Payback (6 page)

‘
I know. I can follow the stinking smoke,’ she smiled, coming in and hugging him. ‘How are you? I bumped into Tom and he said you were grumpy.’

Good
old blunt, to-the-point Lydia, he thought. If everyone thought something, Lydia had always been the one to blurt it out loud. He found it impossible to be angry when she was around. ‘First off, that’s not stinking smoke. It’s a thirty-pound Cohiba. And secondly, yes, I’m
bloody
grumpy. I just yelled at him.’

‘
Well don’t yell at me. I bite!’ She snarled theatrically. ‘What’s wrong anyway? Run out of nice fresh mice to poison? No monkeys to torture?’

His
face clouded a little. Sometimes, however, she could be too in your face. There was seemingly nothing she would not do or say. ‘Let’s not get on to all that,’ he said. ‘Seen your mother lately? How is she?’

‘
She’s like she’s become, that’s all. No change.’ She looked away. This was the one subject she still could not face head on, having still to come to terms with it. Since her parents had split for the divorce, her mother had gone into a deep and seemingly never-ending depression. She had gone into some ‘other room’, as she herself called it. It was the nearest thing to an explanation she had ever tried to offer anyone. ‘Nothing new in that, of course. But don’t try and change the subject. You’re looking pretty depressed yourself. What
is
wrong?’

He
relented, reluctantly. ‘You might as well see this tonight. It’ll be in the press here tomorrow anyway.’

She
took the Reuters piece and read it silently. Sighing loudly, she sat down and looked at him. ‘Why this? Why can’t you try and make your money some way else?’

‘
Why what? Why am I in biotech? Because I have to be, that’s why. You make money how and when you can, not when you need it. Because when you need it, you can’t make it. Believe me. That’s a great and profound truth. Biotech research today is what computer software was a decade ago. And I’m a real pioneer. This is how I
can
make serious money again, how I was able to pay off my debts in just eighteen months.’

‘
But stealing cell lines. It’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Can’t you see that? Look at what you’re doing to these poor natives.’

‘
Those “poor natives” are cannibal savages. When they’re not butchering each
other
, they’re butchering pigs and forest animals. Their entire lives revolve around hunting and being hunted. All I’ve done is collect blood samples to develop vaccines which might, just might, prevent misery for millions. And I’ve
paid
for them. Stolen nothing. So don’t start quoting Rousseau’s noble bloody savage at me. Because I’m very comfortable with what I do.
And
, incidentally, you and your mother used to live very comfortably on the proceeds.’

Her
temper, every ounce as fierce as his, flared at the attack. ‘As it happens, she doesn’t need your money. Not since Grandpa died,’ she fumed. ‘And as for me, I make a pretty good living of my own, thank you very much. With no help from anyone. Even if you
did
give me any of your blood money, I’d donate it straight to my causes. You’d be funding your own destruction. Croak and leave me squillions, and that’s
exactly
where it’ll go. To all those campaigning organisations you hate.’

Barton
had to laugh. ‘Your father’s daughter,’ he smiled, stung none the less. ‘In your own way you’re just as determined as me, you know.’

Politically
and in terms of social conscience, they could hardly be further apart. He High Tory nationalist; she soft left politically, but hard militant on animal rights. Yet still they shared so many character traits. Determination, single-mindedness, bloody-mindedness. Yin and yang off the same stock. Symbiotic.

She
looked at him seriously. ‘I love you. But I’ll do all I can to stop you on this kind of thing.’

‘
If anyone’s going to ruin me a second time, I’d rather it was you.’

‘
I mean it. I
will
stop you if I can.’

‘
I know,’ he said, serious now too. ‘I can’t help that. And neither it seems can you. So don’t let’s dwell on it. Have you eaten? How about dinner somewhere?’

‘
Deal,’ she smiled. Relieved—as she saw it—to have cleared the forthcoming terms of engagement; her conscience salved a little in advance of what she knew she must do. ‘This time it’s on me. Not on your ill-gotten gains. But, you old carnivore, I know this smashing little vegan bistro. They serve nothing with a face.’

He
grimaced comically, and briefly became her handsome, funny father from the happy days. ‘All right.
Touché
,’ he said. ‘But if I really do have to turn vegetarian for a night, we’ll go to a proper restaurant. Somewhere I can survive on roast porcini and a good bottle of Brunello. Or maybe black truffle and pasta. I’ve never yet seen fungi with a face, have you?’

*

Peregrine Mitchell looked at the list of names again. It included Sir James Barton’s doctor, dentist, private accountant, his personal lawyer, all his directors, a recent mistress, and a couple of semi-friends. But it was to Tom Bates’s that he kept returning. The thin file lay open on his desk.

It
told the old security hand little, but Mitchell had a nose, an intuition he rarely ignored. Perhaps it had to do with Tom being a high-flying management consultant. He felt he knew that particular animal well. Precociously bright, vain, few convictions, able to argue a case either way—like a barrister. As the Service’s top recruiter, he had always had great success with these types. The flattery of being approached by Her Majesty’s Secret Service was all but irresistible, their thirst for intellectual challenges and new experiences inexorably compelling them to become involved. A small complication this time was his US citizenship, but that could be fixed with Grosvenor Square easily enough. Yes. Tom Bates it was. He was, in any case, the man closest to Barton’s affairs. The chase was on, and suddenly his mood lightened as he recaptured something of the old excitement of a new field case beginning.

The
office door opened and his assistant came in. ‘The partners’ meeting starts in an hour and they want to brief you beforehand.’

He
groaned inwardly, but his poker face showed nothing. ‘Fine. I’m ready whenever they are,’ he said, his tombstone teeth revealing themselves in a show of politeness. Over thirty years with the Secret Intelligence Service had ended two years earlier when he hit the service’s compulsory retirement age of 55, following his last major field operation, code-named
Grave
Song
, in South Korea. In addition to compulsory retirements, public expenditure cuts, market testing and the so-called peace dividend had seen an unprecedented exodus of middle and senior ranking staff from both MI6 and its domestic opposite number, MI5. The loss of talent, however, had alarmed a great many wise heads in the Foreign and Home Offices, as well as a minority in the Intelligence and Security Committee. As a result, a number of pivotal people, like Perry Mitchell, had been found private sector front jobs, effectively keeping them on call for a few years yet. Mitchell’s ‘second career’ was with one of the world’s leading executive search agencies, Management International. He had in fact often before posed as a headhunter using the firm as cover. It was an effective means of approaching business targets who got to see people, or countries, of interest to the Service.

His
area of responsibility there was international head-hunting assignments, with particular emphasis on the old Soviet bloc countries—especially Russia, Poland and the Czech Republic where business was booming. These were also countries he knew well from his many terms of operational embassy secondment. The job in return gave him cover for overseas visits, to international conferences, trade fairs and clients. But, more importantly, it also gave him access to priceless databases listing a wide range of businessmen and women, exporters and others, who regularly travelled the world, or were stationed abroad. The business community remained a hugely important humint resource for MI6, providing much of its non-electronic quality intelligence-gathering. Either as routine de-brief reports, or—as he hoped soon with Tom Bates—in response to a specific, short-term spying assignment on someone or someplace to which their job gave them special access.

‘
A word before we start, Perry.’ The UK’s managing partner had stuck his head around the door.

‘
Fine. I need you to mark my card. Get me up to speed.’ Mitchell had been playing the ‘new boy’ game since he arrived and knew it was now wearing a bit thin. He was rapidly approaching the time when he would have to start taking the headhunting job more seriously and actually contribute something. ‘I’ve read the papers. What do we need from today?’

The
man was followed in by two more worried-looking UK partners. ‘Well. Given that the last Chairman chose you, as a newcomer, to review the way we work cross-border, only one thing matters to me. London
must
remain the base for all the international work.’

The
internal politics here were almost as bad as in MI6, Mitchell thought miserably. The chairmanship of the global network of thirty offices rotated every two years, and an arrogant, bullying Swiss had succeeded the urbane Englishman. Far from neutral, he had made it absolutely clear from the outset that he wanted Zurich to replace London as the centre from which to drive all the lucrative international assignments. The man would shortly be chairing the managing partners’ meeting, and Mitchell was due to present his preliminary recommendations.

As
if any of all this really mattered, in the order of things. Mitchell knew, however, he was now staring at a rambling four-hour committee meeting before he could pick up the phone to Tom Bates and start spinning his latest web. ‘Tell me what you need,’ he said.

‘
The bottom line is that we have to keep all that income and the ancillary work here. In London, where it’s always been done. Not Switzerland. Which of course is exactly what the Chairman wants,’ the managing partner continued, wringing his hands in agitation. He was not looking forward to the prospect of having to confront the tyrant himself.

‘
Oh, I think I’ll be able to manage the Chairman all right. Don’t you, chaps?’ Mitchell’s tombstone teeth showed themselves again, and suddenly no one in the room doubted for an instant that this disconcerting, strangely frightening man could handle just about anyone he wanted.

*

‘I have the consignment.’

Bolitho
’s voice was unmistakable, even over the bad line. James Barton was in his Hill Street, Mayfair office with Tom and the lawyers, working on the patents issue. Brusquely he told them all to leave as he took the highly sensitive call—something Tom always hated and resented. ‘Is it in good condition?’

‘
A l .’

‘
You’ve tested it? For quality?’ Barton could hear the tension in his own voice. So much depended on the Bolitho’s reply.

‘
The tests are good.’

The
relief was palpable at the other end of the phone. ‘You’re sure? Really sure?’

‘
Sure I’m sure. And now what? I go ahead and make the delivery as planned?’

‘
Yes. Leave now, as soon as you can. I’ll fly out there to see it in a few days.’

‘
Good.’ Bolitho allowed a pause before going on. ‘And the delivery guy. You want I pay him off, as agreed?’

Barton
closed his eyes. And his mind. ‘Exactly as agreed.’

‘
You got it, boss. See you in Belize. I’m out of here.’

Hanging
up, Bolitho sucked noisily on a can of beer and looked over to Banto, chained to the wall of the hangar. The tiny native’s head was slumped forward, and he was squatting on his haunches, seemingly asleep or in a kind of trance. Swaggering over, Bolitho kicked viciously at his feet, knocking Banto sideways. Still the native avoided looking at him.

‘
Hey! Ape man! You hear all of that? You’re going to be flying halfway around the world. You understand me?’ There was no response, so he lashed at him with his foot again. ‘You look at me, you piece of crap!’

Eyes
wide now, Banto finally looked up at his tormentor. Then he lifted his head further back and began chanting quietly his monotone
sing
-
sing
tribal call. The sound annoyed Bolitho even more, and he hit him hard across the mouth, drawing blood. ‘Shut the hell up!’ he screamed, his face inches from Banto’s. He was about to strike again, when the door opened and Chancey looked in.

‘
What’s happening? he demanded. ‘You should not beat the
kanaka.
’ Despite everything, the native was still a brother of sorts, and the American a foreigner. There was no cause to abuse him.

Bolitho
stood up, forcing himself to relax. ‘Hey. You’re right, little
kauboi
.’ Banto had now stopped the chanting, and his hunter’s eyes were watching the two men intently, reading the situation as clearly as a Westerner could read a book. ‘Get over here. I’ve got your money. Take it. Then we can have a few beers, and go and beat up on that white tail I promised.’