by David Carter
‘How’s Jamie?’ he asked.
‘He’s fine.’
He’d never asked about Jamie before. She was dating Jamie Ruddock, a bull of a man who played prop forward for Waterloo Rugby Club. He was famous in a minor kind of way, a local celebrity kept busy by being interviewed by local newspapers, and the burgeoning local radio stations that were popping up across the region. He was in demand opening church fetes, and bonfire nights, and minor functions in south Lancashire, where occasionally he would be asked for autographs. When that happened, he would glance at Diane as if to say: See! Your boyfriend is famous, aren’t you a lucky girl, not that she ever gave a flying pig for such nonsense. She’d been seeing him for three months, so it was no surprise she’d spent the entire weekend in his bed. In the middle of Saturday, he’d gone off to play rugby. In his absence she barely moved, dozing, waiting for him to return, as he promised to do, and as he did.
‘See they won again?’ said Vimy.
‘Yeah, 33–19.’
‘How are you fixed at the moment? How much work have you got on?’
She sniffed slightly and wished she hadn’t.
‘The maize contracts are finished; the cotton ones should be done today. Bulent Tarsus rang again. He said he needed to speak to you. Sounded urgent.’
Vimy nodded back, but he didn’t want to talk about Bulent Tarsus.
‘How long would it take you to tidy up your desk? Do you think Christine could handle your existing work for a while?’
Diane grimaced, then softened.
‘She’s a bright kid. I’m sure she could. I’d need half an hour.’
He put his elbow on the desk, his chin in his hand.
‘Take an hour, clear your desk, everything, and come back when you’re done.’
She wanted to ask him why, and she wanted to ask what she should tell the others, but knew better than to question him. He would tell her when he was ready.
She was back after fifty minutes, eager to discover what was on his mind. She tapped on the clear glazed door and smiled through the glass. He was rattling off soya prices to some buyer, but she went in and sat down without waiting to be invited. He spoke nervously to the person on the phone, ‘Gotta go,’ and banged the phone down. He turned the phones off, something he only did if there was a crisis, or an important decision to be made. He stood up and closed the blinds that covered the door, took a deep breath and looked across at her and half smiled.
‘I have a job for you, a special project. I want you to prepare a report, and I want you to present it to me at 6pm sharp on Wednesday evening.’
‘OK,’ she said, sucking her pen.
‘No one is to know anything about it, it’s strictly confidential. As far as the staff are concerned, you are carrying out a stock inventory for insurance purposes. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and she nibbled the nail on the index finger of her right hand before pulling it away.
‘The Soviet Union,’ he said. ‘You’re something of an expert?’
Diane smiled. The evil empire, and already she was hooked. Was he going to send her to the Soviet Union? On company expenses? How exciting would that be?
‘I want you to prepare a detailed report on the Soviet Union.’
‘OK.’
‘I want you to imagine the country as one gigantic company, say Merignac, Jemederie, and Dufaux, all rolled into one, times a hundred. I want their strategy on soft commodities. I want to know their thinking about ongoing trade with the West. I want to know their production and usage figures on all the main soft commodities, and I want to know everything that’s going down in that god-awful country.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘You can go anywhere you want, you can ring anyone you like, you can sit over there,’ and he pointed to an unused desk that sat at the far end of his private office. ‘You can buy any magazines or books you need; you can spend money if you have to, but I want that report by Wednesday night. Understand?’
She smiled again. What he was asking was absurd. But wasn’t that what bosses were for? To make impossible demands on their brightest staff?
‘What you’re asking me is to provide intelligence the CIA and MI6 spend millions of pounds every month attempting to obtain, on a budget of a hundred quid.’
It was his turn to grin.
‘That’s about it.’
Her blue eyes sparkled as if excited by the challenge.
‘Can you give me a little more to go on? What sparked this line of thinking? Where do I start?’
Fair question.
‘You haven’t heard this from me, and don’t quote me, but in Shell Oil’s HQ in London, there is a major flap on. It’s been going on for a few days and the cause of the flap is the Soviet Union.’
‘How do you know?’ she asked, but as soon as she spoke she knew he wouldn’t answer. ‘A flap about what?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you.’
‘You think they’re trying to manipulate markets?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. That’s for you to research. Do you think you can handle it?’
Her mind slipped into overdrive and she was way ahead of him, as she nodded and said, ‘Yes, of course!’
‘What do you need from me?’
He opened his diary as if to make notes.
‘I’ll need to go to London.’
‘Whatever it takes.’
‘I’ll need to go to the British library, also I know some people on the Fleet Street papers, friends from Uni. That kind of thing, I’ll need to see them.’
Vimy nodded; it seemed as good a place to start as any. He watched her glance at her wristwatch and say, ‘I could still catch the eleven o’clock train; I could be in the library by three. That would give me two full days and I should still be back here by six on Wednesday.’
‘You’ll need some cash?’ he said, opening his drawer. ‘A hundred do?’
‘Make it two,’ she said.
‘Make it five,’ he said, ‘just in case.’
He pulled a wad of notes from the drawer; five hundred in tenners secured by a bank-stamped manila paper band, and tossed it across the desk.
‘Anything else you want?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘If you discover anything important, ring me straight away. If there is something happening, the big beasts will soon detect it. Time is critical.’
She stood and smoothed her skirt down, smiled and turned for the door, saying, ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday.’
He stood too and waved her away with the back of his hand.
‘Six o’clock.’
‘I’ll be here.’
In the general office, she stuffed the money in her handbag before anyone could see it, and left the office without saying a word. She jumped a cab to Lime Street Station and was lucky; she made the train with minutes to spare. She found a seat in a non-smoking carriage where there were no yelling kids to disturb her thinking, and sat down, closed her eyes, and formulated plans.
Vimy turned his phones on and Christine rang straight away.
‘I have Bulent Tarsus on the line. Do you want to take the call? He sounds pretty impatient.’
‘Put him through.’
The line clicked and his ear filled with static. He heard Bulent’s voice, and the man sounded as if he was speaking from an Apollo spacecraft.
‘Vim-eee,’ he shouted, ‘is that you?’
‘Hello, Bulent.’
‘You are a hard man to catch. I thought you were avoiding me.’
‘I’m not avoiding you, Bulent, just been extremely busy.’
‘Good. That is good. The cotton, it goes well?’
‘It goes very well, and you’ve booked up the rest?’
‘It is all bought and ready, you can have it whenever you want.’
‘We’ll telex the delivery schedule.’
The line crackled and banged as if disconnected.
‘Are you still there, Bulent?’
‘I’m here, but I can barely hear you.’
‘I can hear you fine.’
‘It’s the other cargo that worries me,’ said Bulent. ‘You must make a decision. It is difficult for me if you only take some of the products. It may mean we miss out next year, you understand?’
‘I don’t want that to happen.’
‘Of course not. What do you want me to tell my people?’
‘I don’t think we have a choice.’
‘Not really. Not if you want to protect your interests here. There are other traders snooping around trying to muscle in; you know how it is, like vultures. We must act.’
Bulent couldn’t see that Vimy was sighing and nodding.
‘OK, Bulent, you have your deal, sort it out, we don’t want hassle, not when everything is running smoothly.’
‘Excellent. It is a wise decision. You are a clever man, Mr Ridge. I always said that. When are you coming out? I miss you. It’s the truth.’
‘In a month’s time.’
‘A whole month? Not before?’
‘I can’t get away before then.’
‘Telex me your arrival date and I will sort out accommodation and arrange an itinerary. I will take you places, show you local girls, a trip to remember, eh, my friend?’
‘Sounds good, thanks again.’
‘Good bye, Vim-eee!’
The line died and the sudden lack of static produced a moment of unexpected silence. It was a silence that reminded him that he must speak to Edson Laria at Merignac, and it was a call he was dreading.
He’d tried to tell Laura of the amazing offer Laria had made him, but with everything else going on, the right moment had never materialised. Perhaps subconsciously he didn’t want the moment to arrive, but whatever the reason, he hadn’t told her. If he had, he felt sure she would have told him to snap his hand off; perhaps that’s why he hadn’t. The last thing he wanted was a difference of opinion with her now they were lovers.
But there was no real choice to be made. He couldn’t and wouldn’t sell his soul. No matter how much he might enjoy being Cordell Mulroney’s boss, or unlimited cash in the bank, cachet, prestige, power, influence, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It would have been fun to boot Cordell’s butt to America and back, but that was one pleasure he’d have to forego. He’d make do with irritating the annoying prick. He picked up the phone and dialled Edson Laria.
The line to Merignac’s London headquarters was crystal clear, but their operator kept him waiting for five minutes, returning to apologise for keeping him hanging on, every thirty seconds. Without warning, the clear calm tones of Edson Laria sailed into Vimy’s ear.
‘Mr Ridge, what a pleasure. I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon. How are you?’
‘I’m well, Mr Laria.’
Vimy chose to follow the formal address that Laria had adopted.
‘I thought I’d ring you as soon as possible. I’d like to thank you and Jeb Lomax for taking the time to meet me last week, and for your hospitality.’
‘You’re welcome. You know we have always valued you as a competitor, and a fellow trader. We admire your achievements and expect you to achieve a great deal more. You are a young man of some standing, but you know that, hence our interest.’
Vimy noted that Laria had changed to addressing him by his Christian name, though he didn’t feel comfortable to do the same.
‘I have given your proposal a great deal of thought; in fact, I have thought of little else,’ a blatant lie, and they both knew it. ‘But I’m wrapped up in developing my own business and don’t feel confident I could give you my best.’
He paused, and Laria did not speak. The line was silent, and when the silence continued for a few seconds, Vimy thought they might have been interrupted. He was about to shout, ‘Hello’ down the line when Edson spoke, ‘Do I understand you are turning us down?’
Vimy’s turn to pause.
‘At the moment, yes, but in a year or two I may be in a different position, and perhaps we could talk again.’
Another long pause, as if Edson Laria was trying to think of the right words to deliver, or was he struggling with his temper? Then he said, ‘It is not a good idea to refuse Merignac, Mr Ridge. I definitely recommend you don’t do that.’
The words, so carefully chosen, had a ring to them that Vimy didn’t appreciate.
‘I am sorry, Edson, but there is nothing further to say. I thank you again for your kind offer, but it is not acceptable to me.’
There was no further pause, and the tone in Edson’s voice, though perfectly calm, hardened.
‘The last three people to turn Merignac down are residing in the graveyard.’
An astonishing thing to say, thought Vimy, words that belonged in a gangster movie.
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘No, I am stating facts, and I repeat my advice to you. If you persist on your current course, you and your piddling business will be crushed.’
Vimy had heard enough. He wished he’d taped the call.
‘I don’t think there’s anything further to be said. Good day to you.’
‘Mr Ridge, you will regret this.’
Before Vimy could say another word, the line was dead and Edson Laria had gone. But it was not the end of the matter. Merignac was back on the line within two minutes, Jeb Lomax, and he did not bother with introductions.
‘Are you mad? Have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘Jeb, Jeb!’
‘Don’t you Jeb me, you stupid limey bastard! Do you really think you can piss around with the Merignac Corporation? If you think you can mess with us, pal, you are making a big mistake. I’ll give you one hour to change your freaking frittered mind! Call me back, sleaze ball!’
The one sided conversation ended with Jeb Lomax smashing the phone down. Gone forever were any evangelical pretensions. The hour passed quickly and Vimy never once considered ringing back. Ten minutes later, Christine brought in a telex.
‘I don’t know what this is about,’ she said, giggling, placing the message before him. It read:
URGENT MESSAGE
FROM: The Merignac Corporation, London
TO: Ridge Commodities, Liverpool.
F.A.O. Mr Vimy Ridge.
Watch your back, pal.
Your friends at
Merignac, London
Message terminated.
CHRISTINE SEARCHED his eyes for reaction. He smiled, picked up the message, folded it in half and tucked it in his drawer.
‘Thanks, Christine, it’s a joke. No reply.’
He’d had enough for one morning, left the office, and went downstairs to the Corn Exchange. He skipped down the green marble stairs to the basement where the Men’s room lay. It was empty. He took a leak, washed his hands, and laughed aloud at Jeb Lomax. The man was in need of anger therapy. Someone was coming down the stairs. Vimy glanced in the mirror, as the round figure of Harold Jackson loomed up behind him.
He’d seen Vimy Ridge down below, preening himself at the basin before the mirror, drying his hands and combing his hair. Harold was in the mood for fun, and Harold’s idea of fun was not mainstream.
‘Morning, Vimy,’ he said smirking, ‘beautiful day.’
‘Morning, Harold, it is.’
He moved closer, standing behind Vimy, peering over his shoulder into the glass where the images of the two men’s faces stared back. Vimy finished combing his hair and tucked the comb inside his jacket.
‘My God, we’re handsome brutes,’ said Harold, his lips pursing. For a moment Vimy thought he might dribble over his shirt collar, and as he thought that, Harold’s hand rose and rested on Vimy’s right shoulder. He brushed away imaginary dandruff, lowered his hand, gently cupped it under Vimy’s right buttock, and squeezed the cheek while staring in the mirror, into Vimy’s eyes, searching for a response.
‘Take your hand off me,’ Vimy replied. ‘And don’t ever do that again.’
A look of mock horror s
pread across Jackson’s face. He held his hands to the side of his head and shook them like a minstrel.
‘Come off it, old man, it was only a bit of harmless fun. Don’t take yourself so seriously.’
‘I mean it, Harold, don’t!’
Freddie Fotheringay came down the stairs. He was whistling an old Welsh tune as he often did when business was brisk. Vimy hurried away, passing Fred on the stairs without looking him in the eye. Vimy hustled away with a cursory, ‘Morning, Fred,’ as he pushed his way out through the doors.
Fred looked back up the stairs, askance.
‘What’s wrong with him? That’s not like him.’
‘Hello, Fred,’ said Jackson, seeking a friend. ‘His trouble is he takes himself too seriously, no sense of humour, that’s his problem, no breeding, can’t take a joke. He’ll get over it.’
Freddie went to the latrine, muttering, ‘How bloody odd.’
‘Perhaps he’s had a bad morning, Fred.’
The men shared a tired laugh. ‘Maybe so.’
Fred made a mental note to find out what had transpired. He could detect bad blood at fifty paces, and that Men’s room was thick with it. He knew Vimy Ridge better than most, and he knew he wasn’t a man to be messed with.
Chapter Thirty-Three
THE BIG CITY GREEK police dramatically arrived on Carsos in the middle of the afternoon. The bosses had considered it sufficiently important to helicopter in the investigating team, a move that took Sergeant Sharistes completely by surprise.
He was busy on harbour duties, Andreas being ill again. After he took the call advising him of their arrival, he dispatched Iannos in his people carrier on the two-kilometre trip to Mr Demetrios’s grazing pastures. His gently sloping field was the nearest thing that Carsos boasted to an aerodrome.
The sheep and goats panicked at the sight of the Sikorsky ’copter dropping out of the sky, invading their rural idyll. They crammed, terrified, into one corner of the field beside the ancient stone wall, each desperate to be furthest away from the whirling black beast that disturbed their lazy afternoon. Four strangers and five large bags fitted into the square blue vehicle and headed for town, as the ’copter roared up and disappeared.
