Serendipity Foundation_292

by The Serendipity Foundation (retail) (epub)

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m merely pointing out that the Norwegians planned to be the world leaders in the field, you were to be their sidekicks, and we currently have a ransom involving some of your employees that could see such systems being in great demand.’

  Fairweather’s eyes narrowed in a way he usually reserved for IMF staff. ‘I’ve worked my whole life to eradicate poverty, quite often in places where this government’s foreign policy has exacerbated it. We work with people who can’t read or pay electricity bills. We have an office of 55 people. Taking over a country’s energy is slightly beyond our means.’

  Rawlins laughed with his imaginary interrogation partner. ‘You sound a little defensive, John.’

  ‘And I’ve decided I want to leave,’ said Fairweather, getting up from his seat.

  Anxieties about wind turbines didn’t evaporate overnight. Evidence of their adverse effects on health, panoramas and house prices were held up in town halls like a bill of rights. Shadwell had had a reputation for taking a Shakespearean turn whenever he quoted low-frequency decibel levels statistics for 17-metre turbines.

  But that was the old Shadwell.

  Opponents found it harder to work themselves up when it was no longer a liberal or environmentalist on the other side. Shadwell didn’t plead on behalf of Mother Nature, or the future of their grandchildren, or make an appeal to ethics. There was no scale in which one side was more moral than the other.

  Instead he spoke of national security, of foreign policy, of energy independence, of training, of jobs. No one could argue with his concern for growth and low inflation, even if it was clear he had no real idea what these abstract concepts meant; no one else did either.

  ‘But wind turbines spoil the natural landscape,’ came a final complaint.

  ‘You don’t seem to argue too much about the completely “natural” man-made farmland, or hedges, or coppice woodland. I hear no complaints about the roads, or church spires, electricity pylons, or telegraph wires. It’s the new you have a problem with, not the unnatural.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rawlins said as he sat down, ‘the room I’d origin-ally booked is being painted.’

  Barrett forced a smile without humour. ‘I have to compliment your subtlety. Someone more sceptical might think you’re trying to intimidate me.’

  Rawlins smiled. ‘I can’t imagine why you’d think I want to intimidate you.’ He tickled the wings of his moustache. ‘So why did the kidnappers come to you first?’

  Barrett had barely slept in three weeks. ‘What do you mean “why?”. I’m Liam’s boss. I presume they thought I’d have a greater incentive to keep him alive.’

  Rawlins pouted his lips. ‘Hmm. Maybe.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Barrett incredulously, ‘maybe?’

  Rawlins shrugged. ‘Four Brits kidnapped. I’m pretty sure every newspaper would publish that on the front page, don’t you think?’ He picked up his notes in a way that made the question rhetorical. ‘I also notice you used the phrase “I’m Liam’s boss.” A pretty strange present tense given the circumstances.’

  Barrett looked at Rawlins with disgust. ‘You absolute shit. Do you know what I’ve been through the last two weeks? Do you have any fucking idea? And here you are using semantics as your line of questioning.’

  Rawlins shrugged as if taking the notes of an experiment. ‘You were also the first, and only, newspaper to pick up on the fact that Miller had a girlfriend.’

  ‘So give me the Pulitzer.’

  ‘I just find it interesting. A man more sceptical than me might get the impression you’re the kidnappers’ mouthpiece.’ Rawlins sat back.

  Barrett closed her eyes and held her silence.

  ‘It seems a little strange to send a journalist who through your newspaper had recently been threatened by a terrorist organisation, on his own, to a place he doesn’t know, to track down another group of terrorists. It seems like you must have had an . . . um, how do I say it? Ulterior motive?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Rawlins smiled. ‘So why did you send him?’

  The anger on Barrett’s face subsided to a look of pained tenderness. ‘I . . . I’m not sure any more.’

  ‘Can I put that down as an “I don’t know”?’

  Barrett gave him a look of pure hatred.

  ‘I’ll take that as a “yes”. So finally: you’re the editor of a liberal paper that educates its readers heavily on climate change, am I right?’

  Barrett stared back, saying nothing.

  ‘Would it be fair to say you’d be heavily supportive of a policy that showed Britain could free itself of fossil fuels?’

  Barrett shrugged.

  ‘My question is, quite how far would you go to make it happen?’

  It was the start of week three of the ransom. Since Michael’s visit to Tunbridge Wells, Shadwell had taken over the initiative and claimed it as his own.

  And things were going well. Such dissent as remained was soon swept away by a wave of irresistible inducements as companies donated their highest efficiency appliances in a once-in-a-generation marketing campaign. This was even before residents had been made aware of the slashed energy bills they could expect in the future.

  Since Jordie had drawn attention to the unsustainable nature of the foursome’s current living arrangements, the future had begun to weigh heavily on their minds.

  They took it in turns to leave the basement for walks around Cairo in disguise. Their disillusion with humanity seemed to have eased. Their walks lengthened. Jordie spent hours walking through the Old City, Miller walked to Giza, Richard explored downtown, and Liam went to Tahrir Square. The embers of their old interests in the world were starting to glow again.

  Foreign groups started to call for their own benevolent terrorists. ‘We demand that you demand what we would demand of ourselves,’ cried a protest in the US. Copycat terrorists emerged. In Spain a group called for a higher tax rate for the wealthy, in the Czech Republic there were demands for a renewal in traditional arts, and in Canada a spoof group demanded something interesting happen.

  ‘I am no hero,’ said Shadwell. ‘However, sometimes it takes someone to tell a more inclusive story, where everyone has a stake in the future.’

  The masterplan had been agreed ahead of the deadline. While the financing wasn’t fully complete, bid documents had been lodged and the hope was that this would satisfy the terrorists. The estimated completion date was June the following year.

  No one had mentioned climate change in three weeks.

  Up and down the country, MPs at their weekly clinics faced angry constituents demanding similar initiatives: why should Tunbridge Wells, already rich, get all the benefits?

  Rawlins felt he was on the brink of uncovering a great conspiracy. He could taste immortality.

  Five ransoms: the first four soften everybody up, the fifth the pay-off: the commercial motive that brought the unlikely cast together.

  He flicked through a file of tender documents for the solar component at Tunbridge. A star was scribbled on top of one of the pages, signalling the committee’s preferred option. It was Nynorsk Solar: a Norwegian foundation with a wealth of experience in Europe, North Africa and India.

  Rawlins rocked back in his chair with the satisfaction of a man who had successfully filled in the last number on a Sudoku grid.

  Acts of Guerrilla Kindness

  Monday, July 27th

  The Foundation released a statement applauding Tunbridge Wells, and Richard decided he needed some air. Disguised, he left the building to spend his walk daydreaming about a return to Britain, the opportunity of a new life, free of the corporate world he once inhabited. He looked up, exhilarated by the sun on his face, failing to notice a cart pull out in front of him. Richard fell forward, his weight tipping up the cart on two wheels and emptying its cargo of mangoes on to the road, knocking his sunglasses off as he landed.

  As he got up, the mango seller approached, yelling and p
ointing his finger at him. A crowd started to gather, intrigued by his appearance. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak . . .’ Richard instinctively blurted out. He stopped too late – his English had been overheard. In panic, he turned, pushed his way through the crowd and ran off.

  On Tuesday, Michael met with Greenham to explore a way of gaining cross-party support for new banking reforms. They made a pact: they would work together in private without distractions and see what was possible. There would be no public announcements, attacks or politicking against each other.

  Michael suspected this wouldn’t last long.

  By night he played through scenarios where his involvement might be exposed. But that would require catching the kidnappers, and no one had much motivation to do that.

  Richard sat on the sofa holding an ice pack against his knee.

  ‘I’ve seen eunuchs with larger swellings,’ said Jordie.

  Richard responded by throwing an ice cube in his direction.

  ‘All I’m saying is, after your show of physical frailty out there, it might be best to accentuate the bruising. Cover up the pampering in case we get caught. I’m happy to help out,’ said Jordie, punching his palm.

  Richard had got back an hour earlier. After fleeing the mangoes, he had walked around the quiet back streets with his head down, checking he wasn’t being followed, then returned from the opposite direction. The others had laughed it off, but all privately calculated the damage. Their faces had been broadcast around the world, and they doubted a beard and robes would protect his anonymity under scrutiny from a crowd.

  ‘If anything,’ said Aiya, ‘this should provide a little urgency to the brainstorm.’

  On Monday afternoon, Lucy received a call from a tabloid journalist.

  ‘Miss Smalling, I was hoping to get a comment from you on a story we’re running tomorrow. A number of sources are saying that you and Miller Carey have never been lovers.’

  Lucy’s hand started shaking as she held the phone to her ear. ‘Wh . . . why are you doing this?’

  ‘Miss Smalling, the kidnapping of Mr Carey has transfixed the country. I’m interested in why a friend of Mr Carey is pretending to be his devastated girlfriend.’

  ‘How dare you. Do you journalists have no shame?’ said Lucy.

  ‘Can I ask you a question, Miss Smalling? Does Mr Carey have any distinguishing marks on his body? Marks, say, that only a lover would know about?’

  The Foundation cheered as Miller stood up to receive the acclaim.

  ‘I’ve actually given this a bit of thought.’

  Boos rang out around the room. Richard and Liam threw the remaining ice cubes at him. ‘Being prepared is against everything this foundation stands for,’ said Richard.

  ‘People have been kidnapped for less,’ said Aiya.

  ‘Throw him to a gaggle of English teenage girls,’ said Liam.

  ‘Sell his organs,’ said Jordie. ‘Seriously, how much could we get on eBay for his heart? Or his sperm? Shit, that business model’s sustainable. I’ve got a good seller’s history and everything. We could sell it as the semen equivalent of veal: young, locked in a room, never seen sunlight.’

  ‘As opposed to all the other sperm out there. Any chance we could return to Miller saving the day?’ said Richard.

  Miller smiled and sat back down on the sofa. ‘At uni I never gave to charity or volunteered because I was studying development and reasoned I’d be dedicating my life to helping others. I always said I’d do more when I had more time, or I made more money, but, well . . . The only good things I do for people are things I’m contracted for, and even those are abstract and confused. Then I look at the majority of good turns people do for each other. From presents, to charity events, or sponsored fun runs – there’s always some type of affirmation that your good deeds are being recognised by someone else.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a thank you. I read this story about a terrorist organisation that ransomed a whole nation to say thank you,’ said Richard.

  Miller smiled back. ‘I don’t mean it’s a bad thing, but we compartmentalise the times we allow ourselves to do good things for each other. You know that fuzzy feeling when you give up your seat on the Tube for someone more in need of it?’

  ‘Never done it,’ said Liam.

  ‘I tried once, but the pregnant woman thought I needed it more,’ said Jordie.

  Miller smiled and shook his head. ‘Well, apart from the rest of those sitting hating you, it feels pretty good. My point is that people’s minds aren’t switched on to do randomly nice things for each other.’

  ‘And I thought mine was a bit soft,’ said Jordie. ‘Maybe we should ask everyone to give a stranger a really fucking good cuddle.’

  As had become routine, they looked towards Jalila to summarise their conversations silently and point to a path forward.

  ‘Mum thinks it’s brilliant.’ The other three men looked a little shocked. ‘The world’s full of wonder, yet we no longer recognise the magic that surrounds us.’

  ‘Uh, yeah . . . exactly,’ said Miller.

  Lucy couldn’t sleep. At five she walked to the newsagent, and waited for the papers to be delivered. To her relief she wasn’t on the front page. Her hopes were dashed on page five, where under the headline the mystery of miller’s fake girlfriend was a photo of her arriving at Downing Street.

  The text was less robust than the headline, which in truth was no more than unsubstantiated speculation. The comments below the online version of the article were less uncertain. ‘Whore’, ‘Insensitive fame-crazed bitch’ and a variety of shocking threats were posted by mid-morning.

  And then the conspiracies started to appear.

  ‘Have you seen the story today about the hostage’s girlfriend?’ said Charlie as he walked into Michael’s office. ‘It’s saying they were never together.’

  Michael looked up with alarmed interest. ‘What do you mean never together?’

  ‘As in she was pretending.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ said Michael.

  Charlie looked at Michael gravely. ‘Some comments online are saying she’s just the middle woman between you and the terrorists. Apparently you’re the mastermind behind it all.’

  Michael forced a smile. ‘Imagine that.’

  On Wednesday morning a story broke surrounding a postman who claimed that during the period of enforced letter writing he had delivered a letter to Miss Smalling bearing the stamp of 10 Downing Street.

  It was Wednesday afternoon and Michael entered the COBRA meeting Rawlins had requested. He took a seat and invited Rawlins to speak.

  ‘We’ve just received some promising intelligence from the Egyptians. On Monday there was a possible sighting of one of the hostages, Richard Pounder. Strangely, he was spotted in a market, disguised in Arabic dress. This has been confirmed by ten individuals, all of whom claim they heard the man speak English.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ said Michael. ‘Why would a hostage be allowed to walk around?’ Although he instinctively felt the rumour was true.

  ‘Well, I know it sounds unlikely,’ said Rawlins, ‘but everything about this kidnap is strange.’

  ‘That’s your technical opinion. “Things are strange.”’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rawlins with a hint of annoyance in his voice. ‘The recent demand brought to my attention a host of irregularities that made me think our hostages might well be haggling for mangoes. In addition, there was the invitation to Downing Street of a hostage’s girlfriend, who is now alleged to be a fake. Further to which, there are rumours that you sent her a letter . . .’ Rawlins checked himself from following the insinuation through. ‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of this, it’s rumours that damage you, and if we don’t sort this out quickly, well . . . That’s my technical opinion. Sir.’

  ‘So what? Someone thinks they’ve seen him, how does that help us?’

  Rawlins had regained his composure. ‘The sighting was in the same area where they first went missing.
The police have since questioned people there, many of whom have confirmed seeing men dressed in white robes and sunglasses – ‘like a disguise’ – over the last few weeks.

  ‘Now, if you look at the map . . .’ Rawlins put a map of the Cairo neighbourhood on to the large screens. ‘You will see the locations of the sightings.’ There was a clear nucleus of dots in the streets surrounding where the hostages’ driver had dropped them.

  Michael struggled to keep up with events as he tried to work out the implications. ‘So what are the police going to do now?’

  ‘They’ve been joined by the army, and they’ve got eyes every-where: on the ground, on the roofs. They’ve set a perimeter cordon of five blocks around this area’ – Rawlins showed its extent on the map – ‘and they’re stopping all ve-hicles going in and out.’

  ‘And what if that doesn’t work?’ asked Michael.

  ‘The army will flush them out.’

  Michael got back to his office and paced around the room. His fate was now interwoven with that of the terrorists and hostages, if there was a difference any more. He called for Charlie.

  ‘You rang?’

  ‘I need a favour, but you need to keep it between you and me.’

  ‘Is the body in the boot?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Oh no, I buried it myself. No, I need you to get me Miss Smalling’s mobile number.’

  ‘As someone who’s paid to protect you from yourself, I wouldn’t recommend that.’

  ‘I just wanted to apologise for getting her involved in all this.’

  ‘In all what?’ said Charlie. ‘Michael, no one believes in you as much as me, but I beg you to step back from the edge.’

  Michael rubbed his face with his hands before looking at Charlie. His eyes spoke of deepening trouble. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Miss Smalling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Michael.’

  ‘Michael . . . Oh, right. Michael.’

  ‘I was hoping you could come in for a chat.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a great idea.’