Exchequer, and assured them both that, at a time when I am enjoying the hospitality of the United Kingdom, I have no intention of harming its economy. I have therefore divested myself of all my short positions in UK-listed corporations, UK government bonds and sterling.’
Fighting hard to contain his amusement, Zorn contemplated the sheer panic that would be seizing the trading rooms of banks and hedge funds as they digested the news that he’d got out of all his positions. They would be racing to do the same as the market rebounded. The way things were now, if he said he was going long, everyone would want to pile in and do the same. And, of course, he’d already taken the fresh positions that anticipated such a move.
Now it was time to show he wasn’t just about making money. He could give it away, too. ‘I am sure that this great nation will swiftly and completely recover from the blow it has been dealt today, just as it recovered from the Blitz and the bombs of 7/7. And to do my bit in assisting that process, I will be setting up a fund to aid victims and their families, to which I will be making a personal donation of a hundred million dollars.’
There was actually a gasp from the crowd at the size of the donation. Maybe in time they would figure out that it was far less than one per cent of his personal profits. But for now the headline figure would be all that anyone cared about. Zorn caught the eye of a young woman to one side of the crowd. She worked for his PR agency, and she was gazing at him as adoringly as a thirteen-year-old girl worshipping a teen idol. He gave her a flash of his best, most dazzling smile, then returned to his speech.
‘Finally, I would like to say that I have absolute faith in the ability of the UK authorities to track down the perpetrators of this appalling crime, and bring them to justice. We all have a duty now to assist in this investigation in any way possible, to do everything we can to support those who have been affected, and to carry on with our lives as normal. Terrorism must not be allowed to win. I will be carrying on with my schedule exactly as I had planned, and I advise everyone else to do the same. Thank you.’
At once there was a clamour of questions from the media, and a forest of hands shooting up, seeking his attention. But Zorn paid no attention to them. He simply gave a couple of brisk nods, turned on his heels and walked back into his rented house.
Another stage of his plan had been triumphantly completed.
57
Bronglais General Hospital, Aberystwyth
It was 1.15 P.M. when the helicopter landed on a patch of open ground on the western edge of the University of Aberystwyth campus, close to the National Library of Wales complex. The hospital was just a couple of hundred yards away, and Carver was already out of the helicopter and walking across the grass, past groups of startled students, before the pilot had cut the engine. He made his way to the intensive care unit, flashing his ‘Andy Jenkins’ Ministry of Defence pass at the receptionist, and walking straight by. A young, uniformed female PC was stationed outside the room where Deirdre Bull had been taken.
‘My name’s Jenkins,’ Carver said, showing her the pass. ‘I need to speak to Deirdre Bull.’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘That won’t be possible. No one’s been allowed in there. Not even us.’
‘I understand,’ said Carver. ‘But my boss has spoken to your boss. And I mean your Chief Constable. Go ahead and check.’
The policewoman had a brief conversation on her radio. ‘Well, that seems to be in order,’ she said. ‘But it’s not really a police decision. You’ll have to ask Dr Fenwick. He’s the one who can help you.’
‘I see. And where can I find Dr Fenwick?’
‘Right here,’ said a voice from behind Carver’s back.
Fenwick was a short, black-haired man. He placed himself between Carver and the door to Deirdre Bull’s room, and glared at him like a surly guard dog. ‘I’m not at all happy about you, or anyone else, speaking to Ms Bull,’ Fenwick said. ‘She’s suffered very serious injuries and considerable loss of blood, followed by a lengthy operation. She’s a very sick woman indeed.’
‘Well, I’m very sorry for her,’ said Carver. ‘But this is a matter of national security.’
Fenwick looked at him disdainfully. ‘National security is not my concern. Patient welfare is.’
Carver gritted his teeth. Fenwick was no more than five feet eight inches tall, mildly overweight, and presumably untrained in any form of combat, whether armed or unarmed. The temptation to give him an educational slap was all but over whelming. But Grantham had told him to use his charm, so, fine, he’d try that. Well, up to a point he would, anyway.
‘You’ve heard about what happened at Rosconway this morning?’
Fenwick grimaced impatiently. ‘Yes. What of it?’
‘We believe the woman in that room there may be able to give us vital information about who was responsible. The death toll’s over two hundred, in case you hadn’t heard. Hundreds more injured. So if patient welfare is your concern, perhaps you’d like to tell all the people who are sitting in hospitals all over Wales, waiting to discover if the men and women they love are going to be all right, why this woman is so bloody precious. I was at Rosconway, Dr Fenwick. I saw it happen. So please, do me a favour… don’t talk to me about patient welfare.’
It might have been Carver’s oratorial skills that did the trick, or just the intensely intimidating coldness of the gaze he fixed on Fenwick. But in any event, the doctor briefly relented: ‘All right, but make it quick. Now,’ he went on, regaining a little self-confidence and looking right back at Carver, almost daring him to try something, ‘I’m going to observe you. If you are in any way hostile or threatening to this patient — if you so much as raise your voice — I’m ending it, immediately. And I’m her doctor. So I don’t care who you are, or what you’re really up to. As long as you’re in my hospital what I say goes. Got it?’
‘Absolutely. Let’s do it.’
Fenwick opened the door, and led Carver into the room. Deirdre Bull was lying with an arm and a leg in traction. Her head was bandaged. She had an oxygen mask on her face and a drip attached to her right arm. A monitor beside her bed tracked her pulse, blood pressure, temperature and respiration. She looked at them blearily through heavy, barely open lids, spaced out on painkillers that would be making it almost as hard for her to think straight as to move.
Carver’s spirits sank. The woman was even more wrecked than he had feared. But she was the only surviving member of the terrorist gang that anyone had been able to find, so if he couldn’t get anything out of her, there wasn’t anywhere else to go.
58
Fenwick took up station at the head of Bull’s bed and motioned to Carver to sit in a chair positioned halfway down the mattress. Carver was about to speak, but Fenwick raised a hand to stop him. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said.
Fenwick bent closer to Bull’s head. ‘Hello, Deirdre, there’s a gentleman here who’d like to have a word with you,’ he said, in an unexpectedly gentle voice. ‘You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. But if you do, don’t worry, I’ll be here all the time to make sure you’re all right.’
Bull tried to focus on Carver. ‘Uh… who are you?’ she asked, sounding as though each word was an effort.
‘My name is Andy Jenkins,’ Carver replied, with what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. ‘I work for the Ministry of Defence. I’m not a policeman. I’m not interested in collecting evidence against you. I just want a quiet, private chat — off the record. Do you understand?’
‘Not sure. Why d’you want to chat?’
‘It’s a matter of national security. You’d be helping us keep people safe. And I’m sure you want to help…’
She looked uncertain. ‘Well, yes, suppose so.’
