The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  “Not unless I get my evidence against them,” he stressed.

  “Any chance of recovering it?”

  “I still don’t remember.”

  “You can trust me with that information,” Doug said.

  “I put the dossier somewhere.”

  “Isn’t there a copy?” Doug wondered.

  “It was even more dangerous to keep a copy,” Clive reminded him.

  “Didn’t you tell somebody else, as a safeguard?” Breadham insisted.

  “They don’t know either,” Pitt replied caustically.

  “You have to remember.”

  “What were you doing on this same evening, last year?” Clive asked.

  “Last year?”

  “Do you know?” Pitt challenged, wild eyed.

  Doug reached into his mind and his brow creased. “Of course I don’t remember. Who would?”

  “You don’t remember for the life of you!”

  “I’m glad you have a party trick. But your memory has become other people’s business,” the lawyer argued.

  “So I gather. But all the data is lost. Either I put the information in a box, or stashed it away in hyper-space,” he considered. “They smashed my mind while trying to get the truth out of me. Without that the police aren’t going to believe me. The financial authorities will have nothing to go on. Are they going to listen to me, against the word of Sir Septimus Winchurch? To contradict the arguments of prestigious clients? Some of whom oil our political system?”

  “That’s quite a serious allegation. Agreed you are in a tight spot,” Doug agreed. “Even if your views are rather cynical.”

  “I can only leave the UK, assuming these guys are a step behind.”

  “Money’s no problem, if that’s what you need,” Doug said, dismissively.

  “I assume that all my accounts are frozen,” Clive admitted.

  Every feature of this conversation between them was awkward.

  “As much as you need, but...” Breadham floundered. He began to wander abstractedly about the room, butterfly silk flowing behind. “Does this imply an assumption of guilt?”

  “Certainly not, mate.” Clive studied his movements with curiosity. “I’m caught up in a tangle of circumstances.”

  “Are you really in such desperate straits?”

  “Yes, and I’m dragging other people behind me...such as Pixie Wright.”

  “Her again? Does she know much?” Doug returned. “Or is she helping you?”

  “There, I’ve dragged her back into this,” Pitt objected - feeling the slip like a missed kerb. “I’ve trusted you with a lot, Doug. Maybe I can trust you with this. I left her a few hours ago. She was running back into Shaftsbury Avenue with a couple of ZNT assassins following. Maybe she should have come with me,” Clive considered.

  “So you split up? Where do you plan to flee?”

  “North Africa is at the top of my list right now. I can disappear there.”

  “Good luck,” Breadham replied.

  “But I don’t have my passport on me... as you might expect.”

  “What’s a passport? Are you sure you have clearance at the border?”

  “Let’s try, shall we?”

  “Give me a couple of days.” Doug halted across the room, as if considering all his woes, with his shimmering back turned.

  “Reserve a seat for me, will you? I don’t like to put you out... but there’s nowhere else to turn.”

  “Don’t you sense they will find you? Wherever you go?”

  “I can try to clear my name,” Clive essayed.

  “You need at least one night’s rest to recover your bearings,” Doug argued. He set off on his travels around the apartment again. Thought and movement went together as any lawyer can testify.

  “You’re inviting me to stay?”

  “For a single night. Until we figure your plans. As you are in a tight corner. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”

  Clive had to reluctantly agree. “If I can leave the UK early tomorrow. Can you make some arrangements? Is that too tight?”

  “Let’s see what I can do, shall we?” Breadham replied.

  “I want to put as much distance between myself and these guys as possible,” Clive explained. “Until these gaps in my memory are restored.”

  “Meanwhile I can find you a safe place in Budapest. Just let me talk to my contacts in Hungary and they may be able to hide you.”

  He was as good as his word. He switched on his gadget and, judging by the movements of his fingers, had a number of conversations. Eventually he put the gadget aside, looking tense and twitchy.

  “Listen carefully, because I have your itinerary.”

  39

  Pitt accepted a meal and a glass of wine. He related his latest adventures, starting from when Doug had dropped him back at the station.

  Doug listened with a drink in hand. As a lawyer he knew how to pace. He had many expressive styles of covering a floor. Pitt could gauge the lawyer’s attitude and mood from these melodramatic movements.

  “What do you have to say then?” Clive asked. “What’s your opinion?”

  “You want a summing up?” Breadham retorted. “Why do you think that I can help you? I can offer advice, but I can’t be your brain.”

  Pitt was taken aback. “You’re sitting on the fence, mate? Let me help you down. ZNT are taking people from their own countries and putting them into this old hospital... these victims are dissidents of various types. Here they are being treated, or rather chemically modified, and experimented on... so they no longer pose a risk to their native regimes. Pixie believes they are probably entering the country with regular visas, maybe described as embassy staff. So what’s your reaction to that?”

  “Your mind is under severe stress,” Breadham deduced.

  “At least I am capable of interpreting events.”

  “Should I remind you that I’m not a human rights lawyer? You require a different counsel.”

  “That’s marvellous, so you don’t want to help?” Clive assumed.

  “A conspiracy theory is the best you can do?”

  “At this stage paranoia is rational.”

  “Is that the case, Pitt? So who is the mastermind of this arrangement?”

  Breadham had come around the living room; he stopped in front of Clive, looking quite angry, as if dicing with a contrarian judge.

  “I can’t be completely sure,” Clive admitted. “There’s this bloke, who heads up the Swiss fund... Viktor, isn’t it.”

  “Viktor di Visu?” Doug returned.

  “That’s the bloke,” Clive agreed. “Viktor’s shy of the limelight. Despite heading up ZNT he would not talk to my team or to me directly.”

  “Did you require him to lead negotiations?” Breadham remarked.

  Pitt considered his yet shadowy recollections. “No... no, but it would have been unusual. But I knew Viktor’s role. I had some questions about him. Viktor’s not the only offender perhaps, when you look at the companies now listing... but I raised issues about his governance. Viktor doesn’t understand the principle of transparency or probity.”

  “Not only is Mr di Visu a brilliant designer,” Douglas argued, “but he is proprietor of a business empire, including a merged folio of leading luxury brands. Don’t you expect him to be busy? Are you so easily offended?”

  “Then you are already familiar with him,” Pitt deduced. “So how did that come about?”

  “Everybody who operates in the City has heard of Viktor di Visu.”

  “Oh? Maybe I recognised one of his signature perfumes,” Pitt said, “earlier this evening? When that girl walked past me? What do you think?”

  “You still have your sense of smell,” Breadham rep
lied.

  “Viktor has a sensitive side, doesn’t he... with all his frocks and perfumes,” Clive remarked.

  “Do you have anything against it?” replied Breadham.

  “As a side-line he’s the major shareholder in Imperial British Pharmaceuticals. That’s the business I was bothered about,” he said. “The profits from pharmaceuticals must help finance his other hobbies. I would guess he’s able to launder money through his more legitimate activity. He’s able to do favours for unsavoury regimes and be rewarded for that too, I’d guess. What d’you think?”

  “His father was one of the richest men within the CIS region,” Breadham argued. “So why would he require extra capital for those purposes?”

  “Who invested in his sexy frocks? Who bankrolled his studies in the first place?” Pitt speculated.

  Doug stared directly - just a flicker of irritation about his pupils.

  “Viktor is amusing himself. Not only is he king of the catwalk, he’s now on the cutting edge of drugs and medical research. He’s also exploiting those resources, for political reasons.”

  “You have a lot of new theories. Can you substantiate these allegations?”

  “Pixie says that they are working on brain function. At these facilities their research is about the mind. In the name of science, just like the old days. They will do this by finding new drugs and treatment.”

  “Can we set aside your conspiracy theory?” Doug complained. The lawyer stood in a challenging pose, akimbo, waving around a heavy bottomed whiskey glass.

  “They seek to destroy their critics, both at home and abroad.”

  “You are definitely living in a fantasy land.”

  “You really think so, mate? Just consider what’s been going on here in London over recent years,” Pitt objected. “Don’t you think that these fantasies originate with them? Rather than with us stiffs... we handmaidens of the banking world?”

  “There’s only so much they can achieve. In the City or in the UK, that is.”

  “Winchurch needed kickbacks from ZNT to survive. He took big hits during the last financial crisis. He stared into the face of bankruptcy. The hedge fund - no doubt in the shape of Viktor - offered Sep free money, non-dilutive capital, in return for fixing the price for BIP. Sep’s firm undervalued the share price and pushed forward the sale. And there are places for fund managers on the Winchurch’s board now. So I understand,” Clive said.

  “Perhaps, who knows? You don’t have any proof to hand?” Breadham suggested, offering the faintest satirical smirk.

  “I have encountered Viktor a few times lately,” Pitt replied.

  “You have? Are you sure?” Doug said. He began to pace out a new pattern over the floor - an innovation. “Why would he wish to see you? If he didn’t want to meet with you before?”

  “Well, he’s a kind of a devil. Or that’s how he casts himself. He’s trying to manage this unpredictable situation... to use me against my former boss and company. Sep is too furious about the attack on his daughter, to understand such machinations. How can he take me seriously? Viktor wishes to destroy us all, with me as the instrument. This can be achieved after he has neutralised my case. He’s indescribable, but not a figment of my imagination,” Pitt insisted.

  “Well, I’m prepared to help you leave the UK, aren’t I? I’m even offering you a bed for the night? Doesn’t that put me at risk too?” Breadham declared.

  The barrister’s circles had degenerated into staggers, as he’d taken several refills.

  “Well, I can appreciate that, mate.”

  That crowd outside the pub could watch Doug tottering about behind glass. Breadham gave the impression of being pressed against something dangerous and repellent. Budapest was arguably a good distance for both of them; though he doubted if any place offered suitable cover and protection.

  An alternative plan was for Pixie to retrieve evidence. She had been able to hack into the ZNT hospital files, to bypass security and to decipher encrypted information. But even if she could achieve such a feat, Clive was reluctant to allow her, as she would leave traces. The ZNT recruited brilliant young technicians, often directly from the courtroom; offering these ‘hackers’ irresistible packages; so able to beat competition from state security organisations; as well as phishing around the computers of agitators and activists.

  He wanted to shield Pixie. Hopefully Winchurch retained a soft spot for her, to keep her away from Di Visu.

  “I believe it’s time for some shut eye,” Breadham argued.

  “There are these nasty clowns on my heels. I don’t want them to get the same holiday plans,” Clive remarked. “I don’t want to put you into danger either.”

  “Where would you go at this hour? In this town?”

  “I will go back on the street, if you’re worried.”

  “No, I made a promise. I’m not going back on my word. I never go back on my word,” Doug insisted.

  “If you regard me as some kind of unhinged maniac, then I would prefer to leave,” Clive stated.

  “There’s no need for this. I shall prepare a guest room.”

  The palms of his hands fell on Clive’s chest. He felt himself in the position of a half-cut tart desperate for a trick. He noticed a quiver of distaste momentarily distort Pitt’s face. He removed his hands in alarm and pulled away.

  “I couldn’t abandon you at this stage. Let me fix you a drink. Something hot and harmless I mean. Before I show you into your bedroom.” Fortunately he was one of those people for whom drink didn’t slur the speech. But inwardly he’d lost his professional cool hours before.

  “That’s generous of you, mate,” Clive said, distrustfully. He was dog tired and grateful for a bed in any circumstances.

  “I trust that you don’t suffer from claustrophobia,” Doug said.

  “What do you mean exactly?” Clive asked.

  “It’s a small room. That’s what I mean. A former store room,” he explained.

  “Oh, right then. I just want a night’s sleep, not to buy the place.”

  “Point accepted,” Doug replied, leading the way through, in his colourfully streaming garment. “The bed is wonderfully comfortable. Three pillows?”

  “I shan’t feel them tonight?” Clive predicted. He set off in pursuit.

  “I’ll show you the way then. No time for breakfast I suspect.”

  The room was as very cosy, as advertised. Also it was completely windowless. After a rudimentary introduction to the facilities, Doug withdrew. Pitt didn’t feel so confident about his ‘friend’ anymore; he was relieved to see him go. It was scary, as he thought about it, that he couldn’t recall his true friends, other than Pixie Wright.

  A heavy door was secured against him. He felt locked up, yet the door was not locked when he checked. He was at liberty to move about the apartment, to the bathroom and so on, as he pleased. This was reassuring. The nature of the building could not be changed. Until morning he would have to endure confinement. Then he would acquire wings, to fly off to another land, where he would be safe from vindictive clutches.

  40

  Nevertheless, once he’d switched off the light, settled under the covers, the sides of the airless chamber began to oppress. Sleep was as elusive as a taste of sweetness in salt water. Yet if he wished to sleep, he had never expected to succeed; only to gain respite until dawn; just waiting for the sun to clamber back over the skyline of London and to sink its claws back into his pulpy mind.

  He couldn’t sleep but he suffered waking nightmares. All of the events and experiences of the past replayed in his mind; while he stared into the darkness of that space. Again he staggered down the lumpy furrows of Close Copse, a devilish guy squeezing his arm and forcing him along. Worst of all he returned to the column of light that revealed Emma’s terrified eyes. He was tearing at her clothes
and her screams tore at his ears. He was betraying the excitement and trust of a passionate young woman. Clive felt that he would never be able to escape these terrible images. He realised that he’d been right at the centre of such cynical brutality.

  Pitt lost physical feeling and his body became light to the point of incorporeality. It was like staying at the ZNT Hospital in a quiet room amidst the English countryside. He felt locked into his own head; entirely composed of mental images. Instead of getting some rest he progressed through interminable patterns of chaos.

  The nightmare continued: He tumbled again out of the City sky; even reliving the obscure events of another lost year. This time he was entirely in the dark and alone, understanding every moment, yet detached, as if sitting in a theatre or cinema - an old London fleapit of the mind - to watch those terrible events played out.

  Everything ran through his mind’s eye, across a mental screen. Rather than being the participant or victim he was just a spectator; he was telling his own story. But where exactly was he situated? Clive began to doubt that he was simply beginning to drift into sleep, however uncomfortably. He had the sense of being very distant, more deeply unconscious, even hallucinating or in a coma. Was he delusional as a consequence of trauma?

  At some point he heard men shouting, pushing him around, shaking his shoulders and screaming into his face; although he couldn’t recognise them. He was unable to distinguish or identity any of the participants. After a while there was a ringing in his head, tuning in and out, splitting him in two.

  Clive was desperate to wake, to find out who was around, and what exactly was happening. As if stranded at the bottom of a deep pool of heavy unconsciousness, held under a dead salty sea - making out vague shapes, voices and actions - he couldn’t return to the surface: He could see glimmers of light and movement, on a surface many fathoms above him, which aroused a flicker of interest.

  But he was unable to free himself from that stagnant tank. He couldn’t shake himself, in fact could barely move a limb in the struggle. His body and will were weaker than his opponents.