by Frank Coles
Corporations used them all the time for the same reasons he did. Privacy.
He clicked reply. Hesitated. What would he say? If he said the wrong thing he might scare them off.
He didn't have to be perfect. He wrote…
Who are you?
Savage +971 50 224 3911
...and pressed send.
He waited for it to go, and then immediately pressed send/receive again to see if anything came back. Too soon of course. Compulsively he pressed it again. Still too soon.
Twitch, twitch.
He knew what he had to do. He unplugged his portable hard drive and laptop, pulled a bag out from under the bed, opened the wardrobe, and began to pack.
A few minutes later Henry opened the door.
'Good,' he said. 'We leave in ten.'
Chapter Four
Rape or Kill? Or kill, then rape? A few hours later the man with the big blue eyes looked down at the check-in girl and wondered which he'd prefer, if he had the time.
She wore a close fitting Islam-friendly uniform. He could still see her voluminous breasts beneath. Nothing she could do about that.
'Did you pack your bags yourself sir?' she said.
'Of course I did sweetheart,' a Louisiana accent, the eastern European thing got old so quickly.
'Could anyone have tampered with your luggage?'
'No way.'
'Has anyone given you anything to take on-board.'
'Not today,' he said. 'Tell me, you're not local are you?' Of course she was. 'I can't place your accent.'
Her big lashes fluttered down. She said something about regular travel but he wasn't really listening. His mind already on the next job. Another stand-by clean up operation. But public, oh-so public. No holding back this time. And there would be more. By Wednesday it should all be over and he could spend his money.
Right then, he was just glad to leave the dirt, the dust and the bumbling Viktor persona behind.
He should have taken care of that journalist himself. But that wasn't his call.
Shame. He could have had some fun with Jessica Price before he'd found out what she knew. She'd been a looker.
He'd taken everything he needed from her bag in Henry's safe. He needn't have bothered motivating the troops to go back to the body for it. And Savage had run to this very airport yesterday.
But Savage delivered. His client had been right all along.
'And what is your destination Mr. Kevorkian?'
'London.'
'Oh, I adore London.
'Oh, me too. Do you visit much?'
'Actually I'm working this flight. I have a layover until Tuesday.'
Her eyes sparkled.
'Call me Konrad, please.'
'Business or pleasure sir?'
'Pleasure. Always pleasure.'
'Really?' she slid his passport and boarding card across the desk. 'I have no plans.' Her name and number on the top.
'Tayla,' he said. 'Looks like London really will be a pleasure. I'll see you soon.'
She looked him up and down.
'I hope so sir.'
He smiled at her as he walked away. They said you could tell a fake smile because it didn't reach the eyes. So he faked the eyes too.
His phone vibrated. The must-answer buzz.
He pulled it out, pressed open on the encrypted message and auto-logged into the system. A new name popped up and a new guess for him, another in the queue behind it. Both London based, of course.
He turned to see if Tayla was watching him leave. He gave her the smile again. She simpered.
London here I come, he thought.
MONDAY
Chapter Five
8.25am. The interior of the golden mirrored lift doors revealed a clean-shaven slightly bemused Savage rubbing his chin. He missed the beard.
The ID badge the receptionist had given him had a photograph from three years earlier. It pictured someone alien to the reflection in the mottled glow. Younger, more naïve, no scars, a slight smile, pale skin.
A different person.
He'd arrived Friday afternoon and spent the weekend cocooned in room service, trash TV and the hotel gym, trying to ignore the bad dreams. As Friday was the holy day in Arab lands, his normal working week started on Saturday, a UK Monday felt like mid-week already.
But the time off had been useful, he'd avoided the culture shock of coming home to the west and steeled himself for why he was there.
Bankers.
He'd forgotten about their special lift. The golden glow for their golden boys and girls, the money makers and the market makers. It was always the little things you forgot.
His reflection mocked him. He'd been so used to it, every morning, one of the chosen, the elite. He resented it now. The bland arrogance and entitlement to meaningless things.
And then the day he left. The day that all changed.
He'd been running from himself ever since. The fear and hurt replaced, by what? Coldness? Strength? Uncertainty?
Gravity made its presence known, the lift slowed. He readjusted the open cut-back collars of his crisp white shirt and checked his façade. You had to hand it to the Indian men in Arab lands, they knew how to tailor. He looked like he could kill and so did his suit.
It was a beard of another kind: the corporate uniform, the suit of armor, and he'd be damned if he couldn't make every other drone in the room just a little envious of the way he did it better than them.
His lack of tie would really piss them off.
The lift pinged and the doors opened. The face that greeted him, grunted once, and stepped in before he could step out.
'You're on time,' the man said with a look of contempt.
Savage took his time to respond.
'I'm always where I need to be. You know that.'
Two suits tried to get in and the man waved them away. 'Take the next one.'
He grunted again and pressed the button for the 40th floor.
The lift began its glide up, the man hit the disarm button and they juddered to a halt. He muscled into Savage's face. Nose to nose his breath spilled out, coffee and cigarettes flavored with peppermint. He grinned like a bull about to have his way with his queer.
'And where were you three years ago Savage? Where you should've been?'
'Trevor Thomson,' Savage gave him the biggest shit-eating grin he could muster, 'nice to see you again. Confused the toilet brush with the tooth brush this morning did we?
Thomson slammed him against the mirrored wall and that's when the prodding started.
'I. Don't. Want. You. Here. Do you understand?'
'Loud and clear.' Savage smiled again. Resisting the urge to break Thomson's neck. 'Is this where I'm supposed to feel scared?
The loudspeaker burst to life. 'Security. What seems to be the problem?' the voice said. 'Please press the green button to respond.'
Thomson's grip was ruining the line of Savage's perfectly pressed suit. The man snarled into his face.
'Now what? I could cry for help if you like?' Savage said.
'I'll give you something to cry about.'
'Trev, I've been in the building less than ten minutes and you've already assaulted a staff member. I'm sure even a jaded ex-copper like you knows how that looks. The head of security loses his job, sorry, my job, again. Standards have certainly slipped.'
Thomson slammed him one last time against the wall and let go. He straightened his own suit and then pressed the intercom button.
'It's Thomson. Safety test. Your responses were sloppy. Get this thing moving.'
'Yes sir!' the disembodied voice said.
He turned to Savage. 'Why you?'
Savage smoothed his suit and kept the wide unrelenting smile on his face. Very Tom Cruise. Could he make him snap again?
'They needed a kite,' Savage said.
'A what?'
'Well let's see. You and your team are cleaning house?'
'Possibly.'
Savage raised an e
yebrow. 'While your team clean house and keep tabs on whoever has been naughty, it's my job to be the kite. You fly me high and bright to distract the crowds' attention, and while they're all looking up at the sky, you riffle through their pockets, their cell phones, their bank accounts and their lives to find out what's really going on.'
The lift moved slowly back to life.
'That's it?' Thomson said.
'That's it. I make myself obvious while you do all the real work.'
'But why you?'
'With my rep. Are you kidding? Who's going to draw more attention than a blood red kite the size of an airplane.'
'True enough.' Thomson smirked, like a schoolboy bully who'd got away it. 'You mean, they'll worry they'll end up dead like the last guy?'
'Something like that.'
'So you got the files I sent you?' Thomson said.
'Yep.'
'Read them?'
'Skimmed,' he said. 'In the hotel.'
'The presentation?'
'Sure, that too.'
'Oh, good,' he said.
The lift doors opened.
'So where're we going?'
Golden light gave way to the bright white floors and delicately tinted glass walls of the conference area. One of those ultramodern affairs that looks like a 1970s futurist's innermost fantasy come to life.
Thomson led the way, strutting along the corridor. The receptionist caught his eye, he pointed a question at the nearest door.
'They're already in there, sir. Waiting for you.'
He grunted at her and strode on. Swinging the smoked glass door open to a corner conference room. A long oval table sat in the centre, suits all round.
The sudden sense of light and space lifted Savage's spirit after the dark confines of the lift.
Especially the windows on two sides that looked out from London's Canary Wharf over the sunlit Thames. The air conditioning in the room kept it chilly. Savage shivered. The desert now truly behind him.
'Jesus,' he said. 'Any colder and my nipples'll drop off.'
'Good morning everybody,' Thomson started over the top of him. 'Apologies for the delay, our new colleague was late arriving. You all know him I think?'
Nods all round. The ayes have it. What the hell was Thomson doing?
'His reputation certainly precedes him. But now he's public sector rather than private it appears as if being on time isn't such an issue. So again, my apologies.'
Undermining him, that's what. Seconds late because of that stunt in the lift. The faces listened to Thomson and checked Savage out. None of them looked happy about being there. He recognized some, but couldn't place names.
'Savage,' Thomson continued, 'Yes, that really is his name, will be explaining why the government has shown such an interest in us.
'Everything is set up for you here,' Thomson patted the laptop on the desk in front of him. 'You seem confused Mr. Savage. This is your presentation.'
Mother fucker, Savage thought, then smiled appreciatively at the room.
Thomson leaned in, grinning like the petulant child he was. 'If only you'd really read those files, hey? Knock 'em dead, tiger,' he shouldered past him to the back of the room.
Savage fixed his smile on don't-ask-me-questions-or-I'll-crumble mode. He dumped his bag on the chair and woke the laptop.
'Bear with me a moment, please, everyone,' a blush warmed his cheeks.
A presentation. He couldn't think of anything worse. At least mission briefings had an objective. He didn't know who he was presenting to, or what he was presenting.
He'd skimmed it because the material had no point, it was presentation fluff that kept people like Thomson busy and feeling important while not doing very much of anything. He tried to remember the basics of corporate life, what did people normally do at this point?
He saw business cards on the desktop and heard the first snippets of conversation.
'Is it really him? The cheek of it.'
'I heard he killed that man.'
'The trader?'
'Didn't he jump?'
'I heard he was pushed?'
'My boss was there, Devlin knows Savage,' the woman leaned in. 'She said he was an animal.'
'Yeah? Hang on, look, he's pulled his finger out.'
The screen came to life. The presentation already on the desktop, he double clicked it and the first screen popped up: Methodologies of Uncovering Financial Discrepancies
within International Banking Organizations
By John Savage, Auditor, Financial Services Authority
He sensed Thomson's Cheshire cat gloat behind him. Savage closed his eyes for a moment, listened to his heart race, felt his palms moisten, heard his breathing quicken. He thought he could just walk in and pick up where he'd left off. He'd forgotten all the things he'd previously taken for granted, the politics and procedures, the little things.
Like not standing in the middle of a room with your eyes shut.
He opened them to find everyone looking at him. Looking at his crotch to be exact. He looked down too. His right hand was inside the waistband of his trousers, his left covering the missing pistol for a covert draw. His unconscious thought this was a gunfight.
Oh-kaay, controlled breath in - count to seven - he moved his hands to the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a card holder - and breathe calmly out.
'If you could fire your cards down this end of the table,' he said, 'we can get started.'
He looked at his own cards. John Savage, Intelligence Operator, a mobile number that went to an answering service and an email address. Nothing about the FSA at all.
So be it.
He fired his own back.
He skimmed the titles of the cards in front of him: Chief Administrative Officer, Chief Operating Officer, Chief Financial Officer, Chief Information Officer, Sales Director, Chief Risk Officer...everyone but the CEO. It was an unofficial operating committee meeting.
The suits at the table were a mix of different pin-stripes, even the women, of which there were two, a high percentage for a pseudo-board meeting. Everyone met his eye, apart from the woman with her head down working on her Blackberry. The CIO he guessed by her slightly bohemian demeanor. The other woman raised her hand when he caught her eye.
'Yes?' he said. Teacher to a pupil.
'The CAO is flying,' she said.
'That's a neat trick for a chief admin.'
'No. I'm mean I'm Vanessa, Jo Devlin's deputy. I'll be standing in and recording this for later consumption.'
'Great,' he said, unexpectedly happy that Devlin was absent.
Then the door opened and a very different bombshell went off.
She wore a form-fitting charcoal dress with a jacket over the top. Every fat man in stripes swiveled towards her. Her dark hair slicked back like burnt rubber on tarmac. Her dusky skin set to shoulders.
And she said, 'Hi John,' just like that.
Savage unfroze when Natasja took her seat at the head of the table. He looked back towards the door, his heart banging like a cannibal's drum.
Was Michael with her? Of course not. Get a grip man.
Her card sailed down the table. Followed by another. The CEO's.
'I'm Sutherland's PA now John. I'll be recording this session too. He's, ah, been called away at the last minute and makes his apologies to you and everyone here.'
There were a couple of grumbles. Trouble within the rank and file?
'It's not even a proper OpCo.'
'Probably still in bed.'
'Still in something no doubt, a gutter most likely.'
'Gutter whore more like.'
'Can we move on,' Natasja said, pointing in Savage's direction.
'Thanks,' he said.
He found the remote for the lights and dimmed them, then pointed up at the first slide.
'As you know since the crash all banks are being investigated for irregularities relating to unsound investments and poor financial practices.
'And I'm sur
e you're well aware Maclays have out-performed when everyone else has died on their feet. While other banks are being rescued by the taxpayer, you are making more profits than ever.
'Nobody suspects anything improper but all i's must be dotted, and all t's crossed, even for those banks performing well. Hopefully we can even learn something from you during my time here. You may be the benchmark for how to run a bank.'
They smiled back at the flattery. Just business as usual, just another presentation.
He risked another look at Thomson, his face was neutral. Disappointed that Savage hadn't crumbled into a heap on the floor perhaps?
First slide. Something generic about markets. He reread out loud what was on screen. Doesn't everyone?
Second slide. Pretty pictures for those hard of thinking. Bar graphs, pie charts.
Third slide. Areas of difficulty.
Savage could almost hear the effort of straining eyelids.
Fourth slide. Problem-reaction-solution scenarios. And the next two.
Oh god, he could barely keep his own eyes open. He imagined watches glanced at. He looked back. Yup, more than one. He'd forgotten how dull Thomson's mind had been.
Seventh slide. Critical path analysis of a process...
'Then, slide eight, a bad investment analysis,' Savage said aloud, 'Slide nine, a fraud,' he pressed the button. 'Next slide, a criminal enterprise-'
He looked down at the laptop in front of him unable to meet anyone's eye. The echoes of his past behavior, when he'd been a corporate automaton, tried to reassert themselves. Doff your cap to the higher ups, just do what you're told, tow the line.
He flicked the lights on.
'PowerPoint makes you stupid,' he said. 'No offence. But you all know my reputation. What did they say in the old days "Savaged to death". Nobody knows that more than you Natasja, am I right?'
She smiled, non-committal and waved her hand for more.
Savage walked around the room.
'What are you doing?' Thomson said. 'Just finish the presentation.'
'Let's not trivialize why we're here with a bunch of slides and meaningless bullet points. Excuse me,' he tapped the Chief Operating Officer on the shoulder, the only slim one of the bunch. 'What's in the bag?' he pointed to a hold-all at the man's feet.
