by Tom Cain
She led him through to a garden at the back of the hotel. There was a man standing by the entrance. Carver recognized him at once from his straw hair and blue shirt: one of the two shooters from the restaurant.
They didn’t bother with introductions. The man just said, ‘Legs apart, arms out,’ and Carver obeyed. He was frisked. The gun was found. The blond man clearly recognized it, and glared at Carver.
‘The original owner didn’t need it any more,’ Carver said. Then he walked with Ginger into the garden, towards a marble-topped table set beneath a sunshade. Three chairs had been arranged around it. One of them was already occupied by an Asian man, somewhere in his mid- to late-fifties. He had a swept-back bouffant haircut, streaked with grey like his moustache. His pale-blue denim shirt was open to reveal a hairy chest. He would have looked like an ageing, slightly overweight nightclub playboy, were it not for the muscle that was evident beneath all the signs of good living, and the direct, unflinching way he looked Carver in the eye.
‘My name is Shafik,’ the man said. He waved at one of the chairs opposite him. ‘Please, take a seat.’
‘You interrupted my lunch,’ said Carver, sitting down while Ginger took the third chair. ‘Any chance of a beer, something to eat?’
‘Of course.’ Shafik gestured at the blond man as if he were a waiter, then told him to fetch drinks, bread, olives, tomatoes and cheese. He turned back to Carver. ‘My background is in the Pakistani Army and security services…’
Carver knew what that meant. Shafik had been an officer in Pakistan’s legendary, but also notorious, Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence, or ISI. It had worked hand in glove with the CIA for decades, while maintaining links to the Taliban and even al-Qaeda. So Shafik was a spook, and probably a tough, unscrupulous one at that.
‘… but now I am a private security consultant to various financial institutions,’ Shafik continued. ‘You know my associate Magda Sternberg, of course.’
‘Only too well.’
Ginger had the decency to look embarrassed.
‘I am about to make you an offer of employment,’ Shafik went on. ‘It is worth two point five million dollars, payable in any currency, commodity or financial instrument you specify. Nevertheless, I confidently expect you to turn it down, despite this considerable financial inducement. I know that you have no interest in pursuing your old line of work any more, and no financial need to do so. You have an interest in a mining operation in southern Africa, I gather?’
‘I’ve a shareholding in the Kamativi Mining Corporation, yes.’
Carver wondered if Shafik knew who he’d had to kill to get the shares.
‘Remind me what your mine produces?’ the Pakistani asked.
‘Coltan.’
‘And that is…?’
A year earlier, Carver would not have had the first idea how to answer that question. Now his response was automatic. ‘A mix of two minerals: columbite and tantalite. They’re refined to produce niobium and tantalum respectively. Very useful metals: got a lot of industrial applications.’
‘You sound very knowledgeable.’
‘Getting there.’
‘And it is doing well for you, I imagine.’
‘Shares up fifty per cent in the past six months.’
‘So the dividends will be generous this year?’
‘Very.’
‘And yet,’ Shafik repeated, ‘you will still accept the job that I am about to offer you.’
The blond man reappeared, followed by a hotel employee carrying a tray laden with bottles, cutlery and plates of food. Carver took his beer and had a sip before he replied, ‘I doubt that very much. And you don’t need me, anyway. You’ve obviously got people who can handle wet work.’
Shafik gave a dismissive shrug. ‘At a low level, yes, but they have their limits. You, on the other hand, have quite a reputation in certain circles.’
‘What circles would those be?’ said Carver, cutting himself a slice of bread.
‘Ones in which men of great wealth and power continue to seek ways to exercise their influence at the highest level.’
‘Ah, those men,’ Carver said. He placed some goat’s cheese on the bread, took a large bite, and in-between chews said, ‘Yeah, they used to like what I did.’
‘Quite so. And of course, I knew Quentin Trench quite well: we had a shared professional interest in special forces operations.’ Shafik sighed. ‘I wonder what happened to him…’
Carver thought about the storm-whipped night in the English Channel when he had last seen Trench. ‘Yes, I wonder,’ he said, swallowing the last of his bread. He looked Shafik in the eye. ‘But this reputation I have, and your friendship with dear old Trench, didn’t stop you jerking me around. What was that crap at the restaurant all about?’
‘I wanted to see how you responded under pressure. You did very well. You reacted immediately to what was happening. You were resourceful, efficient, ruthless, even merciless… And that is why you will say yes to my offer. For whereas my people evidently did not kill Miss Sternberg, you did, in fact, leave a dead body lying in a rubbish bin barely two hundred metres from here. The local police are at present unaware of its presence. My men can ensure that they never will be. The moment I give them the signal, they will do what is required to make all trace of your crime disappear…’
The longer this conversation went on, the less Carver liked it. ‘Crime?’ he said.
‘Of course… how else would you describe an unprovoked attack on a man who had not harmed you in any way — who did not even know you were there?’
Carver did not respond.
‘Your silence speaks volumes. You committed a murder, and you will be found guilty of the charge if it ever comes to court. Your victim’s name was Eriksen, by the way; he has, or rather had, a wife and a young daughter. I am sure that when they appear in court, they will touch the hearts of everyone who sets eyes on them.’
For a second, Carver was ashamed at what he had done. He was also unnerved by the ease with which Shafik had played him… was still playing him.
‘You have every reason to want Eriksen’s body to disappear, and none at all to encourage me to do my civic duty and report both the dead man and you to the police. The clothes line is still there. There will be small fragments of your skin on the cord. You will be found guilty, count on it. And you will spend many years in prison. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I will assume that you will accept my offer…’
7
Shafik pressed a speed-dial number and spoke: ‘Remove Eriksen. But do not dispose of him. Not yet.’
Carver had no intention of taking Shafik’s job, whatever it was. On the other hand, leaving now would entail either killing or at the very least disabling the other three people in the garden. It was doable, but it would only complicate the situation still further, and he didn’t need the aggravation. ‘So who’s the target?’ he said.
Shafik relaxed, sitting back in his chair, confident that, for now at any rate, he had got what he wanted. ‘His name is Malachi Zorn. He is an American, based on Long Island, New York.’
‘And what’s his problem?’
‘He costs other people a great deal of money. My clients are usually competitors, but they are united in the conviction that their businesses-’
‘Their banks?’
‘Yes.’
Carver gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Unbelievable. You want me to stop bankers losing money. I never thought I’d stoop that low.’
Ginger laughed. Shafik looked at her sharply, then allowed himself a smile. ‘Very good, Mr Carver, but this is not just about bankers. Malachi Zorn makes a great deal of his money placing very large bets against corporations. He takes short positions or uses derivative instruments that capitalize on falling asset prices and even total collapse. The very act of taking these positions taints his targets. Perfectly good, well-run, solvent companies can be destroyed. And all these companies ha
ve shareholders, the majority of whom are funds run for the benefit of ordinary citizens: investing for their future, for their pensions. They are the ones who get hurt by a man like Zorn.’
Carver had been eating olives while Shafik made his speech in defence of shareholder capitalism. ‘And there was I thinking this had something to do with senior executives getting nervous that their bonuses might be a zero or two short this year,’ he said when it was over.
Ginger laughed. ‘I hadn’t realized that you were such a cynic, Sam.’
‘Huh… no matter how hard I try to be cynical, the truth is almost always far worse.’
Shafik gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Grow up, Carver. The only way all the little guys make a small amount of money is if the big guys make lots of it. That is how the system works. Anything else is just… communism.’
‘But why do you want Zorn removed now?’ Carver asked. ‘It sounds like he’s been operating for quite a while. Why the sudden desire to stop him?’
‘Because…’ Ginger began. Then she stopped herself and looked at Shafik. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘Not at all… go ahead.’
‘Up until now Zorn has always worked alone,’ Ginger continued. ‘That’s been the source of his mystique: one man, betting his own money against the system.’
‘Or a spoilt playboy playing his selfish games at other people’s expense,’ Shafik snapped.
Ginger flicked her eyes up at the heavens in mock exasperation. ‘You’ll have to excuse my boss, Sam. He takes our work very personally sometimes.’
‘I don’t give a damn about your boss,’ Carver replied. ‘Tell me about Zorn. What’s changed?’
‘He’s getting partners for the first time in his career: serious investors. He’s using their money to start a fund: Zorn Global. Very private, very exclusive, but also very well-financed. He’ll have tens of billions of dollars behind him, all provided by ultra-high-net-worth individuals. No institutions at all.’
‘So he’ll have more leverage, and be able to do more damage, as they would see it, to your clients?’
‘You have got it in one, Mr Carver,’ said Shafik.
‘Well, you’re right about one thing. I’d certainly have turned down the job.’
‘But…?’
‘But now I’m considering my options. And I want to know the details. When does this have to be done? Where? How? That kind of thing.’
Ginger spoke again, ‘It has to be done quickly. Zorn is launching his fund at the end of next week in London.’
‘How come he’s not doing it on Wall Street?’
Shafik answered the question, ‘His new fund has investors from around the world. It will operate globally. Wall Street serves the world’s biggest domestic economy, but London is the centre of international finance.’
‘And it’s also where many of his investors like to be at this time of year,’ Ginger went on. ‘They go to parties, Royal Ascot, Wimbledon. You know the kind of things. Zorn’s crazy about tennis. He’s going to be at Wimbledon for a few days next week. He’s going Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday.’
Carver couldn’t stop himself from asking, ‘What about the days in-between?’
‘Ladies’ quarter-finals, semis and final,’ said Ginger. ‘Zorn ignores them — he’s a sexist when it comes to tennis.’
‘Or a realist,’ Shafik observed.
‘But for the men’s days,’ Ginger went on, refusing to rise to the bait, ‘he has tickets for himself and his guests: debenture seats, the best for Centre, Number One and Number Two Courts, six at a time. He likes to know that he has his choice of all the most important matches. He’s spending tens of thousands of dollars a day, but what does he care?’
‘He even enquired about hiring a box at Lord’s,’ Shafik said, with a shake of his head. ‘As if he could possibly appreciate cricket.’
‘Well, who cares about cricket, anyway?’ Ginger laughed, getting her own back. She smiled again at Carver, trying to make him complicit in her gentle mockery of Shafik, doing what she could to draw him again into some kind of relationship. ‘The crucial day is this coming Friday, 1 July. That’s when Zorn will formally launch his fund with a reception at the Goldsmiths’ Hall, in the heart of the City of London, for a very exclusive selection of guests — his investors, senior politicians and bankers.’
‘Including the men who want him dead?’
‘Possibly,’ she admitted.
‘And you wonder why I’m cynical?’
‘There will also be a number of figures from the media and entertainment industries,’ said Shafik. ‘Zorn is not foolish. He knows they will attract more attention than any number of middle-aged, unattractive male billionaires.’
‘But you do want Zorn to make it to his own party?’
‘Indeed not.’
Carver drank some more beer. He put the glass down and said, ‘So you’re looking for an unfortunate accident?’
‘Precisely — the tragic end to a brilliant career. And it must be visible: Zorn must be seen to die.’
‘To send a message?’
‘I’d prefer to say: to encourage any other independent operators not to be so greedy,’ Shafik suggested. ‘In any case, you can be sure that my clients will attend the funeral and send many magnificent wreaths.’
‘Well, then they’d better hope I don’t decide to pay my respects as well. I don’t have any views about this Malachi Zorn one way or another. But I’m taking a serious dislike to your clients.’
8
Brick Lane, London E1
The package was addressed to Brynmor Gryffud at the office of his graphic design agency, Sharpeville Images. The company specialized in branding and website design for charities and pressure groups involved in controversial fields, such as minority and animal rights, environmental activism and anti-war campaigning. Gryffud was a tall, thickset, heavily bearded Welshman who looked and sounded as though he should be farming sheep, playing rugby and drinking a dozen pints a night — all of which he had done in his time. As he liked to tell clients in a rich, musical voice made for lyrical speeches, ‘Whatever the Daily Mail is against, that is what we are for.’
In addition to his design work, Gryffud ran a small, but vociferous, group of his own, the Forces of Gaia. It specialized in stunts that drew attention to what Gryffud and his supporters viewed as unacceptable assaults on the environment. Inspired by the fathers’ rights campaigners, who had attracted global coverage simply by appearing at high-visibility, high-security locations such as Tower Bridge and Buckingham Palace dressed up as superheroes, Gryffud had relied on wit and imagination to make his point. His actions had given him a high profile, and even brought in new clients for his business, but he’d long since accepted that they hadn’t made a damn bit of difference to the environment.
The screensavers on his office computer were pictures he had taken of the Welsh hills where he had been raised, and to which he still returned whenever possible. Gryffud’s connection to that landscape and, through it, to the planet as a whole was part of his very soul. His certainty that man’s abuse of all the bounty that nature had bestowed on him was leading to the inevitable desecration, even destruction, of the planet caused him intense pain. Now his patience had run out. Recently, Gryffud had been listening to angrier, more radical voices. He had been persuaded that it was time for a total change of tactics.
He was looking at a standard white postal packing box, 180 mm long by 100 mm wide and 50 mm deep. Inside it were four clear plastic packets, each containing ten fat marker pens, along with a delivery notice stating that each packet cost?4.99, plus?7.75 post and packaging, making a total of?27.71, paid through PayPal. Two of the packets contained blue pens, the other two red ones.
It was an everyday transaction for a company like Sharpeville Images, one that had attracted no official attention whatsoever on its way through the postal system. In the choking atmosphere of state-sanctioned paranoia that pervaded early twent
y-first-century life, any phone call or email was liable to interception. But old-fashioned snail mail was a much more secure means of sending covert messages and goods: provided, of course, that the postal service was up to delivering them.
When he had opened the box and seen the pens lying within it, Gryffud had got up from behind his desk and walked across his office. He had closed the door and lowered the blinds that covered the window, through which he could normally keep an eye on his staff and they on him. No one had thought anything of it. The lowering of ‘Bryn’s blinds’ was the accepted sign that Gryffud was deep in creative thought: that mysterious process through which he came up with the unexpected, innovative concepts that had made the company’s name and kept them all in work.
But it wasn’t a desire to tap into his creativity that had prompted Brynmor Gryffud to cut himself off from the world.
He went back to his desk and took one of the blue pens out of its packet. Using a scalpel, he cut open one end of the pen and held it at an angle, the open end above the palm of his other hand. Under normal circumstances, the reservoir that contained the pen’s ink would have slid out. Instead, an innocuous white plastic tube, about 70 mm long and 8 mm in diameter, landed on Gryffud’s hand. The burly Welshman’s beard was spit by a piratical grin. The tube was a detonator. Fitted with a fuse and inserted into a mass of explosive material, it would turn an inert collection of chemicals into a highly destructive bomb.
Gryffud repeated the process for a randomly chosen red pen, from which a bright yellow tube, similar to the white one, appeared. This was an igniter, virtually identical to the detonator, except that its purpose was to start an instant, short-lived, but highly intensive blaze.
The two devices were replaced in their respective pens and returned to the appropriate packets. Gryffud picked up his phone and made a call.
‘The pens have arrived,’ he said. ‘They’re exactly what we asked for. How about you?’
‘No worries, mate,’ replied Dave Smethurst, ‘Smethers’ to his mates, a former army staff sergeant who now worked as a private contractor. Like Gryffud, Smethurst had a specialized clientele. He went on, his voice imbued with the adenoidal flatness of the East Midlands — as dreary an accent as Gryffud’s was mellifluous — ‘The lads have grabbed all the containers we need. And the gardening supplies are piled up in the barn.’
