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.
88
Carver was wondering what the hell he was doing. The room was so packed that it was hard to see more than a few metres in any direction. The sound of chit-chat and laughter was so loud that it was almost impossible to overhear anything distinct. He could only catch fleeting glimpses of individual guests. A tall blonde dressed to kill in a scarlet cocktail dress caught his eye; him and every other heterosexual male in the room. Something about her nagged at him, but before he could react in any way, the wall of people had closed again and she had disappeared from view. And that was the problem: if anything did happen, it would be virtually impossible to make his way through the press of people fast enough to take the split-second action that might be required.
His phone buzzed: a text from Alix: ‘Stuck in traffic but on my way, like it or not haha! Ax’
Carver winced. He’d done all he could to persuade Alix not to come, but she’d never been the type to do as she was told: he wouldn’t be interested in her if she were. This time, though, it was serious. Her safety was at stake. He had to think of a way to head her off.
As he was looking at his phone screen, Carver was half-aware of a waiter a few feet away, putting a bottle of champagne down on the table and checking his watch, but he paid him little attention. The human brain is not
