Carver put away the phone and turned on the car radio, tuning it to Radio 5 Live, and heard the voice of a news reporter saying she was outside the mysterious American billionaire Malachi Zorn’s Surrey mansion, and was expecting him to appear at any moment.
‘Zorn?’ asked Schultz, as they entered the outskirts of Pembroke. ‘Is that the bastard you said was responsible for what just happened?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’d like to tear that fucker limb from fucking limb.’
Carver looked at Schultz. He’d planned on doing the Zorn job alone. But there was a lot to be said for having the massive SBS man on his side. He thought about his plans and the specific ways in which Schultz might improve them. Yes, it could certainly work.
‘Suppose I helped you do that?’ he asked.
‘You taking the piss, boss?’
‘Never been more serious. Listen, no one knows whether you’re dead or alive right now…’
‘Nah, suppose not.’
‘And it’s going to be days before they work out the final casualty lists. So you could just disappear off the grid, couldn’t you?’
‘The CO’s not going to like that. I’m a company sergeant major. I’m supposed to set an example, do my duty, not piss off on private jollies.’
‘Don’t worry about that. The man I was just talking to is a very influential individual. If I ask him to square it for you, trust me, there won’t be a problem.’
Schultz pulled up at a red light and gave Carver a long, searching look. ‘What exactly was it you said you did for a living, boss?’
‘I didn’t say.’
‘But we’re going after this Zorn geezer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know a bloke who can just call up Poole, get my CO on the line, and tell him what to do?’
‘Yes.’
The light turned green and Schultz drove away. ‘And what exactly do you want from me?’
‘Drop the girl at the hospital and get me to the airport at Haverfordwest. Then head for London. Give me a number and I’ll call you. We’ll be doing the job tomorrow. We’re going to need someone else, too, someone we can trust. And I mean, absolutely. One word of this gets out-’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got the right man. He was in the Service, got out about six months ago. Just about to fuck off to Iraq with one of them Yank security companies.’
‘And he’s good?’
‘One of the best.’
‘Then that’ll do me.’
‘And we’re going to take this Zorn bastard out?’
‘Well, Snoopy,’ said Carver, ‘just you wait and see.’
On the radio the presenter was saying, ‘And now let’s cross back, live, to Surrey, where we are about to hear an official statement from the man who predicted a tragedy like today’s, and who was a close personal friend of the late Nicholas Orwell. I can see on my monitor that the statement is about to begin. So this is Malachi Zorn…’
56
Wentworth
Malachi Zorn’s PR people had advised him to wait a few hours before he faced the media. It was worth taking time, they said, for their best writers to craft a statement. He had said no. ‘I don’t want a crafted statement. I just want to go out and speak from the heart.’ The PRs had protested, but at the same time, he had seen their minds working out how to use his determination just to go out and speak his mind on behalf of a departed friend as a story in itself. It was a nice human touch: the media would gobble it up. Of course, he’d had hours to contemplate his reaction to Orwell’s likely demise, and months to think about the refinery’s destruction. So there was very little that was spontaneous or off the cuff about what he was going to say. Nor was it an accident that the few rough notes — ‘NB: VICTIMS most important… Nicholas counsellor, contributor, friend… human not financial tragedy… business as usual,’ and so on — scrawled on the sheet of paper in his hand had been written large enough to be picked up by zoom lenses. Even the hesitation with which he opened had been considered in advance.
‘Ahh…’ Zorn grimaced nervously and cleared his throat as he ran his eyes over the crowd of reporters in front of him, hoping to give as many of them as possible the impression that he had looked directly at them. He felt a momentary shock of alarm as the thought struck him that Carver might be out there in the crowd, ready to fire the bullet that would blow his brains out. The image didn’t frighten Zorn. It thrilled him: the shot of physical danger spiced up his financial gamble like a splash of chilli oil. He coughed to hide his excitement, and then began: ‘I want to make a short statement about today’s tragic events at the Rosconway refinery in Wales.’
Zorn looked down at the notes, as if seeing inspiration and reassurance from them, though he knew perfectly well what he was going to say. ‘My first and, ahh, deepest thoughts are for the victims of this terrible atrocity: the dead, the wounded, and all the loved ones who are feeling such loss and anguish at this dark hour. There will be much talk of the political and economic consequences of what has happened, but you know, we must never forget that this is a human tragedy that touches us all.’
He gave another look around his audience, drawing them in, making them complicit in what he said. He saw no sign of Carver, just one or two reporters who actually nodded back at him. Good: they were hooked. Now to gently reel them in.
‘Of course, no one person’s life is of any greater value than another’s. But I hope you will allow me to pay a special tribute to my colleague and dear friend Nicholas Orwell. I got to know Nicholas very well over the past few months, as he and I worked together on the development of the Zorn Global fund. To the British people, he was of course a strong and greatly admired leader…’ Total bullshit, of course: Zorn knew perfectly well the contempt in which Orwell was held by many, if not most of his former electors, but no one wanted to be reminded of that now.
‘But to me, he was a fine man, a wise counsellor and an invaluable contributor to this venture. Above all, he had an incredible gift for relating to other people, and winning their trust and understanding. Nicholas made all our investors feel like true partners in a fund whose purpose is to unite people from different nations, different cultures and different generations in a single enterprise spanning the world we all share. We will all miss you, Nick, but I know that wherever you are, you will be delighted to hear that we will not be defeated or downcast by your tragic loss. Zorn Global is already trading, and its public launch will take place as planned on Friday evening.’
The last sentence had, as Zorn had intended, caught everyone’s attention. After all the obligatory tributes, here was a nugget of hard news: Zorn Global was going ahead whether Orwell was there or not. That he, the host, might also be absent, too, would not occur to anyone.
He continued, ‘Now, as many of you know, I have for many months warned that an event such as today’s might occur. In fact, I discussed it on the BBC World show HARDtalk earlier this week. It is also no secret that my security concerns have influenced the investment decisions I have made, both on my own account and on behalf of Zorn Global and its clients. You know, even within the past hour I’ve already seen speculation on various financial websites suggesting that I may have profited to the tune of tens of billions of dollars from what happened at Rosconway…’
As the phrase ‘tens of billions of dollars’ was jotted down in dozens of notepads, Zorn took on the voice and demeanour of a stern, high-minded headmaster, disappointed by the conduct of a few unruly pupils. ‘I am not prepared to dignify such speculation with any official comment. It is simply not appropriate to consider personal gain at a time like this; people’s lives are far more important than financial profit or loss.’
If it was not proper to consider personal gain, the clear implication was that there had been some… and the words ‘tens of billions’ were already on the record, just waiting to be attached to it. Now Zorn added a political dimension. ‘But I can say that I have already spoken to the British Prime Minister and the Chancellor of the
