Bad Intentions

by Matt Lynn

  'How do you feel?' asked Jack.

  'Positive,' Tara replied. 'I think we can win.'

  Jack nodded, grateful for her confidence and her company. 'I'll go down and pay the bill,' he said. 'Wait ten minutes and then follow me. I'll meet you at the front door. If,for any reason, you don't see me there, then make your way straight to the bank. Don't try to look for me.'

  He squeezed the top of her shoulder, noticing the worried look in her eyes. 'I'll come with you,' she insisted.

  'No,' Jack replied. 'It is safer this way. We have come so far – we don't want to take any chances now.'

  Holding her tight between his arms, Jack kissed her firmly on the lips, lingering for a moment as her tongue flickered seductively across his. Without looking back, he collected their two bags, and headed downstairs towards the lobby.

  Shane spotted him at once. He lifted a newspaper up to hide himself, and whispered to Fuller to do the same. From the corner of his eye, he tracked Jack coming down the stairs, and walking up to the receptionist. He noted that Jack was alone, and presumed Tara would be joining him in a moment. He would wait. He wanted them both together; if just one of them escaped, they could still pose a threat.

  Retrieving the mobile phone from his pocket, Shane dialled the number. 'Relax,' he whispered into the receiver as soon as it was answered. 'I have them in front of me. Everything will be taken care of.'

  'Quite so,' replied the Chairman.

  The Daimler was on the edges of the City now, held up in a traffic jam caused by one of the roadblocks that monitored all the vehicles coming into the Square Mile. The Chairman turned to Finer, a wide smile creasing up his face. 'They have them,' he whispered. 'We can enjoy this meeting.'

  Finer nodded and said that was good. He had always believed, he pointed out, that everything would work out fine.

  Glancing at her watch, Tara noted that there was another four minutes to go before she should make her way downstairs. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she could feel her pulse quickening. She looked at her watch again. Three and a half minutes. She could still smell him in the room, and in that moment she realised she just wanted to be by his side.

  The receptionist gave Jack a wary look as he approached the desk. Looking in his file, careful to betray no sign of nerves, the man fished out the bill. The room had been paid for in advance, but there were service charges to settle. There were, naturally, no call charges; the blue box had ensured that none of the calls they had made had been billed to this number. The total for meals and drinks came to £140. Jack handed over the notes, and told the receptionist that he was not worried about the receipt. The man took the money, relieved, and a little surprised, that they had dealt with their bill before being arrested. He certainly had no desire to warn them; he would prefer they were off the premises before anything happened.

  Jack collected the two bags, holding them both in one hand. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes, he noted. He walked towards the door, deciding that he would stand unobtrusively on the pavement, his back turned to anyone passing by.

  Behind him, Shane and Fuller folded down their newspapers, stood up, and followed him at a brisk pace through the glass doors. Shane stood behind Jack, easing the pistol from his pocket, and jabbing it hard into his back.

  Jack's head spun round. He could see Shane's face, hard and unyielding, and he could just see the gun jabbing into him. Most of all he could feel it, a hard wedge of metal pressed deep into his flesh. 'Don't think for a moment that I won't kill you in the street,' said Shane. 'No one will stop me. All these people will flee. And I'll be long gone by the time anyone calls the police.'

  The tone of his voice was steely and cold; it betrayed no nerves or doubt. Instinctively, Jack felt that he was telling the truth. The man would kill him, here and now, if he had to.

  'Where's the girl,' snapped Shane.

  Jack shifted his head, twisting his neck around to look Shane in the eye. 'She's already gone,' he said, hoping to mask the fear in his voice. 'Yesterday.'

  Shane pushed him against the wall, the gun wedging hard into his back. 'Bollocks,' he muttered. 'You never did have the stomach for this kind of work.'

  'You can do what you like to me,' said Jack. 'Tara has all the evidence. She'll deliver it anyway.'

  'Let's just wait and see,' said Shane.

  Upstairs, Tara checked her watch once more. It was, she decided, time to go. Taking a deep breath, she checked herself in the mirror. Running her hands through her hair, she rearranged the fringe. Grow it long again, she decided. And never let Jack cut it again. The guy had no idea what he was doing.

  Tara looked around the room one last time, checking that they had left nothing behind. She would not miss that shade of orange, she decided to herself. Five days had been long enough. And, smiling at the thought, she switched off the light and walked downstairs.

  Walking slowly into the lobby, she cast her eyes carefully through the murky room. There were two Orientals at the desk, and a pair of backpackers sitting in the lobby, poring over a map and a train timetable. No sign of Jack. Tara cast her eyes up towards the door. She could see the sunlight streaming on to the street, and an endless parade of tourists and office workers walking by. But no sign of him.

  Hesitantly, she walked towards the door. She glanced nervously through the glass, before pushing it open, and stepping out on to the pavement. She glanced first to her right, scanning the road for some sign of him. Inside, she could feel her heart sinking as she realised he was nowhere to be seen.

  'Go, Tara,' shouted Jack. 'Just move.'

  Spinning hard on her heels, she turned. Five yards away, she could see him. His face was turned into the wall, and a rough-looking man with a leather trench coat was leaning hard into him. A woman stood next to them, her eyes darting anxiously down the street. 'Jack,' she whispered.

  'Run, my darling, run,' Jack shouted.

  Beneath her, her feet froze. Tara looked at the man again, then at Jack, and then at the woman walking towards her. Fuller grabbed her by the arm, twisting it hard behind her back. Tara could feel a streak of pain twisting through her veins. Fuller pulled tighter, leading her towards Shane.

  Lifting the gun briefly from Jack's back, he flashed it towards Tara. 'Do what you're told or the cunt gets it,' he snarled.

  Shane pushed the gun back into Jack, and took Tara's arm. 'Walk,' he said.

  Silently, he pushed them across the road, and into the NCP carpark on the other side of the street. Shane had noticed the place last night, and decided it was the perfect spot. Fuller opened the door, and the four of them walked through, heaving them down the damp-stained, concrete steps. They went down one, two, three, and then four flights, emerging through the door on the fifth floor. Deep underground, at the lowest level of the car-park, the light was dim and sullen, and only a few cars were scattered through the empty concrete cavern.

  Shane pushed them hard, shoving both Tara and Jack towards the furthest corner. He threw them against a wall, beneath a thin strip of neon that cast a pale and ebbing light down on the blackened, exhaust-stained concrete. Walking three paces back, he stood away from them, his eyes fixed upon them in a malevolent, unforgiving stare.

  'Crappy haircuts,' he muttered.

  Jack could feel Tara gripping his back. Shane was standing no more than three feet away from them now, his legs slightly apart. He was holding the gun in his hand, and pointing it directly at Jack.

  'Strictly amateur,' he continued. 'A real give-away. If I see someone with a haircut as shit as that, I know at once they are running from something. Get a decent haircut if you want to change your appearance. Not that anyone looks for haircuts. It's the eyes that people search for. If you really want to escape, use contact lenses to change the colour of your eyes. That really throws people off the trail.'

  'We are amateurs,' answered Jack. 'You knew that all along.'

  'And amateurs get burnt,' said Shane.

  'We have the evidence,' interrupted Tara
. 'We have downloaded it to a safe place. It doesn't matter what you do to us. The evidence will still be there.'

  Shane took two paces forward, standing inches from them, and ran the barrel of the gun down the side of Tara's cheek. 'Don't try and get smart with me, Madame Wong,' he said roughly, leaning so close she could smell the nicotine on his breath. 'We're not here to play games. So you have downloaded this data. Big tucking deal. I can trace the number the modem has dialled, and then I'll go and destroy the computer you have transferred it to. End of tucking problem. And don't waste your breath with talk about some plan to make sure the information is transferred to the authorities. Just remember one thing. We are the tucking authorities.'

  He paused and took one step back. 'Not very reassuring is it?' he said. From his pocket Shane fished out two strips of black cloth. 'Always carry these with me,' he said. 'Be prepared. The mark of a professional.'

  'You wanted us dead from the beginning?' said Tara angrily.

  'Chat, chat, chat,' answered Shane. 'Listen, doll, nobody is interested in your opinion.'

  'I have a right to know,' said Tara.

  Shane shrugged. 'So you say,' he replied. 'Personally, I don't like to talk while I am working. Ruins the concentration. Very sloppy.'

  He handed a blindfold to Jack. 'Put this around her eyes,' he said. 'It will make things easier for everyone.'

  Jack did as he was told. The will to resist had left him now, drained as soon as he saw Shane's face under the neon light. He knew what the man was like. He had seen him kill in cold blood, for trivial reasons, and with no sign of remorse. Resistance was now useless, and, strange though it seemed to him, too much of an effort. They had tried to escape from the clutches of these people. Nobody could say they had not done their best. They had come very close. And they had failed. Better to accept their fate calmly and with dignity.

  He took the black cloth from Shane, and held it across Tara's eyes. He could feel her heart beating, hard and sudden, and her brow was moist from perspiration. He kissed her gently on the ear. Better the gun than the knife, he thought.

  His hands trembled as he tied the cloth, his fingers fumbling with the knot. He wanted to say something to her, to find some words for the moment, but his mind was blank, emptied of all emotions apart from a lingering, melancholy terror.

  The knot tied, Shane stretched out a hand towards him. Jack took the cloth and held it for a moment in his hands.

  'Blindfold yourself,' said Shane.

  Jack turned to look at Fuller but her expression betrayed neither sympathy nor concern.

  She had nothing to say, and her eyes turned away to avoid all contact with his. Jack took the cloth and raised it to his face, covering his eyes with the mask, and tying a firm knot around the back of his head. His knees and his arms were shaking now.

  Jack waited for a moment, his vision gone, already lost in the darkness. Silence. He felt the sharp tap of steel against the side of his skull. 'Kneel,' said Shane. 'Both of you.'

  He could feel his knees buckle beneath him, only too happy to give way, and his body collapsed beneath him. He readjusted himself, and he could feel the cold concrete on his knees as he knelt on the floor. His head was bowed and he was wondering whether to pray. His whole body was shaking now, his manner, he knew, cowardly and undignified, but his limbs had long since escaped his control.

  'Closing time,' muttered Shane.

  Jack reached out into the darkness, and found her hand. She too was searching for him, and he grabbed it gratefully, holding on to her, desperate to spend these last few moments in her embrace. He could feel her squeezing his palm so tight the blood was draining from his fingers.

  He heard the first shot, a loud, sharp retort, echoing around the room. Her first, he thought. He gripped her hand tighter still, desperate to maintain contact while he waited for the second shot. Through the skin, he could feel her veins in her wrist still throbbing.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Deputy Governor of the Bank of England sat behind the ornate wooden desk in his office on the third floor of the stately Threadneedle Street building. Jonathan Donaldson was new to the job; his predecessor had resigned suddenly amid the wreckage of a sex scandal, and he had been drafted in from the CBI to fill his place. In all honesty, he would admit to himself, his inexperience was a liability; the economics was straightforward enough, but central banking was still an arcane science to him, and City regulation was not something to which he brought any depth of experience. Never mind, he told himself. He would learn.

  On the problems that confronted him this morning, he had had to take advice from his staff. Ocher's bankers had requested an urgent meeting with the Bank, to present what they claimed were serious irregularities with the process of the bid. Donaldson's staff advised that any such requests were not usually granted, but since the Bank was the ultimate arbiter in matters of take-over regulation, it was natural that they should turn to Threadneedle Street with their complaints. After the Swiss Embassy in London has insisted the meeting go ahead, there had been little choice but to let it proceed.

  No hint had been given as to the nature of their complaint; protocol did not require that they give advance notice of the matters they were going to raise. Inquiries among the supervisory staff at the Bank had not indicated there was anything unusual about the bidding process; they saw no obvious evidence of concert parties, or share support operations, or any of the other wild antics corporate financiers could devise when mounting a hostile take-over. So far as they could tell, everything was being done strictly by the book.

  Still, reflected Donaldson, there was no way of knowing what might happen. Ocher were clearly taking the matter seriously, and Julian Symonds, he knew, was a banker of the old school; if he wanted a meeting it would not be on some frivolous matter. The request that the Swiss ambassador be present at the meeting, however, puzzled him. He had checked with his staff, and, though it was most unusual, they could think of no reason why the ambassador should not be present. Consultation with officials at the Foreign Office had established that it would be a diplomatic slight. to refuse the request; Switzerland, after all, was a friendly European country, they pointed out. And so the request was duly granted; the ambassador would be there as an observer, although not as a participant.

  Donaldson was still suspicious, and, despite playing everything back through his mind, could not track down any significant reason for the meeting. Obviously the take-over of a major Swiss corporation by a British rival was a matter of concern to the Swiss government, and they had a legitimate interest in seeing that fair play was observed. But the Bank could surely be trusted to ensure that all sides were treated equitably? True, he conceded to himself, standards in the City had slipped in the past ten years. But surely no one would doubt the integrity of the Bank?

  Donaldson checked the clock on the wall and saw that he had half an hour to go. He returned to the papers on his desk; briefing papers prepared by his staff that set out the main issues involved in Kizog's bid for Ocher. He might not know what was going on yet, he decided, but he would at least be well prepared.

  A mile and a half away, the blue Daimler pulled up outside the gleaming City headquarters of Kizog's merchant bank. The Chairman and his finance director climbed out of the car and walked inside the plush lobby. They found Morrison and two of his assistants waiting for them. Morrison stood to attention, and the Chairman shook his hand warmly. A sly smile was playing across his face. 'It looks like being a good morning,' said the Chairman cheerfully.

  'I hope so,' replied Morrison. 'I certainly hope so.'

  'How are the acceptances going?'

  'Most of the small shareholders have returned their forms, and most are taking our offer,' answered Morrison. 'But they of course only account for about twenty per cent of the stock. It is the big fund managers who really matter.'

  'And which way are they going?'

  'They never make the final move until the last moment. It is not unheard of for a
counter-offer to be tabled even in the final hours, so they have nothing to lose by waiting until eleven or so. After eleven we'll see a procession of bikers rolling up here with the papers. Then we can start counting. Our latest intelligence is that we'll get between sixty-five and seventy-five per cent of the stock. We should have a final tally by around three this afternoon.'

  'Fine, fine,' said the Chairman.

  'There is a lot more activity on the options market this morning,' Morrison continued, his tone betraying his anxiety. 'Some serious money is taking up sell options in Kizog stock. Someone is betting big that we are going to lose.'

  The Chairman raised his eyebrows and peered directly into Morrison's eyes. 'Then they are going to get badly hurt,' he said firmly.

  Morrison looked away, glancing at his watch, and pointing out that they should be making a move. Together with the Chairman he climbed into the waiting Daimler, sitting in the front seat whilst his two assistants joined Finer, climbing into the Jaguar that was following along behind.

  The car slid smoothly through the City traffic towards the Bank. Morrison sat next to the Chairman. His mood was sombre, and an air of concern hung around him; a marked contrast to the serene confidence of the Chairman. 'The Bank told me the Swiss ambassador had requested attendance at this meeting,' he said.

  'And will he be there?' asked the Chairman.

  'They were surprised that he asked to attend, but the Bank felt they had no choice but to accede,' said Morrison.

  'I don't suppose it matters,' replied the Chairman breezily.

  'It indicates a certain seriousness, Sir Kurt,' continued Morrison. 'I can't imagine the people at Zurich Financial would want to involve their government unless they had something really serious to raise. It would be embarrassing for them.'

  The Chairman turned to look at his banker. Despite his many years of experience, the force of the term 'embarrassment' in the City had never ceased to amaze him; surely these people realised that adult life involved an endless appetite for humility. What did he care if they were embarrassed? 'I have a strong feeling that this meeting will turn out to be a non-event,' he replied. 'Everything has been taken care of. The Swiss are just clutching at straws. Bad losers the lot of them. All we need to do is go through the motions, and then get back to counting those acceptances. By this afternoon I will have my victory and you your fee.'