” Bigelow replied. “They’re sensible, pragmatic investments made on the basis of known oil and gas reserves. And, yes, those investments will provide Bannock Oil and its shareholders with a significant return on their capital for many years to come.”

  The interview ended and Cross switched off the TV. He wondered whether it was even worth writing the funding request. John Bigelow had done his best to put up a strong defense. But Cross knew him well enough to be able to recognize when the Senator was saying what he actually believed, or just toeing the party line.

  Meanwhile, in Caracas, Johnny Congo was feeling like he was watching a lottery draw and all the numbers on his ticket were coming up one by one: the news that Cross would be working on Bannock’s Angolan project; then the hedge-funder that liked sticking it to corporate bosses; then the Bannock oil rig going down. Somewhere in all that there was a way of nailing Cross once and for all. He couldn’t quite figure it out yet, but it was there all right, no doubt about that. What he needed now was something to distract and relax him, so that his subconscious could work on the problem and figure out an answer, and that something was lying right beside him.

  He stretched out his right arm and gave the sleeping girl beside him two rough shakes. She woke up, raised herself on one elbow and looked at him through groggy unfocused eyes as he pulled the sheet down to his knees.

  “Put your mouth over here, girl. Time you got back to work.”

  Well, gentlemen, the hot news that I wish to share with you is that Mateus da Cunha is holding a reception at his French grandparents’ apartment in Paris to launch a foundation he is setting up, officially to raise awareness of Cabinda and promote the cause of independence in that country. Unofficially, I believe it’s a front for his plan to gain control of Cabinda by force.” Nastiya O’Quinn was addressing the meeting of Cross Bow Security high command which she had asked Hector Cross to convene. She was sitting on Hector’s desk and the rest of the team were spread out around the room in front of her, draped in various attitudes of relaxation over the furniture. Nastiya was wearing a tight-fitting skirt which had rucked up above her knees to reveal her calves. No matter how often they had been presented with this view it still demanded their full attention. But now, as one, they raised their eyes to her face.

  “So fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen, we are about to take off,” Hector cut in. “As you will recall from our previous discussions, the oil reserves in the province of Cabinda could be worth two or three hundreds of billions of dollars.” There was a general murmur of interest and excitement and her audience sat forward on their seats.

  Nastiya nodded. “Some estimates put the amount even higher, especially if oil ever gets back to a hundred dollars a barrel. I have been invited to the da Cunha reception not as Nastiya O’Quinn, but as Maria Denisova, an investment consultant, whose clients are Russian oligarchs and other ultra-high-net-worth individuals from the former Soviet Union. Although the Duchêne family is known for its tradition of liberal, even radical opinions, it’s one of the oldest and richest families in France. So this will be a very smart occasion, attracting the cream of Parisian society, as well as many guests from across Europe and even the United States. On the other hand, it will also be a money-raising event. Now I will hand you over to Dave Imbiss to give you further details. If you please, David.” She flashed her famous smile at him across the room.

  “I’ve put together the legend for Miss Denisova,” Dave Imbiss told them. “I’ve set up her company website, along with a trail of newspaper articles, social media pages, and photographs of Nastiya with men whom da Cunha will certainly recognize. We’re also working on setting up a Moscow office, with an email address and a phone that will be manned by old contacts of Nastiya’s.”

  “I plan to go to Moscow in the next few days to put everything in place. I will also be hiring a personal assistant, who will act as the receptionist if anyone calls the office or visits it.”

  “I’m concerned about security,” Hector cut in. “Can you trust these contacts of yours and some dolly-bird receptionist to sound convincing if da Cunha gets in touch, and to keep their mouths shut at all other times?”

  “I met these friends of mine when we were all being trained in the arts of espionage, so yes, if you can trust me, you can trust them too. As for the receptionist, I do not know the term ‘dolly bird,’ but I have someone in mind and, yes, I am confident that she can be relied on, too,” Nastiya told him forcibly.

  “Fair enough. Now, can you get an invitation to this party?”

  “I already have one. I called up da Cunha’s office, as Maria Denisova. I explained who I was, what I did, and how much money my clients had to spend on interesting investments that offered above-average returns. They put me straight on the list.”

  “Will you need Dave to be with you in Moscow, or Paris?”

  “I can make sure you’re tracked all the way, so if anything goes wrong I can get you out of it,” Imbiss assured her.

  “No, that’s all right, Dave. Moscow is no problem and you’ve got equally important work to do here, helping Hector to get the Caracas job set up. As for Paris, I can look after myself there, too. Just get me the smallest video camera you can find, show me how to set it up and I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not making a sex tape are you?” said O’Quinn, trying and failing to make it sound like a joke.

  “Don’t worry, my darling,” said Nastiya, talking for once as a loving wife rather than a tough professional. “You know how it is: I may have to blackmail da Cunha. The best way of doing that is to have damaging material that he would never want publicized. Would it embarrass him to be seen having sex with a white woman? No. But if that woman had slipped Rohypnol into his drink, knocked him out and then created footage that appeared to show him tied up while she whipped him, then I think he would tell her almost anything to stop the world seeing him humiliated that way.”

  “Ah, that old whipping routine,” said O’Quinn, nodding in understanding. “It always works. The men’ll say anything. For example, I said, ‘Will you marry me?’ when you did it to me.�
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  When she got to Moscow, Nastiya went straight from the airport to the Sadoyava Plaza office building, a prestigious location just a couple of hundred meters from Tverskaya Street, where many of the world’s smartest designer names had their flagship Russian stores. She rented a serviced suite on the fourth floor, where all the building’s short-let office space was located, and made arrangements to have it accessorized with equipment, decorative displays and furniture that would be appropriate for a business serving high-net-worth clients.

  With that element of her cover secured, she made her way to her mother’s apartment, where Yevgenia was staying. The three women hugged and kissed, laughed and cried. She was delighted to discover that the swelling on her sister’s face had subsided and any remaining traces of bruising could be concealed by make-up. The two of them spent the rest of that first day together talking, beginning the task of filling in the gaps left by all the years they’d spent apart, and getting to the point where they could call one another Nastiya and Zhenia without feeling at all uncomfortable. Zhenia did not know it, but she was being tested, or more precisely auditioned for the role of Maria Denisova’s personal assistant.

  “Oh! My first real job!” said Zhenia excitedly the following morning when Nastiya told her that she had a role set aside for her in the da Cunha operation.

  “Well, it’s your first real fake job,” Nastiya pointed out. “But this is a very important pretence. I need to know that if anyone comes looking for my business, they will find one that is credible enough to make them trust me. I will have a couple of my colleagues from the old days—”

  “Do you mean spies? Papa once said that you’d become a spy.”