Carver

by Tom Cain

  ‘I might be able to help you with that,’ Grantham said. ‘Early this morning, hours before the refinery was hit, someone went to a farmhouse in the middle of Wales, miles from anywhere, and executed four men and a woman. According to the locals, they’d been staying there for the past few days. The police are searching the place now. They’ve found evidence of a bomb-making factory: a couple of kilos of home-made explosives, plus several discarded gas canisters of various sizes, steel girders, welding equipment—’

  ‘Exactly what you’d need to make the set-up I saw,’ Carver pointed out.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘But everyone was killed. What good is that?’

  ‘Not everyone. One of them got away, a woman, name of Deirdre Bull. She tried to make a run for it. Whoever attacked the farmhouse tracked her, shot her, and left her for dead. But she lived. In fact, she’s lying in the intensive care unit at Bronglais General Hospital, Aberystwyth, right now. Oh, and here’s an interesting titbit: when she was rescued she even told the paramedics they had to stop the attack …’

  ‘What? She told them about Rosconway?’

  ‘No such luck. She just mentioned an attack. They thought she meant the one on the farm.’

  ‘Christ, has she been interviewed yet?’

  ‘Apparently not. The local coppers have been told she’s not well enough to talk.’

  ‘Oh, bollocks to that!’

  For the first time the hint of a smile entered Grantham’s voice. ‘That’s what I thought, too. Why don’t you get up there, see if you can get in for a word with Ms Bull? Play at being Andy Jenkins, pillar of the MoD, a while longer. I’ll have a word with the local police chief, appeal to his sense of patriotism at a time of national emergency, so you shouldn’t have any trouble from him.’

  ‘What about the medics?’

  ‘Oh, just use your natural charm, Carver. How can they resist?’

  ‘I’d better get going. It’s got to be a two-hour drive to Aberystwyth, minimum.’

  ‘No need. There’s an airport at Haverfordwest, just the other side of Milford Haven from where you are now. They’ve got a helicopter charter outfit there. Get a chopper, go to the hospital, get Bull to link this to Zorn, and then get back here to London. We need to discuss what to do about Zorn. And speaking of that particular devil, he’s about to make a public statement, live on every TV channel known to mankind. I’d better see what he has to say for himself.’

  Carver put away the phone and turned on the car radio, tuning it to Radio 5 Live, and heard the voice of a news reporter saying she was outside the mysterious American billionaire Malachi Zorn’s Surrey mansion, and was expecting him to appear at any moment.

  ‘Zorn?’ asked Schultz, as they entered the outskirts of Pembroke. ‘Is that the bastard you said was responsible for what just happened?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’d like to tear that fucker limb from fucking limb.’

  Carver looked at Schultz. He’d planned on doing the Zorn job alone. But there was a lot to be said for having the massive SBS man on his side. He thought about his plans and the specific ways in which Schultz might improve them. Yes, it could certainly work.

  ‘Suppose I helped you do that?’ he asked.

  ‘You taking the piss, boss?’

  ‘Never been more serious. Listen, no one knows whether you’re dead or alive right now …’

  ‘Nah, suppose not.’

  ‘And it’s going to be days before they work out the final casualty lists. So you could just disappear off the grid, couldn’t you?’

  ‘The CO’s not going to like that. I’m a company sergeant major. I’m supposed to set an example, do my duty, not piss off on private jollies.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. The man I was just talking to is a very influential individual. If I ask him to square it for you, trust me, there won’t be a problem.’

  Schultz pulled up at a red light and gave Carver a long, searching look. ‘What exactly was it you said you did for a living, boss?’

  ‘I didn’t say.’

  ‘But we’re going after this Zorn geezer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you know a bloke who can just call up Poole, get my CO on the line, and tell him what to do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The light turned green and Schultz drove away. ‘And what exactly do you want from me?’

  ‘Drop the girl at the hospital and get me to the airport at Haverfordwest. Then head for London. Give me a number and I’ll call you. We’ll be doing the job tomorrow. We’re going to need someone else, too, someone we can trust. And I mean, absolutely. One word of this gets out—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got the right man. He was in the Service, got out about six months ago. Just about to fuck off to Iraq with one of them Yank security companies.’

  ‘And he’s good?’

  ‘One of the best.’

  ‘Then that’ll do me.’

  ‘And we’re going to take this Zorn bastard out?’

  ‘Well, Snoopy,’ said Carver, ‘just you wait and see.’

  On the radio the presenter was saying, ‘And now let’s cross back, live, to Surrey, where we are about to hear an official statement from the man who predicted a tragedy like today’s, and who was a close personal friend of the late Nicholas Orwell. I can see on my monitor that the statement is about to begin. So this is Malachi Zorn …’

  56

  * * *

  Wentworth

  MALACHI ZORN’S PR PEOPLE had advised him to wait a few hours before he faced the media. It was worth taking time, they said, for their best writers to craft a statement. He had said no. ‘I don’t want a crafted statement. I just want to go out and speak from the heart.’ The PRs had protested, but at the same time, he had seen their minds working out how to use his determination just to go out and speak his mind on behalf of a departed friend as a story in itself. It was a nice human touch: the media would gobble it up. Of course, he’d had hours to contemplate his reaction to Orwell’s likely demise, and months to think about the refinery’s destruction. So there was very little that was spontaneous or off the cuff about what he was going to say. Nor was it an accident that the few rough notes – ‘NB: VICTIMS most important … Nicholas counsellor, contributor, friend … human not financial tragedy … business as usual,’ and so on – scrawled on the sheet of paper in his hand had been written large enough to be picked up by zoom lenses. Even the hesitation with which he opened had been considered in advance.

  ‘Ahh …’ Zorn grimaced nervously and cleared his throat as he ran his eyes over the crowd of reporters in front of him, hoping to give as many of them as possible the impression that he had looked directly at them. He felt a momentary shock of alarm as the thought struck him that Carver might be out there in the crowd, ready to fire the bullet that would blow his brains out. The image didn’t frighten Zorn. It thrilled him: the shot of physical danger spiced up his financial gamble like a splash of chilli oil. He coughed to hide his excitement, and then began: ‘I want to make a short statement about today’s tragic events at the Rosconway refinery in Wales.’

  Zorn looked down at the notes, as if seeing inspiration and reassurance from them, though he knew perfectly well what he was going to say. ‘My first and, ahh, deepest thoughts are for the victims of this terrible atrocity: the dead, the wounded, and all the loved ones who are feeling such loss and anguish at this dark hour. There will be much talk of the political and economic consequences of what has happened, but you know, we must never forget that this is a human tragedy that touches us all.’

  He gave another look around his audience, drawing them in, making them complicit in what he said. He saw no sign of Carver, just one or two reporters who actually nodded back at him. Good: they were hooked. Now to gently reel them in.

  ‘Of course, no one person’s life is of any greater value than another’s. But I hope you will allow me to pay a special tribute to my colleague and dear friend Nicholas Orwell.
I got to know Nicholas very well over the past few months, as he and I worked together on the development of the Zorn Global fund. To the British people, he was of course a strong and greatly admired leader …’ Total bullshit, of course: Zorn knew perfectly well the contempt in which Orwell was held by many, if not most of his former electors, but no one wanted to be reminded of that now.

  ‘But to me, he was a fine man, a wise counsellor and an invaluable contributor to this venture. Above all, he had an incredible gift for relating to other people, and winning their trust and understanding. Nicholas made all our investors feel like true partners in a fund whose purpose is to unite people from different nations, different cultures and different generations in a single enterprise spanning the world we all share. We will all miss you, Nick, but I know that wherever you are, you will be delighted to hear that we will not be defeated or downcast by your tragic loss. Zorn Global is already trading, and its public launch will take place as planned on Friday evening.’

  The last sentence had, as Zorn had intended, caught everyone’s attention. After all the obligatory tributes, here was a nugget of hard news: Zorn Global was going ahead whether Orwell was there or not. That he, the host, might also be absent, too, would not occur to anyone.

  He continued, ‘Now, as many of you know, I have for many months warned that an event such as today’s might occur. In fact, I discussed it on the BBC World show HARDtalk earlier this week. It is also no secret that my security concerns have influenced the investment decisions I have made, both on my own account and on behalf of Zorn Global and its clients. You know, even within the past hour I’ve already seen speculation on various financial websites suggesting that I may have profited to the tune of tens of billions of dollars from what happened at Rosconway …’

  As the phrase ‘tens of billions of dollars’ was jotted down in dozens of notepads, Zorn took on the voice and demeanour of a stern, high-minded headmaster, disappointed by the conduct of a few unruly pupils. ‘I am not prepared to dignify such speculation with any official comment. It is simply not appropriate to consider personal gain at a time like this; people’s lives are far more important than financial profit or loss.’

  If it was not proper to consider personal gain, the clear implication was that there had been some … and the words ‘tens of billions’ were already on the record, just waiting to be attached to it. Now Zorn added a political dimension. ‘But I can say that I have already spoken to the British Prime Minister and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and assured them both that, at a time when I am enjoying the hospitality of the United Kingdom, I have no intention of harming its economy. I have therefore divested myself of all my short positions in UK-listed corporations, UK government bonds and sterling.’

  Fighting hard to contain his amusement, Zorn contemplated the sheer panic that would be seizing the trading rooms of banks and hedge funds as they digested the news that he’d got out of all his positions. They would be racing to do the same as the market rebounded. The way things were now, if he said he was going long, everyone would want to pile in and do the same. And, of course, he’d already taken the fresh positions that anticipated such a move.

  Now it was time to show he wasn’t just about making money. He could give it away, too. ‘I am sure that this great nation will swiftly and completely recover from the blow it has been dealt today, just as it recovered from the Blitz and the bombs of 7/7. And to do my bit in assisting that process, I will be setting up a fund to aid victims and their families, to which I will be making a personal donation of a hundred million dollars.’

  There was actually a gasp from the crowd at the size of the donation. Maybe in time they would figure out that it was far less than one per cent of his personal profits. But for now the headline figure would be all that anyone cared about. Zorn caught the eye of a young woman to one side of the crowd. She worked for his PR agency, and she was gazing at him as adoringly as a thirteen-year-old girl worshipping a teen idol. He gave her a flash of his best, most dazzling smile, then returned to his speech.

  ‘Finally, I would like to say that I have absolute faith in the ability of the UK authorities to track down the perpetrators of this appalling crime, and bring them to justice. We all have a duty now to assist in this investigation in any way possible, to do everything we can to support those who have been affected, and to carry on with our lives as normal. Terrorism must not be allowed to win. I will be carrying on with my schedule exactly as I had planned, and I advise everyone else to do the same. Thank you.’

  At once there was a clamour of questions from the media, and a forest of hands shooting up, seeking his attention. But Zorn paid no attention to them. He simply gave a couple of brisk nods, turned on his heels and walked back into his rented house.

  Another stage of his plan had been triumphantly completed.

  57

  * * *

  Bronglais General Hospital, Aberystwyth

  IT WAS 1.15 P.M. when the helicopter landed on a patch of open ground on the western edge of the University of Aberystwyth campus, close to the National Library of Wales complex. The hospital was just a couple of hundred yards away, and Carver was already out of the helicopter and walking across the grass, past groups of startled students, before the pilot had cut the engine. He made his way to the intensive care unit, flashing his ‘Andy Jenkins’ Ministry of Defence pass at the receptionist, and walking straight by. A young, uniformed female PC was stationed outside the room where Deirdre Bull had been taken.

  ‘My name’s Jenkins,’ Carver said, showing her the pass. ‘I need to speak to Deirdre Bull.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘That won’t be possible. No one’s been allowed in there. Not even us.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Carver. ‘But my boss has spoken to your boss. And I mean your Chief Constable. Go ahead and check.’

  The policewoman had a brief conversation on her radio. ‘Well, that seems to be in order,’ she said. ‘But it’s not really a police decision. You’ll have to ask Dr Fenwick. He’s the one who can help you.’

  ‘I see. And where can I find Dr Fenwick?’

  ‘Right here,’ said a voice from behind Carver’s back.

  Fenwick was a short, black-haired man. He placed himself between Carver and the door to Deirdre Bull’s room, and glared at him like a surly guard dog. ‘I’m not at all happy about you, or anyone else, speaking to Ms Bull,’ Fenwick said. ‘She’s suffered very serious injuries and considerable loss of blood, followed by a lengthy operation. She’s a very sick woman indeed.’

  ‘Well, I’m very sorry for her,’ said Carver. ‘But this is a matter of national security.’

  Fenwick looked at him disdainfully. ‘National security is not my concern. Patient welfare is.’

  Carver gritted his teeth. Fenwick was no more than five feet eight inches tall, mildly overweight, and presumably untrained in any form of combat, whether armed or unarmed. The temptation to give him an educational slap was all but over whelming. But Grantham had told him to use his charm, so, fine, he’d try that. Well, up to a point he would, anyway.

  ‘You’ve heard about what happened at Rosconway this morning?’

  Fenwick grimaced impatiently. ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘We believe the woman in that room there may be able to give us vital information about who was responsible. The death toll’s over two hundred, in case you hadn’t heard. Hundreds more injured. So if patient welfare is your concern, perhaps you’d like to tell all the people who are sitting in hospitals all over Wales, waiting to discover if the men and women they love are going to be all right, why this woman is so bloody precious. I was at Rosconway, Dr Fenwick. I saw it happen. So please, do me a favour … don’t talk to me about patient welfare.’

  It might have been Carver’s oratorial skills that did the trick, or just the intensely intimidating coldness of the gaze he fixed on Fenwick. But in any event, the doctor briefly relented: ‘All right, but make it quick. Now,’ he went on, regaining a litt
le self-confidence and looking right back at Carver, almost daring him to try something, ‘I’m going to observe you. If you are in any way hostile or threatening to this patient – if you so much as raise your voice – I’m ending it, immediately. And I’m her doctor. So I don’t care who you are, or what you’re really up to. As long as you’re in my hospital what I say goes. Got it?’

  ‘Absolutely. Let’s do it.’

  Fenwick opened the door, and led Carver into the room. Deirdre Bull was lying with an arm and a leg in traction. Her head was bandaged. She had an oxygen mask on her face and a drip attached to her right arm. A monitor beside her bed tracked her pulse, blood pressure, temperature and respiration. She looked at them blearily through heavy, barely open lids, spaced out on painkillers that would be making it almost as hard for her to think straight as to move.

  Carver’s spirits sank. The woman was even more wrecked than he had feared. But she was the only surviving member of the terrorist gang that anyone had been able to find, so if he couldn’t get anything out of her, there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

  58

  * * *

  FENWICK TOOK UP station at the head of Bull’s bed and motioned to Carver to sit in a chair positioned halfway down the mattress. Carver was about to speak, but Fenwick raised a hand to stop him. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said.

  Fenwick bent closer to Bull’s head. ‘Hello, Deirdre, there’s a gentleman here who’d like to have a word with you,’ he said, in an unexpectedly gentle voice. ‘You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. But if you do, don’t worry, I’ll be here all the time to make sure you’re all right.’

  Bull tried to focus on Carver. ‘Uh … who are you?’ she asked, sounding as though each word was an effort.

  ‘My name is Andy Jenkins,’ Carver replied, with what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. ‘I work for the Ministry of Defence. I’m not a policeman. I’m not interested in collecting evidence against you. I just want a quiet, private chat – off the record. Do you understand?’