The Manganese Dilemma

by Ian Miller

  "Sorry, sunshine. I said all or nothing. You get the nothing option."

  "Deal!" This came from the side of the room, where Rutherford stepped in from a small side room. He was unarmed, but was carrying a baseball bat.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "Justin, go back to the car, now, and go home. Oh, and before you reach for that gun," Rutherford said, now addressing one of the thugs, "check your shirt."

  "What?" The man looked dumbfounded.

  "All right, if your neck is so thick you can't, or your brain is having trouble, then look at somebody else's."

  There were small red laser spots on their chests.

  "Justin, go." Lamont needed no encouragement.

  "Those laser marks mean my men won't miss," Rutherford said with a shrug when Lamont had clearly left the room. "Now, slowly put any weapons you have on the floor, then go over to that wall and line up, about four meters between each of you. Failure to comply, and, well, you won't have any further worries."

  One of the men looked as if he might try, but the leader shook his head. It was obvious that there was no way to pull a gun, aim and shoot, always assuming you knew where the target was, before a man could pull a trigger. Hitting a target with a pistol was somewhat unlikely; being hit from a rifle when there was a laser spot on your chest was always going to happen. An array of weapons was dropped on the floor, and the men walked over to the wall and stood there.

  "Now, for you thick-heads, let us revise the deal," Rutherford said. "Whether Lamont really owed you twenty million is a matter of debate, especially since the original amount was only ten. That stupid little clause Goldfinch put in that contract is contradicted by a more major clause that Lamont was relying on, and the only reason he thought he owed it was because, well, you offered to beat him up. Right?"

  There was silence.

  Rutherford stepped up to the leading thug and raised the bat, ready for a good swing. "When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer. Do you comprehend?"

  "Yes," came a mutter.

  "Louder!"

  "Yes."

  "Better. Now, where were we? Yes, well the only reason he thought he owed it was because you offered to beat him up. Right?"

  "Right."

  "And even then, you said he owed all or nothing, right?"

  "We didn't mean –" There was a yell as the baseball bat hit him on the arm, which immediately went numb.

  "You said he owed all or nothing, right?"

  "Right." This was almost buried in a whimper of pain.

  "What did I say about loud?"

  "Right." Now almost a shout, albeit a highly strained shout.

  "And when I entered, you had agreed it was nothing, so you get nothing, right?"

  Silence.

  "If you want to protest, say so now," Rutherford said, and swung the bat back to a pre-hit position.

  "Right. But my boss mightn't –"

  "You can tell Mr Goldfinch he can kiss that twenty mil away. This is not one of those scenes where he makes his usual profit. Now, one of you punched Mr Lamont and hurt his face. Which one was it?"

  Silence.

  "In that case, I shall assume you all did it."

  "I did," one of the men said.

  "Good. I like honesty. For that you all live." Then suddenly Rutherford swung the bat and smashed it into the man's mouth. He slumped to the ground, blood and teeth falling out.

  "That is to remind you all that Mr Lamont and Ms Ellison are to be left strictly alone. They work for me, and if you need to approach either of them, you do so through me. Next time I have to see you, I shall not be nearly so generous." As he turned away, he suddenly turned back and swung the bat viciously into the leader. There was a terrible scream, and the man slumped to the ground, soon to start coughing blood. "That is to suggest to you that you need to discipline your followers," he said, and this time he did turn away. As he left the room, the red laser lights were turned off.

  On the other side of the road, Middleton was somewhat perplexed. Lamont had walked out of the theatre, seemingly unharmed. About ten minutes later, just as he was about to turn off the equipment, another man walked out, carrying a baseball bat. This was an image to retain.

  * * *

  "My guess is those thugs will leave you strictly alone," Rutherford told them, when he sat down opposite them in their office. "I've put the word out on the street that you two have put one over Goldfinch, and Goldfinch is a bit ropable, and while that won't do you any immediate good, it may mean you'll get some clients."

  "We're not safe, though, are we," Janice asked.

  "Fair question. I don't think anyone will try anything, but just in case, for a while I want you to go to and from work and apartment by car, with a driver I shall supply. We'll check the security of your apartments as well, with you present of course. I shall also get the word out that retribution for anything done on you will be swift, efficient, and with the high interest rate I charge, which will be markedly greater than anything done to you. That should help."

  "Thanks, and I mean it," Justin said.

  "You will thank me with your performance," Rutherford said. "So, time to get started. I have reasons to believe Goldfinch will soon start rumours about the company on this piece of paper. From what I know, the company is stable, but unexciting. I want you to keep a watch on what happens, and if the stock starts to dive, wait until you estimate it is near the bottom, then buy as much as you can as fast as you can."

  "That will raise the price," Justin warned.

  "Which is what I want," Rutherford said. "If Goldfinch is greedy, or his aides are slow, he won't be able to cover the borrow."

  "You want us to contact you first for confirmation?"

  Rutherford thought for a minute, then said, "Here's my mobile number. Yes, try me for confirmation, but if you can't reach me, provided there is money in your bank account from the trust account on this piece of paper," and he handed Jason a small piece of paper, "do it anyway."

  "Even if it doesn't –"

  "Even if. It's my bet. You are merely doing it."

  "How much?"

  "As much as appears in your bank account from the trust account. I am hoping to get you sixty mill. Just remember, though, it's still my money."

  Justin gasped. "That's a lot of money for –"

  "My risk. If you do everything I ask, you have no liability. You do if you decide to go off on your own."

  "Understood," Justin said.

  "And of course you keep the commission. Commission on sixty million should be enough to get you out of bed."

  "You will get a full accounting," Justin said. "I promise you, as our first client, you will get exceptional attention."

  "And you will make money, and give Goldfinch a headache," Rutherford said.

  * * *

  "Well, we're still in business," Janice said, "although we're not exactly doing very much, and apart from Rutherford's promise, we're hardly making money." She paused, and looked over at Justin as if she might be wrong, and asked hopefully, "What are you doing?"

  "Tracking the stock market and commodities," Justin replied. "Just because we haven't exactly got a lot of clients, maybe we should make sure we're ready for them if any come through the door."

  "Justin, aren't you just a little scared?" She paused, then added, "We must've really pissed off Goldfinch, and while we've lost all of what we started with, he's lost a lot too and . . ."

  The phone rang, and the receptionist announced they had a visitor. He did not look like a financier. He was not wearing a suit, and looked more like a farmer.

  "Send him up," Justin said.

  "He could be dangerous," Janice said. "He could be sent around by Goldfinch, and –"

  "Not in broad daylight, and checking in with a receptionist," Justin said. "Recall there's a security camera too. And anyway, we mustn't be too afraid to see a potential client."

  There was a knock, and the secretary showed in a man who Justin judged wou
ld be aged in his early forties. He was dressed casually, with a blue windproof jacket and thick trousers. His stature was anything but casual. He stood straight, his hair was short but not shaven, but what struck Justin more than anything was the fact he was wearing boots, and those boots were polished shiny bright.

  "Douglas Cameron," the man introduced himself and held out his hand.

  "Justin Lamont," Justin said, and almost gasped with the firm handshake. "This is Janice Ellison. I guess from your accent, you're not American." He paused, then added, "I would guess Scottish?"

  "I started out as a Scot," Cameron confirmed, "but I've been around a bit, so my accent may be a bit mangled."

  "So, what can we do for you?"

  "Nothing," Cameron said with a wide smile. "It's more what I can do for you."

  "And what would that be?" Justin was a little stunned.

  "Rutherford sent me. You've apparently pissed off a very rich banker who has some very nasty types working for him. I'm supposed to take care of you."

  "Supposed to?" Janice said, with a sudden touch of doubt. "Are you able to?"

  "Good question," Cameron said, with a nod of appreciation. He took off his jacket and rolled up a sleeve. "This tattoo says you can trust me to look after you as much as anyone."

  Janice looked at the two wings, with a sword pointing through their base, and almost down to the motto, 'WHO DARES WINS.'

  "Special Air Service," Cameron explained, as he rolled down his sleeve. "No guarantees," he said, then he added with a grin, "but a guarantee would be fairly useless because you can't claim when you're dead."

  "Well, we hope it won't come to that," Justin said.

  "No, it shouldn't come to that, but we can make things more likely it won't."

  "And how do we do that?" Justin asked.

  "What's the best choice if you see trouble coming?"

  "What? You're not suggesting we –"

  "The best choice is often to run," Cameron said with a broad grin, "and guess what? The winner is the one who keeps running the longest."

  "I'm not sure I like the sound of this," Justin muttered.

  "To do that, you get fit, and since you aren't doing much right now, we can get you started, or at least set you up to start. We'll get you kitted up, go for a short run, then we can start on the second option, which is hiding. Moving while being concealed is a great asset."

  "Now I'm sure I don't –"

  "Look at it this way. At the end of all this, you will feel an awful lot better, and if you can be bothered with some upper body exercises, I'll also show you some tricks to disable an unsuspecting opponent."

  "You think it's going to come to this?"

  "I sincerely hope not," Cameron said, "but it doesn't hurt to be prepared. Also, one other thing. If we get into trouble, you do what I say at once without question. Got it?"

  "Even if we think of something better?"

  "Even if. If the trouble isn't pressing, by all means make a suggestion, but if we're in deep shit, getting out usually means doing something reasonable as quickly as possible. Stopping and thinking, or having a discussion, and you're finished."

  The other two said nothing.

  "Look at it this way," Cameron continued. "What would you think if I started telling you how to do your investing?"

  "OK, I get it," Justin said.

  "You know what you're doing with money," Cameron continued, "and anything I could add would be seen as ignorant. If we get into trouble, I know what I'm doing. I've been there, and I'm trained to quickly assess situations. Trust me then. Otherwise, apart from keeping an eye on what you're doing and getting you fit, I shall leave you strictly alone."

  Chapter 3

  Charles Burrowes was poison. He knew it. He was the next best thing to being unemployable, thanks to that Rhonda Crawford. Sexual harassment, she claimed. Hell, she was all over him. He had hardly touched her, and that was mainly to free himself. Stuck up bitch! He had had a number of conversations with her through the previous few months and he thought she was very intelligent, and basically a nice person. On top of that, all the young males in the office seemed to be all over her, and she avoided the lot. Maybe that was a warning? Whatever, he had kept his distance through the year, but when the Christmas party came his world fell apart.

  For some reason, she had made an early approach to him, and he had thought that was to keep the other males at bay. Again, she was a pleasant and intelligent conversationalist, and unfortunately had kept plying him with alcohol, and more unfortunately, he had accepted. At first he thought she must have some capacity for alcohol and a really good liver, but in retrospect he wondered whether she had really drunk that much. Somehow she had persuaded him to go with her out to the landing, and she made advances on him. Then she pulled him out of sight. She was attractive, and he had to confess anything could have happened, but then she pulled away, tore her own blouse, and ran back yelling something to the effect he was trying to rape her, which was utter nonsense.

  The next instant two large men appeared from nowhere, grabbed him, and dragged him off in front of all his workmates, while that bitch Rhonda was crying and being comforted. God, she could put on an act.

  The next thing he knew, his supervisor reported him to the Director and he was promptly fired. He had protested his innocence, but the Director was adamant. The National Security Agency could not stand any bad publicity right now. If it were not for the fact the Director was reasonably convinced this was more a misunderstanding or the effects of too much alcohol he would have been taken away to somewhere very unpleasant. That latter option was still available so he should keep his nose clean. They would be watching him.

  That he believed, and that was his problem. Who would hire him for his skills when it was obvious that whatever he did online, and much of what he did offline, would go straight back to the NSA?

  He had not even been allowed to clear his desk. Personal stuff would be sent to his apartment. All memory sticks and anything related to computers would be retained. His mobile phone had been taken from him, and he had been given another. He had refused.

  "I don't like that model. It's clunky," he protested.

  "It's the same as the one we took off you, except it's new."

  "That's how I know I don't like it," he countered. He paused, then added, "If you feel guilty about stealing my phone, give me the cash equivalent."

  He knew when he said it, that was not going to happen and it did not. He did not want their phone because they would track everywhere it went. Yes, he knew how to keep under their surveillance network, but of course that also meant he was going to be offline most of the time. He also guessed they would search his apartment. They would not find anything there, though. He was not that stupid. His current difficulty, though, was that he was not that clever either. No matter how he looked at it, income was not going to be easy, unless he started something illegal.

  He had started his search for a new job, and had visited the two most obvious places where he might find employment. No luck. They said they had no vacancies, but he was convinced that meant they had no vacancies for him. The NSA, or maybe even Rhonda, had blackened his name.

  He sighed, and decided to return home. He could use his computer to search for jobs. Yes, the NSA would see what he was doing, but they would hardly get excited about that. What else could he do? No, they would be very suspicious if he did not do that. The problem was, what would he do when that rather futile exercise was finished?

  * * *

  Two weeks passed, and he had had several job interviews. He was convinced that in each one he was doomed before he started. He was usually asked to describe his previous work. He, perforce, would say that was confidential to his previous employer.

  "And that was?"

  For the first interviews during the first three days he said, "The National Security Agency." As expected, that killed the interview. Without a good reference, the implication was he had been fired. The trouble was, th
at implication was correct; he had been fired. Then he had tried saying that was confidential, but that made no sense.

  It appeared he was unemployable.

  If only he had not accepted that job transfer. He had started his working life for the FBI in counterintelligence. That had been a really pleasant place to work. He had made friends, and nobody took the job too seriously. The problem was, with budget cuts, or so he was told, his position disappeared. He was offered redundancy pay, or a transfer to the NSA for a position not that different from what he had been doing. Apparently the job cuts had arisen because of interagency turf wars. Curse them all.

  Of course, the reason he accepted the transfer was the alternative was to be unemployed. Which was where he was now, except this time there was no redundancy pay.

  * * *

  "A pleasant day, isn't it?"

  Rutherford pulled his coat lapels closer around his throat with his heavily gloved hands. As instructed, he was sitting on a park bench, and it was somewhat obvious that this was a meet, because nobody else was sitting on park benches. Rather, they were scurrying to wherever they were going. The visitor brushed snow off the bench, and sat down.

  "I don't suppose it occurs to you we look like sore thumbs sitting here?" Rutherford growled. "You could have picked somewhere warmer, like under a bridge."

  "The river's in flood."

  "Probably still warmer than sitting here," Rutherford shook his head. "You are?"

  "Bernard Lawton, NSA. And I know who you are."

  "Then I assume you want something?"

  "How would you like to serve your country?"

  "I'm too old to join the army," came the flat response, "and anyway, strictly speaking, this is not my country."

  "So we could deport you, then?"

  "I suppose you could. So, what do you want?"

  "We need something done that cannot be attributed to us."

  "In return I get?"

  "An interesting opportunity, and us off your back."