Payback (14 page)

Lydia put down the slim file and sank her head in her hands. She had read it a dozen times since Maddie gave it to her the day before at their lunch. It could not be true. He was a rogue financially. That she knew. But this simply could not be true. She called Maddie, needing to talk to someone, to put some structure, some boundary on what she had just read.

‘
It’s me. And I didn’t believe any of it,’ she said, defiantly. ‘That was my first reaction. But... I’m now really not so sure.’

‘
I mean, I know he’s a bully. And cuts corners. But...not this!’

‘
Perhaps we should tackle Tom about it. He might be able to throw some light on things. Is he around? In the country?’

‘
No. He leaves today to join Dad in Belize. Taking out some important City analyst.’

‘
So. What
do
we do? Go to the police?’

‘
No!’ Lydia snapped. She was still not ready fully to accept it. There had to be an explanation. It had to be some ghastly misunderstanding. It was after all written in telegraphese, referring to people and plans in Lisbon of which they had no real knowledge. ‘We’ll confront him, as soon as he’s back.’

‘
And when’s that?’

‘
He’s due to fly back with Tom and the analyst in four days.’

‘
All right, if that’s what you think. We tackle him together...But—wait,’ Maddie said, ‘someone’s just arriving. I’ll see to it and call you back in a minute. Don’t go away...’

Grabbing
Oliver before he could escape her reach, Lydia hauled him to her lap for a cuddle. Never an affectionate dog at the best of times, he subjected himself to this for a few seconds before jumping down and shaking himself the way he did when wet, as if to rid himself of her unwanted sentimentality. Sitting by the door, he made his pathetic small animal noise, looking at her with brown expectant eyes. ‘In a minute. I’ll take you out in a minute. Down the Embankment and across to the p-a-r-k. In a minute.’ She got up to make a quick coffee as she waited for Maddie to call her back.

The
phone rang just as she was pouring the water out. ‘Maddie,’ she said, ‘I think we should meet again before...Let’s fix a time. Lunch or dinner or something. Here if you like...?’

‘
That’s
real
noyce of yow,’ came a sneering male voice, Sam Thrower’s Brummie accent deliberately exaggerated. ‘But yow’d have to shee-ow me which knife and fork to use.’

‘
It’s you! What is it? What do you want?’ She went cold, knowing full well what his call had to mean.

‘
Show time,’ he said.

‘
You mean...’

‘
Show time is all,’ he snapped before she could say anything more.

She
shuddered. It was their codeword for “tonight”. ‘OK.’ Her voice was weak.

‘
You still up for it?’

She
thought of her father, and what she had just been reading. ‘More than ever,’ she said, and hung up.

*

Perry Mitchell looked across the table at Tom Bates, his wide mouth turned down slightly in distaste. They were in the interview room MI6 still occasionally used in Admiralty Arch. The MOD had moved out in 1994, and soon even this last vestige of official use would end when the place became a tourist or residential venue. ‘This is a colleague of mine. His name isn’t important.’

Tom
took in Neil Gaylord. Tall, foppish hair, intelligent eyes and a sharp Savile Row pinstripe suit. ‘Can we get on?’ He tried to assert himself in his best consultant’s manner.

‘
You have a plane to catch, of course,’ Mitchell said, watching him closely.

How
the hell did they know that? Tom wondered. It was another reminder of how serious they were about all this, however. ‘I won’t even bother to ask how you found that out, but yes. I do have a plane to catch.’

‘
Then you may be equally interested in knowing how we came to be in possession of this.’ Mitchell pushed over a copy of an e-mail Tom had sent the previous afternoon to Barton. In it he had resigned all his directorships and given notice to terminate his long-standing consultancy contract with him. It also contained some technical paragraphs drafted by his lawyers designed to protect his stock options. Tom had looked long and hard at himself in the mirror, and into his conscience, and decided he had been used and kept in the dark for long enough. He wanted out, and would use the Elkins trip to follow up his e-mail and face Barton man to man.

Tom
was shocked. ‘I suppose nothing should surprise me with you people,’ he replied quietly.

‘
We intercepted it electronically. And I have to tell you that Barton has not received it,’ Mitchell replied. He held his hand up as Tom spluttered in protest. ‘You see, we don’t want you to resign. In fact, it’s the last thing we want. But as you requested, I’ll get to the point.’ The anglepoise lamp was reflected in his spectacle lenses, preventing Tom from seeing his eyes. ‘You’ve refused my request to help us. A refusal which seems to have been carefully and rationally thought through. And not one I’m likely to be able to change by way of any further appeals. Either to patriotism or to any Walter Mitty dreams of playing at spies. That’s about where we are, I think?’

Tom
’s survival antennae were twitching. ‘You got it. Like I said when I called you after our lunch, the answer’s no. Not fair on my business associate. Not fair on WMC, my employer. And not fair on me. So. No deal. Tell Her Majesty, sorry, but I’ve said no.’

‘
And that’s really your final word?’

‘
Read my lips, Mitchell!’ Tom snapped. They had not insisted on this meeting to just hear him refuse again, this he knew. Something was coming.

‘
And if I were to point out that the funds your team manages for Barton are almost entirely from the drugs industry?’

Tom
looked defiantly back. He was confident on his ground here. ‘Not true. I’ve checked it out. The money comes from perfectly respectable, mainly US travel and entertainment businesses. Hotels, restaurant chains, travel agencies, car rental...Huge cash flow from the travel-voucher system. They use us as a clearance system for inter-company payments.’

‘
Very well. We tried. It’s always better for everyone if these things are accepted voluntarily. And with goodwill on both sides. However...you’re forcing me to, well, insist that you help. Help your country, and mine. Over to you...’

Mitchell
got up, nodded to Gaylord, and turned his back on them as if in disgust, looking out through the grubby net curtains at the thundering traffic decanting into the Mall.

Gaylord began in a monotone, unemotional voice.
‘I have a DEA file here that proves beyond any doubt whatever that the companies channelling their money to your Curaçao account are indeed legitimate businesses. But fronts, all of them. Cash busineses laundering drug dollars through the travel voucher. You’re welcome to look through it if you wish. But you
can
take our word for it.’

As
he pushed the file over, Tom flicked through it half-heartedly. But in truth, and given his rock bottom opinion now of Barton, he did feel he could take their word for it. ‘Assuming you’re right, what makes you think that Barton or I knew anything about it?’ he demanded.

Gaylord
treated the question as rhetorical. ‘The Aruba Mutual Alliance. What can you tell us about that?’ he pressed.

Tom
was genuinely fogged. ‘Never heard of it.’

Mitchell
shot a look at Gaylord and nodded slightly. ‘There’s a lot you know nothing of, Mr Bates,’ he said sarcastically.

‘
Like these photographs.’ Gaylord was spreading out a selection of black and white half-plates on the table. ‘Would you oblige us by looking at them?’

Tom
put down the DEA folder and walked over. It took several seconds before he was able to assimilate what they were. Then he abruptly turned his head away, bile rising in his gorge. ‘What...?’

‘
These are the largely decomposed remains of Africans found by our Lisbon Station over the past few days. They were in land belonging to Temple Bio-Labs, alongside your Oeiras plant. Each had died from exposure to varying amounts of a curious new strain of botulinum toxin. Mr Mitchell told you a little about it over your lunch, remember? These young men had been used as laboratory animals, we think to refine the toxicity levels to perfect biological weaponry.’

Mitchell
walked over and passed Tom a glass of water. ‘We’ll leave you alone for a while. To read the file and think about things,’ he said, before leading Gaylord out.

Tom
had not moved when they returned three minutes later. He seemed in a state of shock. Shock at what he had seen and learned. And deep shock that he had after all been so comprehensively used by Barton. Putting his hands behind his swimming head he tried to get a grip. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘
Re-think your refusal to help. Don’t resign. Help us avenge yourself with Barton. Help us put him away for a very long time. Think about what I’ve said on your flight to Miami. I’ll have one of my people contact you out there, to hear your decision. That’s all I ask. OK? - Deal?’ Mitchell extended his hand.

After
Tom had left, Gaylord looked at Mitchell curiously, shocked at the way he had left things. ‘What the hell was that all about?’ he asked. ‘Are you going soft in your old age?’

Snapping
the file shut, Mitchell smiled his sinister smile. ‘I’ve almost got him. A few more hours will be a good investment. Believe me. A good volunteer is worth ten reluctant conscripts. And he’s bright. If we get him on our side, he’ll be excellent.’

‘
But if he still refuses?’

‘
Then all bets are off. He helps us, or he goes to prison. He helps us, or I break him.’

*

As Banto had padded down the deserted corridors to make his escape, he heard a pitiful screeching from one of the labs. Looking in, the dull light revealed three chimpanzees in individual cages. He started at the sight of them, at first thinking they were humans even smaller than him. Chimpanzees are not found in PNG, just the spidery tree monkeys and tree kangaroos. But he quickly recognised them simply as frightened creatures, like himself. There were also rats and mice in cages on the long working surface. Pulling off the lids, he reached in and grabbed two of the fattest-looking rats and pressed their throats, despatching them speedily and stuffing them in his pocket. He now had food for the journey. Then without a second thought he freed the chimpanzees, which shrieked excitedly, waving their arms up and down, baring their teeth at Banto in submission.

They
followed him, bounding along on their knuckles, as he made for the door to leave the hated place behind. Pushing it open, the apes ran out without so much as a look back at him, but something made Banto pause for a moment before escaping. There was a captioned photograph of Barton, as chairman, displayed behind the reception desk. From the magazines and videos on his various flights, Banto had by now learned how to ‘see’ again, assimilating the shapes in photographs and identifying that they were likenesses of people or places. And he certainly recognised this likeness of the chief he had seen that day. The man to whom all others had deferred. This was the
kepala
. This was the one who would have to face Payback. Bolitho first. But Payback had to be given by the big
kepala
. That was obvious. Whatever it took, Banto could never return to his people without Payback from this man. Grabbing it from the wall, he had difficulty getting the picture out of the frame. Finally he threw it in the floor in frustration, where it smashed and he could pick out the photograph and shove it in his shirt pocket.

Banto
’s first act of freedom on quitting the compound had been to kick off the sandals he had been forced to wear. His wide feet splayed out and his strong, finger-like toes dug luxuriously into the wet soil, immediately drawing strength from it. Then, deciding against tearing off the loose denim jeans and shirt yet, he became very still, head up, catching the steady rain in his open mouth. Standing erect, a human aerial, he focused his entire being, searching for the forests around his village, so far away. But there was nothing coming back for him from there. Then as he became wrapped in its damp, foetal darkness all around him, he slowly divined the nearest place of safety to him now. There was no one instant when he knew. No flash of insight. No sudden shaking, like a water-diviner’s willow. But gradually he simply knew. Safety was south. Two sleeps away. And south was
that
way...

The
rain continued its steady fall all night as Banto half ran, his clenched hands held stiffly by his head, boxer-like. The lab was by the northern sports ground, alongside the Novelos bus depot, and he padded along the market place, past the petrol station and across the Hawkesworth Bridge over the Macal. Into Santa Elena his instinct took him south along the Cristo Rey road and on to San Antonio beyond. At first, leaving the urban sprawl of the town behind, he found himself in grasslands, keeping to the sandy roads. But by dawn he was back in the Macal River valley, now amongst more verdant pine forests and farmland, being drawn inexorably towards Mountain Pine Ridge and the Chiquibul rain forest beyond around Caracol.