76
* * *
Parkview Hospital, Wimbledon
UNDER ANY NORMAL circumstances, the victim of a violent, potentially fatal attack on Southside Common would be taken three miles across the South London suburbs to St George’s Hospital, Tooting. A teaching hospital that has won national awards for its standards of care, St George’s has an accident and emergency department that sees around a hundred thousand patients a year. It is open every hour of every day, has a resuscitation area for critically injured patients, and is staffed by four consultants, forty junior doctors and around fifty nursing staff. But when the ambulance carrying Malachi Zorn raced away from the scene of the assassination attempt, it did not drive east towards that waiting A & E. Instead it double-backed across Wimbledon Common, before turning north and then dashing less than a mile towards a smaller, private hospital that had no emergency facilities at all. It did, however, boast a much more significant speciality: extreme discretion. And in the case of Malachi Zorn, a billionaire financier attacked by an impromptu black ops team unofficially commissioned by Her Majesty’s government, privacy and silence were far more significant priorities than quality of treatment.
By the time that the ambulance drove through the hospital entrance and into a forecourt hidden from inquisitive passing eyes by a tall, thick hedge, Carver had already arrived, parked his bike and was waiting to greet it. He followed the paramedics as they rolled the gurney carrying Zorn’s blood-soaked body across the tarmac, past the plain-clothed policemen standing guard by the front door, and into the hospital itself. There was no one at all in the reception area, except for a single doctor. He was dressed in a suit, rather than scrubs, and he was not waiting to carry out a swift examination of his patient’s injuries, as one might have expected in a case of this kind. There was no attempt to administer drugs and fluids or blast the motionless figure back to life with shocks from defibrillator pads. Instead he just raised the blanket that had been covering Zorn’s face, gave a quick, brisk, businesslike nod and said. ‘Take him to Room 68, top floor,’ before following the gurney, the paramedics and Carver into the lift.
The atmosphere was oddly calm as they rose three floors to the top of the building, just the usual mix of self-conscious silence and uneasy attempts to avoid one another’s eyes. Then the doors opened, and the doctor stepped out first with a brisk ‘This way,’ as he strode away down the corridor. Room 68 was at the end, occupying one corner of the building. It had that three-star-hotel look so beloved by private hospitals: all pastel walls and patterned curtains, with two visitors’ chairs and a flat-screen TV on the wall opposite the bed. The chairs were occupied, and the TV was on as Zorn was rolled into the room, lifted off the gurney and placed upon the bed, still in his bloodied clothes, uncovered by any blanket.
‘Ah,’ said Jack Grantham, switching off the TV and getting to his feet, ‘the moment of truth.’
He stepped close to Carver, and in little more than a whisper said, ‘Six bodies in a tunnel underneath Centre Court, and a home-made bazooka disturbing the peace of the leafy, Tory-voting suburbs. That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? Even by your standards.’
Then, as the paramedics left the room, Grantham turned back towards the bed, assumed the cheerful demeanour of a drinks-party host greeting his guests, and said, ‘Good afternoon, doctor, my name’s Grantham. I work for the Secret Intelligence Service.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Grantham,’ replied the doctor. ‘I’m Assim. Hmm … your face seems familiar. There was some publicity at the time of your appointment, I believe.’
Grantham grimaced. ‘Yes, we’re not as secret as we used to be … More’s the pity.’
Assim frowned inquisitively at the man who had risen to his feet from the second chair, and was now standing at the foot of the bed, tugging nervously at his moustache. ‘And you must be …?’
‘Cameron Young. I work for the Prime Minister. Look, can we get on with this, please? I need to report back to Number 10 as soon as possible.’
‘This is Carver,’ said Grantham, paying no apparent attention to Young as he completed the introductions.
‘So what is your position?’ Assim asked, shaking Carver’s hand.
‘Self-employed,’ Carver replied. ‘A private contractor, you might say.’
‘I see,’ said Assim. ‘And you are responsible for the fact that Mr Zorn is with us here this afternoon?’
‘Yes, he’s here because of me,’ said Carver. ‘But he isn’t Malachi Zorn.’
77
* * *
DR ASSIM LOOKED puzzled. A slow, sly grin spread across Grantham’s face. And the tension on Cameron Young’s face was replaced by a look of appalled surprise.
‘What the bloody hell do you mean? Of course it’s Malachi Zorn. Just look at him!’ Young exclaimed.
‘All right,’ said Carver, ‘I will.’
He went to the side of the bed. ‘Malachi Zorn is five feet ten inches tall and weighs around a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Looks about right, wouldn’t you say? He has dark-blond hair: check. He has hazel eyes.’ Carver reached over and lifted an eyelid to reveal a sightless eye. ‘Check. His facial features look remarkably like these ones here.’
‘Yes, because he’s Malachi bloody Zorn!’ Young interrupted.
‘Except,’ Carver continued, unperturbed, ‘that Malachi Zorn is a lifelong bachelor. He’s never even got engaged, still less married. That means he’s never worn a ring on his wedding finger. So how do you explain this?’
Carver lifted up the body’s left hand and separated the fourth finger from the others. ‘Look,’ he said.
‘Look at what?’ asked Young. ‘It’s a finger, what’s the big deal?’
‘Look at the colour of the skin, just here, at the base of the finger. It’s paler than the rest, like skin that’s been covered for years by a ring. And if you look very closely, you’ll see that the skin is slightly indented, which is what happens when you wear a ring for a long time. Now, the skin is beginning to get some colour, and the indent is much less than it would have been when the ring was first removed, so I’m guessing it’s been a couple of months since he took it off. But even so, this man was married. So he can’t be Malachi Zorn.’
‘That’s it?’ asked Young incredulously. ‘That’s your entire reason for thinking this isn’t Zorn? I never heard anything so ridiculous! The whole point of this lunatic exercise was to strike back at Malachi Zorn because – or so you claimed, Grantham – he was a mass-murderer who had wreaked appalling damage on the UK economy. And now you’re telling me that we got the wrong man?’
‘I’m not telling you that,’ said Carver. ‘I got the right man. Well, the man I meant to get, anyway. Could you examine his face, please, doctor? Look out for signs of recent plastic surgery.’
Assim glanced around, seeking confirmation. ‘Go ahead,’ Grantham said.
The doctor stooped over the head of the supposed Malachi Zorn, and ran his fingers along the hairline, around the right temple, parting the first few strands of hair to reveal the skin beneath. ‘Hmm … very interesting,’ he murmured to himself. He turned on the reading light above the bed to give himself more light. ‘Yes, there is clearly some scarring here,’ he said. ‘And it would be consistent with a temporal incision for an endoscopic rhytidectomy. That’s to say: a mid-face lift.’
Assim leaned back a fraction, turned his head slightly to one side, and narrowed his eyes, focusing on the man’s nose. He took a tissue from a box beside the bed and rubbed it along an area of the bridge of the nose that had not been spattered with blood. ‘Concealer,’ he said, lifting the tissue to reveal a smear of flesh-coloured make-up. Then he looked again, moving his head to view the nose from a series of different angles before pressing his fingers delicately on the area that he had been examining.
‘There’s some very slight residual swelling, as one might expect from surgery carried out four or five months ago,’ Assim said. ‘It’s barely perceptible and the discolouration is very slight, and easily covered up with a minimal amount of make-up. But it’s certainly there.’
He turned the head to one side and looked behind an ear and underneath the jaw, on both occasions wiping the concealer away to reveal faint scars. ‘Yes, there’s no doubt that this man has undergone a number of surgical procedures. I’d need to X-ray him, of course, to be completely certain. But I would not be surprised to find evidence of work on his jawbone, his chin, the bossing of his skull, his cheekbones and even the orbital rims around his eyes. In each case it would have been possible to reduce the mass of the bone by shaving or grinding it, or to augment and/or reshape a particular bone with fillers and implants of various kinds. Wait a moment …’
Assim took a look at the crown of the man’s head. ‘Yes, he’s had some hair transplantation, too. It’s really first-class work, so it’s as imperceptible as one can get. But it’s there all right. You might want to get a dentist to take a look at the teeth, too. It’s not my field, of course, but given what else has been done to this man, it’s reasonable to assume that his teeth were included in the overall makeover.’
‘Are you telling me that this man, whoever he is, has been given the face of Malachi Zorn?’ Young asked.
‘I suppose I am, yes,’ Assim replied.
Young glared indignantly at Grantham and Carver. ‘And you didn’t see fit to tell me about this deception?’
‘It would only have confused matters,’ Grantham said. ‘“Let’s kill the bad guy” might not be a politically acceptable plan, but at least it’s a simple one.’
‘Zorn has informers everywhere,’ Carver added. ‘It wouldn’t have bothered him at all if he’d known that the government was helping me kill him, in the belief that the target was genuine. In fact, he’d have been delighted. It would make his death official, which is exactly what he wanted. But if he’d known we’d discovered he was using a double, that would have changed everything.’
Young ran a hand through his hair and gave a baffled sigh. ‘I’m sorry. Why would it change things?’
‘Because Zorn wants the world to think he is dead. But if the victim is just someone who looks very much like Zorn, and we know it, that’s no good to him.’
‘Yes, but why is it so important to him to be dead?’
‘Because dead men can’t be tried for killing hundreds of people or stealing billions of dollars and pounds. Cops don’t chase dead men. Angry billionaires who’ve just been massively ripped off don’t hire hit men to go after corpses. Dead men are safe.’
‘Ah, yes … I see,’ said Young. ‘So now what?’
‘Well, the first thing to do is to switch on the television,’ Grantham said.
The set flickered back to life. It was tuned to Sky News. A banner was rolling across the bottom of the screen. It read, ‘Breaking news: billionaire financier Zorn believed dead in South London attack.’
‘Excellent,’ said Grantham. ‘Time to send in the troops.’ He took his mobile phone out of his pocket, pressed a button and said, ‘You’re on.’ Then he looked around the room at the other three men and said, ‘Have I forgotten anything?’
‘Yes,’ said Carver, ‘why don’t we wake this poor bastard up?’
78
* * *
Wentworth
THE BLACK-UNIFORMED SAS men slipped over the walls of Malachi Zorn’s rented mansion like vengeful wraiths. Immediately before the start of the operation they had been informed that Zorn was almost certainly the mastermind behind the refinery attack that had killed the Director of Special Forces. He had been responsible for the sudden death of a man who was not only their ultimate commanding officer, but also a former colonel of the regiment. The eight men assigned to capture Zorn were grimly determined to get him by any means possible. And if he happened to get hurt in the process, so much the better.
The man on screen was a sports reporter. He spent ten months a year covering the various injuries, transfer deals, disciplinary issues and sexual shenanigans with which Premiership footballers filled their days. For two weeks in midsummer he became an instant expert on tennis, reporting on Wimbledon. But now all hell had broken loose in the streets less than a mile from the tournament, and suddenly he’d swapped thigh strains and broken strings for hard-core news reporting.
‘I don’t know if you can see behind me the burned-out remains of the Bentley limousine that is believed to have been carrying the controversial American financier Malachi Zorn,’ he was saying.
‘Yes, Barry, we can see it,’ said the newsreader in the studio. ‘But is there any more information about what actually happened here?’
‘Yes there is, Kate. This was a very public assassination attempt, carried out in front of lines of cars all stuck in a traffic jam – a jam that may even have been created as a means of trapping Zorn. From what eyewitnesses are saying, a car pulled out into the middle of the road, stopping the traffic in both directions, before suddenly driving away at high speed. Seconds later there was a huge explosion that disabled the Bentley.’
‘Was that some kind of mine, like the IEDs we’ve become so familiar with in Afghanistan?’
‘Possibly. Some witnesses, however, are describing a rocket or bazooka being fired at the car. All we know for certain is that the Bentley was disabled. Very soon after that, a man approached the stricken car on a motorbike, fired a gun into the passenger compartment and then lobbed a grenade into it. One eyewitness who saw the interior of the car is still too distressed to speak. It’s safe to say it was not a pretty sight.’
‘And what about Mr Zorn? Do we know whether he is dead or not?’
‘That’s still hard to say, Kate. Certainly it seems very unlikely that anyone could have survived this attack. But he might have had one stroke of luck. A London ambulance was nearby and rushed to the scene. Mr Zorn’s body was taken from the car and driven away within a minute or so of the incident. It’s thought that his head may have been covered by a blanket, suggesting he was already dead, but I’m getting conflicting reports on that.’
‘So where is he now?’
‘We’re not sure, Kate. There’s been no word from any of the local hospitals. Meanwhile, in another extraordinary development, rumours are sweeping the tennis world that there has been some sort of incident in the tunnels beneath Centre Court, possibly involving gunfire and multiple fatalities. I have to stress, though, that these are unconfirmed …’
With a press of a remote control the screen turned to black.
‘What do you think? Am I now officially dead?’ asked Malachi Zorn.
‘How could you not be?’ Razzaq replied. ‘Carver blew up your car, then used a gun and a grenade to carry out the actual hit.’
‘The grenade bothers me,’ Zorn said.
‘Why so?’
‘If that grenade went off inside the car, how come the ambulance men were able to put the body on a stretcher? It should have been torn to pieces by the blast.’
Razzaq frowned. ‘True, though a blast can easily be blocked or deflected. A table-leg saved Hitler from von Stauffenberg’s briefcase bomb, after all.’
‘I guess,’ said Zorn. ‘But I’ll still be happier when I see some spokesperson standing outside a hospital, saying how tragic it is that I passed away.’
The SAS team had divided into two four-man patrols, which were now approaching both the front and rear of the building. Surveillance of the property with highly sensitive parabolic microphones and thermal-imaging binoculars had detected the presence of two adult males in the room that Zorn was believed to use as an office. The two men were still in place as the troops reached the building and flattened themselves against the walls. They weren’t going in through any of the mansion’s doors. They didn’t need to. Simultaneously they placed coiled rings of explosive cord, whose blast was tamped and focused by black rubber tubes of water up against the brickwork. The moment the signal was given, the cord would be detonated. Even before the smoke had cleared, the SAS would be in the building and racing towards their quarry.
*
Zorn was going back over the news report in his mind, its inconsistencies nagging at him, like an itch that would not go away. ‘That ambulance … we’re supposed to believe that, what? It just happened to be down the road, with nothing better to do? No way, that’s just not possible.’
‘What are you saying here?’ asked Razzaq.
‘I’m saying maybe the whole set-up was fake. Maybe Carver double-crossed you. Either that or the Brits got to him.’
‘But that would mean that they knew it wasn’t you in that car.’
‘Not necessarily. They could have figured out the connection to Rosconway.’
‘Impossible! How?’
‘I don’t know. But if they did, they’d have plenty of reasons to come after me.’
Razzaq did not reply. He wasn’t paying attention to Zorn any more. He was looking at an image on one of Zorn’s screens. It showed security camera footage: shadowy figures in black combat fatigues and helmets placing something on a wall. There was a sudden flare of white light and then the picture disappeared in a snowy blizzard of interference.
‘They’re coming after you now,’ said Ahmad Razzaq.
Modern explosive devices combine violence and precision. The tamped detonator cord generated a combination of noise, blast and total surprise that delivered all the shock and awe any attacking force could desire. And it left a hole as neat as a laser-beam through steel. The SAS troops poured through with their guns raised and ready to fire. They took just seconds to race from their entry points to Zorn’s study, and when they got there they blew out the lock and kicked open the door so fast that they barely had to break stride.
Eight heavily-armed members of the special forces, faceless behind their balaclavas, goggles and helmets, shouting at the tops of their voices and ready to respond in an instant to any threat burst into Malachi Zorn’s study …
… and found the property’s gardener and his assistant cowering behind a leather sofa, while the latest action from Wimbledon played on a massive flatscreen placed on the opposite wall.
‘Mr Zorn said we could be here,’ the gardener pleaded, raising his hands in surrender.
‘Honest,’ said his assistant.
Zorn had watched the attack play out. ‘So now we know,’ he said. ‘They’re on to me. But Jesus, don’t these jerks know how much money I’ve made? And can’t they figure out what that means? Anyone who’s got billions in the bank, there’s a good chance they’re smart enough to see things coming. And it’s a friggin’ certainty they can afford more than one damn house.’
79
* * *
Parkview Hospital
THE MAN WITH Malachi Zorn’s face looked blearily around the room, trying to summon up the focus to make head or tail of the surroundings and the men looking down at him from the far end of the bed. One of the men, who had an olive-skinned, Middle Eastern appearance, detached himself from the group and came closer. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘my name is Dr Assim. Don’t worry, you’re in hospital and you’re quite safe. Now, can you tell us who you are?’
The man frowned and screwed up his eyes as he gathered his wits and then replied, ‘My name is Malachi Zorn.’
Assim smiled. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to do that any more. We know you aren’t Mr Zorn. Who are you, really?’ A look of fear entered the man’s eyes, a shock so palpable that Assim placed his hand on his wrist and assured him again, ‘It’s all right. You’re in no danger.’
The man looked at Assim for a moment, then his lips twisted into a bitter laugh as he said, ‘Sure I’m in danger. I’m a dead man. That’s the whole point …’
‘What do you mean?’ Assim asked. ‘The whole point of what?’
‘Wait.’ The man grimaced as he struggled into a sitting position. ‘I’ll answer your questions … maybe. But first you answer mine.’
‘What would you like to ask?’
‘Well, for a start, how come I’m still alive? I … I can remember an explosion at the front of the car. Then glass smashing right by me, and a gun coming through the window …’ He looked down at his own body and began patting at his chest and stomach. ‘And my clothes … they’re all covered in blood, but I can’t feel any wounds. How did the blood get there?’
Dr Assim took a step back. ‘Mr Carver, perhaps you could help here?’ he said.
‘Sure. I was the guy who fired that gun at you. Sorry about that. It must have been a shock.’
‘Not really … I’d been expecting worse,’ the man replied.
Carver gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, that makes sense. You were set up to take a bullet. What I actually fired at you was a tranquillizer dart, like the ones they use on wild animals on nature programmes. Then I threw a special effects grenade into the car. Made a lot of noise and splashed a load of pig’s blood all over you and the interior of that Bentley, but it looked a lot worse than it really was.’
‘And you didn’t want to kill me?’
‘Have you ever done me any harm?’ Carver asked.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Do you plan to do me any?’
‘Er … no.’
‘Then why would I want to kill you?’
‘Because—’
‘Because a man called Ahmad Razzaq paid me a lot of money to kill Malachi Zorn. That’s true. But you aren’t Zorn, so as far as I’m concerned, you aren’t my target. Now, since I’ve been good enough to keep you alive, why don’t you tell me who you really are?’
The man sighed. ‘Alive? Trust me, it’s a temporary reprieve … a few months: six, maybe nine if I’m lucky. Cancer. You’d have found it if you’d looked any closer, doc, believe me. But anyway, my name … yeah … my name is Michael A. Drinkwater. The “A” stands for Abraham, if you can believe that.’
Grantham got his phone out again and tapped a text to his office, ordering a search for any information on a Michael Abraham Drinkwater.
‘How old are you?’ he asked, looking up from his screen.
‘Thirty-seven. My birthday’s August the twenty-third. Should make that at least.’
‘Home town?’
‘Pensacola, Florida.’
‘Navy brat?’ asked Carver, thinking of the US Navy’s flight-training base there.
Drinkwater nodded. ‘Sure, my daddy flew Tomcats, though he was mostly flying a desk the years he was stationed there. You in the service?’
‘Royal Marines, a long time ago,’ said Carver. ‘So, tell me about Zorn. How did that work?’
‘You mean, apart from waking up every morning and seeing someone else’s face in the mirror?’
‘I mean now, this week. How much of it was you?’
‘That was Zorn – the real one – on that BBC interview. He gave a press conference at his place after ex-Prime Minister Orwell was killed. But that aside, if you ever saw Mr Zorn outside his house or his office, that was me. I was going to go to Wimbledon on Friday, too, and there was going to be some kind of fancy reception that evening, but I was told not to worry about that.’ Drinkwater gave a gentle smile. ‘I was going to be dead by then.’
‘How did Zorn recruit you?’ Carver asked.
‘He made me a deal. Well, his people did … I was at work. I’m a CPA – I guess you guys would just say “accountant”. It’s not exactly exciting. Anyway, these guys came to my office one day in January, near the end of the month. They said they wanted to make me a deal. They said I could make sure that my family would be well provided for. They knew my wife’s name, my kids’ names and ages, everything. I said, “Are you trying to sell me insurance?” and they laughed and one of them said, “I guess you could call it that.”’
‘So what was the deal?’
‘All I had to do was agree to impersonate the guy they were working for – they didn’t tell me his name, not at that time – and my family would receive two million dollars, cash. Invest it conservatively, and they’d be pretty much guaranteed a hundred grand a year for ever. They said they knew that would appeal to me, in my situation. I mean, it was obvious they knew everything about me – my personal finances, my medical records, you name it. So I said, “What’s the catch?” One of them said, “Well, you’ve gotta have a bit of surgery.” And the other one said, “Then you’ve gotta die. But what the hell, huh? At least this way it’ll be quick.”’
‘Remarkable,’ said Cameron Young, almost purring with satisfaction. ‘Truly remarkable.’
‘What do you mean, “remarkable”?’ asked Drinkwater indignantly. ‘What kind of word is that for those bastards?’
‘I apologize, Mr Drinkwater. I meant no offence,’ Young replied. ‘But I can’t help admiring the way Zorn’s mind works. And, if you’ll excuse the inappropriate sentiment, I also can’t help feeling he took a considerable pleasure in conceiving the choice with which you were presented. You knew that you were mortally ill, facing a very painful death, and yet you must have harboured, indeed may still harbour, the hope that somehow you might be spared. All you had to do – and I appreciate that “all” is a very loaded word here – was accept the inevitability of your fate, lose a few last months of life, and you would receive a swift end, courtesy of Mr Carver here, knowing that your family was secure. It’s elegant, don’t you think?’
‘No,’ said Drinkwater. ‘I damn well don’t. And I wouldn’t have taken the deal, either, except for the next thing they told me. Seems I was the third guy they’d approached. The other two had said no. And they were dead already, with not a single cent for their wives and kids.’
‘Well, at least you’re still alive.’
‘Yeah I am … and now we’ve got a problem.’
‘Really?’ asked Young.
‘Yeah, really,’ Drinkwater insisted. ‘See, the second half of that two million was payable on my death. And thanks to you jerks I’m still alive. So the way I see it, you owe me a million dollars.’
Young looked appalled. Carver burst out laughing. But Jack Grantham was looking at his phone screen with a face as grim as a gravestone. ‘That’s not our only problem,’ he said. ‘I just had a message from Wentworth. Zorn got away. Seems the little bastard saw us coming.’
80
* * *
Cheapside, Berkshire, and Parkview Hospital
‘SO NOW WHAT?’ Razzaq asked, as a Chinook carrying eight very disgruntled SAS men back to Hereford clattered overhead, its occupants totally unaware that the target they had so spectacularly missed was just a few hundred feet beneath them.
‘So now the game has turned around, just like I said it would,’ said Zorn, making it sound like a fascinating prospect. ‘And it’s kind of interesting, y’know?’
‘I’m not sure I do,’ confessed Razzaq.
‘Well, let’s just play around with a few scenarios. Suppose Drinkwater is dead. I don’t believe he is, but let’s stay with me on this. If he’s dead, then the Brits can tell the world that Malachi Zorn is dead. And who’s going to contradict them? The only person who could do that would be me. And I’m not exactly going to advertise my existence right now.’
‘Of course,’ Razzaq agreed. ‘But that’s exactly what you wanted. Everyone thinks you’re dead. You’ve got the money. That’s perfect!’
Zorn shook his head. ‘No, it would be perfect if everyone thought I was dead. But the Brits know I’m not. So they can come after me. And if they get to me they can kill me, and they don’t have to worry about it, because the rest of the world thinks I’m dead already. Got it?’
‘Yes,’ said Razzaq, ‘that is a problem.’
‘In theory, yes, but, see, I don’t think Drinkwater is dead. I don’t think a government, or anyone working for it, or even with its knowledge, goes right ahead and deliberately kills the wrong target.’
Razzaq looked unconvinced. ‘You’re still assuming they knew that you were using a double. We don’t know that for sure.’
‘Why else would they have raided the Wentworth house?’
‘They could have been looking for evidence.’
‘No!’ Zorn insisted. ‘If the Brits knew that I ordered the Rosconway attack, and if they also thought I was in the car, all they’d be looking for in the house would be evidence on paper or in computer files. So they’d send in the cops, or maybe some spooks from MI5. If they sent in special forces, it’s because they were looking for me and they were ready to use force.’
‘That makes sense,’ Razzaq conceded, ‘although it is still possible that they might have been allowing the possibility of resistance from other people: myself, for example.’
Zorn grinned. ‘No, Ahmad. You would never be that stupid. You would have called them first and offered to cut a deal.’
Razzaq burst out laughing. ‘I will not even pretend to deny that! You know me too well.’
‘So, let’s get back to Michael Abraham Drinkwater. Let’s assume he’s alive and the Brits have got him. What’s the first thing we know for sure?’
Razzaq smiled. ‘Once again, they can still kill you.’
Zorn was not the slightest bit offended by Razzaq’s amusement. ‘You got it! And why can they kill me?’
‘Because once they produce Drinkwater and say that he is you, the rest of the world believes you are still alive. So how can you possibly be dead?’
‘You got it in one. Outstanding! So, look at it from the Brits’ point of view. If they think it through the same way we did …’
‘They might not. Maybe they’re not that clever.’
‘Their politicians might not be,’ Zorn agreed. ‘But don’t tell me there aren’t people in the intelligence community who can’t see the way this plays out.’
‘Certainly there are such people in the Security Service and the Secret Intelligence Service. And if Carver somehow managed to discover that you were using a double, then he may also have realized that he can now kill you – the real you – with impunity. Assuming that he wants to, of course. Mr Carver is surprisingly picky about his targets for a man who makes a living as an assassin.’
‘He might not have a choice,’ Zorn pointed out. ‘You recruited him through blackmail. What’s to stop them doing the same thing? But I’m not so worried about that. I was always going to disappear when all this was over, but …’
‘… but there’s another way you could play it,’ Carver said.
He, Grantham and Young had commandeered one of the hospital’s consulting rooms. Grantham had immediately placed himself behind the desk, in the doctor’s position. Carver and Young were sat in the chairs opposite, like patients. Grantham had just been setting out the strength of their position. ‘This Drinkwater idiot is our ace in the hole,’ he said. ‘Of course, the wife and kids may need a bit of handling. Perhaps I can persuade the Americans to stick them inside the witness protection programme, or something. Give them new names. Make them disappear where no one will ever find them. We can’t have the missus pointing at our new Mr Zorn and saying, “Hey, that’s my hubby!”’
‘Then there’s the whole issue of Drinkwater’s cancer,’ Carver pointed out. ‘If he really is going to be dead in months, that means he comes with a sell-by date. But there’s another way you could play it.’
‘What other way?’ Young asked, dreading the answer.
‘Well, the traditional intelligence way of operating is based on the idea that you absolutely don’t want other people to know what you’re doing.’
‘Yes, Carver,’ said Grantham, ‘that’s why we’re called the Secret Intelligence Service. The clue is in the name.’
‘Right, and that makes you strong in one way. But it also limits your resources. There’s only so many minds working on any one problem: the people directly under your command, and whatever allies you can find in other agencies who can be trusted to keep your secrets.’
‘You’re joking. I don’t trust anyone,’ said Grantham.
‘Exactly. Right now, you’re looking at Zorn as a problem you and a very few other people have to solve. But the other way to crack a problem is to be as open as possible. Give it to anyone who wants to play with it, take it to pieces, or fix it in any way they want.’
All Young’s worst fears had been realized. ‘I’m sorry, Carver, but are you seriously suggesting we throw open all the United Kingdom’s most valuable secrets and let any Tom, Dick and Harry play with them?’
‘No, but I am suggesting a way that you could get a lot of very powerful help to deal with Malachi Zorn.’
81
* * *
‘IT’S REALLY VERY simple,’ Carver said. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, Malachi Zorn is trying to pull the biggest heist in history. It’s robbery, fraud, mass-murder, you name it, all wrapped up in one package. He rips off some of the richest people in the world. He makes mugs of everyone who’s had anything to do with him. And at the end of it he ends up with some completely insane amount of money. But what’s he going to do? Everyone’s going to be after him. Unless they think he’s already dead … That’s why he wanted me to kill him – or appear to. It’s a disappearing trick.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Grantham said. ‘Like where he’d disappear to.’
Carver held up his hands in exaggerated bafflement. ‘How the hell should I know? He’s probably bought himself a Pacific island, or a stretch of Amazon jungle, or maybe he’s paid off an African dictator to give him protection. Does it matter?’
‘It does if we’ve got to find him.’
‘Which is why I’m saying you should get some help. You’ve got yourself a handy replica Malachi Zorn. He’s proved that he can fool people, including some of Zorn’s investors, into thinking that he’s the real thing. So let him announce that he’s magically survived the attack, and that the launch of Zorn Global is going ahead as planned. Then, when all the people Zorn has stolen from are together in one place, you tell them the truth. That this poor bastard is a bloke called Drinkwater and that the real Zorn is still somewhere out there, with God knows how many of their billions. Then just stand back and see what happens. My guess is they’ll find Zorn soon enough.’
‘Well, that’s one way of doing it,’ said Grantham. ‘But you’ve missed an obvious alternative – well, obvious to any normal person, anyway.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Call the police. As you said, that Deirdre Bull woman can tie your old friend Magda Sternberg to the Rosconway attack. And you, Carver, can tie Sternberg to Razzaq. His links to Zorn are easily established, connecting Zorn to Rosconway. Now we have Drinkwater as proof of Zorn’s attempt to evade prosecution – that’s a conspiracy to murder.’
‘Not if I refuse to give evidence,’ said Carver. ‘Come on, Grantham, you of all people don’t ever want me anywhere near a witness box.’
Cameron Young raised an eyebrow and made a mental note to discover what it was that Carver knew that Grantham would never want made public. Grantham himself, however, was undeterred.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘There’s still Drinkwater, and even the dimmest juror won’t miss the fact that he’s walking around wearing Zorn’s face. If the police can get Razzaq and/or Sternberg in custody, one of them’s bound to start talking in exchange for a lighter sentence. Meanwhile, get the best forensic accountants the taxpayers’ money can buy, and start them working through the money trail. Let’s try sorting something out the proper, legal way for once.’
Now Young entered the conversation, easing his way in with a contemplative ‘Hmm’ before starting to speak. ‘I completely sympathize with you, Grantham, and of course you’re right that this is evidently a conspiracy. But take it from a former barrister, conspiracy cases are a nightmare to prosecute. It may be quite clear to us how the whole thing was put together, but that’s a very long way from saying it can be proven beyond reasonable doubt in a court of law. All the evidence so far is either hearsay or circumstantial. There’s no smoking gun, no email from Zorn ordering the attack, let alone a bomb with his DNA or fingerprints on it. He will be able to hire the best lawyers his huge wealth can buy. Meanwhile one of our key witnesses may very well die of cancer before the case even comes to court. A second witness may herself not recover from her wounds, and even if she does, her admitted involvement in a terrible crime would clearly give her a motive to lie about Mr Zorn in exchange for favourable treatment. And a third key witness is a former Royal Marines officer who appears, if you will excuse me, Mr Carver, to have spent many years behaving in a way that does little credit to his former regiment. If I were acting for Mr Zorn in that case, I would be very confident indeed of securing a not guilty verdict.’
‘I see,’ said Grantham sullenly. ‘Well, then, we’d better take the Carver option … again.’
‘Ah, well, that may also be a problem,’ said Young. ‘This is, I’m sure you will both agree, a very embarrassing situation for a great many influential people. Mr Zorn has, to be blunt, conned his investors. But they don’t know that yet and I’m not sure we want to be the ones to tell them. After all, these are some of the world’s richest men and women. They wouldn’t enjoy looking foolish in public.’
‘So what?’ Carver asked. ‘There are millions of people out there who’d be only too happy to see a few rich bastards taken down a peg or two.’
‘Possibly,’ Young conceded. ‘But those rich bastards would not appreciate the government that let that happen, would they? And they aren’t Zorn’s only victims. Every one of his trades required a counterparty … or to put it another way, each of his bets required a bookie who took it. So when he made money, someone else lost it. And by someone else I mean either multinational financial institutions – banks, in other words – or London and New York-based hedge funds.’
‘Once again, I can hear the cheering crowds,’ said Carver.
‘As can I,’ said Young. ‘But I can also see the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s face when he is told that all these institutions have taken their revenge by quitting London, thereby depriving the Exchequer of tens of billions in tax revenues. And I must also think of the Governor of the Bank of England, who is already fighting hard to save the value of the pound without raising interest-rates to the point where they cripple the UK economy. One more straw could easily break the camel’s back. This country has been limping for years. Do you really want to bring it to its knees?’
Carver shrugged. ‘That’s not my problem.’
‘No, but it is mine. It seems to me that if we expose Zorn we will play right into his hands. The end result will be to destroy the market. And that is exactly what he wants.’
‘Really? I thought he said today that he was putting his money back into the market.’
‘And you believe him? I must say, Mr Carver, I would not expect you to be so naïve. And I have two last considerations. The first is that my boss, the Prime Minister, publicly placed a great deal of faith in Malachi Zorn. If it transpires that he was backing the greatest fraudster of all time that will not, to put it at its absolute mildest, look good. In fact, it could bring the government down. So now we have a ruined economy and a broken Prime Minister. And the cherry on top is that a senior member of the royal family regards Mr Zorn as a personal friend.’
Grantham shook his head disgustedly. ‘Oh great!’
‘Quite so,’ Young agreed, making it plain that he shared Grantham’s frustration with the limitless ability of that family’s members to make life difficult for those who served them. ‘They have met at numerous functions. Mr Zorn has dined at this royal personage’s country home and given generously to certain charities which the personage supports. He has also made certain of his properties around the world available, discreetly, to the personage’s spouse and children … and various extra-marital partners.’
Grantham frowned. ‘Why didn’t I know that already?’
‘Before your time. I’m sure you would have been informed if the issue had ever arisen again. Suffice it to say, for now, that the palace would not be happy to see Mr Zorn’s nefarious activities widely publicized. Which means, Mr Carver, that we will have to alter your plan somewhat.’
‘So what do you want?’ Carver asked.
‘In public, we must make sure that the show goes on. For the time being at least, Mr Drinkwater will have to maintain the fiction that he is Malachi Zorn. We need to create a believable media narrative that links the attack on Zorn today with yesterday’s events at Rosconway, but without any suggestion that Zorn himself was the perpetrator. As for the Zorn Global launch, it should go ahead, as you suggested, but there will be no public revelations, and the Prime Minister will, I think, be too busy to attend in person. The main aim has to be to keep Zorn’s investors – and the financial markets in general – happy. Meanwhile, with the help of the SIS, among other agencies, we will very discreetly take every possible measure to trace and recover as much of Mr Zorn’s stolen money as possible.’
‘But once Zorn knows that the launch is going ahead without him, he’s bound to react,’ Carver said.
‘Yes, which is why I don’t want the PM anywhere near tomorrow’s event. And why it will have a very high level of security around it.’
‘But then what? You can’t keep going for ever with two Malachi Zorns in the world.’
Young nodded. ‘I quite agree, Carver. That’s why I’m counting on you to make sure, as soon as humanly possible, that there’s only one of them.’
82
* * *
London and Cheapside
SHORTLY AFTER 8.00 P.M. a brief announcement from the hospital to which Malachi Zorn had been taken revealed that Mr Zorn had made a remarkable escape. Though suffering from shock, concussion and multiple bruises and abrasions, he was alive and could be expected to make a full recovery. Mr Zorn was resting comfortably. Further statements would be made in due course. Until such time, no comment would be made by any of the hospital staff.
It was now 8.40 p.m. The banner strung up on the back wall of the abandoned warehouse had the ‘Forces of Gaia’ logo spray-painted on it big enough to be read on even the smallest YouTube screen. One of the three masked men in front of the camera had the same imposing bulk as Brynmor Gryffud, but when he spoke his voice was so heavily treated that he could have been Welsh or Watusi for all that anyone listening could tell. The words he had to say, however, were clear enough.
‘The Forces of Gaia claim full responsibility for two acts of war against the industrialists, speculators, politicians, armies and multinational conspirators whose actions threaten the survival of Gaia.
‘We believe that the planet and all the organisms on it are linked in a single entity. We call this entity Gaia. We believe that it is naturally self-regulating, naturally healthy and naturally beautiful. Only the actions of mankind can possibly threaten it, and so we fight back against the violence of global warming, the violence of environmental pollution, and the violent exploitation of the world’s natural resources for financial profit.
‘Our struggle began yesterday at the Rosconway oil refinery. This industrial installation was specifically designed to exploit a precious substance torn from the belly of the earth. Its products pollute and heat the atmosphere. It is therefore a totally legitimate target in our struggle. We regret the loss of life caused by this necessary act of war, but condemn the actions of the government which caused so many unnecessary extra casualties.
‘This afternoon, we passed sentence on the man whose provocative, ill-judged remarks provoked that government action, the American speculator Malachi Zorn. His warnings against so-called eco-terrorism were intended solely to inflame public opinion and influence financial markets so that he could profit. Gaia could not allow such obscenity to go unpunished. Accordingly, speculator Zorn was attacked this afternoon. Our only regret is that he somehow managed to survive. Other enemies of the planet will receive less mercy.
‘We are the Forces of Gaia. And we will defend the sanctity of this planet to the death.’
The man stopped speaking. He and the two silent figures on either side of him remained rock still. Then a voice from off-camera said, ‘Cut!’
The speaker pulled off his black balaclava to reveal the face of SBS Company Sergeant Major Mike ‘Snoopy’ Schultz. ‘What total f*cking bollocks,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust. ‘I couldn’t hardly read half of it. What kind of a twat believes shit like that?’
‘The kind that bombs oil refineries,’ said Carver, who’d thrown away his balaclava and was scruffing his fingers through his hair.
‘The real Forces of bloody Gaia can count themselves lucky I never got to them. They were shot, right?’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘Yeah, well I wouldn’t have been that quick about it. Ah, f*ck it! At least we got Zorn, eh?’
‘Something like that …’
Schultz looked at Carver. ‘What are you saying, boss? We did get that f*cker, didn’t we?’
Carver said nothing. Schultz looked at him with a mixture of disappointment and mounting anger. ‘Don’t say you were bullshitting me. You were never a bullshitter. Don’t start now. Seriously, boss. Don’t take the piss with me.’
‘I’m not taking the piss. It’s just that there were … complications. Things weren’t what they seemed.’
‘And you’re not going to tell me any more than that?’
‘Not now. Not yet. But I’ll promise you this: Malachi Zorn will get what’s coming to him. You have my word on that.’
‘You sound like a f*cking politician, boss.’
Carver felt the sense of betrayal behind Schultz’s insult. ‘I’m anything but that,’ he said. ‘Listen, you and Cripps did a great job with the Krakatoa. You’ll probably get a medal for saving that woman at the refinery. I know how tough it is for you, losing Tyrrell. I know you want payback. But there’s nothing more you can do right now. So return to your unit. Get on with the day job. And take it from me, Malachi Zorn will not get away with what he’s done. All right?’
Schultz gave a reluctant nod of acceptance. ‘Yeah, fair enough, I s’pose.’
‘Good. Then I’ll buy you a beer before you go.’
Within an hour of being released on Twitter and YouTube, the Forces of Gaia statement had received more than three million hits and been picked up by all the major global news networks and agencies. Among the millions who watched it with interest was Malachi Zorn.
‘Very interesting,’ he said to Razzaq. ‘The British government knows who carried out the Rosconway attack. They know that I’ve been using a double. They must have made the connection between us and the Forces of Gaia. But they’re deliberately obscuring it. You know what that means?’
‘No, but I think you’re going to tell me.’
‘It means they’re not interested in due process. If they had any intention of getting me inside a courtroom they’d be getting all the evidence they could to put me next to those dumb bastards in Wales. But I don’t think they have that evidence. And even if they did, I don’t think they ever want to see me in a witness box. Which can only mean one thing …’
‘Which I am able to deduce also,’ said Razzaq.
‘Precisely. They want me dead.’
‘My conclusion, also.’
‘Well, they’re in for a helluva disappointment.’