Prediction

by Tony Batton

  "There’s no money in it." She patted him on the arm and stood up. "Shall we go then?"

  He looked puzzled. "Where?"

  "To the interview. Is your amnesia coming back?"

  "You said this weekend?"

  "It’s Friday night. The weekend starts here." She turned and slid through the crowd, heading for the door.

  Michael grabbed his briefcase and followed. Outside, the cool air and quiet were startling, but not as much as the vehicle she was standing next to: a sleek black stretch limousine. The driver stood holding the back door open.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Your place." She tilted her head to one side, raising an eyebrow. "To get your passport."

  Five

  It was 6:00pm and the jogger was halfway along the three-mile sweep of golden sand that was Woolacombe Beach. He wore hi-tech compression gear and maintained an easy stride on the hard-packed sand left behind by the outgoing tide. For a short period it was the perfect running surface. His eyes were hidden behind wrap-around sunglasses, his ears cradled in expensive headphones. There were a few other joggers and a couple of dog walkers on the beach, but he ignored them all. He came here for the peace and quiet: the sound and smell of the sea, and the never-ending breeze.

  This was the perfect place to get away from it all, reachable in four hours from London by car. Not that he ever travelled here by car. On this beach he could forget about vehicles, and cyclists. And people. He could run and ignore the world, just feel the wind on his face. And not worry about being run over by anything with wheels. Which was good, because he had other things to worry about.

  His company, ZAT Systems, had grown far and fast by leading the market in a particular subset of speculative technology. Staying ahead of the competition meant ploughing hundreds of millions into research and development. Obviously that meant taking risks. But in the last twelve months it was as if the world was out to destroy him: project-after-project either failed for technical reasons, or got cancelled by the client.

  As he approached the southern end of the beach, he looked along to the headland. Almost nobody here. No men in suits watching his every move, like they were supposed to. He stopped to stretch. As he did so, he felt a soft vibration coming from his pocket. With an irritated frown, he pulled out his mobile phone and blinked.

  Eighteen messages, five missed calls. Something had happened.

  A moment later he felt the low subsonic thump of rotors and he knew it was something serious.

  A helicopter sporting the white and blue ZAT Systems logo landed on the beach, about a hundred metres away, to startled looks from onlookers. A few muttered that such a thing shouldn't be allowed. And indeed it wasn't. But the pilot clearly didn’t care.

  Jenson ran straight to the aircraft as Astrid Kelly, the head of his private office, hopped out. She handed him a sealed white envelope. On it was typed Gregory Jenson, CEO, STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL.

  Jenson tore it open and read the single sheet inside. "They want to meet tonight? Why?"

  "Other than wanting to review Project Parallel, Saxton wouldn’t say."

  "Does the Director of MI5 just want to rub our noses in it?"

  "You know him better than I do."

  Jenson screwed the sheet into a ball. "Where are my security detail?"

  "At the other end of the beach," Kelly replied. "They seem to be in a signal dead spot: we couldn’t raise them."

  "Remind me to fire them later. Now let’s get moving."

  "I have a complete set of your clothes on board, so we can go straight to Cheltenham if you wish."

  Jenson nodded. "Excellent. Remind me not to fire you."

  There was a shout from the helicopter. The co-pilot was leaning out. "The local coastguard has been notified of an unexplained aircraft on the beach. We'd better be leaving."

  Kelly nodded. "You should probably call Teresa and explain you won’t be joining her for dinner on the way."

  Jenson gave a sigh. "Send her a message would you? Tell her I’ll speak to her later. Reassign my security team to monitor her and make sure she keeps her damn watch on, whether she likes it or not." He hesitated. "In fact, get them to take her back to school early. I’m not having her wandering around without me. At least the teaching staff have some idea how to control her."

  Kelly raised an eyebrow. "She’ll love that."

  "She can learn to love it." Jenson gave one last look at the beach and climbed inside. Within seconds the helicopter was hauling upwards and heading east.

  Six

  There was a hiss as the steward opened the aircraft’s external door. As Michael stepped through, he couldn’t help thinking back to his last interview: all about psychometric analysis, legal reasoning and rigorous technical tests.

  This time he was being flown to Fiji.

  It was a long flight, and despite the exceptionally comfortable seat – really he should call it a bed – Michael had too much on his mind to sleep. Infinity Law was an enigma. It kept a low profile and undertook no publicity, yet had an unrivalled reputation and its clients were top drawer: major corporates, high net-worth individuals, movie and music stars. Infinity focused on the choicest, most interesting work – and charged accordingly. Even if he still had his old job he would be sorely tempted. Still, he couldn’t let them know that.

  He’d exchanged messages with Eve about where he was flying and she’d thought he was joking. Then she’d thought he was drunk. A proper explanation would have to wait until he was home. Right now he had to focus.

  He descended the stairs of the private jet, feeling the heat rising off the tarmac. A breeze rippled the nearby palm trees and his nose was assaulted with the scents of sea, sugar and coconuts.

  "Welcome to Fiji," said a man in a chauffeur's uniform standing next to a black Mercedes van. "Trust you had a good flight, Mr Adams."

  He blinked, wishing he'd thought to bring sunglasses. Despite the huge seat-bed, and the amazing catering, he felt sore and fatigued. He glanced around then realised the man was waiting patiently for a reply. "No complaints, thank you. Where are we going?"

  The man placed his luggage carefully in the boot. "It's about half an hour to the marina where we’ll meet the motor launch. From there, it's on to the island."

  "Aren't we on an island?"

  The man flashed brilliant white teeth. "A smaller island, Sir."

  "A resort?"

  "A corporate retreat, dear," Kara said, descending from the plane wearing a cool sleeveless top and a native sulu.

  Michael stared at her for a second, feeling over-dressed in his suit.

  "It's called Errington Island."

  "After Maxwell Errington, Infinity’s founder?" Michael asked.

  She smiled. "When you own an island you can name it after yourself too."

  Errington was indeed a small island – really just a dot in the ocean. The motor launch slowed on approach as the captain gave Michael the facts and figures: Errington Island was twenty kilometres off the coast, about a kilometre long and three hundred metres wide at its widest point. It had great snorkelling and fishing, and corporate-strength broadband courtesy of a major internet backbone laid only six months back. If that failed they had connections to three different satellites.

  There was also a helipad, but apparently that was only used for very important guests.

  "Besides, the boat ride is much more pleasant," Kara said. "It's just not as quick."

  The launch docked at a long wooden pier. A tanned man in his late twenties, wearing a polo shirt, shorts and loafers, introduced himself as two workmen helped tie the boat up.

  "I'm the site manager," he said, shaking Michael's hand firmly. "Welcome to Errington."

  There was a splash and they turned to see Kara had dived into the sea.

  The man raised any eyebrow. "This place can have that effect on you. Why don't I give you the tour?"

  Michael took off his shoes and followed the site manager across the bleached coral sand, hot und
erfoot except where covered by the shade of the many palm trees. There was not much to the island, but all of it was idyllic. There were thirty individual cottages, or bures, each facing the ocean across the beach. The facilities included two tennis courts, an archery range, a fully-equipped gym, a full-sized swimming pool and a conference centre. Michael was also shown a poolside bar, a formal restaurant and a more relaxed cafeteria, plus a library and a cinema. There was one particularly large house, separate from the rest and surrounded by security fencing. On the north end of the island was a boat shed, stocked with sea kayaks, wind-surfing equipment, jet skis and rods and tackle for fishing.

  "This place is unreal," said Michael, when they returned to the bar only to be greeted by pre-prepared cocktails. "Mr Errington owns it all?"

  The site manager shrugged. "I deal with a management company. The resort gets let out to large corporates wanting to bring their execs somewhere special on the lie that it's a holiday, then working them to the bone while they're here. And sometimes Infinity needs it for a client."

  Michael pointed back to the large house. "And that?"

  "Mr Errington's home. It's the only place off limits to you. Otherwise you can go where you want and use the facilities as you wish. It's all at your disposal."

  "So is Mr Errington here?"

  The man laughed. "Not at the moment. I'm sure you'll get to meet him eventually." He tipped his head to one side. "If you join up, that is. I've seen a few of your sort come through before. They must be keen to bring you all this way."

  Michael looked around. How was he supposed to resist these people? Perhaps that was the point. "So what's the plan?"

  "The afternoon is yours. For dinner you're going to meet Duncan Nichol, the Managing Partner, who’s on his way back from Sydney."

  There was a cough from behind them. Michael turned to see Kara wearing a short-sleeve wetsuit.

  She frowned. "What's the idea telling him he gets to relax? He needs to try and burn through his jet lag." She pointed at some covered racking, holding wind-surfing and sea-kayaking equipment. "Obviously there’s a bunch of water sports, but there’s also archery and clay pigeon shooting. You pick what we do first, new boy."

  Michael wiped sweat off his brow. "Now that you mention it, getting in the sea does sound like a plan. Work hard, play hard, I guess."

  Kara nodded. "You know, you might just fit in."

  Seven

  Michael, Kara and Duncan Nichol dined on the beach, on a table set up especially for the occasion. A lazy wind toyed with the palm trees, bringing welcome relief from the heat. Michael's clothes – a cool linen suit and shirt, exactly his size – had been hanging ready for him in his cottage. There were all the facilities of a five-star business hotel, including a fully stocked minibar, but he hadn't indulged yet. The atmosphere was intoxicating enough as it was.

  Nichol had come to collect him from his room, greeting him with a solid handshake. He was a sharply-chiseled man somewhere in his forties: confident, intelligent, and with a dry sense of humour. Michael liked him immediately.

  Dinner was lavish. Seafood Fijian style, with an international twist. Soft white fish, huge prawns, impossibly sweet pineapple and aromatic curries, all washed down with a selection from an extensive wine list. As they ate, the sun dropped over the horizon, plunging them into darkness, but the waiters brought soft-coloured nightlights that provided an ambient glow, without impairing their view of the star-laden sky.

  "We tried using real torches, but one stiff breeze and we're all covered in smoke," Nichol said, easing back in his chair. "Although you'll pardon the irony if I now have a cigar."

  "You’re the boss," Kara said.

  He gave a flicker of a smile and pulled a large Cuban from a pocket, lit up and inhaled deeply. "So, Michael, did you enjoy your time at Cambridge?" He nodded as a waiter placed a bottle of single malt whisky and three glasses in the centre of the table.

  "Of course," replied Michael. "The best tutors, the best facilities. I was very fortunate."

  "Oxford man myself, though I guess you have to make do." He poured three rough measures of whisky. "But, aside from the stock answer, what did the experience really mean for you?"

  Michael blinked. "It opened doors."

  "Including the one that got you here." Nichol paused. "We still have to decide if it’s right for you to go through it."

  "And I have to decide if I want to."

  Nichol raised his glass. "Then I guess we'd both better be at our most persuasive."

  Michael gestured around them at the palm trees, the beach, the ocean. "You guys are cheating."

  "Never fight fair if you don't have to," Nichol said, raising an eyebrow. "So, what do you think we do at Infinity, Michael?"

  "Corporate commercial. M&A. Finance. Some high-value private-client work. And, of course, litigation."

  Nichol feigned a yawn. "Technically, yes, but it's not why our clients use us." He turned to Kara.

  She put her glass down. "We change people's minds."

  "Sounds great," Michael replied. "But how?"

  "It's all about knowledge." Nichol tapped ash from the end of his cigar. "Knowledge is power. Be that legal, commercial or whatever. Our goal is to know more than the other guy, and to use it better. We’ve built a discrete but gold-plated reputation as advisers that make things happen. We take over negotiations and we solve problems. If we don't succeed, we don't get paid."

  "Isn't that risky?"

  "It shows our confidence in what we do. And that’s what we need you to become part of. We're not expecting you to run deals on day one. You'll work hand in glove with Ms Simmons here for the first twelve months."

  "If you can keep up, dear," said Kara pleasantly.

  "I'll do my utmost."

  "Look, Michael," Nichol said, "I’ll be frank. What we do is hard. It places extraordinary demands on our team members. You can get sent anywhere in the world at any time, usually on very short notice. And you then have to work twenty-hour days, fourteen days straight if that's what the project requires." He leaned towards Michael. "We’re always on the lookout for exceptional people who can work in that way, and it's very much 'up or out'. Either you succeed and stay on track for partnership, or our firm is not for you. But we think it might be a good fit in your case."

  Michael knocked back his whisky. "You make a compelling pitch."

  "We need you to be smart, and we need you to be hungry. Focus on those two qualities and the other stuff should take care of itself." Nichol smiled and refilled each of their glasses.

  Michael felt the buzz of the alcohol in his brain. "Are you going to ask me a bunch of difficult legal questions?"

  "We’ll assume your capability in that area. You wouldn't have made it through Cambridge, Law School and four years in a magic circle law firm if you were hapless." He paused. "What we're really hiring for is attitude. But we can't know until we see you in battle. So, tell me: why did we invite you to Fiji?"

  Michael shrugged. "To throw me off balance."

  Nichol smiled. "We bring you somewhere a little unreal, in order to see the real you. And the tropical island never hurts if you're trying to persuade someone to join the firm."

  "For me it’s the seafood," said Kara.

  "So," continued Nichol, "while we have you 'off balance', tell me what makes you different."

  "In a work sense? At CWP the whole point is we were supposed to conform to the standard."

  Nichol leaned forwards. "We’re not talking about CWP any more, Michael. That’s in the past. We’re talking about your future."

  Michael looked into his glass. "I bring a different approach to legal problem-solving. I spent much of my childhood messing around on computers with my dad. You could say I have a programmer’s mentality, and I’d argue there’s useful synergy between that and contract drafting. In both cases you’re creating a structure, governed by rules, to deliver a specific outcome." He rotated his glass between his fingers. "If I may flip the question
, what makes Infinity different?"

  Nichol reached into a briefcase and pulled out a large grey ring-binder. He slid it across the table. "This."

  Michael picked it up. The binder bore his name on the front, along with his date of birth. "What is it?"

  "It's you."

  Michael began turning the pages, and felt a jolt run down his spine. Kara had reeled off quite a list of facts about him during their conversation in the bar, but this reduced his entire life to a series of records and achievements. Schools he had attended, exams he had sat, places he had lived, clubs he had belonged to, awards he had won, his full university exam results, copies of his blog and other materials sourced from social media and the web. Brief notes about his immediate family. All of it was startlingly accurate. Holding his breath, he turned to the end. There seemed to be no reference to CWP firing him. Did they know? "Are you trying to intimidate me?"

  "We just wanted to show you how seriously we take our work and, by extension, those who work for us. Infinity is the sum of its parts. If you're to join us, we need there to be no secrets."

  Michael closed the report. "And it seems there are not." He placed his hand on top of the report. "How did you pull all this together?"

  "We know how to find stuff. Now, I think we'll cut straight to the key question: how much?"

  Michael looked him in the eye, unblinking. "I'm sure your proposal will be competitive."

  Nichol snorted. "It will be nothing of the sort. It'll seem like we cheated." He reached into his pocket and wrote something on a piece of paper. Then he folded it and slid it over.

  Michael took it in his fingers. "Can I look?"

  "Of course. I'm just being dramatic."

  He unfolded the slip and looked at what was written there. It looked like a telephone number. He breathed deeply.

  "On this one occasion we will allow you to fail as a negotiator," Nichol said.

  Michael blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"