The Darkfall Switch

by David Lindsley

  He decided to change tack. ‘Your marriage,’ he said, ‘you told me about your ex being a bastard, and how you dumped him.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was bitterness in her voice.

  ‘Anybody in your life since then?’

  ‘You asked me that before.’

  ‘Yes. And you said something about your friends trying to matchmake.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

  She took another sip of her wine, looking thoughtfully into the glass. ‘Dan, listen. I’ve made some pretty awful mistakes with my life—’

  ‘We all do that,’ he said gently.

  ‘No!’ Her response was fast. Vehement. ‘You don’t understand. You see, after my marriage broke up I made some particularly bad decisions. About men.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I suppose I wanted to hit back. And suddenly I felt I had to prove that I wasn’t a failure, that I was still attractive and … well, not bad at the sex thing.’

  He started to speak, to reassure her, but she put her fingertips to his mouth to stop him. ‘But, whatever the reason, I look back now and I’m horrified at the way I behaved and the things I did. You won’t believe some of the creeps who put advertisements in the papers.’

  ‘You used those?’ He was really amazed. How could an attractive woman like this need to look in lonely-hearts columns for a partner? What was wrong with today’s men? ‘You mean, all that WLTM stuff?’

  ‘Yes. And GSOH. And then there were the dating agencies. That is, after I’d given up going to bars on Friday nights, getting pissed and waiting to be picked up.’

  He gritted his teeth. It was quite a shock, but, then, he was no angel himself. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I really don’t want to know. It’s in the past.’

  ‘Yes it is. And in case you’re thinking, after that night at Tina’s, that I wanted to pick you up, no, it wasn’t like that. I did really call you to apologize. I really wanted to say sorry. Nothing else. I swear – you weren’t just another pick-up.’

  ‘I’m glad about that.’

  ‘I came to my senses a few months ago. Stopped going to the bars. Stopped looking in the papers. Stopped calling the agencies. Threw myself into work.’ She looked at him and continued, ‘And then there was you.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘Come to bed.’

  Over breakfast the next morning, he told her that he would be buying her tickets and making the hotel booking later that day. She protested, saying she was by no means strapped for money, and that she would gladly pay, but he stopped her by kissing her on her lips and smothering her words every time she tried to speak. She giggled and, in the end, acquiesced.

  ‘There’s one thing more,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your name. When I make the reservation I may need to tell them whether you’re Miss, Mrs or Ms Coleman.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s Ms,’ she answered. ‘I reverted to my maiden name after the divorce.’

  ‘Ms!’ he grimaced. ‘I hate that title, but I guess modern society forces us to use it.’

  She smiled at him affectionately. ‘I do believe, Dan Foster, that you are quite old-fashioned.’

  ‘I am,’ he agreed.

  ‘And I’m glad. This world could do with some more of the old-fashioned courtesies.’

  After she had left he looked up flight information and selected a few that he emailed to her office, for her to choose one she preferred. He didn’t mention that she’d be travelling First Class – that could be a nice surprise later on. Then he sat back to wonder about the hotel. Since Arnold Coward had made the reservation and were paying his bill, he couldn’t really bump up the chargeable costs by adding Janet. He needed to speak to the hotel, to see how best to handle it. Perhaps he would need to book a separate room for her. He would have to wait until the afternoon before calling, because of the time difference between Denver and London.

  He had settled down to re-examine the technical information on the Generation 300 system when Hamish Grant rang to say that all the necessary arrangements had been made with Powerplant Dynamics’ management staff that he would need to meet in Denver. In particular, he would be seeing their chief executive officer. ‘He rejoices in the name of Zak Beckermann,’ Grant said, with some amusement in his tone.

  ‘Probably short for Zachary or Zachariah,’ Foster said.

  ‘In view of the difficulty of spelling either of those,’ Grant said, ‘I can well understand the need for brevity.’ Then he added, ‘And your friend Joe Worzniak will meet you there too.’

  Foster scowled. ‘I suppose I can endure his company,’ he said drily, making Grant chuckle.

  ‘You really took a dislike to him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I did. There’s something unpleasantly cold about him.’

  ‘Well, unfortunately, our American colleagues insist that he should accompany you on your visit to the company. They say he’ll be able to open doors for you; overcome any difficulties that might crop up. That you will get better co-operation if he’s there to apply pressure.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Foster growled. ‘I’m sure it’ll help.’

  ‘Listen, Foster,’ Grant said after a short pause. ‘I wonder … while you are with him, can you try and find out a little more about him? For us?’

  ‘Like what?’ They already knew where he worked, so what else was needed?

  ‘Well, we are a wee bit puzzled about what he does.’

  He went on to confirm what Margaret Andrews had said about the man: that he seemed to be a shadowy figure. Then he added, ‘But he seems to have a degree of influence….’

  ‘Influence?’

  ‘Aye. And perhaps you could find out how, or why, he has such a powerful pull with the Administration.’

  Foster exclaimed, ‘Look. I’m an engineer. Not a politician. And I don’t like acting as a sort of undercover agent.’

  ‘Och! Of course you don’t. I can appreciate that. But all I’m asking is for you to keep your eyes and ears open and to tell us if you discover anything about him. Like who his superior is.’

  Foster wasn’t comfortable with this, but he finally agreed to do what he could, and they ended the conversation.

  He sniffed thoughtfully. He wasn’t at all happy about the strange direction his investigation was taking; it had moved from being purely technical to quasi-political. He was also concerned about Worzniak being around while Janet was there. He decided that it would be best if the American was unaware of her visit to Denver; he could just imagine the dirty smirk he’d give, and his gleeful delight in reporting the news back to Forsyth, with insinuations that Foster was milking the coffers by flying his girlfriend across the Atlantic and putting her up in the finest hotel. Although he was covering all her costs himself, Foster suspected that any hint of her presence would raise questions, about his objectivity if nothing else. No, it was best that nobody should know.

  It was mid afternoon when he made the call to the Brown Palace Hotel. He doubted there’d be any problem accommodating another person; the skiing season was still far off and with the start of the new school year most of the summer visitors would have now gone home. When he got through, the reservations clerk looked up his booking and then said, ‘I’m sorry, Dr Foster. I do have your reservation, but I’ve been told to refer any questions to our General Manager, Peter Halligan. Please wait and I’ll put you through to his office.

  Foster was pleased. He knew Halligan of old and he was sure he would be able to discretely deal with the matter of Janet’s accommodation.

  ‘Dr Foster!’ Halligan said, when they were connected. He sounded as urbane as ever. His accent was British, though Foster knew he was American born and bred – a New Yorker from the Bronx, in fact. ‘It’s really good to speak with you again,’ he continued. ‘I understand you’re visiting us again next week.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s what I want to discuss. Th
e booking’s been made by my client. I want to make a change, and I’ll be quite happy to pay the difference.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘I’m bringing my partner with me. She’s never seen Denver or the Rockies, and I thought it would be nice to have a little holiday while I’m here.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Very pleasant indeed at this time of year. But don’t worry: you are already booked into a double room and there’ll be no problem in accommodating Mrs Foster—’

  ‘Not Mrs Foster,’ Foster interrupted, ‘Ms Coleman. Janet Coleman.’

  With scarcely any hesitation, Halligan took it in his stride. Like any good hotel manager he could deal with these things with calm aplomb. ‘No problem, sir,’ he said, with quiet understanding in his voice. ‘And don’t worry about the room reservation. Your check will show only your own name.’

  Foster thanked him and asked him to make arrangements for Janet to be met at the airport. He told Halligan that he would email Janet’s flight details to him as soon as they had been confirmed.

  After hanging up he returned to the computer. There was a message from her on the screen, with her flight selection.

  He made the booking on line and emailed Halligan with the details.

  He was feeling content and quite pleased with himself. With the necessary contacts being set up with PPD in Denver he would be able to at last make headway. And with Janet coming to join him in the mile-high city he felt his life was coming together again.

  But then, a few minutes later, his pleasant reverie was broken by his phone ringing. It was long-distance: Joe Worzniak. ‘I hear that we’re scheduled to meet again,’ the American said after introducing himself. ‘In Denver.’ Without a pause he rushed on, ‘Neat trick, Foster. The Rockies are great. Where’re you staying? I’ll take a room there.’

  After telling the American his plans, Foster stared at the desk in front of him and shuddered. He was not pleased at the prospect of Worzniak’s presence in Denver, or at his insinuation that he had wangled some sort of luxury vacation for himself – all expenses paid. He had been looking forward to spending time alone with Janet. He briefly wondered if his own influence with the Brown Palace would extend to them telling the American that there were no vacancies, but then he decided it would be far too complicated. He’d just have to live with it. As soon as his business was finished he could wave goodbye to the unpleasant man and concentrate all his attention on Ms Coleman!

  He hoped that there would be no difficulties in getting Grant to accept his request for a few days’ holiday. He imagined that he would be able to get the information he needed in a day or two at the most, and he could then email a report to London – complete with any supplementary information that he had been able to discover about Worzniak. That should complete his assignment: his vacation would incur no delay to the resolution of the matter, and the need for him to take a break would be understandable, if only to get over the jet-lag. After all, by then he would have made two trips across the Atlantic within a few days of each other. He was sure that in similar circumstances lawyers, accountants and politicians would expect to be allowed considerable rest periods. In fact, there were probably reams of standing instructions to the effect that such breaks were mandatory.

  SEVEN

  Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum

  Zak Beckermann was young: a medium-height, well-built man, his dark wavy hair was long enough to touch his collar at the back of his neck and his baby-like features were exaggerated by the very round spectacles that he was wearing. But he was very expensively dressed, in the fashion of the high-tech world of computers, with a smart pink shirt open at the neck and tan moleskin trousers. He stood up as his personal assistant brought Foster into his palatial office, smiled and said, ‘Good morning, Dr Foster.’ As they shook hands he grinned and nodded in a direction behind Foster as he added, ‘I believe you already know Joe Worzniak.’

  Foster looked behind, to see Joe standing there. They shook hands and Beckermann gestured towards a low, glass-topped table surrounded by four very elegant antique armchairs.

  ‘Coffee for everybody?’ he asked, and when they nodded agreement the PA left them.

  ‘Can I call you Dan?’ Beckermann said. ‘I’m Zak.’

  Foster nodded his acceptance as he sat down in his chair and wondered about the things that had been very apparent on his initial appraisal of the place. From the moment he had arrived at the luxurious new office complex it had been clear that this was the real centre of all of PPD’s enormous worldwide operations. This was the hub of a great empire. The architect-designed stainless-steel and glass building, the Ferraris, Jaguars and Porsches in the parking lot outside, the staff wearing Armani and Chanel, everything shrieked of money and power. Compared with this, the tiny office at Birdlip had been like a very small annexe, Hugh Burnett very much a minor underling. It was probably the same in every country in which PPD had offices: all the underlings in those satellite spin-offs paying obeisance to the fresh-faced king-emperor enthroned at his eyrie in the Rockies.

  Foster wondered about Beckermann. He looked far too young and inexperienced to wield such power: there was something almost geeky about him. Yet somehow, he had undoubtedly managed to become master of this massive empire.

  ‘Joe’s been telling me about you,’ Beckermann said. ‘It sounds like you’ve led a very interesting life.’

  ‘It’s had its moments.’ Foster admitted. Then he waved his hand to indicate the office. ‘You have a pretty nice operation here,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed!’

  ‘Thank you.’ Beckermann simpered at the compliment. ‘Would you like to take a look around? I think you’d be even more impressed, being an engineer yourself. We’re all very proud of our outfit.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that very much,’ Foster said. ‘In fact, I’d like to do it first, before we start on the things I want to discuss, so that I have a clearer understanding of the background.’

  ‘Sure.’

  The PA came back in at that point, carrying an elegant silver tray. As she put it down on the table, Foster was amused to see that she had included a plate bearing an enormous pile of iced doughnuts. Having eaten his breakfast when his stomach had been screaming for lunch, he saw this as a nice teatime snack, although the local time was just after 10.

  ‘Diane,’ Beckermann said as she was about to leave, ‘Dr Foster would like to see the plant and offices before we start our meeting. Set up a tour for him, will you?’

  She seemed amazed at the command. ‘Sure. But what about your lunchtime meeting?’ she asked.

  Beckermann waved his hand in an impatient, dismissive gesture. ‘Get Walt to deal with it.’

  She stared at him for a brief instant, and then with an almost imperceptible shrug she left the room.

  ‘I had a meeting with some suppliers,’ Beckermann said, as he started to pour out the coffee. ‘They’re trying to screw us on prices. Can’t think why they needed to see me at all: my manufacturing VP will handle them just fine.’

  Foster recognized the situation: suppliers of some component parts or services were desperate for work and Beckermann’s attitude indicated that they would be getting short shrift from the company.

  This was a hard, dog-eat-dog world.

  While they sipped their coffee and munched the doughnuts, Beckermann outlined his company’s history. It had been formed by him and a partner just a decade earlier. The two entrepreneurs had been working for a large company in Cleveland, well known in the power-generation business, and had become disenchanted with what they saw as the old-world fuddy-duddy attitudes of their rather traditional and staid employer. They were both young men with a background in computers; both of them were highly motivated and enthusiastic, and when Beckermann had inherited a small pile of money from the estate of a grandfather he had persuaded his colleague to join him in exploring new horizons from a new base in the Rockies.

  ‘It was a good decision,’ he said. ‘What does your great William Shakespeare say?
“Time and tide …”? Well, we took our tide at the flood, and we’ve been going great guns ever since.’

  Foster gave a wintry smile, but his expression belied his inner feelings. Given the economic situation at the time, Beckermann’s reference to launching out at an opportune time was quite extraordinary: Foster knew all too well that the last ten years had in fact been extremely tough for the power industry everywhere, and for all the peripheral industries that served it. With growing international concern over the effect on the environment of the large, traditional coal-burning power stations, and with takeovers and crashes among the energy giants, the industry had fallen increasingly under the control of financiers who knew nothing about the engineering aspects of their operations and continually looked only to the bottom line.

  And that bottom line was profit, always profit, with a thick, bright-green sugar coating to appeal to the environmental lobby. Engineering was a necessary evil, to be kept under tight control at all times. Investment had been steadily cut – except in the elaborate promotion of green credentials – and expensive new systems like those sold by Beckermann’s company had come to be seen as unnecessary luxuries. Unless compelling arguments could be presented to the financial gurus who were now running the industry, and done so in the very limited terms that they could understand, the engineering staff would always be forced to patch up old equipment and keep it running as long as possible.

  No, on balance, Foster thought, PPD’s obvious prosperity had to have been due to more than just catching the tide at the best point.

  Perhaps Beckermann detected Foster’s inner doubt because he added, ‘That doesn’t mean it’s been easy. We’ve had to be pretty aggressive on pricing.’