Gridlock (20 page)

'Listen, towel-head,' said Sam, spinning round. 'You know that if I don't report back to Tungsten tonight, or one of my secret partners, we go ahead with the engine.'

'Do not judge everyone by your own loathsome standards, Mr Turk. You are not in any danger,' said the prince, and he probably meant it, although a glance round the room would quickly have informed Sam that certain other Union members might not be so considerate.

'So how come you're blocking my path?' asked Sam.

'Because I have come a long way to conduct these negotiations and I must insist that you have the courtesy to complete them,' answered the prince.

'In which case have the courtesy not to crap me, OK? You know damn well that my engine is at production level. There ain't gonna be any more research or development. We are ready to roll, and if we do you had better buy yourself a herd of goats, because we are sure as hell gonna derail your private gravy train, Prince.'

The prince looked about at his colleagues, all of whom were empowered to negotiate on behalf of their states. Their faces were resigned. None of them had expected the bluff to work, and it hadn't. They would have to pay.

'Twenty billion dollars you say?' enquired the prince,

'Oh hot damn!' said Sam. 'You see I've been working in London, England, this last year or so. I think in
pounds
these days. Have to, ya see, so as I can compute how many Ecus to charge for my product!'

Cornelius Brandt shook with anger. 'You're mad, Turk. Don't ask it,' he stammered.

The prince remained outwardly calm, but he too was shaken, everyone was. Sam had even surprised himself, he had not been planning to nearly double his demand.

'Am I to understand that your price is twenty billion
pounds?'

Sam was a gambling man, he read the faces of the people in the game and he decided to chance raising the stakes. 'The price for the world rights in perpetuity to the Global Motors hydrogen engine is now fifty billion United States dollars. Payable in gold, securities or cash. What's more, it goes up five billion every two and a half minutes from now on.' Sam looked pointedly at his watch.

'Mr Turk.' Even the ultracool prince was now showing his emotions. 'This is no way for civilized people to conduct negotiations.'

'I ain't civilized, Your Highness,' said Sam, thumbs in waistband. 'I'm an American car man and proud of it. I wasn't born, I was beaten out of a quarter-inch steel panel in Detroit. We never set much store by being civilized down on the auto line.'

'Oh
please
,' said Cornelius Brandt.

'Now listen up, all of you, OK?' Sam barked. 'We all know that you have no choice whatsoever. Your people have checked out the plans and you know how extraordinary they are. Can't think why nobody figured out the secret before. Lucky for you they didn't, or you'd never have got as fat as you did.' This was rather rich coming from a man who himself sported a belly you could have plumped up and got cosy on. 'Maybe they did figure it out, maybe I ain't the first guy you've had to buy off. Whatever, if the engine goes into production you know that you're all peasants again. Personally, I reckon you're getting a bargain here at fifty billion. Mind you, gentlemen, I feel obliged to inform you that in about a minute the price will be fifty-five billion.'

'Mr Turk,' said the prince, in a lifeless voice. 'The member states of the Union of Oil, in conjunction with the major petroleum refining and distribution companies' – at that Cornelius Brandt gulped – 'hereby undertake to purchase from you, Samuel Turk, managing director of Global Motors UK, the exclusive world rights, in perpetuity, to the hydrogen engine developed by the Global Motor Company. The Global Motor Company will, in their turn, undertake never to build a single unit of the said engine, or divulge the secret of the engine to any third party. The price agreed is fifty billion United States dollars.'

'Sorry,' said Sam checking his watch, 'twenty seconds too late, it's fifty-five billion.'

'What!' the prince, so icy a moment before, positively spluttered.

'Too much pompous bullshit, Prince. All you needed to say was "deal" but you had to dress it up like some kind of fucking international treaty. Well, I warned you.'

The whole room erupted in furious protest.

'Mr Turk!' Cornelius Brandt shouted, 'this is absurd! Unjust! You cannot possibly—'

'I can do just what I damn well like,' barked Sam. 'Because I've got you guys over a barrel with your balls in a clamp, so don't tell me nothing, OK? Now I like you guys, and so I'm going to do you a big favour, by reminding you that in less than a minute the price goes up from fifty-five to sixty billion.'

'Deal,' said the prince.

After Sam had gone, the Union of Oil and the big petrol pumpers had a conference. At first everyone shouted at once and the result was a confused babble. However, one thing was clear as crystal, if Sam had entertained any hopes of receiving a birthday card from the assembled group, he was going to be disappointed.

Soon it became clear that there was a distinct group who favoured direct action. The loudest-voiced in this group was a tough-looking man in military fatigues.

'This man cheats and insults us. He is a bully, a braggart, I am confident that General Ali will want him dead.'

General Ali was the military dictator who had invaded his neighbour, and no slouch at the bullying and braggarting game himself. A very different type of leader indeed to the people that the prince represented, he thought nothing of using military force and terrorism to achieve his ends. All in all he was a very scary man. It was well known, about the Gulf, that you did not mess lightly with General Ali.

'Killing Turk would be pointless,' snapped the prince.

'Oh yes?' enquired the man in fatigues. 'Then perhaps you would like to be the person who informs the general that we have just negotiated a fifty-five-billion-dollar pay-off and that he is expected to contribute.'

'Gladly. I will phone him now,' the prince boldly replied.

'Why the hell not kill the man?' the hawks in the group pressed. And the doves explained that it would do no good, for some other conspirator, Tungsten for instance, would take over control of the engine.

'Well, we'll kill him as well,' announced the man in fatigues.

'We have no idea who is a party to this invention,' snapped the prince. 'It is absurd to suppose that we would be able, with absolute certainty, to suppress it by force. The only way that we can be one hundred per cent certain that this engine will never be produced, is to own it ourselves, and the only way to do that is to purchase it legally. If we start to chase it you may rest assured that very quickly it will emerge somewhere, and then it would be unstoppable.'

There was no doubting the logic of this and the hawks sulkily agreed that the legal way was the only sure way.

'But we could kill the swine anyway,' said the general's man, hopefully, 'and deal with Tungsten.'

Fortunately for Sam, he was outvoted. Unfortunately for Sam, General Ali had never had a great respect for democracy.

Bruce Tungsten had been jittery ever since he got back from his mysterious trip to the Gulf, everyone had noticed. The company was in the midst of a massive catalogue update, bringing a series of new models and improved classics onto the market. By rights, Bruce Tungsten should have been at his sharpest and most involved. He wasn't though, he was preoccupied, his mind was clearly elsewhere. In vain, the top design team tried to get final approval on the results of years of labour. Particularly urgent was the new four-wheel-drive, off-road Rancheroo Prairie Cruiser, it was all ready to roll off the line. The media blitz was poised and the ads had been made. The car was to be targeted at young, urbane executives and city bankers, so the advert featured a rugged cowboy gone hunting in Wyoming: lean and silent; alone by an open fire with his dog,

'Will ya just look at the final cuts, boss?' they pleaded. 'Ranger and Toytana are both snapping at our heels here. We believe Toytana are offering a four-by-four that can cross rivers up to four feet deep and Ranger have a winching line that could drag a bus out of a swamp.'

'Well, those should be useful features for picking up the groceries at the Seven Eleven,' murmured Bruce, fingering the strange little doll that always stood on his desk. His staff were most surprised at this. Mr Automobile had never been cynical about a car before.

They clamoured at him to make the decisions they required, but Bruce was evasive. He was waiting for the phone to ring. Eventually it did, the secure line, Bruce knew that it was Sam Turk.

'Meeting's over, boys,' he said to his astonished employees. A collective 'but boss' was on the tip of their combined tongues, but you didn't 'but boss' Bruce Tungsten. They dutifully trooped out and Bruce spoke to Sam.

'What's the story, Sam? I had Cornelius Brandt on line an hour ago saying you were an animal, but he wouldn't tell me anything else.'

'Oh he's just a little touchy because I put a teabag on his head,' replied Sam. 'Bruce, ol' pal, we have pulled off a deal so big and so mean you could put a saddle on it and ride it in a rodeo. They had no choice, pal, no choice. Guess what I stung them for, go on, guess . . . guess, you have to guess, go on, guess.'

'Sam, I have no idea,' replied Bruce. 'I haven't even seen—'

'Forty billion dollars.'

The phone almost fell from Bruce's hand.

'You have to be joking, Sam,' he replied, white-faced.

'Ye-e-e-e-s, I am!!!' screamed Sam Turk. 'Fifty-five billion, Bruce, twenty-seven and a half each. What are you going to do, huh? I think I'll just buy myself a little country in Central America and set myself up as a dictator, that way I get my own army and also I can give the President a hard time whenever the Democrats are in.'

'Sam, I've never even seen this damn engine,' said Bruce.

'No, that's right, you haven't at that,' said Sam, cheerfully, 'but you don't have to see it, partner, they've seen it, and they want to buy it.'

'I want to see it, Sam,' said Bruce.

'Now listen here, Bruce. The deals have been done and you're damn lucky I'm not the kind to cheat on an old pal. It would be very easy for me to have just conveniently forgotten about any partners I might have had . . .'

'I know that, Sam,' said Bruce apologetically.

'Now, I don't know if you're having any crazy thoughts about this engine.'

'Sam, I was just curious, that's all.' Bruce was now less apologetic. 'I'm a damned car maker, and an engineer, I want to know how it works.'

'And I'll tell you sometime, Bruce, believe me I will,' placated Sam. 'We'll sit down in some good old bar and I'll map the whole thing out with a couple of boxes of matches. But right now it's money that matters, Bruce. We have to be in a position to receive fifty-five billion, in gold, bonds, assets and cash. And what's more, we have to do it by next Tuesday, which is when I told them I wanted to exchange.'

'That's quite impossible, Sam. The logistics would never fall into place. You can't just deposit it at a bank, it's just too much money. We are talking about the sort of assets that could destabilize an entire economy.'

'I know,' and Bruce could actually hear Sam grinning, 'isn't it beautiful?'

'Sam, please, think about it. Adequately preparing to place fifty-five billion dollars on the world money markets cannot be done by two individuals in four days.'

'It has to, Bruce, ol' pal. The longer we leave them to sweat over this, the more likely they are to start sticking bombs through letter boxes.'

'Sam, it can't be done.'

'Oh yes it can, leastways it had better, and it's
one
individual by the way. This is your job, Bruce. I don't have the influence, or the clout to pull it off. No bank would take my word on those kind of figures. No brokerage would listen to me. So let me tell you how it's going to be, Bruce. There's fifty-five billion coming in. That's two lots of twenty-seven and a half. Except the Gulf states pay on Tuesday, and what they can't unload they take back with them. So my share, ol' pal, is the
first
twenty-seven and a half they can invest on your instructions, and yours is the second, anything you can't find a home for, you lose.'

'Sam, by Tuesday!' protested Bruce. But the line was dead.

Bruce touched the intercom button.

'Michelle,' he said, 'cancel everything for the next five days.'

'But Mr Tungsten,' came the astonished reply. 'You can't possibly . . . Sir, this is the most important . . . Why the whole new range . . .'

'Cancel everything, Michelle,' said Bruce. 'A few days from now it won't matter a damn.'

As Sam put the phone down on Bruce, something which he had never done before, in another part of the great Global UK building an employment officer was also putting down the phone, having spoken to Deborah.

'Global Motors UK is an equal opportunities employer,' the paper had said, and as Deborah dialled the number, she wondered.

'They don't mind about murdering people with disabilities,' she said to herself, 'I'll bet they ain't so eager to give them a job.'

Paradoxically, Deborah's disability made it easier for her, on this occasion, to at least gain an interview. Global was a huge corporation, public relations were an obsession with them, the last thing they needed was some loudmouth crip kicking up a stink about discrimination. Always interview the cripples, that was the rule. Then, when you turn them down, you can say it's because they just aren't right for the job, nothing to do with the wheelchair.

So when Deborah rang the number, somewhat exaggerating her qualifications, and pointedly asked about disabled access, the employment officer at Global UK agreed to put her in with the first batch of interviewees to be seen the following Monday.

That evening she told Toss.

'You're mad, girl!' he exclaimed. 'Why don't you just bell the geezer and say you know all about the miracle engine and about him killing Spas and all that. He'll shit himself. I mean he'll have to see you because he doesn't know what you know, does he?'

'He doesn't care what I know either, Toss,' said Deborah. 'The guy has the designs, right? What proof do we have that those designs were originally Geoffrey's? Turk can just claim he designed them himself.'

'Yeah, but I mean somebody must have known what Geoffrey was working on, and could back our story. Someone at his work, or whatever.'

'Nobody knew about Geoffrey's engine but Geoffrey. The guy was a spastic, Toss, people didn't talk to him. Besides, he kept it a secret, even from me, until it was stolen. The stupid jerk left no tracks at all. We've tried to get the police to believe the story, so did Geoffrey. Christ, Toss, it's been published in a newspaper! Nobody gives a damn and Turk knows it, he has nothing to fear. Which is why the only chance I have of getting those designs back is to tackle Turk unawares.'

'Well I have to say, girl,' said Toss, forlornly, 'at the risk of sounding negative, your chances are kind of tiny. "Infinitesimally small" are words that are not out of place here. The geezer will kill you.'

And yet again he tried to dissuade Deborah from her chosen course, as he had been doing almost continuously since the previous morning when she had read the
Sunday Word
article.

'Deborah, these people blew Geoffrey's head off! I mean they
blew it off
! It was like some sort of Robert De Niro thing, except they didn't use real ketchup, they used blood. They have no respect for the sanctity of human life. None.'

Toss was absolutely convinced, not unreasonably, that Deborah was going to get herself killed. So fearful was he, on her behalf, that he had even, with the greatest reluctance, volunteered to attempt the mission himself. He was honest enough with himself to concede that he was relieved when Deborah said that it wouldn't work.

'This is the one time when being in a stupid wheelchair gives me the edge. Somebody has to get into the Global building, right? And once in, get around it. That I person is me. People don't like to
talk
to people in wheelchairs, let alone kiss them off. They're embarrassed too, so they grin weakly and ignore us instead. I have to tell you, they do not have a similar problem with young black guys. It is conceivable that you might get the job interview, but if you start wandering round their building uninvited, you are going to have the FBI and the National Guard and the Ku Klux Klan on your back in two, maybe three, seconds maximum. They will slam you against the wall, spread your legs and say hurtful things like, "Freeze nigger motherfucker!" or, seeing as how we're in London, "Orl roit, sambo, wotcha want?"'

Deborah, like many Americans, was rather proud of her cockney accent, which was strange because she couldn't do it at all. The American cockney accent is taught via 1940s Sherlock Holmes B movies, where actors from the Bronx sit on top of hansom cabs saying, 'Cor blimey, wot a toff! Arf a crahn to roid ya to tha trine styshon.' This accent reached its glorious zenith with Dick Van Dyke's extraordinary performance as the sweep in
Mary Poppins.

Dialect aside, Deborah's point was a forceful one. She pressed it home.

'Now little old me, on the other hand, Toss. Who's going to press me against a wall? A poor pathetic girl in a chair? What possible danger could I be? Crippled, you see, good for
absolutely
nothing. Such a shame, so young and yet so
useless,
what harm could she do?'

Toss could see the logic in this argument. But only as far as it went.

'All right, Debbo, I am happening to your point that you have got slightly more chance than me. But considering, girl, right, that neither of us have any chance whatsoever, I mean, none, right, your advantage is kind of academic.'

'That's beside the point. I have to try.'

'Listen, you're not bleeding Davy Crockett, girl, you don't have to remember the Alamo. You are going to be wheeling yourself into the lair of a killer, right. And for what? So you can ask him for your engine back. Do you know what he'll say, Deborah? He'll say "no", that's what.'

But there was no dissuading Deborah, her mind was made up. Geoffrey's mission had become her mission. After all, in a way, it was
her
engine that had been stolen, Geoffrey had designed it for her. He had wanted to make her fly, and now this Turk guy had stolen her wings and she intended to get them back. What's more, she was going to demonstrate to Sam Turk that you did not deposit the heads of her friends in her flowerbeds and expect to get away with it.

It wasn't entirely personal. Since his death, Deborah had thought hard about Geoffrey's self-imposed mission. He had intended that his engine should be used for good, that through his work transport in the next century would be prevented from destroying the planet. Deborah's backbone was always a bit stiff on account of the fact that she spent her days sitting down. At the thought of Geoffrey's dreams, however, it stiffened further, stiffened with iron resolve.

'Toss,' said Deborah, 'I am on a mission to save the world.'

Sam was plotting with Bruce, Deborah was plotting with Toss, and the man in the battle fatigues was plotting with General Ali.

General Ali had a lot of problems. He was an army officer who had come to power via a military coup. His position had always been rather shaky. In fact, he had started up the recent war with his neighbour by way of rallying popular support. It is one of the great paradoxes of history that leaders who find themselves in difficulties at home often start wars in order to make their people love them. Although why anyone should feel deepening affection for someone who has exposed them to being bombed, gassed, shot at and invaded has never been explained. However, be that as it may, the general remained in a fairly precarious position. He who rises by the coup is often condemned to fall by the coup and many terrible rumblings were to be heard in the country – although these may have had something to do with the fact that, due to war rationing, the bread was now 50 per cent sawdust.

The once beautiful city was devastated, the army was weary, its best men were gone, and the people were hungry. The last thing the general needed was to have to stump up the seven billion US dollars that the Union of Oil had designated as his country's contribution to Sam Turk's buy-off.

'We're busted, Colonel,' the general informed the man in military fatigues who had attended the Union of Oil meetings. 'Seven billion dollars? Where am I going to get it from, taxation? What is there to tax? People will say, "OK, General, take the rubble that used to be my house, take the food out of the empty larder." Listen, Colonel, you remember when we took power? You remember what I said?'

'You said that heads must roll because the state was bankrupt and could no longer afford to pay its soldiers or feed its babies,' the colonel replied.

'Spot any irony?' enquired the general.

The colonel remained silent on this one.

'You know what I think?' said the general. 'I think we can sort this out more cheaply.'