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THIRTEEN

  Early on Tuesday morning, letting public transport get him to work, rather than his tired legs, Campbell feels a familiar buzz in his pocket and fishes the smartphone out to check. It's an email and when he opens it sees that it is from [email protected].

  ’Wicked night Friday. You're already a bit of a ledge round these parts for the door blag. Looking to work up a package for you. We’ll meet soon for coffee.’

  So there it is. Not only had he not blown the big chance, they seemed to be offering him a job without the need for a more formal interview, office-based and during daylight hours.

  Also, by his recollection, he didn't embarrass himself with Lisa either. Though he will need to tread more carefully there.

  The fact that they might be workmates will certainly not make things any simpler.

  When he’d confided in Steve during Monday lunchtime, Steve had seemed almost as shocked as he had been to hear about Lisa's appearance at the club. In fact he'd been more surprised to hear that than the whole revelation about Campbell’s intention to quit and move on.

  ’I suppose it makes sense,’ he'd pointed out as Steve shook his head and ate his sandwich. ’That's why she was there that first time. She was out with work mates. I just didn't realise that she worked with Giles.’

  ’The champagne guy?’

  ’Mmm,’ Campbell nodded. ’I don't think the other one was there that night, just Friday.’

  ’The other one is called Piers? Giles and Piers? Christ Dan. What are you getting into?’

  ’I know. I mean they were proper private-school, old-money types you know? But with a bit of a chip on the shoulder about it. Like they enjoyed being above everyone but seemed to be trying to be ironic about it too,’ Campbell said, searching for a way to describe them.

  ’Well they sound like a blast.’ Steve's sarcasm was obvious, though not too pointed.

  ’To be fair after the work chat they were ok. I mean the club was amazing, I didn't lay out for a drink all night and they were nailing bottles of Grey Goose. Whole bottles, brought to the table in big ice buckets by some geezer in this weird military style uniform and a scary mask. It was nuts.’

  ’And some cast members from Eastenders sitting next to you too. Awesome,’ he said and widened his eyes in mock amazement, the sarcasm this time far more pointed.

  ’Yeah, I know, it's all bullshit really and stupid money. But it's kind of cool on someone's else's tab.’

  ’OK. I'll give you that. I'll concede in fact, it's probably the coolest job interview I've heard of. Just, you know, don't get taken in. Go for the job, or the opportunity, not the pretty girl and the VIP booth.’

  Campbell waved his concerns away, not because he didn't share them, but because he did and had no need to have them spelled out for him.

  In the day since that conversation Campbell had done plenty of thinking. This message from Lawson was what he was hoping for. He wanted to hear that he was still in the running for something new and exciting, and past the flash club and the drinks on expenses, the things that Lawson had described sounded like a step change from his current role. Getting to hear more from him in a more sober, low-key and preferably low-volume setting would give him a chance to ask some questions and not just about the money or the benefits package and the opportunity for career-progression. He wanted to hear about the day-to-day, about the drudgery and the slog and what they all did when they weren't buying £300 bottles of vodka in exclusive Mayfair clubs where paparazzi lingered on the pavement.

  He tapped out a brief response and hit send. Things were happening.

  FOURTEEN

  Dusan Rajkovic spent a few moments pondering how odd a pairing the two of them made and then dismissed it. In a place like this, playground of the super rich, awash with money, all hot and dirty dollars, pounds and euros and home to so many thousands of company headquarters and so many of them with such suspiciously small premises, there were plenty of odd looking people. It was not unusual here, to look unusual.

  The Malay was used to the heat, though it was a little less humid than he was accustomed to. Nonetheless, he was dressed in black from head to toe. Fresh pressed slacks, loafers, large framed sunglasses, although he had done without the suit jacket today Rajkovic noted, in acknowledgement of the heat, and settled instead on a black silk shirt. It was nothing more than an effort to disguise his corpulent frame. Dusan had heard some of the men mocking his sartorial choices as though they were intended to be sinister. But Dusan knew better.

  He had teased him on the flight in, insisting that they establish a cover for themselves so say to pass under their target’s radar. Rajkovic had insisted that he'd be alert to any danger and on his guard, even after three years, and so they would need to do some sunbathing, drink from glasses with umbrellas in, hire some waverunners perhaps. The sunglasses had been removed and placed on the tray table at the mention of Stingray City. Rajkovic saw no need to stop there. The signal to do so was clear enough, but he was having fun.

  ’It's this place out on a sandbank. Lots of stingrays. Tame almost. A whole swarm of them, they come up and press up against your legs like cats. You feed them,’ he'd said staring intently out of the window so as not to betray his obvious delight at the rise he was getting from his boss.

  ’Dusan,’ came the soft reproach.

  ’Like a big flat cat with flaps. Cat flaps! Ha!’

  ’I’ll feed you to a fucking cat, you don't shut up.’

  He turned his head and smiled at the other man and his stiff expression. There was a smile in there somewhere but Dusan figured on leaving it there, just in case it was buried deeper than he thought.

  'OK Hari, we have no fun, have it your way,' he said and then explained what they would be doing.

  Standing now on the sprawling threshold of the hotel Dusan undid a button on his white linen shirt and spotted the cab rolling along the driveway and sweeping up in front of them.

  They climbed in and directed the driver to the nearest car rental place where they picked up a nondescript silver grey Ford Focus and headed into the centre of town.

  Rajkovic found the street, picked a shaded spot and then cranked up the air con anyway. He reclined his seat a few notches and switched on the radio, flicking it back off again as he noted the slow head-turn of Hari next to him.

  'We wait?' he asked.

  'We wait,' replied Dusan and then pointed to one of the older style houses in the row, nestling amid a well-tended lawn in the shadow of a more modern construction next to it, a full three stories taller.

  'He lives here?'

  'Lives. Works,' Rajkovic shrugged. 'Don't care. Seen here several times. We see him. We know.'

  The other man unfastened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up and then settled in to watch the building in silence, the sunglasses firmly in place.

  FIFTEEN

  Impatience was a corrosive element that he tried his best to eliminate but he had been so many years with his head ducked down below the parapet that his well developed discipline was wearing thin.

  He wanted to stop looking over his shoulder, or paying other men to do it for him, and then wondering whether they would find a bigger reason to betray him when they were inside his circle of trust. He wasn't even sure that was the correct term. There was really very little trust to be had, only an intricately constructed network of men and money that so far had not fallen in on itself. If he paid them enough, they did his bidding.

  Enough was a relative term and he ensured that none of them knew what any of the others received, but made sure that neither did they feel short-changed. It was important they feel as though their efforts were worthwhile and rewarded but that more could be had with a little extra application, a continued show of loyalty.

  The corner that he had been painted into by the young man who had proved a surprisingly resourceful adversary, was not one easily escaped. But he'd eased himself in and out of so many awkward situations down the years that he'd found hims
elf relishing the challenge in time. Not at first, not with his pride bruised, his money burnt and his reputation so filthy. But he came to see that the scam he had been orchestrating before that downfall was just another well-run scheme, oiled and engineered just right and inside his comfort zone.

  He'd had to lie to people who trusted him, coerce those who didn't and threaten anyone else who crossed his path. None of which proved especially testing of his natural aptitude for manipulation and deceit.

  But the well-oiled machine will still break down when you toss something into the works the way he'd witnessed. Seeing it strain and shudder once the wrench crunched into the gears he should have stopped it sooner, should have intervened more decisively but hindsight was always the clearest vision. You couldn't change the past, but you always had a say in the future, always had a choice and an influence.

  Michael Horner grabbed his jacket from the coat hook and eased his shoulders into it. He was almost done hiding now and was pleased that he could see the path he was plotting back to safer ground opening out before him. He would not need to hide or to worry so much, he would buy them all back onside with what he was planning. It was nearing completion, this new plan of his, so elaborately constructed, and it would pay the ransom on his head and give him so much more besides.

  ACT II

  SIXTEEN

  Campbell thinks of it like fitness, as if he needs only to get himself used to this to cope with it. It was the same after the incident; feeling compelled to get in better shape he found it took a while before he could run a few miles without wanting to throw up. Except now his actual fitness is slipping. With the long hours and the partying it is so hard to hit the gym or the pool. At first he would deal with the early mornings with an early swim or a run to the office, but not anymore. He just can't find the energy. Exhaustion accumulates like dust in a filter, clogging him up. It's a circle he is spinning into, vicious and downward. But he won't accept defeat so soon, so easily. He has faced down far tougher and exacting challenges than this one.

  Maybe he just needs to shed the ’new guy’ tab that seems to deny him the right to say no. Maybe once his feet are under the desk and he's properly part of the set up he can pick and choose his nights out and even the occasional lie-in.

  It began immediately and has not let up. His first day was a whirl of introductions to people and software and forms and processes. He was shown things that baffled him and was moved on to the next thing, the next room the next person before anything had a chance to settle in his mind. Quickly on with a brief wave of the hand; ’We can do that properly later, no time now.’

  Then it was a boozy lunch with Giles and he found quickly that refusing the wine that was offered was more frowned-upon than accepting it. Then the afternoon dragged by in a boozy fog and Campbell was left with a few cursory tasks to occupy him, which served only to heighten his sense of unease; there was not nearly enough to keep him busy and the alcohol was making him feel paranoid and self-conscious. As the day wound down, he looked for signs that it was alright to leave - when a few people started heading out he could do the same.

  Before he could make for the peaceful solace of an anonymous tube crowd and the silence of home he was seized again by a small boisterous group insisting on first-day drinks for the new guy. A noisily enthusiastic gaggle of wealthy-looking men and women who he'd seen flitting about the office all day suddenly coalesced into a group around his desk at 6.15 pm, intimidating and expectant and daring him to say no.

  Home by midnight that first night and the second night Lawson had collared him mid-afternoon with news that there was ’a thing’ tonight and it was quite clear he would be expected to attend. Those new-guy nerves, that lack of confidence to turn down an invite for fear of offending and he was spending another evening drinking and coming home late. By the Friday after two more nights of it, he was bleary-eyed but an end-of-week sense of euphoria (and a very large, strong coffee and a bacon roll) got him through the morning. The downhill run of the afternoon into the weekend and a planned orgy of sleep, detox and exercise beckoned but on his way out the door in search of a sandwich shop Lawson had once again broadsided him.

  ’Friday lunchtime mate, time for a well-earned pint. Hell of a first week noobs,’ he said as that over-friendly arm snaked round Campbell’s shoulders. Noobs?

  ’I was just going to grab a sandwich and get back to those reports,’ he protested in hope rather than optimism. He knew where this would end.

  ’Oh screw that, it's Friday. That's a Monday morning job, no?’

  ’I'm shattered Giles, really. I could do with laying off for a few days, y’know?’

  No words from Lawson this time, just a witheringly contemptuous stare fixed on him for long enough that he had no choice but to relent.

  ’Alright, a pint,’ he said with a roll of the eyes and the slap across his shoulder blades was audible across the office floor. Lawson wore a huge shit-eating grin.

  ’The Grapes,’ Lawson called out over his shoulder as he marched Campbell to the exit, gripping his shoulder firmly. Campbell heard a voice reply that Piers was already there and he felt his spirits sink a little, saw his chances of a single pint and a quick exit diminish.

  ’They do food?’ he asked Lawson as they stepped outside.

  ’Eating’s cheating, noobs,’ he shot back and for the first time Campbell felt a flash of anger at this.

  It was bullying, clear enough, and it would continue in the pub with Lawson and his friendly-gruff disposition but he put it down to an initiation process, a test for the new guy. If he passed this first part where they would push him hard, some friendly banter and a week or two of hangovers, he would win their approval and with that some reprieve. He knew that this could not be normal, this extreme version of the work-hard, play-hard ethic and he supposed that it was better that he was being involved in things and welcomed into the fold, rather than ignored or excluded.

  Week two ran a similar course: impromptu lunches, a birthday, a presentation from another company seeking business from Scorpio followed up by a free-bar and then another Friday lunchtime drink that ran all the way through into the evening.

  Midway though the third week Campbell had an alarming moment where he fell asleep at his desk for ten minutes, though it felt like no more than a blink. Nobody appeared to have noticed though it set him on edge for the rest of the day.

  Into week four and he feels those first pangs of regret beginning to break the surface. His workload has of course increased steadily with each passing day and when Giles suggests a night out to mark his ’monthiversary’ it arrives in the same email that makes it quite clear that things will start to get busy now that his first month is done and what they're going to want to start seeing is “results”.

  The one-two combination has Campbell out of his seat and striding to Lawson's office. Not angry, or not just angry, but needing to take action. What results?

  ’Giles, you got five?’ he asks and plants his feet squarely in front of the other man’s desk. Lawson mumbles something and keeps sliding the mouse around his desk. Campbell sits and the other man takes his eyes off the screen.

  ’Got your email. I was wondering if we could talk about what's next, you know,’ he says and tries to resist saying what he wants to say and succeeds in doing so for all of a few seconds. Lawson’s pause undoes him. The pause and his own impatience. ’And the results. What sort of results are we looking for?’

  ’Dan,’ smiles the other man, ’Shall we say...’ He draws the sentence out and starts clicking the mouse again, watching the screen. ’Shall we say we get a coffee first thing Monday and have a catch up?’

  He nods back but knows he won't leave it there. Not for a few more days of fretting over the meaning of that choice of words. Start seeing results.

  The silence thickens and condenses the longer the two men stay there not breaking it, but Campbell wants more from this conversation.

  ’I've been doing all the r
eadings and the reports you've passed me.’

  ’Yeah, that's all good Dan, and you're getting up to speed. But we didn't hire someone to sit in the corner and read reports with a permanent hangover,’ Lawson shot back.

  Campbell could feel his cheeks flush at the remark. He’d lost count of the number of times over the weeks that he had tried to duck an invitation; every time he was asked it was either presented as a fait accompli, as some essential professional-function, some necessary networking event, or rather he was simply cajoled, pressed and then bullied into it. The suggestion that he was somehow taking liberties and being unprofessional stung him. Nothing would have made him happier this past month than significantly fewer nights out.

  But as he struggled with his composure he saw straight away that there was nothing to be said in response. Protesting that he'd been given no choice in the matter, that in four weeks he'd not once been able to say no to an invitation, would sound as empty out loud as it did in his head.

  Lawson pressed on, not bothering to make eye contact. ’What we want is for you to start digging out a few finds Dan. We want some winners and we want some losers. I’ll clue you in Monday with a bit more granularity, but we’re going to start wanting some longs and some shorts from you. Weekly.’

  There were more questions he wanted answering but the tone of Lawson’s delivery was clear enough to read. He'd get no more until their Monday catch-up.

  Still, at least that was clearer. Campbell could take some comfort from the sliver of clarity he'd been offered. He would need to find investment opportunities for the traders, backed by rationales for whether to buy in to them and their success or to short-sell on their expected failure.

  He opened his mouth to thank the other man but saw that Giles Lawson had slid his large leather chair back behind the double-monitor of his computer and was jabbing at the keypad of the phone on his desk. Campbell was dismissed.

  Walking back to his desk, Campbell felt an odd sensation of reassurance. The job would begin in earnest now and with it the pressure to deliver, but at least, at last, he had a sense of what might be coming next. Surely that was better than not knowing?

  SEVENTEEN

  Riding the escalator up, eschewing his normal habit of walking up the left hand side, rather than standing on the right, he found himself thinking about Lisa.

  Sure enough they had started out on the cusp of a date, after he'd taken her number at the club, and then the little argument over the cab outside where she'd relented and let him join her, only to ensure that she was dropped off first before he continued on his way, an invitation up to her flat for coffee resolutely unissued. But then the job and all its various confusions and intrusions had knocked him off his stride and all the while he could not decide whether a workplace romance - a workplace he had only just arrived in - was the wisest thing to pursue. Any social occasions they’d both attended he had maintained a cautious distance for fear of tripping himself up so soon into the new job.

  But in matters of romance, wisdom could so often be found wanting. Campbell knew that well enough from the past; a certain young lady who had turned out to be not all that she appeared. Not that he suspected Lisa of anything nefarious, just that he was trapped somewhere between a natural caution and a certain fear of success. What if he went for it with her, what if she was interested and they began a relationship? Then he'd have to see her everyday, walk the same carpet, socialise with the same colleagues. They would be the subject of office gossip, the centre of attention. Didn’t Campbell have enough on his plate as it was without further distractions?

  ’She's nice then?’ asks Steve as Campbell returns to the table from the bar. ’She's the one from that night with the Champagne thief? And the interview in the club?’

  ’Well technically she wasn't part of the interview, but yes. Her.’

  ’And she's nice?’

  Campbell nods in a way that is both emphatic and absent. Wistful even.

  ’Well that sounds just awful. I can see how you're having a hard time here,’ Steve raises the fresh pint and toasts his friend then with a cheerful ’Fuck you by the way.’

  ’What?’ Campbell does the wounded expression but he needs no explanation. He is complaining of abundance, protesting his own good fortune, and here, in the company of a good friend it will not be tolerated.

  ’Challenging, well-paid new job, loads of socialising and a fine, fine lady in your sights. You know precisely what you can do.’

  ’OK,’ he says and raises hands in surrender, ’OK I accept it isn't the worst situation in the world. But it's harder than you think.’

  There's an intake of breath, as though his friend is gearing up for a further rebuttal, but Campbell heads him off.

  ’I mean the socialising is good fun of course, cool places, pretty people and all. But it is exhausting Steve. Three, four nights a week I've been getting in past two a.m. It's killing me.’

  ’Heavy stuff huh?’

  ’There’s always something, you know. A birthday, a work function. Meeting reps and salesmen of one type or another. Lots of bar tabs and company credit cards, lots of corporate entertainment.’

  ’Least it's cheap then.’

  ’Except it's not. Cabs home at 2 in the morning cost money, sometimes there's clubs after the bar so you've got cover charges on the door you know, West End prices. Sometimes the bar tab ends but everyone wants to keep going and then even one round of drinks makes your eyes water and your wallet bleed.’

  ’And everyone does this?’

  ’Well it's the traders and the fund guys that pay mostly, the girls tend to get a free ride,’ he says with a shrug. ’Just the culture I guess. You want to party with the pretty girls from work, you buy their drinks, that sort of thing. But it's showing off too you know, the guys like to show the cash. So it's hard to not buy a round when there are so many free tabs and so many of the other guys from the office getting them in.’ He shakes his head at this, sips his pint.

  ’OK. But what I meant; everyone does this partying all week thing? Everyone is out late and hungover all day?’

  ’Yeah,’ says Campbell. ’Yeah.’

  ’Jesus.’

  ’Pretty much everyone.’

  ’Are you sure,’ begins Steve, ’that it's not just you that does it all the time, and everyone else does it once a week? You just get yourself involved in everything?’

  ’No. No, that's the thing,’ Campbell replies sharply. ’That’s what I'm saying. I don't want to do it all the time. I want to have quiet nights in, early to bed, bit of gym time. But I never seem to manage it. There's always something.’

  ’You said that.’

  ’No, but I mean there's always someone telling me I've got to go. To meet people, to socialise. To get to know colleagues or guys from the other companies we work with you know, the reps and the sales guys. It feels like every invite I get is mandatory. Like saying no would work out badly.’

  ’You know what Dan, you're being paranoid mate. You can say no. It is in your power to say no. There's nothing mandatory-’

  ’You aren't hearing me-’ Campbell cut in, it was stopped abruptly.

  ’I'm hearing you fine. Any pressure comes from you. You think you have to say yes because you are worrying about disappointing the new boss. It's in your head. The lack of sleep is not making it any better.’

  Campbell chewed on that for a while and sipped the beer. Chewed and sipped.

  ’They're just so full on.’

  Steve looks at him blank faced. ’You wanted this. You went to an interview in a nightclub with a guy you met in a nightclub Dan. I have to say, you might have seen some of this coming.’

  ’OK. Some maybe. But this...’

  ’Look, you said no tonight and nobody handed you your P45 at the lift. Relax, get some sleep, get your head right, you'll be fine.’

  ’Maybe I just need to tone it down a bit, get stuck into the work instead of the bar.’

  ’If everyone e
lse is drinking every night and not hungover, they're either freaks or liars. Just do your own thing, man.’

  ’Mmmn. I guess.’

  ’OK. Now, do I dare ask if you want another or would you rather spend the first hour I've seen you since you quit telling me about how much you're partying and then go home early?’

  ’Alright,’ replies Campbell with a smile. ’One more.’

  He watches the other man to the bar and feels himself lose a little of the tension that has been gripping his neck and shoulders of late. Or maybe he's just too tired to feel it anymore.

  EIGHTEEN

  ’The floor’s sticky over there.’

  Caspar Hogg points at a dark patch and stops the other man before he treads where he shouldn't.

  ’Cleaner?’ asks the man.

  Hogg shakes his head and drops his eyes.

  ’Oh yes. That.’

  It riles him a little that the other man has a smirk on his face and sounds amused. He wonders what she told them about it, that she somehow conveyed to them in her fractured, stumbling English that something upsetting had taken place in the room with the lonely fat man with the strange mark on his face that had resulted in tears and a torn dress. It riles him most that the man seems almost impressed by what he thinks Hogg did, by what he thinks Hogg could do.

  The words form on his lips for a moment and he is about to protest his innocence but he hears how it sounds before he says it and how they would hear it and he shuts up. It just popped off. The button holding her boobs in just burst off across the room all by itself and there he was, face to face with her untanned flesh, completely by accident. He could already hear them laughing.

  Hogg was diverted for a moment by that new thought; them. How many were there in all? There was this man here, tall and rangy, with sandy hair and dark brown eyes who came to him most frequently to deliver orders or take them, though the ones he took were only ever of the commercial kind; more food, more soda, more computing components. Supplies.

  There was another who occasionally accompanied this man and who said nothing and lurked in the background while the tall, rangy man patrolled and poked around Hogg's workstation.

  ’Boss wants to see you.’

  And then there was the man in charge. He had that clear sense of seniority and an aloofness that was part-natural and part-amplified. Everybody needed to know who they were subservient to, needed to be reminded often of their place in the hierarchy.

  Thing was, from his limited exposure to the hierarchy, it seems to Caspar Hogg as though there were not many more people in it. Outside the two faces he saw - sandy haired man and silent man - and the boss, he was beginning to suspect that there were very few others.

  Perhaps he subcontracted more than just the IT capability. Perhaps his whole organisation consisted of a series of specialists, engaged for their particular skillsets with a just few core operators kept close. Lord only knew. Hogg had relatively little contact with anyone, so much of his time and energy focused on engineering the network they wanted, with all its complex gateways and compartments.

  But what he'd seen of the boss, he seemed to be possessed of significant intelligence and no small amount of focus, leaving little room for sympathy or generosity of character. That still didn't rule out his being a banker or a spook but Hogg was no longer of the opinion that this was anything other than a nakedly criminal enterprise.

  The car ride was relatively brief, as were most journeys. Georgetown was small for a capital, small for such a significant global financial hub, but much of what happened here did not require sprawling acres of high rise office blocks and nor was it especially labour intensive. Indeed, much of what went on here, probably actually happened somewhere else, but for reasons of financial and legal expediency were ’routed’ through this island haven, a place where rich people and hot money came to play and neither stayed long.

  ’How are you finding Grand Cayman?’ asked Michael Horner with scarcely any effort at sincerity.

  Hogg shrugged.

  ’Making friends?’ asked Horner and Hogg felt a flush of embarrassment and anger. He checked his irritation, but a curt dismissal lingered on his tongue, hot and bitter. He was beginning to tire of the baiting and the sniggering.

  ’Very well. How are your endeavours progressing?’

  Hogg raised a noncommittal smile and offered the faintest nod.

  ’Excellent, how encouraging. The payments are clearing, yes? They've arrived in your account as agreed?’

  Hogg nodded again, took the point. ’I'm stress testing a lot of it at the moment. Best way to know something is strong is keep breaking it so you can see where it breaks. Fix it up.’

  ’Does it work? Enough to use?’

  ’It works. Up to you when you roll it out. But I wouldn't yet.’

  ’When would you?’

  Hogg gets half way through a shrug before Horner cuts in. ’OK, well let me put it to you this way: when will it be ready enough to use that we'd both be ... Comfortable?’

  ’Something like this is pretty unique, so there's never a date it's finished.’ Hogg watches the boss shoot a glance at the tall, rangy man who has accompanied him to this meeting and spots the response it elicits: one of crossed arms and raised shoulders. Hogg is pushing buttons, and not the ones he's paid to.

  ’Two weeks. Should be done in two weeks.’

  ’Shall we say one?’

  ’I need more than that. I can't do it in a week.’

  ’Ten days then, and you are now wasting your own time even listening to me finish this sentence.’

  Tall-and-rangy straightens and makes for the exit. Hogg smiles despite himself as he heads for the door, thinks that he's starting to like the boss, even if he is a colossal prick.