by Emma Newman
“But… surely you see how hard it would be for Will to say anything about what happened?”
Margritte nodded, seeing the way to get what she wanted opening up before her. “I do. He needs to preserve his own reputation, I understand that. But if he truly is the gentle man you believe him to be, surely he feels some remorse?”
“Oh, he does!” Catherine seemed convinced at least.
“Then would it be possible to ask him to express that remorse to me – in private – and offer his personal regret? If he could do that, my heart would be eased and the Duke of Londinium would no longer be monstrous to me.”
“I…”
“It would also offer proof that he could indeed be persuaded to support our struggle. I would have hope for the future once more.”
Catherine stood. “I’ll ask him. I’ll do all I can to try and change things for the better, for you and for all of us.”
Margritte kissed her on both cheeks, stifling the guilt rising in her chest. “Thank you, your Grace. We must all do what we feel is right.”
Ten minutes into the meeting and Sam was still there at the head of the table. No one had told him it was all an elaborate hoax. He’d been waiting for someone to tell him that for the last twenty-four hours, but it seemed he really was Lord Iron.
The problem lay in the fact that even though the suited lawyers, accountants and directors seated at the table treated him like their new billionaire boss, he still felt like an unemployed computer programmer from Bath. Now he truly understood those people who looked shell-shocked after a massive lottery win and why they said their lives wouldn’t be changed. It was simply impossible to grasp how different everything could be, so they clung to their old life out of terror, like it had been taken out of a bathtub and chucked into an ocean.
All of the things he used to worry about, from paying the bills to whether he could really justify getting a new games console, had been replaced by a whole set of new worries that he simply didn’t understand yet. The men and women seated around the table were showing him spreadsheets and pie charts and projections and statements as if they could mean something to him.
“… and if you continue with this program of expansion in this–”
Sam held up a hand and Susan, the woman giving the presentation, stopped speaking. “I’m sorry, I’d prefer it if you just left the materials with me to look at in my own time.”
“Of course, Mr Ferran.”
“And I want to use this time to ask a few questions.”
Pens were picked up, some activated tablets and laptops, all poised to take notes.
“All right… governments and international agencies have different laws about preventing environmental pollution. Some have laws that need clean-air tech installed as standard, for example. Am I right?”
Susan nodded. She had brown hair and hazel eyes and looked like an English teacher he’d had at secondary school, but dressed in a much more expensive suit. “That’s right, Mr Ferran. There are also differences in the amount of monitoring and the pressure to prove compliance.”
“Good.” Sam smiled at her, glad to have someone to focus on instead of the whole group. “So would it be possible for someone to write me a report…” He faltered. Did he really just ask that? “…on what the most stringent requirements are and how many of the mines and factories and things in the corporation adhere to them?”
Susan frowned. “Do you mean a report on which operations meet local compliance? If that’s the case there’s no need – all of our operations comply with local environmental code.”
“No, I mean, which ones comply with the strictest codes in the world. Not local ones. I want to know exactly what the most strict environmental protection measures are and I want all of the global operations to be measured against that standard. Does that make sense?”
The scrawling and touch-typing stopped before his last sentence did.
“It shouldn’t be too hard, should it?” Sam asked.
“It will take some time to compile,” she said. “CoFerrum Inc owns hundreds of operations around the world.”
“But there must be a central database containing information about them. If there isn’t, I’ll build one.”
They all laughed, then realised he wasn’t joking. “There is,” she replied as people fiddled with their pens and gadgets, “but I don’t think it necessarily contains detailed information on that sort of thing.”
“Why not?”
“It’s never been a priority.”
“Why not?”
A man with a large nose who looked a little bit like an American bald eagle raised a finger to get his attention. “Mr Ferran, you’ve made an interesting request and I’m sure it isn’t just a matter of curiosity. What do you plan to do with the report once it’s completed?”
Sam smiled, imagining Leanne seeing him now, able to actually do something about the things she’d been unearthing over all those years. “I want all of the places that aren’t using the very best anti-pollution technology to have it fitted as soon as possible.”
Looks were exchanged around the table. Susan was frowning at the tablet computer beneath her fingers as the Eagle stared at Sam.
“That would cost a huge amount of money,” he said. “And it’s not even necessary – we already comply with local code.”
“You’re telling me that clean-air technology isn’t necessary in the places where there’s the most pollution? Really? That doesn’t make any sense. And anyway, you told me right at the start of this meeting that this corporation makes billions in profit every year. Are you seriously telling me CoFerrum can’t afford to do this?”
“I have no idea how much it would cost,” the Eagle replied, “but CoFerrum’s continued success depends upon minimising costs to maintain those profits.”
“What for? So you all get massive bonuses? So I get to live like Amir did?”
He’d hit a nerve and every person around the table – with the exception of a jowly ginger-haired man at the far end – looked distinctly uncomfortable. Sam tried to remember what job that man did, but failed.
“It’s all a question of return on investment,” the Eagle said.
“Correction.” Sam was getting into it now. “It used to be all about return on investment. That’s going to change now.”
The Eagle looked at Susan and so did several others. When she noticed she set the tablet down on the table and smiled at Sam. “Mr Ferran, CoFerrum is a huge global corporation composed of multiple subsidiary companies and interests. It’s like a fleet of aircraft carriers. You can’t just change course and take off in another direction as fast as you could if you were in a private yacht. Like that fleet, CoFerrum needs to be carefully coordinated in terms of its mid- to long-term direction and each part – each ship, if you will – needs to be given enough notice in order to be able to change direction without crashing into each other. It takes time to implement a radical change in priorities.”
“That’s just what corporates say to keep things the way they like them.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t to reassure him. “Mr Ferran, it really isn’t like that. There are multiple factors that need to be considered, not the least of which is the fact we’re halfway through the financial year and budgets for this one and the next have already been allocated.”
“Oh, come on, surely we can just change that!”
“No, we can’t. You have to understand that once budgets are set it enables multiple levels of management to allocate spending in accordance with their division’s needs. That involves procurement of services and products from hundreds of suppliers not owned by CoFerrum. If we suddenly withdrew millions of pounds and told the directors to spend them on different things it would create all sorts of contractual problems and destroy a lot of excellent working relationships.”
“But–”
“Not to mention a ripple effect that could cause the collapse of many SMEs who depend on the work we give them. Mr Ferran,
please appreciate that the decisions you’re talking about have many, many ramifications that may not be immediately apparent. In effect, we’re not only responsible for the continued employment of the thousands of CoFerrum employees, but also for the companies we pay for goods and services.”
Sam tried to work out whether she was telling the truth or just being obstructive. He realised that it was probably both. The image of Leanne watching him with a proud smile on his face evaporated. “It doesn’t change the fact that I want things to be different.”
“Of course not,” Susan said smoothly. “It’s natural for you to want to put your own mark on the company. You may have to accept that it will take longer than you thought.”
“And you might have to accept that these environmental considerations aren’t in keeping with CoFerrum,” the Eagle said.
Sam wondered if he could sack him, then and there.
“I don’t know,” the ginger-haired man said. “I think Mr Ferran’s vision could prove immensely beneficial to the public image of the corporation.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Duncan,” the Eagle said, evidently reaching the end of his patience. “This isn’t PR fluff! A change in environmental compliance policy could cost the corporation millions and millions of pounds.”
Sam remembered Duncan was the head of PR, several levels above Neugent. “You’re right,” Duncan said to the Eagle. “It’s not fluff. It’s bold, it’s radical and it’s in tune with the public, who are more aware of these issues than ever before. I’ve had to lock down some serious incidents which could have cost the corporation millions of pounds, and that expenditure would have just been to get our arses out of the bear-trap with no other benefits whatsoever. If we repositioned CoFerrum as the world’s most socially and environmentally responsible corporation, it wouldn’t just be a PR exercise, it would make it easier to–”
“Why don’t we take this one step at a time,” Susan said. “Let’s get the report compiled for Mr Ferran and look at the costs involved. It may be that we could prioritise certain operations that would have the greatest PR impact whilst we look at the plausibility of a global change in policy.”
The Eagle and Duncan nodded and Susan looked back at Sam. “Is there anything else, Mr Ferran?”
“No,” he said, wanting to go to his local in Bath and have a beer or six with Dave. “That’s it for now.”
He slumped in the chair as they all packed up and left, the Eagle the first to leave. Duncan looked like he was heading towards Sam but Susan diverted his attention and they left together in close conference. Sam was left at the table with abandoned crystal glasses, a couple of jugs of water and the beginning of a headache.
“How did it go?”
He swivelled in the chair to see Mazzi in the doorway. “I have no idea. I thought it was going well at one point. I think I freaked them out.”
She smiled. “Probably not a bad thing to shake them up a bit. Drink?”
He stood and stretched. “God, yes.”
“Find one you want to sack?”
“Yeah,” he went over to her.
“That’s normal,” she said and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It will get easier. I promise.”
He didn’t believe her.
21
Cathy adjusted the seat in the car Max had hired and checked the positioning of the rear-view mirror as he went round to the passenger side and got in. The last time she drove it had been to London to rescue Josh, and Tom had been the passenger. So much had changed since then, including, she realised with a tension in her chest, herself. She’d been so determined to find a way out of Society and now she was Duchess, a bigger cog in the machine she’d stopped trying to run away from. Was she doing the right thing in trying to stay and change things for the better? Or had she lost her way and forgotten what it was like to be alone and truly think for herself?
“We need to get onto the M4,” Max said, looking at a map.
“We’ll head west then,” she replied and started the engine.
It felt good to be back in a car and mundane clothes again. “Thanks for letting me drive,” she said but Max didn’t reply. Now she was getting used to being around him she enjoyed the lack of pressure to make small talk. She suspected the gargoyle was hidden in the boot.
She was grateful for a trip out of Londinium too. The meeting with Margritte had made her feel guilty and inept and she couldn’t stop berating herself for bothering her at such a time. Of course Margritte would be angry and grieving; it was stupid to have even thought of contacting her for anything to do with the secret group. It only served to remind her that she was no good at the people thing. It had taken Lucy to point out there were other women who felt the same about Society. Her inability to think about anything other than her own frustrations had been revealed again.
“Take the left lane,” Max said, and she indicated after checking the mirrors.
The roads were busy. Negotiating the traffic and following Max’s navigation was a welcome distraction from worrying about Margritte and what would be reported back to Bennet. At least Will had left before Max arrived. He’d be on his way to meet Margritte now, unaware of this secret excursion until Carter reported it all to him.
“Poor Carter,” she said aloud. “He’ll be worrying.”
“I told him I would take full responsibility.”
“Those magic words,” she said with a sigh.
Cathy had no idea what arrangements Will had made to meet Margritte; once she’d talked it through with him he’d agreed to meet her as soon as possible and handle the rest himself. She took that as a good sign. He seemed relieved she’d made contact with her, thinking it was in the hope of reducing the animosity between their families to avert any further disruption. Cathy hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell him she’d had her own agenda, even though she’d wanted to share it with him. Worrying about what to tell and what to keep to herself was exhausting. She’d rather share it all with him, but that was unwise until she’d convinced him of the need to change the status quo.
Will was kinder than most but he was still one of them, a product of their patriarchal society and so concerned with keeping Lord Iris happy that he couldn’t contemplate anything remotely controversial. She could sympathise, but she couldn’t wait for him to feel secure enough in his position before she did something herself.
Max was a good navigator and they made it to the slip road onto the M4 without any wrong turns. “So,” she said, once she was at the right speed and feeling more confident in the faster traffic. “Can you tell me where we’re going now?”
“You asked me to look into a code you found in several files. The code ‘GDA’ refers to ‘Green Dale Asylum’ and several of the people you’ve requested files on are there.”
“An asylum in Mundanus?”
“Yes, run by the Agency. Only they and the Patroons know about it. I suspect the mundane authorities are oblivious of its existence too. It’s in the Cotswolds. I have the address and I thought it best to go there via mundane means.”
“I bet they’re not put in there because they’re mad,” Cathy said, gripping the steering wheel tighter and pressing down on the accelerator.
“Some of the people there may have lost their faculties,” Max said. “But I suspect the ones you’re looking for haven’t.”
“No, they wanted to hide them away so they would stop saying things the Patroons didn’t like. Are they just left in Mundanus to get old and die?”
“It seems so,” Max replied.
“So you’re coming along because you’re curious?”
“I doubt they would let you in without me. And I want to understand everything the Agency does.”
“Are they breaching the Treaty?”
“That’s one of the questions I want to answer.”
She almost asked him what the other questions were but decided against it; he wouldn’t tell her anyway.
So the men and women who’d disappeared from the
secret group had been sent to a mundane asylum to die quietly, just because they’d spoken out. Perhaps the remaining members were right to be so cautious. Margritte had spoken of needing Will on her side and Cathy resented the fact it was true. But would Lord Iris sanction having her packed off when he was so keen for her to breed?
“I wonder if the Fae know.”
“They must. They would notice their puppets were missing.” Max said.
“I don’t know how much attention they pay. Lord Poppy probably didn’t even know I existed until he heard about me going to university.”
“Was he involved in securing your marriage to William Iris?”
“I know Lord Iris was. Will told me the Patroon said he wanted us to marry.”
“Do you know why?”
“To breed is my theory.” Out of the corner of her eye she could see Max nodding. “But I have no idea why it has to be Will and I.”
“You must both have qualities Lord Iris wants to see in one child. Or several,” Max said. “The Agency do the same – they breed with certain pairings to make it more likely that certain qualities will be seen in the – keep your eye on the road, Catherine.”
She yanked the wheel back, realising she’d started to drift across a lane. “The Agency have a breeding program? What the fuck?”
“The head of the Agency told me the Fae have been doing the same for generations. Were your parents matched by the Fae?”
“I don’t know. God, this is awful. Will doesn’t think it’s the norm for his patron to be so involved. I’ve heard marriages are arranged by the head of the families and it’s all to do with money or politics. I’m certain they married Tom to Lucy for the money – the Californicas are loaded.”
