‘Magic,’ said Morgan.
Sir Robert, half-aloud, spoke his thoughts slowly. ‘Johnson and Oppenheim? No. MCG was the firm Johnson was backing. He failed to tell me his interest.’
Morgan said, ‘He failed to tell you a lot of things. He was Oppenheim’s chum in the original scheme to uncork me from Kingsley’s. The pantomime at Auld’s house was for Johnson’s benefit. Oppenheim had switched sides for money. He didn’t want Johnson to know, so he invented the excuse of your blackmail to drop out. Johnson, on the other hand, stuck to his remit and went on trying to winkle me out of the company. That’s why he was picked off at Marrakesh.’
‘He wasn’t alone,’ said Daniel Oppenheim. ‘I also suffered through Mr. Pymm’s immediate circle. But of course, Morgan is right. If our late portrait painter had survived, Kingsley’s would have lost MCG and then Morgan. That, however, is not the immediate point. Robert, you really cannot make threats. The Board of Kingsley’s will change. And the change will cause hardly a tremor, why should it? No factories are going to close. You make an admirable product, but high-tech consumer durables have little political mileage. Who, Robert, will care about washing machines?’
I opened my mouth. Morgan kicked me.
Sir Robert said, ‘We are not talking of washing machines. It is not for his work on washing machines that Morgan is being sought after.’
‘But it is!’ Oppenheim said. ‘He has always said so. You have always insisted on it.’
Morgan said, ‘You’ve forgotten the rest of the tape. Is she worth human lives? When he said that, Johnson wasn’t talking of high-tech consumer durables, was he? Who cares, you said – thank you – what the little shit does? And A large number of villains is what Johnson replied. Washing machines, would you say? It was Johnson who led you to think I didn’t know what I was designing. I knew. We all knew. Sir Robert’s just as good as confessed it.’
‘But no one is recording this conversation,’ Oppenheim said. ‘And I have the tape from Auld’s house in my pocket.’
‘Well, one of the tapes,’ Morgan said. ‘I’m glad to say we made plenty of copies.’ He waited to let it sink in. Then he said, ‘So the City would be interested, wouldn’t they? And the Department of Trade? And the MOD, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Not in me,’ said Sir Robert suddenly. ‘I have nothing to do with all this. I didn’t know what Morgan was making. And I didn’t agree to a major change in the equity. It was Oppenheim who bought those shares secretly.’
‘You mean the nominee holdings?’ Oppenheim said. ‘But you know, I did send you the papers. A good while ago. Quite some time ago. Didn’t you see them? I sent them to your office. And someone signed for them.’
It seemed to me that every face in the room turned to me: Sir Robert’s and Morgan’s, Oppenheim’s and the impassive face of Mr. B. with his two moustached executives. I said, ‘I didn’t see them. They didn’t come. They couldn’t have come to the office.’
‘Your mistress is also your secretary? Does she have shares?’ asked the lord of the kasbah. His voice was emotionless also.
Sir Robert said, ‘Of course she doesn’t. And she isn’t my mistress. My God, she’s just one of several perfectly nice little occasional girls who. . .’ He came to a halt, his face sulky. ‘If she says she hasn’t seen it, she hasn’t.’
‘Now you mention it, I think I remember,’ said Oppenheim. ‘The little lady is right: she was vacationing. I gave the share details to your Mr. Dresden.’
Val.
I wondered what he had done with them. I remembered all those depleted filing cabinets. I believe that, thinking myself back to my career, to my office, to last week, I even told myself that this would scupper Val, and the PA’s job would be mine. Then I saw Sir Robert’s face.
There was a silence. Morgan unexpectedly slipped his arm into mine. Oppenheim was smiling. The Arab at the head of the table had raised his black brows. Oppenheim said, ‘And I’m sure he will be ready to testify. But would you want it? Sullivan tells me there are photographs with a little more substance to them than Muriel’s.’
Morgan pressed my arm, but it was actually a moment before I understood what had been said.
Val. Val coming smiling out of Sir Robert’s suite that morning. ‘Slept in the office last night. Don’t go rushing in, sweetie: he’s shaving. . .’ Charity’s determined individualism and her care for his girls, and for me. Her pity for me. And looking at Sir Robert I remembered that he enjoyed risk and variety. For him there was nothing unnatural about his choice of casual partners, just as he had seen nothing wrong in teaming foreign finance with superb weaponry.
He ignored the reference to Val. He said, ‘Sullivan tells you? Sullivan is working for me.’
‘He isn’t even working for me,’ Oppenheim said. ‘Don’t you know he was one of the Onyx company? He could have retired ten times over on what he’s made in the past as a mercenary. He prefers to drive beautiful cars, and freelance for our very good friend here.’
I thought of Sullivan, and his powerful wrists. I thought of that ride on the Harley, and was thankful I chose as I did. I said, ‘So he put the heroin in Johnson’s yacht?’
‘I am tempted to say yes,’ said Oppenheim. ‘But in fact, it was a stray idea of mine. Robert? Shall we look at the final position of Kingsley’s? The company has to have Morgan. It has less need, sadly, for you. We are inviting you to resign from the Chair. You will not be the poorer, and your activities need not reach the public domain. Such as the fact, for example, that you took steps to sell out your company – and Morgan – without referral to your shareholders or Board.’
‘That won’t wash,’ said Sir Robert. ‘One hint of what Morgan designs, and the Defence Departments would jump in to prevent him from working for you.’
‘It could be done,’ Oppenheim said, ‘without touching upon exactly what Morgan does. With everything to gain, he’d hardly force us to be explicit.’
‘Then I shall announce it,’ said Sir Robert. ‘From what you say, I have nothing to lose. The day I leave Kingsley’s, I shall tell the world exactly what Morgan is good at.’
‘Given the chance,’ said the man at the head of the table. He was sitting back, a lit cigarette over his fingers. He watched it, then raised his eyes slowly. ‘On the other hand, Sir Robert, your retirement would bring untold compensations. Does business play such a large part in your life? It would appear otherwise.’
Given the chance. I thought of Sullivan’s large, golden form, his blue eyes with their ring of white lashes. I gazed at Sir Robert and willed him to play safe and give in. He sat as if ruminating: vanity and disbelief and dismay struggling together. The offer of wealth, I knew, would weigh nothing against the blow to his ego. He drew breath, and was saved from replying.
The door behind opened. The PA stood until acknowledged, and then glided up to the head of the table. There was a Fax in his hand. His master read it, nodded dismissal and passed it to his two colleagues. Then taking it with him he rose and walked to the ornate single desk where, reseating himself, he picked up the phone and addressed it. When he put it down, he remained in his chair, and made no effort to return to the table. He said, ‘I have left the meeting, gentlemen, because the meeting is over.’
‘What?’ said Oppenheim. I saw the two Arabs look at one another. At the desk, the lord of the kasbah laid down his cigarette and picked up the Fax in short fingers. Then he addressed us.
‘We in the East, gentlemen, have a great respect for Western methods of business. We read your manuals, we study your journals and papers, we meet you over the conference table. Yet always you surprise us. Sir Robert?’
At the table Sir Robert sat, one hand in his pocket, and said, ‘I am listening.’
‘Sir Robert, you gave me certain figures indicating the approximate value of Kingsley Conglomerates. They are worthless. Here are the correct ones. They show that without us, the company of itself cannot survive, far less mount the hostile bid you were planning. I
am disappointed.’ He picked up the cigarette and drew on it slowly.
‘You are mistaken,’ said Sir Robert. ‘If it matters.’
‘Am I? What about this?’ said the man in the turban.
The figures he reeled off were familiar: they represented half my night’s work. At the end he looked up. He said, ‘You say, “If it matters.” Perhaps it does not. It is further evidence, however, of bad faith, of questionable competence.’ He turned to another part of the table. ‘Mr. Oppenheim?’
For the first time, Daniel Oppenheim looked guarded. He said, ‘Yes?’
‘Mr. Oppenheim, you came to me with a proposal. You engaged my time and attention, and that of my executives. You brought me here to conclude it. You were not aware that these figures were false?’
Oppenheim’s hands were spread on the table. He said, ‘I had every reason to believe they were true. They came from Sir Robert. The safe in London yielded a set for comparison, and I got others through Johnson.’
‘Before he knew you were leaving him? Or perhaps, even then, did he suspect?’ the man said. ‘Mr. Oppenheim, you have not been the most adept of agents. Even your amateur rival Mr. Pymm is still alive, and has had you attacked with impunity. It might have been better for you if his marksman’s aim had been accurate. I do not enjoy wasting money and time.’
I felt sick. What he said was criminally threatening. Oppenheim’s face had become blank. Beside me, Morgan suddenly slid his arm down mine and took my hand, hard.
‘My dear sir,’ Oppenheim said, ‘you have wasted neither. You will pay no high price for the company. And your income will more than repay your outlay.’
‘My income from Morgan,’ said Mr. B. repressively. He looked at Morgan and then said something short and violent-sounding in Arabic. Morgan replied. The Arab turned towards the table and Oppenheim. He said, ‘It seems that even there, your calculations have gone amiss. The man is an Arab who does not wish to work for his fellow-countrymen.’
‘Without me, he can’t leave,’ Oppenheim said. He held his bandaged arm as if it was paining him.
‘It seems he can,’ said the Arab with continuing calmness. He studied the Fax, his cigarette held between two fingers. ‘According to this, the British Government are about to remove Mr. Morgan and his team from Kingsley Conglomerates.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Oppenheim.
‘That there has been a leak? That is apparent. I am hardly concerned with the source. I am only concerned that, at this ultimate stage, my investment has come to nothing. It means, of course, that Kingsley’s are ruined. There would be no question now, Mr. Oppenheim, of our using your services. And Mr. Morgan, I suspect, is threatened with an unhappier future than any of us. A suspicious government, Mr. Morgan, can be more restrictive than a private and generous employer. You would have been wiser and richer, all of you, to have settled for what you were offered. As it is. . .’
He nodded briskly. The two Arabs at the table rose. Sir Robert made to do likewise, and was discouraged by a hand gently pressed on his shoulder. Oppenheim remained where he was. I stood, my hand crushed in Morgan’s. At the beginning, he had flashed me a look, but I had no answer to give him. None of this was part of any plan that I knew of.
‘As it is,’ said Mr. B., ‘none of you can now bring me profit, and all of you could be an embarrassment – Mr. Morgan, of course, in particular. In the present nadir of your fortunes, you may find it a positive comfort to relinquish all responsibility for the future. Omar!’
The secretary had only to run from his own room next door.
Beneath the Arab’s grasp, Sir Robert tried to start up. Oppenheim’s strapped chest heaved and he gave a whistling cough. Morgan, so close to me, began to move, and then stopped.
Omar failed to answer the summons because it didn’t reach him, broken as it was into a whisper. Round Mr. B.’s chest, a creased djellabah arm prevented him from moving. And below Mr. B.’s hair, a business-like revolver was pressed hard at his temple. I knew how he felt.
‘I read about this in a book,’ Johnson said. ‘Tell them to do what I say, or I shoot. Naughty bits first. And remember, Morgan knows Arabic.’
The pinioned Arab, his eyes slewed, looked at the screen behind, and then at his captor. He didn’t waste effort. ‘Who are you?’
‘The late Johnson,’ said Johnson. ‘Go on, tell them.’ He seemed the way I had left him, but with his hood back and his bifocals bland as a sneeze-counter. He waited until the Arab started to speak, and then, rummaging one-handed through the desk, brought out a small, handsome gun, which he tossed to Morgan. Morgan’s face was inflated with happiness. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said. Oppenheim and Sir Robert stayed where they were, stiff as waxworks.
‘Right,’ said Johnson, and prodded his captive. ‘Tell your colleagues to face the wall and lift up their arms. Morgan, search them.’
The two Arabs hesitated and did what they were told. Morgan, patting them, came up with another revolver.
‘Give it to Kingsley. Can you use it?’
‘Yes,’ said Sir Robert. He had risen. ‘You pretended to die.’
‘Of course; it was a lot of damned trouble. Daniel—’
‘You’re alive,’ Oppenheim said. ‘Great God, JJ. . .’ There were actually tears in his eyes. He said, ‘When he picked up the phone . . . I know him. . . He was phoning for help. There’ll be eight men outside these two doors. Give me the gun. I’ll distract them. Take the others and run.’
‘It won’t wash, Daniel,’ Johnson said. ‘As has been said. Were those your boxer shorts? Never mind. Whatever you’re going to say, you can say to someone else, preferably when hanging up by your thumbs in the Channel Tunnel. Go and stand with the rest by the wall. Wendy, get down under the table. Morgan, will you cover the door to Omar’s room? Kingsley, the one to the corridor. And now,’ – in French, to the man in his grasp – ‘call Omar again. Loudly. And only his name.’
The lord of the kasbah had a face to save, too. He called Omar’s name. He had begun, rapidly, to say something else in Arabic when Morgan’s gun fired, and he gasped. The wound was in his arm, and superficial. But at the sound of the shot, the door to the passage and the door to the office both burst open.
There were four guards at each, as Oppenheim had predicted. Hovering behind, in the office, was Omar. They saw the revolvers, and their chief in Johnson’s grasp, and they began to spread, their hands to their sides. It was Mr. B., one hand clutching his arm, who shouted at them to stop and Morgan who repeated, in Arabic, the instruction to throw down their guns, or they would have no employer.
For a moment they hesitated; but another hiss from their lord made them do it. The weapons clattered. Morgan, his eyes watchful, went to collect them. Johnson prodded the man in his grasp. ‘Tell them to line up with the others, moving slowly.’ His gaze, too, was running over the room. Crouched on the floor, I saw the feet treading heavily, and then beyond them, a movement much swifter.
Johnson must have seen it as well. I heard his gun fire, and a moment later, a slight figure dropped to one knee in the doorway. The secretary. The Val Dresden of the establishment. I peered up at Johnson. He had turned the gun back to his captive and the man gasped as the muzzle touched his skin. ‘Anyone else?’
No one spoke. Johnson said, ‘I am going to give you orders in French. After that, Mr. Mirghani will repeat them in Arabic. I want you to listen carefully. The gunfire will have been heard. When we leave here, you are hoping for help from your colleagues. There will be none. They are leaving the kasbah. What I am about to tell you will enable you too to escape with your lives. Do you hear me?’
My eyes on Johnson, I got up slowly from under the table. His face revealed bifocals and nothing. Morgan was watching him as intently as if he were lip-reading. Sir Robert stood erect as a soldier, gun in hand, eyes on the uneven line of silent prisoners. Oppenheim had crossed to the young man who was moaning and holding his ankle. Johnson said, ‘Leave him,’ and he straightened.
No one believed him. Morgan pursed his short lips. Johnson said, ‘Don’t translate, my dear man, if you want to be buried a dork.’ Morgan shot a glance at him, and started to speak.
‘It isn’t true?’ said Sir Robert. ‘You wouldn’t risk it.’
‘I wouldn’t, but Pymm bloody would,’ Johnson said. ‘Wendy, go and unlock the little brute. The key’s outside the door. Don’t be afraid, he’ll be too keen to get out to harm anyone. Come back here. If you can’t get him, come back without him. There’s half an hour’s margin. Morgan. . .’
Half an hour, he had said. That was all I thought of as I rushed back to Pymm’s bathroom. I rushed because I had an idea that Johnson wasn’t inventing. I was inclined to believe in that bomb. Pymm had been desperate to get out.
He was still desperate. I could hear his cries, and the blows on the door. When I answered, he broke off immediately. ‘Wendy? Is there a man with some keys? Wendy? Tell the man I’ll make him rich? I’ll make you rich, Wendy. And Morgan.’
I said, ‘I didn’t know you were wealthy?’
‘Oh, Christ God, yes! Yes! Yes! Wendy, do you have the keys, honey? You can have it all, Wendy.’
I thought of something suddenly. I said, ‘I don’t want your filthy money. In any case, how could you be rich?’
‘I’ve got money!’ he said. ‘From the people I work for! Big people, Wendy!’
‘The people who paid you to do all this?’ I said. ‘Who are they, Ellwood?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.
‘Then I can’t let you out. I’ve got the key in my hand, Ellwood, but I won’t let you out till you tell me.’
‘Holy shit!’ screamed Ellwood Pymm. ‘Chahid’s planted a bomb!’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘Everyone’s left. Tell me the names of the people who pay you, and I’ll unlock the door.’
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