Payback (3 page)

A
software business had gone belly-up on him, forcing his company into receivership, and—thanks to his personal bank guarantees—Barton into bankruptcy. One more statistic from the twenty thousand cases a year. A suspended jail sentence for false accounting also followed. His ministerial career ended in a blaze of publicity as he was viciously hounded from office—by then at the FCO. Soon after, he resigned his Parliamentary seat. That had been four years earlier, and until his formal discharge, he had endured the humiliation heaped on all bankrupts: denied a bank account or credit card; prevented from retaining more than basic living costs from any earnings; and disbarred from taking a directorial role in any business. But despite all this, driving himself furiously and working closely with
wunderkind
consultant, the American Tom Bates, he had in just eighteen months generated enough cash to discharge the debts to his creditors through a reverse takeover—fronted by Bates—of a struggling, quoted biotech company. James Barton had lost none of his legendary ability to spot a rising sector early. Rumours of exciting new research soon had the shares rocketing and he had—through Bates—capitalised. Still bitter and angry, he bought his commercial freedom. Now he was back. And out for revenge.

‘
What time’s cook doing lunch?’ he asked, suddenly craving the first cigar of the day that she had just skilfully tried to deny him. ‘Tom’s running late with the weather.’

‘
It’s pretty bad on the M40, according to the radio,’ she replied. ‘Lots of accidents. Hope he’s OK. Lunch’ll be fine. Cook’s got some of her game soup simmering, and it’s just beef to follow. Nothing to spoil. Do you want me to make myself scarce once we’ve eaten?’ She was well used to semi-social, semi-business meals, and knew that she had little to contribute when he talked shop. It was not that she was just some vacuous, pretty-pretty wife, it was simply that what he did, his endless business ventures, bored her silly. It was all detail: spreadsheets, cash-flow forecasts and trial balances—and you either completely immersed yourself in it, or you didn’t.

At
first, she had badly missed all the pre-scandal social life, when London’s literary, arty types and politicians had joined the local county set to fill the Manor over dreamy, mischievous weekends. And of course the Season. But now she had learned to settle for less. Their usual guests now were pleasant enough scientific boffins, entrepreneurs and money men. Or of late the occasional South Americans, Europeans and Nigerians he sometimes lavishly entertained. The Arubans, as she had heard him call them in off-guard moments. These were from that secret and she assumed Masonic side to his life of which he never talked. But if there was now more talk of Mammon than Molière, whatever he was doing, along with the allowance from her own trust money, had kept the Grade One listed Georgian roof-tiles over their heads.

The sound of a car drew them to the window, and they saw Tom Bates’s maroon Jeep Cherokee tearing up the long avenue of limes to the house. Barton’s mood immediately lightened and he went out to greet the American, his closest adviser and nearest thing to a friend he still had left. ‘Look at you in that thing. The Fulham farmer! I bet that’s the first time you’ve ever engaged four-wheel drive in your life.’

Tom
grinned from under his floppy felt hat. ‘Not true,’ he objected. ‘I distinctly remember engaging it once when mounting the kerb. To park near Harrods.’

‘
Sure,’ Barton laughed, running in with him out of the snow. ‘But I keep telling you to dump that American heap. Buy a real car, like a Range Rover. A better car. An
English
car.’

‘
English? Rover’s about as English now as Gandhi!’

They
continued their usual sparring as Tom took off his coat and they made their way to the study. Maddie was standing by the fire, arm resting on the mantel. If she was honest with herself, she would have admitted to striking a pose for him, Lady Hamilton-like. And to dressing for him that day, as she had so many others. She had never been unfaithful, and never expected to be, but the handsome, cultivated, Ivy League fellow American was so much nearer her ideal than James could ever be.

Tom
had more than an inkling of all this, but had the manners—and the good business-sense—not to take advantage of it. ‘Maddie. You look a picture. As ever,’ he smiled, and walked over to her.

His
social kiss left the old-fashioned, masculine scent of him around her. It always made her blush slightly at the thought that he might somehow read her mind. She liked her men to smell of shaving cream. James, in contrast, used an electric razor, to save precious time. ‘Goodness. Your face is as cold as ice,’ she said, holding his eyes a second or two longer than necessary. ‘Let me fix you a drink. The usual?’

Having
mixed his Jack Daniel’s, she left them talking to fuss over lunch and check that Nanny had the twins ready. Tom watched her go. ‘You know, it’s like Robert Adam also designed Maddie to blend right in here, alongside all his architecture, finishings, carpets and the rest. Absolute class.’

‘
And I
don’t
blend? She’s the cuckoo here, not me.’

Tom
laughed at him. He was one of the very few people who could, and the only person able to speak his mind to the bully, and still escape his legendary rages. ‘Well,
there
you are again. Mr Paranoid! How are
we
today? You English bankrupts are too damn sensitive. In the States, surviving Chapter Eleven is admired. Guys put it on their CVs.’

Barton
spat out an expletive. The scandal was still a festering open wound with him, and a taboo subject within his earshot. ‘Why is it I take this from you? If anyone else spoke to me like that—’

‘
It’s my boyish charm. And because you pay too much to ignore me. You chose me as a big ticket superstar advisor. So if you don’t listen to me, ergo, you’re criticising your own judgement. And you’re never wrong. Right?’

‘
There’s such a thing as being too damned bright,’ Barton said, with an edge.

‘
Negative. I don’t buy that. And nor do you. There
is
such a thing as being a pain in the smart ass, though. That’s one of my faults. But someone has to knock that chip off your shoulder. It’s no big deal to have gone under financially. Happens every day. Get over it. Get out of denial. All I meant was that Maddie has a timeless beauty. Like this desk, or that vase. I’ve called you many things in my day, but beautiful isn’t one of them.’

Somewhat
mollified, Barton waved to him to sit down.

Tom,
now thirty, had been the youngest ever partner with World Management Consulting Inc., the firm which, alongside McInsey, ranked as undisputed leaders in international business counselling. When, as the New York-based consultancy’s brightest star, he had been seconded to the European head office in London six years earlier, Barton had negotiated the equivalent of a day a week of his time on an on-going basis. The two had first met two years before this in France when Barton, climbing the political ladder as a PPS to the Chancellor, had given a guest lecture on entrepreneurship at INSEAD. Tom, on a post-grad course there, made it his business to get to know him that night over dinner. Afterwards back in the States he had opportunistically kept in touch as part of his relentless networking and, on coming to London, soon won a series of assignments from the man’s portfolio of businesses interests.

When
Barton later become a Foreign Office Minister, he had to distance himself from day-to-day control of his companies. To circumvent this, he made Tom a director, still pulling the strings as the major shareholder, having also moved his assets—including the Manor—safely offshore. At the time of the bankruptcy, WMC had itself been an unsecured creditor and, owed £300,000 in fees and costs, unsurprisingly refused to have any more to do with him. Tom, however, agreed to continue in a personal capacity and at his own risk, for two days a week, negotiating his contract down accordingly with WMC. They had acquiesced to this only after Tom described Barton’s determination to clear his debts and prove himself again. If Tom was right, it seemed the only way they would ever see their money again.

The
arrangement had suited everyone well. Retaining Tom as a consultant and trustee meant that despite the bankruptcy restrictions, he could still act as a director by proxy. As for Tom, he had share options appreciating nicely, and still enjoyed the challenges James’s eclectic businesses threw up. Most recently this had included their takeover of a small investment house, and poaching a crack treasury management team to handle the huge funds now flowing through their new Curaçao company.

For
him, Barton had meant consistent excitement, challenge, real operational influence—something normally denied consultants—as well as the chance of earning serious capital for himself. Despite the bullying side of Barton’s nature, the unique experience and influence to which he was exposed through the man’s businesses had spoiled him for anything else.

‘
But on to business...’ Tom said seriously, sitting opposite Barton by the fire. ‘The word from the City isn’t good.’ There was never a good time to bring Barton news he did not want to hear. Get it over quickly, that was always the best approach. ‘Two more investment house fund managers want out of the stock. And they were our last two “holds”. Come tomorrow, when their circulars hit the screens, we’ll have a clean sweep of “sell” recommendations.’

Barton
looked surprisingly relaxed at the news. One was Temple Bio-Laboratories’s own broker. For them to rank the stock a ‘sell’ was doubly disastrous. ‘So, I take it another rights issue would be out of the question?’ he joked.

‘
They were left picking up over fifty per cent of the last one they underwrote,’ Tom reminded him needlessly. He was worried at Barton’s jocular reaction to a scenario which could very easily escalate the business into receivership, with all the now familiar nightmares which went with it. The bank held an £80 million debenture in the massively geared UK and US quoted biotech company, with no sign of how it would ever be repaid. But now he could hear Maddie and the twins coming down the staircase. ‘We’ll pick up on this after lunch, shall we? It’s real serious this time.’

Barton
stood up, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Don’t worry about it. The cavalry is just over the hill. Arriving any moment,’ he said, enigmatically.

‘
What do you mean?’

‘
I mean we’re almost ready to tell the world about starting clinical trials on the biggest medical breakthrough since...since Mrs Pasteur burned the milk.’ He barked a laugh.

‘
What breakthrough? The transgenic pigs? They already know about all that—’

Serious
now, Barton looked directly at him. ‘No. Not our genetically engineered porker friends. No, Tom. There are some things so secret I don’t even tell you about. But we’re close. So close to it now.’

Tom
was furious to discover that as a director he had been excluded. Given his punishing workload on his WMC clients, on top of Barton’s businesses—still in theory only two days a week of his billable hours—it was an increasing struggle to keep up with everything the man was doing. Warning bells were most definitely clattering. ‘Close to what?’ he asked sharply.

‘
To the ultimate cure-all vaccine. For some cancers, certain heart conditions, AIDS and hep. B. More things than even I can guess. We both know that Temple Bio-Labs has to get a real market boost if it’s to survive. If we ever needed a big financial push, it’s now. And here I am, about to pull off a launch that will stand the medical world on its head, and force the whining brokers, analysts and journalists to eat their words.

‘
I’ve found it, Tom. I really have. Snake oil. The medicine man’s dream. The medical Holy Grail. Don’t even think of asking me how, but I’ve done it. And now I need your help to explain the product to all the cynics in the City. Once they realise what we’ve got, they’ll be clamouring for stock.’

And,
he thought to himself, given the free hand he had been granted by the Aruba Mutual Alliance to fight the US President’s anti-drugs initiative, he would now be able to raise the £15 million of his own money he needed to deliver. A £15 million investment that would earn him billions more as part of the astronomic success fee he would extract from the drugs cartel. With it he would finally bury the tarnished image of titled, criminal bankrupt, of disgraced Foreign Office Minister and media joke...to become quite conceivably the richest man in Europe.

And
it all hinged entirely on the next crucial four weeks.

Chapter Two

‘Are you up for it,
Lady
Lydia? Yes or no?’ He knew that, unlike her father, she did not have a title, but still pretended she did to get under her skin.

It
was the direct question that she had been dreading for months. She had joined the Animal Freedom Militant Warriors over a year earlier, having become impatient with the other animal rights groups with which she had been involved from her university days. Since then, her commitment and courage had never once been questioned, a veteran of numerous hunt sabotages and raids on farms, laboratories and meat-product factories. But this was different.

‘
Are you really sure of the facts?’ Lydia Barton parried, feeling exposed before the small action unit. This was a long way from her cosy ad agency world.

Sam
Thrower, their commander, snorted. An out-of-work college lecturer, he was no less a class warrior than an animal rights militant. He disliked Lydia and people like her. Privileged rich bitches, he thought, who wore their fashionable social consciences like their tiaras and designer labels. He had engineered this showdown and intended to enjoy himself. ‘Of course we’re sure. They’re using mice, rats
and
macaque monkeys in there. And, of course, the stars of his show—the transgenic, not to say photogenic little piggies. You’ve seen the colour supplement article on the “reformed bankrupt”.’ He tossed over the magazine, but she had no need to look at it again. The image of the two young pigs jostling for the cameraman’s attention, and smiling cheekily at him, would never leave her. ‘And we had a lab assistant temping in the place last month. She’s seen it all. Now come on, your
ladyship
. If you haven’t got the bottle for this one, just say so, and make room for someone who has.’ His Midlands accent sneered the words.

They
were asking her to raid and fire-bomb one of her own father’s biotech plants.

‘
Stop making speeches. Just tell us when we go in,’ she responded, her voice sounding more confident than she actually felt.

‘
You’ll be told when we’re ready,’ he replied smugly. ‘I’m tightening security. MI5 will be throwing a lot of resources at us again, trying to justify their poxy existence. So sharpen up and shut up. Got it?’

The
small group muttered assent. All except Lydia. She stood up, breathed in deeply and pushed her tight polo-neck sweater into her jeans, knowing exactly the effect she was having on him. ‘We’re right behind you, commander,’ she said with mock deference. Freeing her long blonde hair from the combs holding it up, she let it cascade, shaking her head forward. Behind his aggressive attitude towards her, she well knew that the overweight man nursed serious hots for her. ‘Dream on, loser,’ she said to herself, blew him a sarcastic kiss and left to face the freezing London night.

She
found a cab mercifully quickly, and took it to Euston where, ever mindful of security—and without the need of Sam Thrower’s reminders—she lost herself in the Underground to complete her journey to Pimlico and the small, stuccoed terraced house she shared with Oliver, her Airedale terrier. Some of her fellow activists were strongly opposed to the keeping of pets, to pet shops, breeders and the whole pet industry; Lydia, however, loved the bad-tempered dog more than anyone she knew with just two legs right then.

Meetings
of the Warriors in dingy, studenty flats always called for an immediate bath on her return home, and long baths called for a cavernous glass of chilled chardonnay. Having first walked and fed Oliver, she was soon soaking in the six-foot Duker, trying to relax—something she found difficult. Work as a media buyer was stressful: all shouting, bargaining and bluffing on the phone. But it suited her high energy nature, soaking up some of her hyper-activity, as well as paying well. Outside its consuming maelstrom she really lived for her many causes: The Anti-Slavery League, Tourism Concern, Greenpeace and Shelter. Her involvement, however, in direct action with the Warriors was not something she ever talked about. To anyone. Although all her friends well knew her passion for animal rights.

It
was a life that left little room for long-standing relationships, but then that was not something she presently wanted in her busy world. In any case, her looks did not naturally invite flirtatious attention. She was always just a few pounds overweight and shortish, at five feet four inches. As a teenager, unlike her two best friends, her picture had never made it as one of
Country
Life’s
weekly debby ‘girls in pearls’: something considered a great county accolade at the time. With her strong facial resemblance to her father—blue eyes, ski-jump button nose and dimpled chin—she was what even her own mother called striking, rather than classically pretty. Except, that was, for the thick mane of natural, honey-blonde hair which, along with those blue eyes and wide sensuous mouth, she had learned as a small girl to use to imitate real beauty whenever it suited her. She knew how to conjure up its fickle mask at will, like an actress playing a part. She enjoyed the power of surprise it gave her. It worked well in her career too, where the trick was to be popular, but tough. There was a freedom in plainness—freedom from all the bimbo stereotyping and macho hassle. Freedom to be accepted as one of the boys. And yet, with just a few facial tricks and gestures, she could make any man she wanted look twice.

Drying
herself later in a towelling robe, she poured another glass of wine and thought again about the unpleasant meeting of the unit earlier. She had no qualms about fire-bombing one of her father’s plants. It was something that had somehow always seemed inevitable, the irony lost on no one. But it certainly called for renewed contact with him. Not to warn him, of course. Just to touch base, and push him to talk about what he was doing, and why. Besides, she was long overdue a visit to the old rogue. She would call him tomorrow.

*

Chancey was relieved to find his way back to the small plane, still safely where he had parked it. They had just completed a seven-hour trek from beyond the Chenga village to reach the clearing by the early afternoon. It had rained incessantly most of the time, and now it had finally stopped the humidity was almost unbearable. Added to this, he was suffering bad gastric problems from the barely edible native diet of
kaukau
sweet potatoes, dried river fish, wild rice and the warm, wine-red root brew that passed for beer. There was bottled water in the plane’s storage bay, and he ran the last fifty yards to get to it.

In
contrast, Banto felt fine physically: a lifetime of dawn-to-dusk hunting meant he never even raised a sweat on the trek. But emotionally he was a wreck. As they confronted the plane, the reality of what he was about to do had suddenly struck him. What the night before had seemed like a big adventure, was now overwhelmingly threatening. The man had made no attempt to converse with him on the journey, and his attitude to Banto had changed dramatically now that he had got his way. Gone was the encouraging smile and friendly manner; in its place was an aggressive, dismissive attitude that made Banto feel like a trapped animal.

Having
used the radio for a while, Chancey gestured for Banto to climb in the Twin Otter beside him. Banto, however, now had different ideas. Going with this man in the machine suddenly seemed a very bad move after all. Going to the big village he had described also seemed bad. He no longer trusted the man. His hunter’s instincts warned him of danger everywhere. ‘No go!
Tidak
,
tidak
pergit!
’ he shouted, eyes wide. ‘I stay.’ He slapped himself hard on the thigh in agitation.

Chancey
had been expecting something like this. Jumping down, he stood beside Banto smiling his friendly smile again. ‘Don’t panic. Let’s talk,’ he said.

‘
No talk. I no go!’ Banto was resting his hand menacingly on the hard-wood knife hanging at the side of the tanget covering his buttocks. His bow, long arrows and quiver of arrow-point holders were strung across his chest, and Chancey had seen for himself the lethal speed and accuracy with which the warriors could use them.

Chancey
was watching Banto very carefully, knowing that the native would have no compunction in killing him if the mood took him. ‘OK. Fine. You stay. Think about it some more, and I
kam
beck
again soon. You my
bikpela
nambawan
you know. Maybe you change your mind later. OK?’ Chancey held his arms open wide in a gesture of reasonableness. The pidgin English he used—
tok
pisin
, talk pidgin—was common in PNG. It mimicked phonetically the language of the old colonial masters—
mastas
. So
bikpela
nambawan
was his number one big fellow.

‘
No go,’ Banto repeated, seemingly placated. He understood less than half of what was said to him, but with that, and his highly developed skill in reading non-verbal signs—of men and beasts—he followed well enough.

‘
OK. But I’m in big trouble now with my
masta
. The big man. He’ll beat me
planti
for
bagarap
. If you no go, I have to take just one more. It’s Payback.’ He tapped his arm.

‘
No more take! No more!’

‘
Payback. Yes!’

Banto
went quiet for a while. His own tribal culture was steeped in this concept of Payback: a kind of bargaining to atone for causing almost any kind of pain or loss in others. This trade was simple. In return for him not going, he had to make Payback by letting Chancey take from his arm again. Then this man also had Payback to escape the beating from his master for not doing as he had promised. ‘You take,’ he agreed at last.

Moving
quickly, Chancey gestured for Banto to sit in the passenger plane seat. ‘I take your
banaras
. OK? They stay here, close. Yes?’ Very reluctantly Banto permitted the man to put his bow and arrows on the ground, keeping them in his sight-line. A warrior was never separated from his weapons. Then Chancey clicked on the seat-belt very loosely without him even noticing. Banto’s eyes widened in fear as he saw the hated wooden box containing the man’s small spear. But this time, instead of using the hypodermic to extract blood, Chancey was drawing into it the comatosic Bolitho had given him for exactly this purpose. ‘One last take. OK?’

Before
Banto had even nodded his final consent, Chancey plunged the needle deep into his arm muscle and pressed the plunger to pump in the fast-acting knock-out drug. Satisfied, he suddenly yanked hard at the harness, binding Banto tightly to the seat. The tiny native, only five feet two inches tall, struggled with superhuman strength, both physical and mental—but within a minute his battle was over.

Wasting
no time, Chancey jumped in beside him, started both engines and taxied to give himself every available metre for the very tight take-off. Only an Otter, with its reverse thrust, could have got in there in the first place. Revving up, he looked over at the lolling head of the once proud native warrior, hoping there was enough of the drug to keep him sedated for all of the fifty-minute hop over the mountains. There was still just enough compassion in him, however, to feel bad about what he was doing. He did not know why they wanted such a specimen, but he knew—not least from the big money they were paying him—that the future would be bleak for the likeable young man.

Gunning
the engines, and hurtling towards the prehistoric wollemi pines, he said out loud, ‘
Sori
, but you
planti
big
gol
main
for me.
Planti
big.’ It was with this ‘gold mine’ that he planned to get out of PNG and start that new life in Sydney. He had relations there and his room was full of the photographs they sent him. His dream was to open a restaurant—nothing too big—then find a wife and start a family. Maybe buy a boat...

Suddenly,
a sickening bang interrupted his reveries as the undercarriage firmly clipped a tall tree-top. No damage seemed to have been done, however, and Chancey reached for the radio to tell Bolitho the good news. They were on the way. ‘Get ready to break out some cold SPs, man. Some
bias
. You hear?’

‘
I hear you good,
kauboi
. Get that
balus
down here safely and you can afford champagne instead of beer.’

The
sound of Bolitho cheered Chancey up. Looking again at the native, he panicked briefly, afraid that he had died on him. But then he saw the chest gently rising and he relaxed, turning his mind to all those photos of Bondi Beach, the good life...and the women.

*

Tom Bates was having the time of his life. A little out of his depth, but as ever with Barton’s businesses, he was learning fast. And
doing
, not just consulting.

‘
These are the day’s trades,’ Bill Platt said, handing him the computer print-out. The three-month LIFFE Eurodollar contract did well for us. We bought forward Deutschmarks and shorted the Yen as an interest play. The US Treasury bond yields, of course, are still underpinning us nicely. So are the bond futures contracts. But we’re moving out of equities. Everywhere. Overheated. We think the markets are well due a correction.’