Thursday, 30 June
83
* * *
Parkview Hospital
THE MEDIA WERE informed that Malachi Zorn had rested well overnight. He was not yet well enough to give a full-scale press conference. He would, however, consent to a brief one-on-one interview with an ITN reporter, on condition that the resulting material was made freely available to any news outlet that wanted it. The lucky woman who got the job was sent on her way to what she and her jealous colleagues all considered a potentially career-making encounter, with suggestions for questions ringing in her ears.
No one thought of asking Zorn, ‘How much are you being paid to do this?’ If they had, they might have caught Michael Abraham Drinkwater enough by surprise that he would have blurted out the truth: ‘One million dollars.’ He had sensed the Brits’ desperation, stuck to his guns, and insisted on receiving the second half of the money Zorn was due to pay him. In the end, Young had been forced to give in. And so Drinkwater had gone back into character again.
The interview took place in Drinkwater’s room. He spoke from his bed, sitting up, with a pile of pillows behind his back. To add to the drama of the occasion, a bandage had been wound round his head and he was wearing dark glasses to shield him from the glare of the TV lights. There were bruises, cuts and swellings on the left-hand side of his face. They had been put there by a make-up artist.
‘When the car was first attacked, it stopped very suddenly and I was thrown forward and hit my face against the seats in front,’ Drinkwater explained, as the interview began, using lines given to him in advance by Cameron Young’s top writers. ‘Guess I should have worn a seat belt, huh?’
He managed a weak, battered smile. ‘But you know, it might have saved me. I was right on the floor of the car, between the front and rear seats. So I was sheltered from the rest of the attack.’
‘Have you seen the statement released last night by the Forces of Gaia, the terrorists who claimed responsibility for the attack on you yesterday and for Tuesday’s atrocity at the Rosconway oil refinery?’
‘Uh, no … no I haven’t. But I heard about that. My doc told me about it.’
‘Do you have any message for those terrorists?’
‘Well, I guess I wish they hadn’t tried to shoot the messenger! And I hope that the police can arrest them, and that justice can take its course. But really I’m not the issue here, and nor are these terrorists. The important thing is that decent, hard-working people died on Tuesday, and they deserve to be remembered. Their sacrifice must be honoured. Their deaths must not be in vain. We need to take the whole issue of energy security much more seriously. I’ve been saying this for a long time, and it’s just terrible, to be honest, to be proved right in this way.’
The reporter put on her most soulful expression and nodded thoughtfully. ‘So how did it feel when some people suggested that you had been behind the refinery attack?’
‘Well, you know, it wasn’t easy hearing that. I lost a very dear friend in Nicholas Orwell at Rosconway. And it was a miracle that I didn’t die yesterday afternoon. You can take it from me, I didn’t order anything. I’m a trader. I make deals. I don’t kill people.’
‘Well, speaking of deals, you were planning to launch your Zorn Global fund here in London tomorrow with a gala reception in the City of London. Will that be going ahead now?’
‘Absolutely. I’m alive. I’m in one piece. And I will not give the terrorists the satisfaction of beating me. I’ll be there …’ Drinkwater leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘And I’ll tell you what, maybe I can fix you an invitation, too!’
Cameron Young was watching on a live feed to his office at 10 Downing Street. ‘Cheeky beggar!’ he said, to no one in particular. Still, there was no harm in a little humour. If they got through the next couple of days with the markets steady, Zorn Global’s investors happy, and the real Zorn satisfactorily dealt with, that million dollars would look like a positive bargain.
Malachi Zorn was watching, too. So far as he was concerned, the information that Drinkwater would be hosting the reception in his place was the best news that he could possibly have been given. He immediately contacted Razzaq.
‘The reception is going ahead as planned,’ he said.
‘I see,’ his security chief replied. ‘So can I take it that we will be proceeding exactly as we had originally planned?’
‘You certainly can,’ said Zorn. ‘We’re going to make a killing.’
84
* * *
Wax Chandlers’ Hall, City of London, and Cheapside
MALACHI ZORN HAD never been interested in acquiring corporations as long-term investments. He left that kind of thing to Warren Buffett. But for the purposes of his current operation he had spent six months and more than a billion dollars buying controlling shares in a number of fast-growing Indian computer companies. In every case, he hid his presence behind a web of shell corporations, even if the decisions about which businesses to buy were entirely his. He then created a holding company named after its apparent major shareholder, a hitherto-unknown entrepreneur called Ashok Bandekar. Even if he personally remained a mystery to the Indian media – a mystery made all the more intriguing by titbits of gossip about his past and present activities that were released into the blogosphere on a regular basis, and invariably then picked up by the conventional print media – Bandekar’s company looked like a typical success story of the new, modern India.
So when the police and security service operatives assigned to cover the Zorn Global launch discovered that Bandekar Technologies had hired the Wax Chandlers’ Hall for three days they saw no obvious cause for alarm. The company itself checked out. The executives invited for interviews by the headhunting company all appeared to be genuine: UK citizens with no criminal records and impressive CVs. The security men who met the interviewees at the front door and checked their identities before letting them in all came from a reputable firm that only hired individuals with spotless records. The receptionist who then made sure that the new arrivals were comfortable while they waited to meet Mr Bandekar had an equally respectable background. And every one of those individuals sincerely believed that they were involved in legitimate business with Bandekar Technologies.
Two anti-terrorist officers, accompanied by a sniffer dog, arrived at the hall and were greeted by Bandekar’s aide Sanjay Sengupta and a member of the hall staff, both of whom were highly cooperative. The officers had no reason to know that Sengupta did not actually exist: his identity had only ever been a cover for Ahmad Razzaq. They were shown through the many areas of the building that were not in use. They saw the conference room where the interviewees waited before their appointments. A series of display panels had been set up there, presumably to impress the prospective executives with the scale and ambition of the company they were seeking to join. Each panel proclaimed a different aspect of Bandekar Technologies’ activities. A Perspex case in the middle of the room contained an architect’s model of the corporate campus planned for a site outside Milton Keynes – the symbol of Ashok Bandekar’s commitment to his European operations. A lighting rig on lightweight trusses illuminated the whole set-up. (The flight-cases in which the lights and all the display materials had been transported to the hall were neatly piled in one of the unused rooms.) At the end of the room a door led into a smaller office, suitable for private meetings like the ones Bandekar was currently conducting.
The officers were told they would have to wait for a few minutes before they could see Bandekar himself. He did not wish any of his interviews to be interrupted since that would be unfair to the candidate he was meeting at the time. But it was not long before the office door opened and a well-groomed young businessman in an expensive suit strode out, giving the small group waiting outside a confident, snowy-toothed smile as he passed. A few seconds later, Bandekar himself emerged. He was a large man, whose substantial girth was carried as elegantly as only the finest Savile Row tailoring can manage.
‘Come in, gentlemen, come in!’ he insisted. ‘Have you been offered drinks? Some snacks, perhaps? We have excellent chocolate biscuits.’ He patted his paunch. ‘Too excellent, perhaps, for my good. Now what can I do for you?’
The officers explained that this was purely a routine check. Their dog panted happily, far more interested in the chocolate biscuits that its nose had detected the moment it walked in the conference room, than in any explosives. It hadn’t had the faintest whiff of those. A couple of minutes later, the officers and their dog were gone, escorted out by the hall staffer.
‘Well done,’ said Ahmad Razzaq to the semi-retired Bollywood actor playing the part of Ashok Bandekar. ‘You’re doing well.’
‘Maybe I should stay as Mr Bandekar,’ the actor replied. ‘I’ve spent so long talking about his business I actually think I could run it now.’
Razzaq laughed politely. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. Just another day, and then you’ll be done.’
He left the office and approached the receptionist at her desk. ‘You may show in the next candidate now.’
On the way out he could not resist making a detour to the room where the flight-cases were stored. At the very back of the room was a case that had a false bottom. In the secret compartment beneath it were two packages, covered and sealed in heavy-duty plastic wrap. The wrap had been washed in antiseptic bleach, as had the airtight boxes beneath it. The wrapping and washing of each layer had been done by different individuals, neither of whom had touched the contents of either box. And if the sniffer dog had ever smelled those contents, it would have been very interested indeed.
Ahmad Razzaq took the tube from the City to Waterloo, changing trains twice along the way. He was reasonably certain that he was not being followed, but he wanted to make absolutely sure. At Waterloo he caught a train to Sunningdale, losing himself among the commuters crammed into his carriage. From there he made his way to the modest house on the edge of Windsor Great Park where Malachi Zorn was staying. ‘It’s just me,’ he’d said when Razzaq had questioned why his boss had chosen such humble quarters. ‘Why the hell do I need anywhere bigger?’
The door was opened by a man with almost shoulder-length black hair and a heavy black moustache. ‘I go see if Mr Zorn he can see you,’ the man said in a strong Polish accent.
Razzaq kept a straight face as he came through the door and closed it behind him. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Very good!’ he said. ‘You’d have had me fooled if I hadn’t seen the look before.’
‘Yeah, it’s not bad at all,’ Zorn agreed. ‘And you got me a job at the catering company for tomorrow night?’
‘Well, I practically had to buy the company, but yes, you will be reporting for duty, complete with all the paperwork and proofs of identity you need. But still, I must ask you, are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘Yeah, I am, absolutely.’
‘But the risk of discovery is so great.’
‘Sure, but that just makes the challenge even better. Look, I have to know who’s turned up at the launch. It makes a big, big difference to my financial calculations. Plus, I’ve got to admit, I really want to see how close I can get to Drinkwater. I mean, serving booze to myself: how insane is that?’
‘It is, indeed, quite crazy,’ said Razzaq. ‘But if you must attend the reception, can I not persuade you at least to get well away once you leave?’
‘No. I want to see it happen. I want to see those bastards go down. I’ve spent years on this. God, all the time, the planning, the money … I admit, all right, it’s obsessed me. And I’m not going to sit on my arse a thousand miles away, watching it all play out on TV. I want to be there, in person, front row centre, for the start of the show.’
‘Well, you will do it without me. I am leaving in the morning. By the time the first shot is fired I will be safe and sound in Karachi.’
‘It’s OK,’ Zorn assured him. ‘I understand. And you’ve already contributed more than enough. But before you go, will you do one thing for me? Just run through the getaway one more time.’
‘Of course, that would be my pleasure.’
Razzaq pulled an iPad from his briefcase and called up a map of the City of London. ‘So, the key to the whole plan is the abandoned underground railway tunnel that runs under the Thames from here, at King William Street, to London Bridge Station. The entrance to the tunnel is in an office building called Regis House. It is a little over one kilometre from where you will be, right here. So …’
Zorn listened intently. He asked questions, all the time, never being afraid to show his ignorance or go over something more than once; that way, he made sure that nothing was missed. By the time Razzaq left the house, almost two hours later, Zorn was absolutely confident that he could take on the security establishment, just as he had taken in the financial one – and outwit them just as comprehensively.
85
* * *
Lambeth
CARVER HAD SPENT the day at the dismal MI6 apartment. Officially, security for the Zorn Global reception was being handled by the proper authorities, and he would have no part in it. Unofficially, he was still tasked with the job of disposing of Zorn if the chance should ever arise. For all the efforts that were being made to keep tomorrow night’s partygoers safe, there remained a strong chance that Zorn would try something. Carver would therefore be there to stop him – terminally if at all possible. So he spent another day reading reports from all the teams carrying out background checks and site visits. He was kept updated on plans for barriers, ID-checks, body-scans and bag-searches. He was given the locations of three spotter-sniper teams who would be watching from high rooftops, ready to take out any hostile threat. And he was reassured that a combination of blocked roads and the City’s excellent security camera system would make it impossible for Zorn to create a repeat of the Rosconway attack.
He was just wondering where to go out to find a decent drink and a bite of supper when he got a call from Alix. ‘I left Azarov,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t take a another minute of it. So I just packed a bag and left. I’ll get someone to collect the rest of my things tomorrow.’
‘Do you need somewhere to stay the night?’ Carver asked. ‘I happen to have a magnificent luxury apartment handy.’
‘Hmm … well, that’s certainly very tempting,’ Alix replied. ‘Your apartment is very magnificent and so elegantly decorated … But I think I’m going to rough it at the Mandarin Oriental on Hyde Park. I’m sorry, Carver, but as sexy as you are, I’m a girl, and the thought of being two minutes from Harvey Nicks is even sexier.’
‘You mean you’d prefer a shop to me?’
‘Of course …’
Carver knew she was teasing, but two could play at that game. ‘Well, I’m a boy,’ he said, ‘and I’ve got to work. So if there’s nothing else you want to discuss, I’d better get back to it.’
‘Oh, don’t be cross. The only reason I want to go shopping is to get something really great for the party tomorrow. Please tell me you’re going …’
‘To the Zorn Global launch?’
‘What other party is there?’
‘Yes, I’m going. But I don’t think you should.’
Carver could feel the atmosphere change as Alix realized he meant it. ‘Why not? Don’t you want to be with me?’
‘I always want to be with you,’ he reassured her. ‘But maybe not tomorrow night. I’ll be busy and … Look, it’s just going to be difficult.’
Carver’s words were followed by a silence whose deep Siberian chill was enough to freeze the line. But Alix must have decided on a change of strategy, because she suddenly brightened. ‘Well, never mind about the party. We can sort it out tomorrow. Heston Blumenthal has a restaurant at my hotel. I booked a table for two tonight. Interested?’
Carver was there within the hour.
Friday, 1 July
86
* * *
The City of London
ENGLISH SUMMERS ARE unreliable, and even July evenings can be damp and chilly. This one was no exception. Sunshine earlier in the day had given way to heavy grey cloud and blustery showers, so Ronnie Braddock had a raincoat on and the collar up as he arrived for his interview to be Head of Security at Bandekar Technologies. The legitimate aspects of his career, including his exemplary military service record, made him well-qualified for the role, while the illegitimate aspects were not known to anyone except the people who had hired him. And they certainly weren’t talking.
Braddock was listed as Mr Bandekar’s final interview at 6.00 p.m. on Friday – a last-minute addition to the list. He arrived early, showing his driver’s licence to the goons on the door, neither of whom had ever had anything to do with him. When he got to the conference room, he asked the receptionist if there was a men’s room anywhere near. ‘Pre-match nerves,’ he explained, with an embarrassed smile.
He was given directions to the nearest toilet, but when he left the conference room he forgot all about them. Instead he went to the storeroom where the flight-cases had been stacked. He opened the case with the false bottom, and then removed the two shrink-wrapped packages. Using a Swiss Army knife he then cut open the smaller of the two packages and took out the box it contained. Inside the box was a fully loaded Glock 27 subcompact pistol, an AAC Evolution .40 suppressor, and a spare eleven-round magazine. Braddock checked the Glock, fitted the suppressor, then placed the fully assembled gun within easy reach while he dealt with the other package. It didn’t take long to be reassured that everything was in order. The XM-25 Punisher grenade launcher that he had gone to such trouble to steal in Afghanistan had made it all the way to the City of London in one piece. It wouldn’t be long now before he found out just how good it really was. First, though, there was one other piece of business to attend to.
He put the Punisher back in the flight-case, closing the top. Then he picked up the Glock and held it down behind his back as he returned to the conference room.
‘Hello!’ said the receptionist cheerfully as she saw him come back in. ‘You were gone a long time. You must have been nervous! Well, there’s no need to worry. Mr Bandekar’s a charming gentleman. Can I get you some tea?’
‘Cheers, that would be great, yeah.’
She got up from behind her desk, and as she did Braddock shot her twice: one bullet in the body, and then another at point-blank range to the head before she had a chance to scream.
The suppressor was very effective, but there’s no such thing as a total silencer. So Braddock needed to move quickly now, before anyone worked out what was happening. He went straight to the door to the inner office, opened it, and shot the interviewee in the back of his head, blowing a chunk of his brains out through his forehead and on to the desk behind which Bandekar was desperately trying to heave his massive bulk to his feet.
‘You’ll need more than two, big boy,’ said Braddock. So he used four bullets on the portly Indian. Then he went to the window and drew the blind, repeating the process with the conference room windows. He did not turn the lights on, so the room was in semidarkness as he dragged the three corpses behind the display panels. It was more to get them out of the way than to hide them; the thick trails of blood smeared across the carpet were like arrows leading the eye to the bodies’ locations.
Braddock was sweaty, panting and irritable by the time he’d finished shifting Bandekar. He took a minute to cool down mentally as well as emotionally before he returned to the storeroom, collected the Punisher and went back to the office. Lifting the blind and peering out, he could see five huge, brightly lit windows across the way. Not long to go now.
87
* * *
GINGER STERNBERG WAS not the kind of woman who is easily impressed, but even she had to admit that the Goldsmiths’ Hall was a spectacularly appropriate location for a gathering of the very rich. It was right in the heart of the City of London, less than half a mile from the Bank of England, and even closer to the Stock Exchange and St Paul’s Cathedral. The main entrance was flanked on either side by massive classical columns that rose the full height of the building. Once inside, she came to a hall whose panelled walls and coffered ceiling were entirely covered in green, grey and white marble. Directly in front of her, a magnificent staircase rose in a single flight of a dozen wide steps before splitting in two to form a shallow Y.
Ahead of her, Ginger heard a woman with a grating New York accent whining at her fat, balding ape of a husband, ‘Hey, Morty, I want stairs just like this in our next place.’
‘Whatever you want, Charl, whatever you want,’ he replied, humouring her.
Ginger wondered what Mort would be getting his mistress while his wife spent her time redecorating: not marble staircases, that was for sure.
A stream of guests were making their way up to the party itself: the men formally dressed in smart suits, the women dazzling in couture dresses and sparkling jewels. Ginger ignored the men and concentrated on her female competition, instantly noting those who were even remotely worthy of her attention, and grading their dresses, accessories, hair, faces and figures. It was an automatic reflex, combining natural feminine curiosity with professional scrutiny: when you had been trained to seduce men for a living, you very soon learned to determine who might beat you to your target. Tonight, of course, her task was very different. But even so, it gave her pleasure to scan the parade of rich men’s wives, scattered with the occasional famous face, and know that she could still do battle with any of them. Her hair was blonde for the night. Her dress was a Valentino, in his signature red. Her heels were high enough to make her taller than all but a very few men. Other women might have felt self-conscious, looking down on so many people. To Ginger, that was merely the natural order of things.
She moved with the human tide, up the stairs towards the main Livery Hall where the launch was being held. Waiters and waitresses, dressed all in black, lined the way from the stairs to the hall, holding silver trays laden with glasses of champagne. Ginger took a glass, sipped and smiled to herself as she tasted the deliciously rich, sophisticated, complex flavour so characteristic of the Krug that Zorn liked to serve. Most of the people around her would be dead within the hour. But at least their final drink would be a great one.
The hall itself could have been a banqueting chamber in the palace of a Roman emperor or Russian tsar, so massive were its proportions, so rich the colour scheme of scarlet and gold. More mighty columns supported an even more ornate ceiling, and at the far end of the room a velvet-draped alcove was filled with a spectacular display of gold platters, jugs and cups. The most inspiring sight of all, however, came from the four great crystal chandeliers that hung over the centre of the room. They glittered not with electric bulbs, but with almost two hundred actual candles that cast a soft, warm, golden glow over the hall. The light was extraordinarily flattering, and it gave the whole event, whose sole purpose was to worship at the altar of money, an unexpectedly sensual atmosphere.
It was almost a pity, Ginger thought, that it would all soon be destroyed. Almost a pity: but not quite.
‘Would you like some more champagne, sir?’
Malachi Zorn could not resist it. He’d seen Drinkwater across the room, sitting in his wheelchair, playing the same role, but for a new master, and had felt compelled to go right up to his own double. So now here he was in disguise, offering a drink to a man who looked exactly like his real, undisguised self. It was like some crazy hall of mirrors, mixed with a delicious, thrill-ride sensation of fear. If anyone realized what he was doing, he’d be lost. But no one did. The blatantly obvious police protection unit who were attempting to blend into the crowd, despite the unsubtle bulges in their jackets where their guns were holstered, glared at him suspiciously. But they were doing that to anyone who got within ten metres of Drinkwater.
‘Back off,’ one of them said, as Zorn held out the magnum of champagne so that its neck was tilted upwards over Drinkwater’s glass, ready to pour if required. ‘Mr Zorn has his own personal drinks with him. Someone should have told you that.’
‘No one told me anything,’ Zorn replied, grateful that the guests were so tightly packed and the hubbub of conversation and laughter so loud that no one could hear just how lousy his attempt at a Polish accent really was.
There had sure been an incredible turnout. The assassination attempt on Wednesday had made this an even hotter ticket than it had been before. Everyone wanted to be able to say that they’d been to Zorn’s public resurrection from the apparent jaws of death. Zorn had spotted a couple of investors who’d privately told him they would not be able to make it. One of them had come all the way from Palo Alto, California, another from Kyoto, Japan. They must have flown in overnight. No one wanted to say no to this invitation.
The celebrity eye candy was out in force, too: a smattering of supermodels, actresses, athletes and rock stars, all enticed by the prospect of a fifty-thousand-dollar stake in Zorn Global, just for a walk down the red carpet, a wave to the paparazzi and a couple of hours of their time. But as entertaining as it was to gawp at beautiful women in revealing clothes, or men with Super Bowl rings and Olympic gold medals, Zorn’s real interest was in guests who were far less easy on the eye. With a very few exceptions, the men whose presence he was committing to memory tended to be dressed conservatively, albeit expensively; to be aged fifty and over; and to be deeply dull, if not actually unappealing to look at. But they owned the fashion houses, movie studios, TV channels and sports franchises that kept the celebrities in business. They were the CEOs and chairmen of the banks into which the stars placed their pay cheques. They took the decisions which closed factories in one place, and reopened them thousands of miles away in some cheaper, more convenient location. They were his investors, and it was very important to Malachi Zorn to know precisely who had turned up, because then he would know who was going to die. And once he knew that, he could determine the final few plays in his great game.
‘Almost there, Dad!’ he whispered to himself.
He put the magnum down on the edge of one of the buffet tables and checked his watch. If they were sticking to the original schedule, he was due to start speaking in ten minutes, or rather, Drinkwater was. It was kind of a pity, really, Zorn thought. He was curious to know what ‘he’ was planning to say. But there wasn’t going to be much of a speech. A minute, two at the most after Drinkwater started speaking, Braddock would go into action. Zorn wanted to be at his screen, ready to react to the first market movements when news of the massacre got out. He couldn’t afford to stick around at his party a moment longer.
Leaving the bottle on the table, he turned and made his way as quickly as possible to the staff exit.