Pantheon 00 - Age of Godpunk

by James Lovegrove

  “Brilliant sucker-punch move. Touché.” She clinked her glass against his. “Not that it’s done you any favours.”

  “No?”

  “Nobody likes to be tricked. Nobody likes to be made to feel a fool.”

  “It was a salutary lesson.” He frowned. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Not exactly. Remember, you’re wooing, not browbeating. Haven’t you ever had to woo anyone?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s had to woo anyone since about 1930.”

  “Seduce, then. How do you go about enticing your succession of blonde coat-hangers into bed? Don’t you have a technique? Some neat chat-up lines you use?”

  “The only line I need is my line of credit,” he quipped.

  “Gosh, that wasn’t at all glib and smarmy, much.”

  “I thought it was funny.”

  “Well, you go on thinking that, Barnaby, if it makes you happy. All I’m saying is, if you want to impress us, don’t treat us like we’re ignorant heathens who have to be shown the light. We’re entitled to our opinions, even if they differ from yours. Be nice. Show us some respect, not condescension.” Lydia tried her wine. Her nose wrinkled. “Ooh, good Lord. I take your point. That’s... novel.” She tried again. “But it grows on you.”

  “I’m not winning?” he asked. “That’s the consensus so far?”

  “Why does it have to be about winning? In your world, is it so important to always have the upper hand?”

  He thought about it. “How else does one measure success?”

  “By harmonious coexistence, I’d say,” was her reply. “Getting along with other people, not getting one over on them. No doubt you’d call that ‘hippy bollocks.’”

  “If OwlHenry had said it, yes. But from you...”

  She glanced at him. “From me... what?”

  He turned away. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  The sun was going down, burnishing the foothills of the Andes. Barnaby and Lydia stood side by side at the balustrade, drinking their wine and watching the day die.

  Barnaby was starting to resent her. She invariably had an effective counterargument, a riposte that kicked the legs out from under him, a question that questioned his question. He hated that. He hated anyone who talked back and, worse, who could wrongfoot him.

  He imagined ways he could control her, make her do his bidding, bring her to her knees. He could think of nothing more satisfying than seeing Lydia Laidlaw acquiesce to his wishes and become his thrall.

  That was when he realised that he desired her.

  It had stolen up on him, caught him totally unawares.

  But yes, oh, God, he was actually attracted to this large, buxom woman, with her strange bicoloured eyes and aggravating smart comebacks. He actually fancied her and wanted her.

  He had never, ever had a woman like her before.

  But that just made it all the more of a challenge, all the more exciting.

  A DAMN GOOD MERGERING

  SOMEWHERE IN AN air corridor over southern China, Jakob slipped across the cabin aisle and lowered his bulk into the seat next to Barnaby’s. He said nothing. Eventually Barnaby looked up from his Fragbook.

  “We’re going to have a chat, aren’t we?” he said.

  “’Fraid so, boss.”

  “One of your heart-to-hearts. Remind me, do I pay you to do this?”

  “You pay me to take care of you.”

  “My physical safety, yes.”

  “I see it as extending further than that.”

  “All right,” Barnaby sighed. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  Jakob swivelled round. The journalists were asleep, sprawled in different postures, seats reclined. Dorothea’s snores vied with the Gulfstream’s twin Rolls-Royce BR725 engines for loudness. Only Lydia was awake, but she was listening to music on her iPod Nano, earbuds firmly wedged in place.

  “Her.” He jerked a thumb. “The redhead.” He raised his voice. “Lydia Laidlaw, who can’t hear us talking about her.” Lydia didn’t stir, didn’t even glance up. He nodded in satisfaction. “Her... and you.”

  “There is no ‘her and me.’ I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “Come on, boss. Don’t take me for some dumb Boer hick. I’ve seen you making goo-goo eyes at her. I’ve been working for you for nearly a decade. I know the signs. You get this look about you when you see a stukkie you fancy. Same look you get when you’ve set your sights on some company that’s not doing well and you want to buy it out. Next thing, it’s hostile takeover and asset-strip. A damn good mergering.”

  “Are you talking about women there, or business?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, in this instance I can categorically state –”

  “Boss,” Jakob said, softly but firmly, “I just want to warn you. I don’t think this one’s for you. I don’t think she’s the right sort of girl.”

  “Oh, and you’re such an expert on the opposite sex?” said Barnaby. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t your preferences run the other way?”

  Jakob’s expression soured. “Cheap shot, Mr Pollard. Besides, my sexual orientation isn’t relevant. Relationships are relationships. The dynamics are more or less the same, whatever the gender.”

  “Okay, so what’s the problem with her?” Barnaby shot a glance rearward. Lydia was nodding along to a song, gaze unfocused.

  Jakob leaned confidentially closer. He wore a bold, spicy aftershave, Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male. Barnaby himself preferred a subtler scent, Paco Rabanne 1 Million. “Look, I was a nightclub doorman in Jo’burg, ja? And before that I was South African Special Forces. A ‘recce,’ ja? I’ve learned how to spot a troublemaker at a hundred paces, and boss, this Lydia, she’s trouble. There’s something going on there, deep down. Something you don’t want to stir up, not if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I’ve handled a few bunny boilers in my time. I’m battle-hardened on that front. Your concern is touching, but –”

  “No, listen,” Jakob insisted. “You have your tastes. Your very specific tastes. They work for you, and that’s fine. Who am I to judge? Give me an all-male sauna and a glory hole any day. But there’s a level of give-and-take with what you do with your ladies. They accept how you treat them because secretly it’s what they want. They don’t have a lot of self-esteem, and you confirm that for them, and they’re grateful. That’s not going to fly with Miss Hourglass Figure back there. She’s made of sterner stuff. She’s not going to be plain sailing. She’s shark-infested waters.”

  “Don’t go there, you’re saying?”

  “Definitely don’t. It won’t end well for you.”

  Barnaby deliberated a moment. “You realise that when somebody tells me not to do something, I usually go ahead and do it, just to spite them?”

  Jakob sighed, his meaty hands dropping into his lap. “Ja, I know. But I at least had to try.”

  “It’s appreciated.” Barnaby patted his bodyguard’s shoulder, which felt as solid as a side of beef. “Let me just deal with Lydia in my own way and see how things develop. Who knows? Maybe nothing will come of it.”

  “Whatever happens, boss,” said Jakob, rising, “I’ve got your back. And, aside from everything, she has got a cracking pair of tiets. I’ll give her that.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a closet straight, Jakob?”

  He laughed. “No. But I’m still Afrikaans. We’re expected to be vulgar, eh?”

  ARROWS OF PRAGMATISM,

  ARMOUR OF IDEALISM

  ON A BEACH a few miles south of Baku, crowds of Azerbaijanis sunned themselves, picnicked, and cavorted in the waves. It was Republic Day, a national holiday, the sky was cloudless, and there was barely a square inch of sand unoccupied.

  Less than two miles offshore lay a cluster of interlocking triangular drilling platforms, connected to the mainland by a chain of pontoon bridges. They were jack-up rigs, mobile barges with three legs that could be lowered to the seabed, anchoring them in place. The excess lengths
of leg rose above their superstructures like skeletal towers. Each rig bore a GloCo logo and each had a flare-stack flame at the top, flickering like a lambent orange banner.

  The holidaymakers seemed unperturbed to be in such close proximity to petroleum industry activity. The breeze carried a faint whiff of burning, but the seawater was blue and pellucid, innocent of the rainbow sheen that would have indicated oil pollution.

  “Why are we here, you’re no doubt asking yourselves?” said Barnaby.

  “Not to admire those, that’s for sure,” said OwlHenry with a contemptuous sneer at the jack-up rigs. “Ugly monstrosities.”

  “Did you bribe some government official to get permission to stick them there?” said Isaac. “Scratch the question; how much did you bribe the guy?”

  “Everything about the negotiations and the deal was fully above board, I can assure you,” Barnaby said. “Not a single backhander involved. What you’re overlooking” – probably deliberately, he didn’t add – “is that Azerbaijan itself gets a decent cut of the profits we make. This drilling is good for its economy. Azerbaijan, in fact, is now one of the highest-GDP countries in the Caucasus, largely thanks to its energy sector. The standard of living here exceeds that of any of its post-Soviet rivals. Beneath the Caspian Sea, within Azerbaijani territorial waters, lies one of the last great commercially developable hydrocarbon deposits, a vast resource we’re only just starting to tap. I’m proud that GloCo is leading the way in exploring and extracting that latent wealth.”

  Lydia raised a hand. “But...”

  “Yes, Lydia?”

  “Wasn’t it right here that GloCo had its most recent spill?”

  Barnaby didn’t miss a beat. He had anticipated this query. “I’m glad you mentioned that. Last year, as I’m sure you all remember, there was a mishap. It occurred on this very coastline, a few kilometres east. One of our rigs became dislodged during unusually heavy weather. The seal on the wellhead sheared and split. A blowout preventer valve failed. Oil began to leak. That was the bad news. The good news was that we had divers down at the site within the hour. They removed the drilling riser and installed a new one, stemming the flow. The entire operation took the best part of twenty-four hours, but full credit to my employees, they worked nonstop, round the clock, until the job was done. Nearly a million gallons of crude was lost, but it could have been so much worse.”

  “And then beluga sturgeon started washing up dead on the shore,” said Lydia. “Not to mention seagulls.”

  Barnaby winced.

  “I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me.” Lydia’s smile was less apologetic than her words. “Sore point, clearly. How is the nose, by the way? Better now?”

  “It only hurts when I sneeze. The dead-fish situation was undesirable, I admit. Caviar has long been one of the staples of the Azerbaijani economy, and when the beluga sturgeon population took a hit, so did the caviar industry. I regret that.”

  “Of course,” said Isaac. “Poor you. Had to find something else to put on your toast at breakfast for a while.”

  “Actually, I don’t eat the stuff myself. What GloCo did, however, was compensate the local sturgeon fishermen handsomely for their loss of revenue. We also instituted a comprehensive development programme all along the coast here. You see those hotels and holiday apartment complexes?”

  Blocky white buildings hunkered a short way inland, like an assortment of sugar cubes.

  “Built using start-up funds donated by GloCo. This region is already turning into something of a hot tourist destination. You’ve got Russians flocking here, Iranians, Turks, Eastern Europeans... I’m not denying that what happened was a great pity, but GloCo has done its best to make amends and offer reparation. If anything, Azerbaijan is better off now than before.”

  “As I recall,” said Aletheia, “wasn’t the government planning to sue you for millions of dollars?”

  “The President did make noises about punitive damages and restitution. But rather than put everyone through the whole rigmarole of trials and legal wrangling that could have dragged on for years, GloCo held up its hands, said ‘mea culpa,’ and ponied up.”

  “Would you have, if you hadn’t been threatened with prosecution?”

  “I’d say yes. Look, nobody’s perfect. No energy company has a flawless safety track record. For want of a better phrase, shit happens. You can’t prevent accidents. It’s how you deal with them that matters. If you own up to them and do your utmost to mitigate their effects, isn’t that acceptable? Isn’t it the most anyone can hope for?”

  He stared at the journalists. They stared back. He could feel every arrow of pragmatism he shot at them rebounding off their armour of idealism, unable to find a chink. It was hopeless. The week of the charm offensive was nearly at an end, and he had little to show for it. He had wasted a great deal of money and, more importantly, time. All for nothing.

  If he was going to salvage anything from the whole futile exercise, it would have to be her. Lydia. She alone could make it worthwhile. So it was all the more imperative that he didn’t let her slip through his fingers.

  DEPARTURES AT ARRIVALS

  TOUCHDOWN AT LONDON City Airport, in the drizzly greyness of a British spring dawn. The Gulfstream coasted up to a private gate, and its seven passengers disembarked, all of them bleary-eyed, some more than others. Even Barnaby was feeling a bit stupefied after their whistle-stop globe-girdling expedition. Around the world in eight days.

  The farewells in the arrivals lounge were stilted. Dorothea hurried off, saying she needed to start typing up the notes she had recorded on her Digital Dictaphone and then prepare her feature on the trip. OwlHenry wasn’t convinced his experiences were worth turning into an article – they wouldn’t teach readers of Higher Consciousness anything they didn’t already know – but he might go ahead and write one anyway. Isaac had been updating his blog en route via his BlackBerry and murmured something to the effect that the subscriber feedback so far had not been broadly sympathetic towards Barnaby. Aletheia had raw footage to assemble and edit and expected to have a mini-doc ready for upload onto YouTube within a fortnight. She hoped it would be impartial and allow viewers to make up their own minds.

  “You ‘hope’?” said Barnaby. “You mean to say it’s out of your control?”

  “The footage decides,” Aletheia replied. “It is its own message. I’m simply the conduit.”

  That left only Lydia to say goodbye to. Jakob hung back at a discreet distance, though not so far off that Barnaby could ignore his presence.

  “So,” Barnaby said.

  “So.” Lydia smiled. “Well, it’s been interesting.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  “The others don’t sound as though they’re going away with a better opinion of me.”

  “I don’t think you’ve made many converts, it’s true.”

  “Not even one?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

  “I reckon the best that can come of this,” Lydia said, sidestepping the question, “is media coverage showing you as fallibly human. Someone who means well, who tries, but doesn’t always get what he wants.”

  “Could be worse, I suppose.”

  “It’ll take some of the gloss off you, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “Didn’t having a seagull chucked at me already do that?”

  “Not to the extent that a clumsy, half-baked propaganda tour will.”

  Barnaby’s shoulders slumped. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

  “Cheer up.” She patted his cheek. “You’re still a squillionaire. Money is the best form of insulation. It’s like living inside an impregnable bubble. Even if you fall, you bounce.”

  “Listen, Lydia...”

  Jakob coughed into his hand. “Boss. We have somewhere to be.”

  “Do we?”

  “That thing. You know. That meeting.”

  There was no meeting scheduled. Barnaby glared at Jakob, then
turned back to Lydia.

  “I’m just going to come right out and say it. I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

  She snorted a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

  “Not the reaction I was expecting.”

  Lydia spread out her arms. “Have you seen me? Do I look anything like the sort of woman Barnaby Pollard has dinner with?”

  “You will do if you say yes.”

  “Is this a wind-up? Has one of your rich friends dared you? Did Richard Branson ring and say he’d give you a million Virgin shares if you ask a chubster out on a date?”

  “Don’t be so self-deprecating.”

  “I’m not. It’s preposterous, that’s all. I’m not even blonde.”

  “I like you.”

  “That’s odd, because when we talk you act as though I’m driving you nuts.”

  “Maybe that’s why I like you. You never say or do the predictable thing.”

  “Well...” She made a pretence of studying him. “You’re not that bad-looking. You obviously keep yourself in shape. You don’t mind a drink. You don’t come across as a creep. I’m going to say... I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s it? ‘Think about it’?”

  She grabbed the handle of her wheel-along suitcase and turned to go. Five paces on, she halted. She looked round.

  “I’ve thought about it.”

  “And?”

  Her blue-green eyes flashed. “Go on, then. I’m free tomorrow night. Do your worst.”

  THE LONG GAME

  HE WENT LOW-KEY, nothing flashy: the Wolseley. He sensed that a grand gesture, a really expensive restaurant, might not be welcome at this early stage in the proceedings. Might even scare her off.

  They had a good evening. Lydia wore a turquoise lambswool dress, designer unidentified, but the colour showed off her blue-green eyes.

  “Is it just me,” she said, halfway through the main course, “or is everybody staring at us?”

  “It’s just you. By which I mean, with someone as gorgeous as you at this table, nobody’s paying me any attention.”