MBA

by Douglas Board

  ‘So we need to be ready to go on Thursday?’

  ‘Definitely. Security, everything. You’ve got some top business names and plenty of Yanks showing up at a British business school. That’s exactly the message about “world-class” that the Prime Minister wants to get across. And you’ve got Bakhtin giving money, so we can plonk our £4 million down right away. But by 6pm tonight you and I need a story-line about why better management is transformationally sexy. That’s what everyone is looking to us to deliver.’

  ---

  Driving back to the college Ben had the sun roof down and, when he could, the accelerator. There was an adrenaline rush about coming with pressing business from a meeting in Downing Street, even if you had not the faintest idea of what you were doing. ‘Sex up’ the government’s announcement – by 6pm?

  Ben overtook a truck sitting on its assigned speed limit. He recognised the company name on it from his time in Bakhtin Enterprises. The blast of passing the 30-tonne container blew his hair one way and then the other. He realised that he was feeling the same way he had felt when Alex had challenged him to double the profits of Warrington Plastics. Back then he had learned that when the answer was not in the textbook, sometimes it was somewhere else.

  Learning that lesson had made him, for a while, one of Alex’s golden boys. Now he felt uncomfortable about what he had done, and if Connie found out it would be a disaster. So far, Alex firing him had helped him and Connie make common cause. But the clamminess of Ben’s hands told him he needed another of those career-making smart answers now. Where to find it? This extra challenge had forced its way in when the tower opening already boasted a superfluity. At the moment Ben was far from a hero in his boss’s eyes; he daren’t drop another spinning plate.

  He broke the news that a visit by the Prime Minister was a possibility to Haddrill via hands-free, adding that the possibility of it being Thursday was one which he was doing his best to avert. The chief inspector’s no-nonsense efficiency continued to impress; he would get a team right away onto creating Security Plan B.

  To review that plan Haddrill wanted a meeting at the college on Wednesday morning. They were already perilously short of time; to wait until late afternoon, when they might or might not have got definite news from Downing Street, would create far too many headaches. ‘Let’s just have difficult challenges, not impossible ones,’ Haddrill concluded.

  In the meantime Haddrill wanted as soon as possible – like now – the names, addresses and nationalities of everyone who would be on-site on Thursday: staff, students, visitors, caterers, the lot. He had already reviewed one VIP visitor list, but now their offices should be told to bring photo IDs. Ben made more calls to get things moving right away. While he could not yet hint that the Prime Minister would be coming – indeed rescuing flood-ravaged African families would surely be more televisual – in these security-minded times no-one would second-guess the police’s judgement that extra checks were prudent.

  Rakesh of Proximity Communications spotted him as he pulled into the car park. He came over, excited to the point of gibbering. More exactly – Rakesh and 10 Indians (or Yorkshiremen) whom Ben had never seen before. ‘It’s fixed,’ he exclaimed. ‘After Monday’s problems we completely ditched the previous installation, because it could have been hacked into in some way.’ Ben nodded. ‘So we’ve installed instead a completely state-of-the-art system, of course at no cost to the college. The components arrived this morning from Los Angeles.’

  At last. To have been defeated by a lift announcement would have been humiliating indeed. ‘Where did all your friends come from?’

  ‘You may not have seen yesterday’s FT?’

  Ben gestured at the tower. ‘The attack, remember?’

  Rakesh gave a million-dollar smile. In fact, for him personally that estimate was pretty accurate. ‘Proximity Communications was bought over the weekend. All our stock options crystallised.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ This was one key reason why Ben had done an MBA – to understand sentences like that and to learn what to say in response, ready for the day when he could do some crystallising himself. Crystallising meant jam tomorrow had become jam today – crates of it.

  ‘The new owner called me. Personally, on Sunday. He told me, because of everyone who will be here on Thursday, and because of Mr Wilson Pinnacle Junior, whatever I needed to totally fix things I could have.’ As they walked, Rakesh gestured. ‘So these guys flew in from all over. Remote working is all very well, but hands-on is still the best.’

  They arrived at the tower, showing their IDs to one of the security guards whom Ben had hired after Monday’s attack. The woman who had auditioned to be an autistic cat had gone, presumably to a West End production; now the lift greeted them like a maître d’ in a top-of-the-market Californian resort overlooking Big Sur. ‘The elevator doors are opening.’ ‘The elevator doors are closing.’ Thank God – once only, and in that order.

  Rakesh asked if ‘elevator’ was a problem. Ben shook his head; Thursday would be as much a scrum of Americans as of anybody else. The glass doughnut rose up into the body of the auditorium. The effect of the glass shell and seating was still visually stunning, but now the trimmings of a fitted-out space were appearing as well – water-coolers, red carpets, indoor plants. Ben waved at Tom who was having a meeting with the electrical contractor.

  ‘Elevator’ was not a problem, but riding up to the auditorium hammered home that other things were big problems – like the brutally unfixable fact that the auditorium would already be full to capacity without the Prime Minister and his entourage. Making room for them would mean displacing some of Pinnacle’s guests, virtually all of whom were flying in from far-flung business empires. And Pinnacle was paying for the whole thing.

  They descended. Rakesh pointed to two postage-stamp sized sensors which had been installed in the doughnut’s ceiling. ‘Our very latest technology: Voice 2.0.’

  ‘Don’t tell me.’ Ben held his hand up. ‘They’re working out if we’re stressed.’

  ‘How did you know?’ Rakesh was amazed.

  ‘Let’s say I did some homework at the weekend. But you’ve disabled them, right? I’ve had it up to here with clever stuff.’

  ‘Exactly. We’ve dumbed them down to use just the 1.0 functions within the 2.0 capability.’ He patted the doughnut wall paternally. ‘But when you’re ready for it, you’ll have the smartest lift in Europe.’

  ‘I’m sure its parents are very proud.’

  ---

  It was after 3pm. Ben could put off no longer making his way to his new home, Vanish’s broom cupboard somewhere on the ground floor. He walked past it twice before remembering where it was. Inside, the air-conditioning scraped and grated but did not cool, the window barely opened and in one corner were deposits suspiciously like mouse droppings. Dumped unceremoniously on his desk was the 20-page readiness report on the opening which he had given Gyro that morning. On the front page was scrawled ‘Noted. WCG. 6/19’, with no thanks or congratulations.

  After a while Ben conceded that there were advantages to the room. It insulated him from what surely had to be the three-ring circus of Gyro, Dianne and Greg. He walked over to the administration department to check progress on the information which he had promised Haddrill. The extra work involved and its urgency meant that he left with his back metaphorically bleeding, if not from daggers then at least from staple guns. Did Ben care? Did he hell.

  From his office he fired off a draft to Ed of part of the note which they owed their respective bosses by 6pm. Ben had focused on the part of the note which mattered to him most: the timing of the Prime Minister’s visit. He had grasped that failing to come up with a sexy story-line was not in fact a disaster; undoubtedly it would earn him an ear-bashing from Dianne, but no sexy story-line would guarantee no visit on Thursday.

  With the compact size of the auditorium vivid in his mind, Ben was convince
d that the tower simply could not accommodate the Prime Minister, a couple of assistants, a security entourage and a TV crew without displacing Pinnacle guests on a scale about which even a Prime Minister might think twice.

  What helped Ed get it was suggesting that the obvious newspaper headline was ‘gate-crasher’. The displaced guests would have high-up media connections and no loyalty to a British politician. In the version of the note which Ben wrote for Dianne and Gyro, no hamming up was needed. From the college’s point of view embarrassing one of the world’s top business leaders in front of the global business élite, just after lifting more than $30 million out of his pocket, spoke for itself.

  ---

  Cardew McCarthy arrived early. Except for his moustache, the vice-president for corporate social responsibility at Virtual Savings and Trust looked exactly as Ben had imagined. His back was used to check the straightness of the platinum-iridium standard metre at Sèvres. His shorn and knobbled scalp could have helped beginners learn Braille. And – why did Americans wear such things? – he had pressed into service a gold blazer, an orange shirt and orange trousers. You could sharpen steak knives on the creases and test sunglasses on his rendition of VST’s corporate colours. McCarthy was 27 minutes early for his meeting with the dean, so reception had sent him along to Ben.

  Ben took him for an inspection of the grounds. With the lift working well, going up into the auditorium was a pleasure. The lines on McCarthy’s face softened as the bold concept of the tower absorbed him bodily. Ben hit him with as much police and security babble as he could muster: plenty of rank, uniform and method seemed the best way to reassure an ex-military type.

  ‘Of course, your bobbies won’t be carrying guns.’ The trickle of humanity in McCarthy’s voice was easy to miss, like the Colorado river threading its way along the floor of the Grand Canyon.

  Ben said, ‘After 7/7, you’d be surprised.’ He enjoyed saying ‘7/7’ to Americans; it confused them no end.

  When they arrived at Gyro’s office, Vanessa gave Ben one of her widest cheer-up smiles: God bless her! At least someone had faith in him. ‘Do go through,’ she said. ‘The dean won’t be a moment.’

  They went in. McCarthy gazed out of the window while Ben looked at the desk. It seemed an age since he had tried to make it his own. His eye strayed to the coat-stand by the door carrying Gyro’s doctoral robes. Doctors! He’d hit the jackpot! Doubling the number of doctors in the NHS! It was 4.55pm. Abandoning the college’s guest he hurtled back to his broom cupboard, phoning Ed as he went. Ed was delighted.

  ---

  Connie was incredulous. ‘Doubling the number of doctors in the NHS?’ The last few days had become one thing after another – in fact, just like her day job. Hampton was supposed to be somewhere she could get away from the murderous circus and think. Now Ben was coming out with this infantile nonsense; had he lost his mind?

  It was 7pm. Connie and Ben were in the dinner queue at the college canteen. ‘Chicken please,’ said Ben. ‘I know. But Ed loved the idea.’

  ‘Gravy?’

  ‘Thanks, but not on the chips. OK, not to worry.’

  Connie put her tray on the counter and poured herself a glass of water. ‘But they won’t be medical doctors. They’ll be doctors of management.’

  ‘Vegetables?’

  ‘A bit of everything, thanks. Not just management, I’ve suggested expanding the programme beyond business schools. So there will be doctors of nursing, psychiatry, anaesthesiology …’

  ‘… and finance and law! And you will never double the number. Have you the faintest idea how many doctors there are in the NHS? The vegetarian lasagne, please.’

  ‘Not enough, the public thinks. According to Ed, that’s what matters. A bottle of the Rioja please, and two glasses. The one you’ve got on special.’

  ‘Parmesan on the pasta?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Gravy?’

  ‘No. Well, whatever Ed says, in my opinion it’s mad.’

  ‘That’s what I think as well. But it works for Ed, so that’s what gone into our note. It’s with the Prime Minister and Mark Topley overnight, and I’ve emailed it to Gyro and Dianne. I’m on call to discuss it with them later tonight, otherwise we could have gone to the Kings Arms.’

  They grabbed a table.

  ‘The Sea Horse is interesting, if you haven’t been there. But look, did you get my message about tomorrow night?’

  Ben nodded. ‘Frank’s. Sure. Early, you said – 6.30pm?’

  ‘He’s packing overnight and Thursday’s a big day.’

  ‘Too big! The thing about this Ed guy. He may be crazy, but I needed him to help me nail down the coffin lid on the idea of –’ he mouthed the final words ‘– the Prime Minister coming.’

  ‘Ed sees that’s crazy?’

  ‘Absolutely, I got him there in the end. Upset VIPs pushed out of the tower leaking stuff to the media, headlines like “gatecrasher”.’

  ‘Let’s be grateful for small mercies. I tell you, I don’t understand why at the top of organisations, there are so many crazies.’

  ‘And arseholes. No, neither do I. Look, Connie, about Thursday night – you’re coming to the tower opening?’

  ‘After all this, wild horses wouldn’t keep me away. Don’t forget I’m coming in for the meeting with the bank manager as well. We’ve got to get to the bottom of Vanish’s loan story.’

  ‘You’re right. You know afterwards there’s a gala dinner. Not this stuff –’ Ben gestured towards their plates ‘– fucking expensive caterers. Would you be my guest? Stay the night? When I started this job, I had no idea how much I would be celebrating getting out of here.’

  ‘It’s a dress-up?’

  ‘Black tie or national dress.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘That’s a yes?’

  ‘It is.’ Connie frowned. ‘You asked me to look at this.’

  ‘Oh yes. The file Greg gave Vanish on Frank. It was in his desk, where he said.’

  Connie had folded the grey cardboard folder in half to fit it into her bag. She unfolded it, and riffled through the few sheets of notes it contained. ‘Vanish was right, it’s rubbish. There’s nothing there, other than enough to want me to march Greg towards the nearest psychiatric hospital.’ She picked out one note. ‘He claims that for two months he regularly went through Frank’s rubbish. Every Thursday he would put the sack in the back of the Lexus and take it home.’

  ‘He found nothing, I guess.’

  ‘Once.’ Connie read from one of the notes. ‘Three pieces of electrical wiring in different colours, between two- and three-metres long. Each piece had melted at one end.’ She closed the folder. They were sitting side by side; she turned to face Ben directly. ‘All it tells me is that you don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps. Who the hell does Greg think he is, anyway? What they did to Frank yesterday was unbelievable, but Greg is just an amoeba: it was Gyro who made all that happen. Frank kept asking questions which Gyro didn’t want asked, and now he’s got rid of him.’

  ‘It looks like that,’ Ben agreed. ‘We’ll find out a lot tomorrow.’

  ‘This place must be getting to me, but I’m beginning to wonder if Vanish was right? The bank manager, Roger Sling – from what you said he was quite agitated to get a meeting quickly.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘And Gyro’s come back from Hong Kong empty-handed? Again?’

  ‘It seems so. Mind you, I’m in the dog-house at the moment, so he might not tell me. He could be holding back to make a big splash tomorrow.’

  Connie thought for a minute and shook her head. ‘No. He might not tell you, and he might plan to wow us all tomorrow with how many millions and from whom. But he would have put an email round the governors telling us to expect an announcement tomorrow. For one thing, he knows how to keep us on-board. For another, he couldn’t keep
it all to himself; talk about a big mouth and an ego to match.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Ben. ‘But don’t forget the other side. He’s brought more money – real money, not just talk – into this place than all his predecessors put together. And tomorrow, more top CEOs are going to remember Hampton than ever before – more by a long way. That’s a return on my investment in a Hampton MBA. As a governor, you’ve got to be in favour of that.’

  Connie gave Ben a quick kiss. ‘I’m in favour of you finding out what you want to be. Then I can decide what I think about you.’

  WEDNESDAY 20 JUNE

  Sixth Rule of Good Luck: Sometimes, even under the seemingly right conditions, Good Luck doesn’t arrive. Look for the seemingly unnecessary but indispensable conditions in the small details.

  ALEX ROVIRA and FERNANDO TRIAS DE BES 5

  Greg uncoiled out of the turn at the end of his 35th length. He was enclosed from neck-to-toe in his speedsuit, an eliminator of friction in aquamarine, turquoise, orange and purple, and he swam like the teeming life of the Barrier Reef. But even tomorrow, the height of summer and the longest day, compared to Australia the British sea and sky would be pallid, as if wartime rationing had never ended. Quite possibly a department of the British government issued sunshine coupons, and the sun only came out when people had collected enough.

  In terms of big battles, he had won. Thanks exclusively to his persistent observation and decisive action, Frank would be gone by noon tomorrow, and with him the biggest threat to the college – or, if the Prime Minister came, to the security of the state. And the upstart Ben, though not down and out, had been put in something closer to his proper place. A moment of achievement to savour. By the time he reached length 39, Greg had summarised his position like this: an outsider, an unseeded nobody still in his early twenties, had just come through a bloody first set and won 7-5. However, that was only the first set.