The Business

by Iain Banks

  * * *

  'Hello?'

  'Mr Hazleton?'

  'Yes. Who is that?'

  'Kathryn Telman.'

  'Well, hello. Have you a new telephone, Kathryn?'

  'Yes. A satellite phone. Thought I'd test it out. This is my first call.'

  'Oh. I suppose I ought to feel honoured, oughtn't I?'

  'You rang off rather abruptly yesterday.'

  'Did I? I'm sorry.'

  'Why did you want me to see that, Mr Hazleton?'

  'What? The scene in the hotel? Oh, I thought it might come in useful for you.'

  'It's blackmail material, Mr Hazleton.'

  'It could be used as such, I suppose. I hadn't really thought of that. You weren't thinking of using it as such, were you?'

  'Why should I use it at all, Mr Hazleton?'

  'Oh, that's up to you, Kathryn. I simply thought to provide the material. How you use it is up to you.'

  'But why, Mr Hazleton? Why did you provide it?'

  'I'd have thought it was rather obvious, Kathryn. So that you would feel beholden to me, so that you would be well disposed towards me. It is a gift; I'm not asking for anything specific in return. But I know about the task that Tommy and Jebbet will have outlined to you by now, and it is a very important one for the company. That will make you a very important person. In a sense, it already has, even if you have not yet come to a decision. Have you, by the way?'

  'Not yet. I'm still thinking.'

  'That is sensible. It is a big step. A step that I, like the others, would like you to take, but you're right not to make the decision without serious thought. I'm sorry if I've given you even more to think about.'

  'Did you set this up, Mr Hazleton? I mean, the filming.'

  'Not I. You might say that the material fell into my hands.'

  'And why do you think that I in particular might be interested in it?'

  'Kathryn, it's not exactly common knowledge, but I think I know how you feel about Mr Buzetski.'

  'Oh, you do, do you?'

  'Yes. I like Stephen, too. I admire his integrity, his principles. It would be a pity if those principles were founded, as it were, on false premises though, wouldn't it? I thought that, as this piece of film existed, it might be of value to you. The truth can hurt, Kathryn, but it is usually preferable to falsehood, don't you think?'

  'Mr Hazleton, do you hold any evidence of a similar nature concerning me?'

  'Good heavens, no, Kathryn. This is not something I have any regular part in, or wish to encourage. As I said, the film fell into my hands.'

  'And what exactly makes you think I feel anything in particular for Stephen Buzetski in the first place?'

  'I'm not blind, Kathryn, and I am human. The same goes for the people who work for me. They understand emotions, they can empathise with people. Of course they make it their business to know how people in the company feel about their colleagues so that one doesn't accidentally place together people who hate each other. Just good business practice, really, and of genuine benefit to the individuals concerned, too. I'm sure you can appreciate that in the circumstances one doesn't have to try to discover who's attached to whom, to find out en passant, as it were. It just happens.'

  'I'm sure it does.'

  'Quite. So, you have the film, or video disc or whatever it's called. Frankly all this technology is beyond me. How you use it is up to you, though of course I entirely understand that you may wish not to use it directly, as it were. You may think it would be better if Stephen found out what has been going on without any reference to you, in which case I'm sure that a way could be found for him to discover the truth without you being involved in any way. All you would have to do would be to let me know.'

  'You make it all sound very reasonable, Mr Hazleton.'

  'Good. I'm glad.'

  * * *

  Stephen, help.

  How? I'm in a quandary. Where are you anyway?

  Home. Where are you?

  Karachi. Pakistan. Everybody OK there?

  Fine. Wow, you are trotting that old globe. What seems to be the problem, ma'am?

  New job offer.

  New job offer? What the hell can it be?

  Well, for one thing it's in confidence.

  You got it.

  And also it's in Thulahn.

  You have got to be kidding. No, you've got to be being kidded. That's the place in the Himalayas, right?

  The same.

  Explain. I can't wait. This isn't demotion is it? You haven't done anything foolish have you?

  Oh, it's not demotion. And I have done lots of foolish things, but enough about my sex life. They want me to, well, it's hard to explain. Scout the place out. I can't give you all the details, but they want me to settle there. Live there, get to know the people, try and suss how they're going to react to future changes, anticipate their collective mood, I guess.

  But there's nothing there, is there?

  Mountains. Lots and lots of mountains. And nine hundred thousand people.

  How much can't you tell me? Rough idea. Promise it'll go no further.

  Shit. Well, it's important. And it would be good for my career, I'm told. But it's a totally radical change. It means giving up the way I live my life, it means giving up what I'm good at, job-wise, it probably means giving up seeing my friends as much as I do at the moment and that's already barely enough. With the job, I don't know I'd ever be able to step back into it. I mean what I do now is all so techy and it's all moving so fast I probably can't leave it for more than about - you guess - maybe a year? Eighteen months max and everything I know will probably be obsolete. What they're proposing is, well, big, so it'll easily go over that eighteen months. Cutting to chase, the point is this is one of those Warning - Not Undoable decisions.

  Lordy mama. Don't know how to advise. Sounds like only you are in possession of the full facts.

  Wish same could be said for my faculties.

  It can. What's your gut feeling?

  I must have become a ruminant because I seem to have at least two different gut feelings. One says Fuck it, take it, other just scrunches up into little ball in corner and squeals No no no no no! But which is the real me?

  I know which one I'd go for.

  Ah, Stephen, if only.

  Emma's here at my side, so I'll just ask her...only kidding. When do you need to give them a reply?

  Indefinite. They'd like some sort of provisional idea in the next couple of weeks, but I could probably stall into '99 if I wanted.

  You're in Karachi. Close to Thulahn. Worth taking a few days there.

  Well, about 2000 km, but yes, wasn't that convenient? Ah, well. You're right. I probably will. Only the Prince could be a problem.

  Oh yes. He greatly admires and respects you, doesn't he?

  Has the hots for me. yes.

  Oh. Kate; you dismiss any and all professions of love as just lust. Maybe one of these guys is genuinely head over heels for you. Maybe they all are. It's a subtle form of self-denigration you're indulging in here, Kate.

  Oh, suddenly I'm on line to Dr Frasier Crane. You're listening. I'd no idea.

  So defensive, Kate.

  Well, maybe in the words of the immortal Whitney Houston, I'm saving all my love for somebody else.

  Anyway. I'm sure you can handle the Prince. Ahem.

  I'm sure too, but seriously, it's a consideration.

  Take that holiday, or whatever you want to call it. You're still on sabbatical, aren't you?

  Doesn't feel like it, but yes.

  So go.

  Good idea. Hey, I'd get to choose staff. You wouldn't want to move to Thulahn, would you? I mean not now but if all this happens? (Just kidding, really.)

  Kind of got commitments here. Schools, you know. Plus Emma not too keen on any incline beyond one in twenty. Probably a girl thing. High heels and stuff.

  Yeah, commitments. Like I said, just kidding. You could always visit though, yeah, yeah, huh, huh?

&n
bsp; Surely.

  Don't call me...actually you can call me anything/time you want. Ah, dear. I think tiredness is catching up on me. Bed beckons. I shall to my sheets. Thinking of you. Have a nice day. and from this end, good night.

  You are a rascal. Sweet dreams.

  Sweet dreams indeed. I put a finger to my lips and kissed it, then touched the tip to the screen on the words 'Sweet dreams'. Then I laughed at myself and shook my head. I closed the lap-top's lid. The machine beeped at me and the glow of light from the screen cut out just before it came down to meet the keyboard. Only the TV's screen was left on now, tuned to Bloomberg, sound off. I looked out at the lights of the city, and then up at the cornice of the room, between wall and ceiling. Everything was built in. Nowhere to just plonk a camcorder. Come to think of it, it had probably been something more sophisticated that had spied on Mrs B and her lover: you could put a camcorder lens into a pair of glasses these days so maybe the camera had been concealed in a smoke alarm or something and the rest of the mechanism housed somewhere its bulk didn't matter.

  I lifted the lap-top's lid up again; the screen flicked back on. I looked at the last few lines we'd exchanged. Commitments.

  'Oh, Stephen,' I whispered, 'what am I to do?'

  The DVD player was still in its box: I hadn't had the time or the inclination to try connecting it to my lap-top yet. The disc Poudenhaut had given me was still in my jacket pocket, hung up inside the wardrobe and smelling of smoke (all the industrialists on Mr C's yacht were heavy smokers). I didn't need the disc, or the DVD player. I could see Mrs Buzetski silently mouthing Oh, oh, oh, very clearly indeed, thank you.

  I didn't save our exchange to the lap-top's hard drive; I just powered down. First the machine, then, after a shower, me.

  Well, now, here was an interesting little treat: that nice Mr Cholongai had loaned me his company Lear. It was a good one, too; actually had facilities. The first time I was offered a lift on a private jet I was appalled to be told it might be an idea to visit the airport loo before we left as the plane didn't have a toilet. Finding that your ultimate corporate status symbol has less in the way of amenities than a modern express coach can take the gloss off the experience.

  I should be old enough not to want to do this sort of thing, but, well. I discovered my ordinary mobile phone would work and attempted to call my pal Luce back in California. Voicemail. I tried another of my girlfriends in the Valley. She was on an exercise bike in the gym and was suitably impressed when I told her where I was, but too breathless to be able to talk much. Still in a telephonic mood, I drew various blanks, machines and more voicemails, then got through to Uncle Freddy.

  'Guess where I am, Frederick.'

  'No idea, dear girl.'

  'In a Lear jet, all by myself, flying across India.'

  'Good heavens. I'd no idea you knew how to fly.'

  'You know what I mean, Uncle Freddy.'

  'Oh, you're a passenger?'

  'I am the passenger. I am outnumbered two to one by the crew.'

  'Well, good for you. I suppose there are times when it's good to be in the minority.'

  'Oh, really? Name one other.'

  'Umm…Troilism?'

  Given that only a few months earlier both India and Pakistan had been trading underground nuclear tests, it was probably a sign of how good our relations were with both states that the Lear was cleared straight through across both air spaces to a small airport at Siliguri, situated in the little bit of connective tissue that winds round the northern frontier of Bangladesh and beneath the southern limits of Nepal, Thulahn and Bhutan to join the main body of India with the appendage of Assam. The Himalayas, visible in the distance to the north throughout most of the flight as a deep sweep of glaringly white peaks, gradually disappeared under a layer of haze. I started playing Jagged Little Pill, but it was entirely inappropriate. Besides, I'd grown fed up with Alanis Morissette's little end-of-phrase gasps and hadn't forgiven her for entirely confirming the Brit prejudice that North Americans don't know the meaning of the word irony.

  I looked through my discs and decided I didn't have any music suitable for this view. Instead I fired up the DVD at last and put it through the lap-top, glancing at the film of Mrs B and her lover (like Emma, it did come with sound — the volume just hadn't been turned up before), then clicking through the documentary and photo files on the rest of the disc. Depressing. Soon enough we dipped towards the ambiguous landscape that was neither plains nor foothills around Siliguri.

  I had to change planes here. The Lear couldn't land at Thuhn: it needed about four times the length of runway there and it also wasn't really happy landing on anything other than smooth tarmac. As Thuhn's airstrip was composed of the sort of uneven gravelly earth that was pretty crap as a football park, let alone an airfield, this meant that the very nice young Norwegian co-pilot had to lug my bags across to the scruffy Twin Otter I recognised from the last time I'd made this trip.

  This two-engined Portacabin was the pride and joy of Air Thulahn, and indeed the only aircraft it actually possessed. There was a little socket just outside the pilot's sliding window; jamming a stick in there with the Thulahnese royal flag attached instantly converted the plane into the Royal Flight. The plane was wittily nicknamed Otto. It didn't really look all that primitive — well, apart from the props and the fixed undercarriage and the odd dent or two in the fuselage — until the ground staff opened up the nose (which I'd fondly assumed might contain radar, direction finders, instrument landing gear, that sort of thing) and dumped my luggage in the empty space revealed.

  The last time I'd climbed aboard Otto, at Dacca airport in Bangladesh, fresh off a PIA DC10 (terrible flight, perfect landing), I'd had to share the cabin with a gaggle of drunken Thulahnese bureaucrats (there were six of them; I later discovered this constituted about half of the entire Thulahnese civil service), two saffron-robed priests with funny hats and plastic bags full of duty-free cigarettes, a couple of peasant ladies who had to be dissuaded from lighting up their kerosene stove for a bowl of tea while in-flight, a small but pungent billy goat and a pair of vociferously distressed and explosively incontinent piglets. Oh, and there was a crate of hens, every one of which looked distinctly dubious about trusting their necks to such a patently un-airworthy craft.

  What a fine old time we had.

  On this occasion I was the only passenger, though there was a pile of crates secured by webbing behind the last row of flimsy seats and various sacks of mail occupying the front two rows. The pilot and co-pilot were the same two small, smiling Thulahnese guys I remembered from the last time, and they greeted me like an old friend. The preflight safety briefing consisted of telling me they suspected the last seat-pocket safety instruction card had been eaten by either a goat or a small child, but if I did happen to find another one on the floor or anywhere, could they have it back, please? They were due an inspection soon and these Civil Aviation Authority people were such blinking sticklers!

  I promised that in the unlikely event I opened my eyes at any point during the flight, I'd keep them peeled for laminated cards or indeed photocopies floating past on the breeze or stuck to the ceiling during a section of an outside loop.

  They thought this was most amusing. While my new flightdeck crew tapped gauges, scratched their heads and whistled worriedly through their teeth, I stuck my nose as close as I dared to the suspiciously smeared surface of the window and watched the sleekly gleaming Lear swivel its electronics-crammed nose round, briefly gun its twin jets and taxi towards the end of the runway. I suspect my expression at that moment would have displayed the same despairing regret of a woman who has in some moment of utter madness just swapped a case of vintage Krug for a litre of Asti Spumante.

  'You want we leave the door open?' the co-pilot said, leaning round in his seat. He'd been eating garlic.

  'Why would you do that?' I asked.

  'You get better view,' he said.

  I looked out between him and the captain at the tiny win
dscreen, only a metre and a half away, imagining it entirely full of rapidly approaching snow and rocks. 'No, thanks.'

  'Okay.' He pulled the door to the flight deck shut with an uneven, flapping thump. The sun visor on your average family saloon gave a greater impression of solidity.

  'Uncle Freddy?'

  'Kathryn. Where are you now?'

  'In a flying transit van heading straight for the highest mountains on Earth.'

  'Thought it sounded a bit noisy. In Tarka, are you?'

  'Tarka?'

  'Oh, no, wait, that was the plane before this new one.'

  'This is the new one?'

  'Oh, yes. Tarka crashed years ago. Everybody killed.'

  'Well, that's encouraging. I hope I'm not disturbing you, Uncle Freddy.'

  'Not at all, dear girl. Sorry if I'm disturbing you.'

  'Don't worry. I won't pretend this isn't partly to take my mind off the flight.'

  'Quite understand.'

  'But also I forgot to ask about the Scottish thing we discussed, remember, when we were fishing?'

  'Fishing? Oh, yes! Who'd have thought you could nab a trout at this time of year, eh?'

  'Who indeed. You do remember what we were — ah! — talking about?'

  'Of course. What was that?'

  'Air pocket or something. Hold on, a mail sack's just landed on my lap. I'm going to strap it into the seat beside me…Right. Did you get in touch with Brussels?'

  'Oh, yes. Your man is on his way to, umm, where you were.'

  'Good. Jesus Christ!'

  'You all right, Kate?'

  'Mountain…kind of close there.'

  'Ah. Yes, it is a rather spectacular flight, isn't it?'

  'That's one word for it.'

  'Your pal Suvinder back there yet?'

  'Apparently not, he's in Paris. Back in a few days. I may leave before he arrives.'

  'Don't forget to watch out for the prayer flags.'

  'What?'

  'The prayer flags. At the airport. All around it. Terribly colourful. They put flags wherever they think people need spiritual help.'