The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Sean Francis, her management division assistant, was waiting for her inside the building. She actually quite liked Sean, although be annoyed a lot of people with his perfectionist efficiency. She had appointed him to her personal staff soon after inheriting the company.

  He was thirty-four, a tall dark-haired man with a degree in engineering administration who had joined Event Horizon right after graduation. It said a lot for his capability that he had risen so far so fast. Greg had checked him out for her once; his loyalty was beyond reproach.

  He was wearing the same conservative style of suit as every other data shuffler in the building. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she let it be known she preferred employees to wear tank-tops and Bermuda shorts. Knowing the way people jumped around her, they probably would all turn up in them.

  Might be worth doing.

  “Did you have a nice flight, ma’am?” Sean asked pleasantly.

  Julia put her hands on her hips. “Sean, it’s pissing down with rain, and the bloody plane nearly got skewered by lightning bolts. What do you think?”

  His jaw opened, then closed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said humbly. “Sorry-”

  She caught a tiny flickering motion from the corner of her eye, and thought Caroline was making a hand signal. But when she turned her PA was rolling up the umbrella, a guileless expression in place.

  It’s a conspiracy.

  She took a grip on her nerves. I am not affected by what that senile whore Jakki Coleman said. I’m not.

  “My fault, Sean.” She gave him one of her heartbreaker smiles. “Those thunderbolts are frightening when you’re so close to them.”

  “That’s all right, ma’am. I’m scared of them, too.”

  The conference room was on the corner of the headquarters building; two walls were made from reinforced glass with a brown tint, giving a view over the rain-dulled streets of Westwood. It was decorated in the kind of forced grandeur which was endemic among corporate designers the world over: deep-piled sapphire-blue carpet, two Picassos and a Van Gogh hanging between big aluminium-framed prints of the Fens before the Warming, huge oval oak table, thickly padded black-leather chairs, pot plants taller than people. Everything was shameless ostentation.

  Julia was all too aware that her boots were leaving muddy footprints as she walked to her chair at the head of the table. There were several startled glances among the delegates when they saw her Goth clothes. Damp hair hanging in flaccid strings didn’t help.

  Eight of her own staff were sitting along one side, premier executives from each of the company’s divisions. Lined up against them were Valyn Szajowski, Argon Hulmes, Sir Michael Torrance, Karl Hildebrandt, and Sok Yem, the representatives from Event Horizon’s financial backing consortium. There were over a hundred and fifty banks and finance houses in the consortium, making it one of the largest in the world. In the first two years after the fall of the PSP they had extended seventy per cent of the money which Philip Evans had needed to re-establish the company in England. Event Horizon under his guidance had proved to be an ultra-solid investment; even though there had been some nervousness about his enthusiasm for the company’s space programme, he had never missed a payment. With the global economy at that time still extremely shaky, membership of the consortium was highly prized, and jealously guarded.

  But then two years ago, after Julia inherited the company lock, stock, and barrel, the once eagerly proffered loans became suddenly hard to obtain and those that were available had inordinately high interest rates. The conservative financial establishment had zero faith in teenage girls as corporate owner-directors. They wanted more say in the way Event Horizon was run, a position on the management board, possibly even the directorship. Just until she was older, they explained, until she understood the mechanism of corporate management-say in about twenty years. Their reluctant but firm insistence had turned into the biggest tactical error in modern financial history. Respected financecast commentators were already calling it the Great Loan Shark Massacre.

  Armed with the giga-conductor royalties, and (unknown to the consortium) her grandfather’s NN core, she stuck up a grand two-fingered salute, and carried on expanding the company at an even faster rate. Existing loan repayments came in ahead of schedule, with corresponding loss of interest payments, and fewer loans were applied for. The consortium’s income began to fall off while Event Horizon’s cash flow and profits grew; their golden egg was tarnishing rapidly.

  Sean pulled her chair out, and she sat down, glowering at the artificial smiles directed towards her. Sean and Caroline sat on either side.

  Open Channel To NN Core.

  Well hello there, Miss Grumpy Guts. And whats today’s temper tantrum all about?

  I am not in a temper, Grandpa.

  Ha! I’m plugged in to the conference room’s security cameras. If looks could kill, my girl, you’d be in a room of corpses.

  Did you see… Never mind. No. Did you see Jakki Coleman’s ‘cast this morning?

  Bloody hell, girl, I haven’t got time for crap like that, not even with my capacity.

  She was on about what I wore yesterday. I had three fittings for that outfit, you know. Three.

  Really.

  Sabareni is one of the best haute couture houses in Europe. It’s not like I’m going to Oxfam.

  That’s a great relief to hear.

  Seven thousand pounds it cost.

  I wouldn’t want you stinting, Julia.

  Don’t be so bloody sarcastic. Seven thousand pounds! Well I can’t possibly wear it again. Not now.

  Juliet, could we possibly start the meeting, please.

  Yah, all right. I bet they all saw the ‘cast. Seven thousand pounds!

  Oh, Gawd… The silent voice carried a definite air of pique.

  The management team and consortium representatives sat down, their earlier bonhomie fractured by her black mood.

  Good. They might cut short the usual smarmy attempts to ingratiate themselves.

  The terminal flatscreen recessed into the table in front of her lit up with the meeting’s agenda.

  “I am happy to report that, as I’m sure you all saw yesterday, the Clarke spaceplane project is on schedule,” Julia said. “First flight is due in a month, first orbital test flight should take place ten weeks later. Assuming no catastrophic design flaw, deliveries will start in a year.”

  “That’s excellent news, Julia,” Argon Hulmes said. “Your Duxford team is to be congratulated.”

  “Thank you,” she replied equably.

  The consortium representatives had all been changed over the last two years until not one of the original members remained. This new batch were all younger, a not very subtle attempt to make her feel more comfortable. Although even now the banks still couldn’t quite bring themselves to appoint anyone under thirty-eight; Sok Yem from the Hong Kong Oceanic Bank was the youngest at thirty-nine. Rumour said that Argon Hulmes’s superiors had ordered him to have plastique before he got his seat, bringing his appearance down from forty-three to thirtyish.

  Thirty and then something, Julia thought. He was always trying to talk to her about groups and albums and raves; his Christmas present had been a bootleg AV recording of a Bil Yi Somanzer concert. She imagined him dutifully plugging into the MTV channel each evenmg, updating himself on current releases, who’s hot and who’s flopped. A fine occupation for a middle-aged banker.

  “We will break even on three hundred spaceplanes,” she said. “That should come in about three years’ time. My spaceline, Dragonflight, has just placed firm orders for another fifteen, and options on thirty-five, to cope with the nuclear Waste disposal contract we were awarded yesterday. We are expecting additional disposal contracts from five or six more European governments to be signed over the next few months, and of course national aerospace lines will want to get in on the act.”

  Sean Francis took his cue flawlessly. “Nuclear waste disposal has enabled us to upgrade our estimates on space-related indust
ry turnover by forty-five per cent over the next four years,” he said. “It is a completely untapped revenue source. Should it be exploited fully, its potential is staggering. No government on the planet will be able to refuse its electorate a safe and final solution to disposing of radioactive material. And there are currently forty-three redundant nuclear power stations in Europe alone, with a further seventeen scheduled to be decommissioned over the next decade.”

  “Such a pity the consortium didn’t consider my Sunderland vitrification plant a worthwhile investment,” Julia said. “You could have shared in the profits. The margin is considerable, given that I now have a virtual monopoly on the technology.”

  Sir Michael leaned forward earnestly. “We would be very happy to fund any expansion to the vitrification plant, Julia. Now that the requirement has been proved, and very ably proved if I might say so. The nuclear waste disposal contract is a marvellous development, we’re all very pleased.”

  No, Juliet, absolutely not, cut them out of the vitrification. Squeeze the bastards.

  She gave Sir Michael a smile which withered his sudden display of enthusiasm. “The vitrification plant was a five hundred million pound risk,” she said in her lecturer’s voice. “And having taken that risk all by myself, I intend to benefit all by myself. The profits generated by this new venture will be more than sufficient to fund its own expansion. Thank you.”

  “Julia, I think we are all agreed that your handling of the company is impeccable,” Sir Michael said. “And in view of this we would like to offer to set up a floating credit arrangement of three billion New Sterling which you can call upon at any time to fund new ventures. This way we could avoid the delays and queries inherent with having to process loan requests through the consortium’s standing review committee.”

  The other representatives murmured their approval, all of them watching her, willing her to accept.

  We’ve got ‘em, Juliet. They don’t offer anyone a blank cheque unless they’re under a lot of pressure. Now, remember what we agreed, girl?

  Hit them with the wind-up scenario. Then the Prior’s Fen scheme.

  That’s my girl.

  She tented her fingers, and gave them an apologetic look. “Oh dear, how embarrassing. I believe my finance director has a summary he wanted to present. Alex, if you would, please.”

  Alex Barnes stood up, a fifty-three-year-old Afro-Caribbean with a receding cap of grizzled hair. His suit with velvet lapels did at least lift him above the level of corporate clone.

  He began to recite a stream of accounts; figures, dates, and percentages merging together in a wearisome drone of statistics.

  The representatives were looking very itchy by the time he finished.

  “What it means,” Julia said sweetly, ‘is that the loans which the consortium has so far extended to Event Horizon will be repaid in seven years. After that, the company will be totally self-financing. Now, as the company’s expansion plans have already been finalized for that period, with the exception of Prior’s Fen, I really can see no reason to extend my period of indebtedness. Certainly not at the level of your floating credit proposal, which I have to say is disappointingly paltry given Event Horizon’s size.”

  There was a moment of silence as the representatives exchanged a comprehensive catalogue of facial expressions. Interestingly, only Argon Hulmes allowed any ire to show. So much for solidarity amongst fellow youth-culture subscribers.

  Some clandestine and invisible voting system elected Sir Michael as their spokesman. “Exactly what were you proposing to do out at Prior’s Fen?” he enquired in a chary tone.

  Karl Hildebrandt remained behind after the meeting. The request for a talk-’Not business, I assure you’-from the wily old German was intriguing enough for Julia to humour him.

  Sean remained seated at her side, while Caroline helped shepherd the others from the room. Eventually there were only the three of them left at the table, plus Rachel sitting quietly on a chair by the window.

  Diessenburg Mercantile, the Zurich bank which Karl represented, was one of the larger members of the consortium, accounting for six per cent of the investment total. Karl himself was in his late forties, and putting on weight almost as fast as Uncle Horace; a fold of pink flesh was overlapping his collar (she could count about four chins), his blond hair was veering into silver. His suit came from Paris, a narrow lapel helping to de-emphasize his barrel chest; steel-rimmed glasses were worn for effect, bestowing an air of dependability.

  She approved of him for the one reason that he didn’t try to pretend, like Argon Hulmes.

  “I know it has been said before, Julia,” he said. “But you are quite a remarkable young girl.” There was hardly any German accent. Perhaps one of the reasons he’d been selected as a representative.

  “Thank you, Karl. You’re not going to come on to me like Argon, are you?”

  He laughed softly, and closed up his cybofax, slipping it into his inside jacket pocket. “Certainly not. But to squeeze a fixed interest twelve billion pound investment loan out of banks and finance houses is an achievement beyond some kombinates.”

  “Prior’s Fen is a viable project. No risk.”

  “The cyber-precincts, maybe. But to make us pay for a rail link before we can invest in them. That’s cruel, Julia.”

  “You get your interest payments, I get my cyber-precincts. Point to a victim, Karl.”

  “None, of course. That is why you triumph all the time.”

  “So you think the review committee will approve the loan?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “I thought this wasn’t going to be business.”

  “I apologize. But everything has its roots in politics.”

  She couldn’t ever remember seeing Karl in such an ambivalent mood before. It was as if he wanted to talk about some important topic, but didn’t quite know how to broach the subject. A parent explaining sex to a giggly teenager. “You want to talk about politics? I wasn’t old enough to vote at the election even if I had been in the country. I will in the next, though.”

  “You certainly play politics like a master, Julia. That’s why I was not surprised when you were given the nuclear waste disposal contract. Admiring, but not surprised.”

  “Thank you, it took some arranging, but I’d like to think I am flexible when it comes to co-operating with the English Ministry of Industry.”

  “Yes. However, there are questions being asked in some quarters about the closeness of Event Horizon and the Ministry. It might almost be referred to as a partnership.”

  “I have never offered cash to an MP,” she said. “And I never will.”

  “No. But the relationship, imaginary though it is, can be seized upon by opposition parties. The Big Lie, Julia; say something loud enough for long enough, and people will begin to believe. Ultimately that will affect Event Horizon; artificial constraints will be placed on you. Your bids will be refused simply because they are yours; politicians publicly demonstrating that they are not showing any favouritism. And that cannot be allowed.” He smiled crookedly. “It’s bad for profits, if nothing else. Bad for us.”

  Julia began to wonder which ‘us’ he was talking about. “I will just have to shout louder. And I can shout, very loud indeed.”

  “An official denial is like an Oscar to a rumour.”

  “Are we going to sit here all afternoon and quote bons mots at each other, Karl?”

  “I would hope not.”

  “Well, what would you like to see me do?”

  “Some circumspection wouldn’t hurt, Julia. I know you are reasonably adroit, that’s why I find your latest action somewhat puzzling.”

  She sneaked a questioning look to Sean. But he just shrugged minutely.

  “What action?”

  “Imposing that Mindstar veteran, Greg Mandel, on the Kitchener inquiry. It was terribly public, Julia. You were his bridesmaid. Really! It leaves you wide open to the rabblerousers and conspiracy theorists.”

/>   She regarded him thoughtfully. “How did you know about Greg?”

  “It was all over the channel newscasts.”

  “Oh.” Even so, it was odd that he should know so quickly. She had spent most of the morning swotting up on datawork for the meeting, and that was with nodes augmenting her brain. Did he really have each news item concerning Event Horizon brought to his attention? Then she remembered Jakki bitch Coleman. It hadn’t been every minute, after all. “I take your point, Karl. Actually, I’ve already started damage limitation.”

  “Mandel has been taken off the case?”

  “No, I need to know who killed Kitchener. But you won’t be hearing about the link between Greg and myself any more, not on the channels.”

  “Ah. I’m glad to hear it.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Nicholas wasn’t really interested in his surroundings any more, so the pokey interview room didn’t lodge in his mind until Greg Mandel looked at him. Looked inside him, more like, right through his skull into his brain.

  The lawyer, Lisa Collier, had explained about the psychic being assigned to the investigation. She had seemed very irate about it, going on about how his rights were being violated, procedural irregularities, hearsay being taken as evidence. Nicholas didn’t mmd a psychic being appointed; anything, anything at all which would bring the killer a step nearer to justice was totally justified. That was simple logic, obvious.

  Why couldn’t the Collier woman see that?

  He had been staying in one of the cells at Oakham police station since Friday, although the door was always left unlocked. “You aren’t being held on remand,” the police kept explaining. “You’re just here to help us.” He nodded at their anxious faces, and answered every question the detectives asked. They seemed surprised that his answers were so consistent. As if he could forget anything that had happened on that night.

  It was the last night of his life. Nothing had happened to him since. There was only the mechanics of the body, eating, going to the toilet, sleeping. That was all he had done since then, slept and answered questions. He was allowed to mix with the other students, but they never expected him to say anything anyway. They had moaned about the accommodation, about not being allowed out, the food, the bathroom.