She shut her face with her hands, tore them away, displayed hot tears.
‘I knew you’d think that! It’s why I never said. It wasn’t like that.’
He was on his feet.
‘Oh really? What was it like then? How long had it been going on?’
‘A couple of years or so. What does it matter how long?’
‘So, more than a quickie behind the filing cabinets. Or on top of the mahogany board room table?’
‘Stop! Stop! It wasn’t – like – that.’
‘Yeah?’
Her voice fell to a whisper. She was talking into her bath robe, clutching her knees to her chest.
‘I don’t fall easily. You don’t know him, what he’s like. I thought we were equals. Coming together. It took a while to see I was wrong. That he was using me.’
‘Whereas it’s only taken me a couple of weeks.’
She tugged off her damp turban and threw it at him.
‘That’s a cheap shot!’
‘You played me. Wound me up with talk of saving the world. But all the time you just wanted back at him.’
‘I wasn’t dumped. I dropped him.’
‘But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So you thought you needed to teach him a lesson!’
She pounded the cushions. ‘No! No! Do you really think I’ve done all this – got nearly killed – given up everything – for a bloody psychopath who’s out to murder me?!’
They were both panting, mouths twisted, eyes blazing. Ted’s shoulders dropped.
‘It’s ok. I’m used to it. Nothing new here.’
‘Don’t talk like a bloody loser, Ted Saddler! Look what you’ve achieved here.’
He shook his head. ‘But not with you. For a while there. . .’
She sprang up and marched over to him and threw her arms round him.
‘You great oaf. Are you blind?’
He looked down at her, searching her face. She went up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. It was brief but it left its mark. She gave a small smile.
‘Let’s call Warwick. I’ll show you how it is.’
She pushed back, still holding his arms, gave him a shake or two to try to drag a grin out of him. He wasn’t playing.
‘Anything else I need to know first?’
‘Only that you’re about to witness my formal resignation.’
She dropped her grip and found the phone. They sat down, Erin on the couch, Ted in the armchair, the phone perched between them on the table. She glanced at her watch.
‘Perfect. It’s ten to one in the afternoon in New York. Stanstead is at his desk, with a salad brought in by his PA. This will go through to Pat Duschene. Let’s hope Oscar is getting all this. Ready?’
Ted nodded. She stabbed the pad with complete familiarity and put the phone on speaker. Despite preparing themselves, both jumped when the voice cut through loud and clear.
‘Mr Stanstead’s office. How can I help?’
Erin put on her smiley voice.
‘Hi Pat. It’s Erin Wishart. How are you?’
There was the faintest of pauses. It wasn’t the time-lag on the line.
‘Just fine, Miss Wishart. And you? How’s your vacation? Where are we today?’
‘Well Pat, I guess you’re in your office and we’re out of town.’
Nerves and anger were making her flippant.
‘Put me through to Warwick, please. It’s urgent.’
‘I’ll just see if he’s in his office.’
She could picture his little face puckering up with ill-intent. The line flipped to that day’s holding music, Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. She almost smiled. It gave her time to examine the man sitting opposite her. He still seemed to be in shock, but Ted Saddler didn’t give much away. Could this still go somewhere? Probably not. Men hated hearing about other men. But he looked a great deal better than she felt. How had his eyes avoided the black rings and the red rims? Even the bones on his face stood out more clearly, his hooked nose looking like it belonged to him again.
The music stopped and Stanstead’s refined and relaxed tones fell clearly from the speaker phone. A hand grenade in the room would have had less effect.
‘Well this is a pleasant surprise. How are you, Erin?’
She couldn’t hold back.
‘You mean it’s a surprise to find me still alive, Warwick?’
‘What? This is a bad line. How is Hong Kong? I hear typhoons are on their way. Keep your head down, Erin.’
‘Warwick, can we cut the bullshit? You know where I am. And you know its not Hong Kong. And before we go any further, and for the record – are you getting this, Pat? - this is my resignation, effective immediately.’
‘Wait, Erin. Don’t. . .’
‘Shut up, Warwick. I’m resigning because you tried to have me killed the other day. By any standards that constitutes breach of contract on your part. Don’t you think?’
‘Erin. How can you say this? You know how I feel about you.’
‘A convenient lay? But who cares. The other reason I’m calling is to tell you that I know you murdered José Cadenza. We have proof.’
‘Erin, I’m horrified at these accusations!’ His voice had just the right note of astonishment and hurt. ‘What poor José did has really upset you. It sounds like post traumatic stress, frankly. Now, we can help, Erin. . .’
‘Don’t patronise me! And don’t call me Erin. You haven’t earned it.’
Ted’s eyes widened. He made a two-thumbs up sign. She went on.
‘I want you to take a peek at a web site that’s been set up. I think you’ll find it interesting. In fact you’ll be knocked out by it.’
Stanstead’s voice lost its flippancy. ‘I don’t like games. What’s this about Erin. You need help, you know.’
‘You’re blown, Warwick. Just take a look at sevensilverbullets.com. Let me spell that.’
She did and they heard him say and spell it out loud to his desk computer.
‘I’ll give you one minute to browse through it. That’s all you’ll need. Then we talk.’
Ted’s doorbell rang. He signed to her to indicate he would get the coffee and food he’d ordered. He got up and walked into the small lobby leading to the bedroom door. He peered through the peephole, saw a waiter with a tray, and pulled the door open.
The first punch took him in the stomach. The second smashed into his face and knocked him over. Before he could get up, two Indians in the white uniforms of hotel servants were pinning his arms and jamming a gun against his temple. Another smaller figure joined them, a white man.
‘Mr Saddler, I presume?’ asked Joey Kutzov stepping over Ted’s legs and kicking the door closed behind him.
FIFTY
Joey pressed his gun against Ted’s head and marched him into the sitting room. Erin stood up in terror. Joey’s eyes lit up.
‘This is cosy. Saves me a visit. Hope I wasn’t disturbing anything?’
Joey signalled to his companions. They dragged Ted upright and hauled him over to stand alongside Erin. They frisked him professionally and signalled he was weaponless.
‘Where’s the gun, big boy?’
‘What gun?’ Ted got out, dabbing his jaw.
‘I think we’d better take care of you first, Saddler, just in case you pull another stunt like last week. No chance for heroics this time.’
Joey lifted his arm out straight and walked towards the couple. Erin grabbed Ted round the middle. He swung his arms round her and pulled her into his chest, turning his back on Joey.
‘Now ain’t that touching!’
Ted closed his eyes. Erin went rigid. She could see the silencer attached and wondered how loud it would be and if it would hurt. She regretted never having held him properly until now. Her timing was always rubbish. Then her brain started up again.
‘Warwick! Call off your dog!’
She leaned towards the coffee table and shouted at the phone.
‘Warwick! Stop Kutzov!’
/>
‘Joey?! Joey, is that you!?’ came the voice from the phone.
Joey’s gun arm swung down in surprise.
‘Mr Stanstead! That you?’ He glared at the speaker-unit in disbelief.
‘Yes, it’s me you fool. Don’t shoot them. Not yet!
Erin unfroze and grabbed the phone. She shouted at it.
‘Tell him to get out of here. Right now, you bastard! I mean right now!’
She shoved the phone into Joey’s face.
‘Joey, back off. Leave them and call me later. We need to talk.’
Joey lowered his gun reluctantly.
‘You two,’ to the two puzzled Indians. ‘Out! Let’s move it.’
He eyed Ted and Erin up and down. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he sneered.
When the door had closed behind them, Erin stumbled over to the couch and collapsed on it, still clutching the phone. Ted stumbled over and landed beside her. Blood ran down his face. He took the phone.
‘I guess you found the web site interesting, Stanstead?’
‘What do you want? This is shit and you know it. I don’t know how you got all this shit but I do know none of it’s useable. Wiretapping is illegal.’
The voice was high and threatening, the words spilling from him. Erin had seen the rages and knew he was sitting like a pressure cooker about to blow.
‘If you’re that sure, Stanstead, why’d you call off your thugs? As for legalities? I’m a reporter. I can bring this to the public’s attention. Allegations. Which is all it will take to destroy you.’
The line went quiet. Ted and Erin looked at each other.
‘What do you want?’ from the speaker.
‘First, call off your hound permanently. Second, stop your attacks on the People’s Bank. Third, announce your resignation as CEO of GA. Fourth, no, make this number one: if Veronica Yeardon is still alive I want her released safe. Now! Have you got that?’
‘I think you’ve both been out in the sun too long. I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.’
‘You’ve got till 10 am tomorrow morning, New York time. And Stanstead, there – is – no- choice.’
‘Oh, there’s always a choice.’
The line went dead. Erin needed to do something. She went into the bathroom and came back with a white towel soaked in cold water. She began bathing his cut and generally fussing over him. He was conscious of her hip touching his shoulder and of the clean smell of her. He wondered if she’d object if he put his arm round her waist. A hug with a gun pointed at your head was no test, and it wasn’t the time or place for open heart discussions. But they were back to the stage of joshing with each other again; could even laugh at coming through another near-death experience together.
‘Miss Wishart, the last person that kept trying to get me killed was my platoon sergeant. You don’t believe in reincarnation do you?’
He fingered the large plaster over his forehead.
‘Mr Saddler, if I’d come back to haunt you, you can be sure I’d have done the job right. Admit it, you’re enjoying this. You haven’t felt this alive in years.’
The doorbell rang again. She grabbed him.
‘Oh my god, they’re back!’
‘They wouldn’t knock.’
Ted reluctantly disengaged from her. Clutching his bloody towel to his head, he sidled up to the door. He opened the eye hole, and finally let the waiter in. The waiter placed the tray of coffee and sandwiches on the room table and had Ted sign for them.
‘Sir? There is also this parcel for you. We have been keeping it for you in the hotel.’
He pointed at the tired looking white plastic package on the tray. Ted dropped his towel and picked it up gingerly. A present from Joey?
‘Sir, are you wanting me to get a doctor?’ He pointed at the revealed wound
‘What? No. No, I’m fine thanks.’
Ted dug into his pocket and gave the man a preposterous tip. He closed and locked the door behind the waiter and returned to examine the parcel. It was well travelled and covered in scrawled redirections. Post-marked two weeks ago in Louisiana, it had been to New York, then Kolkata and finally here. He hefted it. It bent in the middle like papers do. An unlikely bomb. He grinned when he saw the return address on it: c/o Carly Soferson. He took the letter opener from the bureau and sliced into it, ripping open the FedEx packaging.
Between the plastic and the brown paper he found Carly’s note in her big childish hand. He smiled before tugging out the documents and a bubble-wrapped memory stick. He glanced quickly at the papers and looked up at Erin with triumph.
‘If we’ve been building a scaffold for Stanstead, Mrs Yeardon just sent us the rope. I don’t know if she’s still alive – god help her – but before she got taken, Veronica Yeardon did a great big public service. C’mon, we’ve got work to do. We need to speak to Oscar right away. You can bet your life – mine too - Stanstead’s already on the move.’
Stanstead was pacing his balcony, smoking. His cell phone rang.
‘Boss, Boss what’s going on? I had them dead to rights. All I had to do was squeeze and they were gone, you know? What’s happening?’
‘You think I had a goddamn choice! What took you so long?! You should have got rid them days ago.’ He paused and gathered himself. ‘OK, let’s chill. This is just a little hiatus while we sort out a couple of things. Be ready to finish your business when I give the word.’
‘So how long do I have to stay in this shit-hole, boss? The temperature’s topping 100 every day.’
‘You stay as long as I fucking want you to! That’s how long! By the way, don’t call my office number again. Ever. We’re being bugged.’
‘Impossible! I check the systems myself.’
‘And you’ve been screwing up!’
‘Sorry boss, sorry.’
‘We’ll get back to that later. What about the Yeardon woman. How is she?’
‘Alive, just. But that was a couple a’ days ago according to my boys. She still hasn’t said where the papers are, but she sure ain’t standing up to the heat so well, boss. Does it matter?’
‘No. Not really. Not now. Joey? Joey, get ready to go. Tomorrow!’
Warwick cut the call and hit Pat’s button again.
‘Get me Trevino.’
‘Certainly, Mr Stanstead.’ There was a click and a pause.
‘Sir? It’s Nick Trevino.’
‘Project Monsoon. I want the deluge. Now! Do you understand? I want you to throw everything you have at them. And Trevino, before you do, I have a web site I want taken out.’
‘Give me the name, sir.’
Stanstead spelled it out. ‘I want it bombed, destroyed, obliterated! And I want to know who did it and how to find them. And I want this by yesterday. Understood?’
‘Yessir, Mr Stanstead!’
FIFTY ONE
Anila was in her little backyard, breaking up a dried cowpat for fuel for the cooking fire. She shivered in the early morning air. But it wasn’t because she was cold. It was simply too much to take in, too good. How could such a thing last? She’d got her money back and the cooperative was now besieged by new candidates. Well of course it wouldn’t last. Not if she’d understood about the trial. It was to start next week and Meera’s father would go to prison and the bank would be closed and all the dreams that Meera had set running in Anila’s head would be ripped apart. But there was nothing she could do, nothing that an ignorant villager could fix that would help Meera’s father.
She’d been explaining this to the white woman while she combed her wonderful hair. In her halting English Anila had said that if she lived in Delhi she would have gone to the court on Monday and stood outside and shouted support for Mr Banerjee. She knew all the people who’d been helped by the bank would have done the same. Maybe if they’d all shouted loud enough they would have listened inside the court and maybe seen that all the crazy charges against the bank were untrue. Erin had asked her simply why didn’t she? And why didn’t she send
an email to all the other customers?
Anila couldn’t think about it then, not with all that was happening to her. But she was thinking about it now. She felt her heart pounding. The demon was loose again. But she held herself in check until she and Meera were alone before broaching the subject, tentatively at first then with more excitement as she saw Meera’s face light up.
‘Miss Erin said we could talk to all the people in the bank from this computer. Is this true? Could we ask everyone to go the trial and show their support? If we got a fifty people to go, or a hundred even, then it would show we were happy with the bank.’
‘Yes, but it is not so easy. We have a website and we have been telling the customers what is happening about the trial. But the customers only see the messages if they read the website.’
‘Can we not send messages to everyone?’
‘The team in Delhi can. They are the administrators in the centre. So they could send a message to every account.’ Meera was beginning to share Anila’s excitement. ‘But we cannot incite people, Anila. Do you understand? We cannot be seen, as a bank, as a company, to be inciting people – our customers – to make an assembly against the government. This is just the sort of thing that the bank is charged with, you see. That we are encouraging people to fight the government.’
‘Erin said that too. But she said it might be different if the message comes from us – the customers. She said there was something called Twitter?’
Meera’s face fell.
Anila gulped. ‘Have I said something wrong? I am so sorry, Meera. . .’
‘No, no, Anila! It’s me who is sorry. I have been very stupid and slow. As an officer of the bank I don’t tweet. But I have an account and I follow some important people’s tweets.’
‘Like who?’
Meera’s face darkened with embarrassment.
‘Oh, some silly film stars, that is all. But come, we will set you up with your own Twitter account. Then we will need a memorable hashtag to attract attention.’ She thought for a second or two. ‘How about #savethepeoplesbank? Now you and I will start tweeting to newspapers, politicians, film stars, everybody!’
MONEY TREE Page 26