by Hammond, Ray
‘What I mean is, would you, could you consider marrying me?’
She sat like stone, unable to move or respond. In shock.
He took her silence as an objection. ‘What I’m proposing is primarily a business arrangement,’ he said at last. ‘Although I think we really could be friends.’
She wanted to run away, to burst into tears. Just to get away. But she was rooted to the chair. She was also furious. She felt tears on her cheeks.
She turned her head. ‘I could never . . .’
He sighed. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Calypso. If I could love any woman, love in the full sense, it would be you. I have come to realize that since you’ve been here. That’s why I am saying words I never thought I would say.’
She turned away again, the silent tears in full flood.
‘I could love you as a person – I already do – but I can never really love any woman,’ he continued to the darkness.
Finally she turned back to him. ‘Why?’ she demanded, still angry.
He didn’t respond, but drew a deep, audible breath. Eventually he exhaled noisily, almost in a gasp.
‘Have you heard of Professor Charles Eon?’ he asked.
‘Of course: it was a terrible business. Didn’t he die recently?’
‘I was one of his patients,’ Thomas Tye said distantly. And then he added the words that would make her understand. ‘When I was a child.’
‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered.
So he told her all about it, things he had never told anyone since becoming an adult. At the end it was his eyes that were filled with tears. She wanted to put her arms around him so much that it hurt. She did half rise and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, all she could do for the present.
He quietened eventually, his sobs subsiding.
Then he told her that he was asking for Tommy’s sake but, yes, he was also asking for his own sake. He wanted Tommy to have the mother he, Tom, had never had. But he also wanted Calypso to be his companion. He wanted the world to know her as Mrs Thomas Tye. He wanted the appearance of normality even if he could never have the reality. He wanted a consortship, companionship. He started to talk about her running his charitable foundation and about her joining the antiageing therapy trials.
He didn’t mention money, or any prenuptial arrangement. In fact, that concerned neither of them at that minute.
Calypso recovered enough to turn her face back to him.
‘I don’t know,’ she said flatly.
*
Above all other things, Jeremy Corbett disliked boorish behaviour. As the product of one of the better English public schools, then Oxford, the Guards and the British diplomatic service, his breeding, manners, discretion and effortless style were the precise qualifications required to represent the Tye Corporation’s secretive and ultra-secure private bank to its Asian customers. Many of its clients lacked Corbett’s personal savoir faire but most aspired to it and, by placing their unusually vulnerable – and often illicit – wealth with the Tye Private Bank they had, at least, the pleasure of watching an old-style British gentleman court and woo them for their custom.
But, without doubt, this afternoon had exposed some exceptionally ungentlemanly behaviour on the part of one important customer. Corbett now had two front teeth missing and only one of his eyes was functioning. He was still seated in front of a computer console, where his captors had spent six hours working on him before being finally persuaded that he too was seemingly unable to access the funds and documents now held in a deposit-box satellite that the Tye Private Bank had maintained for them for eleven years.
The two observers standing in the shadows at the back of the room exchanged a glance. As one nodded a command, a shoe box was placed on the table beside the computer screens and its lid removed. Corbett’s right arm was forced down on the table-top and twisted hard so that the palm faced upwards. A teenager with a pock-marked face stepped forward and raised a Chinese butcher’s machete.
*
Calypso sat with Biya, a picture book open on her lap.
‘Rabbit?’ guessed Biya, pressing a small finger against the image.
‘Horse,’ corrected Calypso gently, realizing that Biya had probably never seen one. She had been blind since she was less than a year old.
‘Horse,’ agreed Biya contentedly. Calypso smiled down and slipped her arm around the girl’s small shoulders. How many other Biyas were there? Countless numbers of them, and countless more children suffering other ills for lack of even the smallest amounts of money and resources.
Calypso had slept little since Tom’s astonishing proposal. The following morning flowers had once again been delivered to her from Hope Town’s florist. Tom’s carefully sealed note had conveyed an apology for springing the idea on her so abruptly. But it had clearly reiterated his suggestion.
How much other good she could do with the billions of dollars already held by his charitable funds! She had read that, even before the unprecedented public response to the Ethiopian appeal, his was the largest philanthropic foundation ever established. And if he was serious about giving her control . . .
But could she marry him simply for that reason? Then she thought of Tommy.
‘Horse,’ repeated Biya, turning the page.
*
Jack Hendriksen was in the newly installed Holo-Theater in the corporate annex to the Tye Mansion. Previously he would have used the unit in the Network Control Center but that facility had now been turned over to the Solaris Controllers for twenty-four-hour operation as they ran their last-minute tests before the public launch.
The entire meeting was being recorded and Jack would review it once the connection was terminated. He felt uneasy. Something was out of kilter.
This was his seventh virtual meeting with Lawrence Burton, the Director of Presidential Security for the US Secret Service. Previously those had been mere viewper videoconference exchanges, but now he stared Burton in the eye as the Secret Service man stood in the Holo-Theater of the White House itself.
‘I still don’t think you need to transport an entire motorcade,’ Jack protested. ‘You already have a list of everybody who is going to be on the island and their backgrounds. This is not a public event. We can provide a dedicated fleet of Volantes to ferry the president and his party to and from the ship and Air Force One. It’s like the Camp David compound, a controlled environment.’
Burton nodded, smiling in an attempt at conviviality that was unpleasant to watch. He radiated insincerity like smiles across a singles bar. In some ways holo-conferences were more revealing than meat meets, or F2Fs as Burton archaically called them. Fake emotions were easier to detect, which was why few of the world’s leaders resorted to them – unless they were as skilled as Thomas Tye.
‘Well, two things in response to that, Jack: one, we’ve got the motorcade with us anyway; we’re going straight on to China, remember? Two, I hear you’re getting more and more Cuban rebels washing up on your shores and the word is that you have been getting a little heat from your neighbour. So it isn’t a totally controlled environment, Jack.’
Jack raised his eyebrows. How did Burton know this? But both men knew that Cuba and its civil war weren’t really the issues. Jack also understood that the explanation concerning the seven armoured limousines was true. Much to the annoyance of the Ground Facilities Manager at Cape Hope, Tom had over-ruled all objections and agreed that not only could Air Force One and its supersonic support jet park in the limited facilities at the floating spaceport, but also the giant Lockheed C-130J transport plane that was to accompany the President on his subsequent state visit to the People’s Republic of China. This would require a large amount of precious space. Normally Jack would have expected the transport plane to fly directly to China ahead of the presidential entourage.
So, in addition to the President’s regular party of 134 bodies and their equipment, an additional sixty support personnel would be requiring accommodation. It had been made clear, how
ever, that only the presidential body detail would carry arms on the island.
Fortunately their visit was going to be short and sweet. They would arrive on the island late on Friday afternoon when the president would be guest of honour at the opening ceremony for One Weekend in the Future. Then there would be three official meetings between him and Thomas Tye over the following two days. The president and his group would be leaving early Sunday evening, immediately after the closing ceremonies.
The president would not be attending any of the other public seminars or lectures because his schedule, which Burton’s team had been generous enough to share in confidence with Jack, was made up of diplomatic meetings with many other heads of state and political leaders also attending the Hope Island weekend. Besides his facilities on board Air Force one, the American leader had also been assigned two adjoining suites on the Treasure of the Caribbean for holding meetings.
As Jack now understood, none of the delegates were attending for the conference itself. The main purpose of the weekend’s event was for Thomas Tye and his team to start the lengthy negotiations necessary to win international recognition for the sovereignty of Sybaria and all the other political guests were using the congress as an excuse for private meetings and negotiations of their own. The White House team was the eighteenth security group Jack had liaised with so far and, as it turned out, had proved the easiest.
Jack ceased his objections. ‘OK, Larry, since they’re going to be here anyway, but it’s going to cause a massive problem if they deploy. Nobody else has been allowed to bring a motorcade. It would be ridiculous on this small island.’
‘Tell you what,’ offered Burton amiably, ‘my detail head will check it out when he arrives. If he’s happy with the terrain and your own containment procedures, we’ll go ahead with your toy cars. How’s that, Jack?’
That was as good as he was going to get, Jack knew, so he nodded in agreement.
‘Well, I guess that’s it,’ smiled Burton. It was a wrap. ‘Have a good party.’
‘See you,’ said Jack as the image of the US Secret Service man fizzled into blackness.
That had all seemed too easy, too damned polite. Jack had dealt with the White House mafia before.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Connie’s scream penetrated the entire corporate wing of the Tye mansion, echoing around the internal quadrangle. Thomas Tye and Marsello Furtrado came running out of their offices as Jack sprinted down the hall towards the source of the sound.
Tye’s most senior assistant sat back in her chair, ashen-faced, an opened FedEx package in front of her.
‘What is it . . .?’ began Furtrado, unnecessarily. It was clear that the problem lay with the box. He stepped forward and then recoiled with a look of revulsion.
Jack peered into it and then lifted the contents out by its little finger. It was a human hand, severed cleanly just above the trapezium bone, already drying out and turning black. He lifted a bloodied card from the bottom of the box. There were only five words printed on it. Restore Access To Our Deposits.
The ideogram below had been printed with a rubber stamp.
‘That’s Jeremy Corbett’s hand,’ gasped Connie. ‘I recognize the pinkie ring.’
Jack put the gruesome object back in the box.
‘And I recognize that symbol,’ added Furtrado, taking the card. ‘It’s the sign of Tsien. It’s the semi-official Triad run by the generals of the People’s Liberation Army. They placed all their financial assets with Tye Private Banking.’
‘Get Liu in here FUCKING NOW,’ screamed Tom.
*
Joe Tinkler had been gathering some things in readiness for his departure when his VideoMate bleeped, revealing Madame Pioline’s ident.
‘Hi, Beatrice,’ he said. They were now firm friends.
‘He’s returning to New York tonight and wonders if you would be kind enough to wait?’
‘Sure,’ Joe shrugged. This was an open call so he couldn’t ask her for any details. ‘What time?’
‘He’ll be there in the next couple of hours.’
Joe nodded, wished her goodnight, then closed the connection. He had realized that it was Friday midnight her time, but he knew her whole life revolved around Dr Chelouche and the World Bank.
An hour later the object of her devotion tripped on the carpet coming through the doorway. ‘Oy, wehsmir . . . Evening Joe, sorry to keep you.’
The banker looked tired and grey. Joe rose to greet him and Chelouche eased his bulk onto an inadequate upright chair in front of Joe’s desk.
‘I’ve just got back from the Middle East – getting more of the main players on-side.’
Joe merely nodded.
‘How have you be doing recently?’
Surely the man was joking. Joe had been pumping his cryptic, carefully crafted reports to Chelouche’s mail box every twelve hours. ‘I’ve sent you all the figures, sir.’
‘Tell me. I’ve been busy.’
‘Well, just using our information about Tye-related stocks, we’ve made nearly two point four trillion US dollars in the past three weeks.’
Chelouche nodded, apparently unimpressed. ‘What percentage of the Tye Corporation’s voting stocks do we now hold?’
‘Just under eleven per cent, sir. Ten point eight two, to be precise.’
‘What’s your current estimate of the cost to us if we did it now?’
Joe raised his eyebrows and turned to his keyboard and the triptych of screens. The left-hand display showed real-time graphs of the value of his fund’s holdings, on the centre screen was his main spreadsheet and to the right were displayed windows of prices, financial news and TV feeds.
He refreshed his spreadsheet and checked the result. ‘Tonight it would cost your member nations just over twenty-two trillion US dollars, sir,’ he said.
Chelouche sighed. ‘Did you see those reports from ships out in the Atlantic last week?’
Joe nodded.
‘Lit up the whole mid-Atlantic for nearly ten hours. Testing his satellites, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, getting ready for the launch,’ agreed Joe.
The banker raised his eyes towards heaven and then looked back at his fund manager.
‘The seminar on Hope Island starts tomorrow. That’s the perfect opportunity for us. Tye and the entire executive will be distracted with their guests. Plus, it’s August and a lot of people are still away on vacation.’
Joe waited while Chelouche hesitated.
‘Buy it, Joe, buy all of it. You can have an unlimited line of credit on the World Bank. Don’t hesitate, buy as fast as you can. You understand . . .?’
Joe nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Unlimited means unlimited.’
‘Execute all the options immediately and confirm that all deals are dependent on confidentiality. We can’t expect to keep this manoeuvre quiet for very long – but as long as possible, eh, Joe? Then you’ve got to hit the open market, hard and fast. When we must, we’ll declare a hostile bid for the remaining stock with all the necessary regulatory filings.’
Joe nodded again. He knew he was facing a long night – a long few days.
‘I’ll send you down some admin help,’ added Chelouche as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’m off to Washington to see if anybody there works weekends.’
He paused at the door and turned back. ‘Over the next few days you’re going to make a lot of people very rich, Joe.’
*
Raymond Liu customarily received all NASA’s bulletins as soon as they were issued. The one that had just arrived was brief and to the point. A space-weather storm – rated at G5, the highest category – was causing the recent network disruptions. A solar flare had occurred some hours earlier and the blast of highly charged particles was now tearing holes in the magnetosphere. The crisis was likely to pass within a few days.
He transferred to the archives of the Space Environment Center in Boulder, Colorado and downloaded everything they had on space weather, coronal mass eje
ctions and magnetic reconnections. He knew enough about the behaviour of the Earth’s magnetosphere to know that it was a subject only poorly understood. But he suddenly wanted to know a lot more about geomagnetic substorms, nondipolar force fields, the Earth’s magnetopause barrier and the characteristics of free electrons, protons and helium nuclei.
*
The colour of the metallic gift-wrapping could only be described as episcopal. The package sat squarely in the middle of the queen-size bed in Haley’s orchid-filled stateroom. She turned and nodded her thanks at the young crewman in the garish gold-trimmed white uniform. He set her newly purchased tan leather luggage on the floor and stood with his white gloved hands at his side.
Haley glanced at her LifeWatch, ready to dial some change, and then remembered tipping was not allowed during this weekend. They exchanged smiles.
‘Enjoy your stay on Treasure of the Caribbean,’ said the youth, executing a sharp naval salute before closing the double doors behind him.
Haley had arrived on Hope Island by helicopter so she had been able to spot this great new ship – the subject of many newscasts and press features – long before she could make out any other detail on the huge floating spaceport and deep-water harbour that seemed to almost double the extent of the verdant island to which it was attached.
She could not help feeling excited by it all. This coming event had made headline news all over the world. It had eclipsed all other stories, including the Ethiopian rain-making, the gigantic Norwegian oil-spill and the worldwide network failures. Even the more serious newspapers had led with items speculating on what difference Tye’s forthcoming marriage might make to the founder of the world’s richest and most powerful corporation ever.
Haley and Flick had watched the live broadcast together as Thomas Tye appeared on the terrace of his mansion with a stunning honey-coloured woman on his arm. He had cut his hair!
The couple took turns in telling the interviewer how blissfully happy they were – and how they intended to be married during the weekend celebrations. When a reporter from the Tye News Network asked them about children, the cameras captured an exchange of obviously rehearsed glances between the happy couple as Tom said only, ‘We’ll see.’