This was the moment for one of the guests to say, ‘Goodness, it’s all glass! Do people get vertigo?’
‘The elevator doors are closing.’
Mecklenburgh asked, ‘Have you been with Professor Gyro long?’
‘Long enough to be his number one fan. In fact, I did my MBA here.’
‘Oh, how splendid.’
The doughnut rose into the centre of the auditorium where a waiter was poised with a tray of champagne flutes and glasses of sparkling water and Virgin Marys. The view was indeed breathtaking. The pre-speech entertainment was a flautist and cellist (one thing that couldn’t fit into the lift was a grand piano). The doors opened and closed with their announcements as Ben returned to ground level to begin the dance again.
Donald Vane, 38, was arriving. He was the senior managing director for Europe, the Middle East and Africa of Profit Extraction, widely regarded (especially by themselves) as the world’s top consultants to the drilling and exploration sectors. His company’s skill was advising drilling companies how to make a fortune entirely from rocks (slogan: put your bit between our teeth). This meant he would have plenty to talk about with Alastair Mecklenburgh.
Also, Donald has sailed twice across the Atlantic backwards, which was interesting and masculine, so he did not need to arrive with a woman. In any case his private life went in another direction. The bit which Donald most frequently found between his own teeth was the moist probing tool of a Belgian dentist.
Casey descended in the lift almost on the stroke of six. As one of the Pinnacle family Casey knew most of the detail of the evening’s timetable. ‘The party’s beginning to hum,’ was his offering to the dean. His cufflinks showed $3.3 billion – down quite a bit. The traders’ screens had been bleeding a lot of red in the last few days.
Within seconds of schedule, a white-stretch limo that would have been at home in Las Vegas turned the corner of the administration block. How had it negotiated the twists and bends of Pynbal’s Ridge? It pulled to a stop with the rear passenger door opposite the red carpet and the front somewhere in Buckinghamshire. Had a bus come at the right time the driver could have caught it for two stops to come and open the passenger door, but Gyro beat him to it. Junior stepped out in a grey suit with wide lapels, a blue-check tie and a pearl tie-pin, followed by a genteel woman in lavender, 30 years younger and dressed for Ascot.
‘Dad! Laura!’ Casey’s exclamation disappeared into embraces.
Gyro did a handshake for Junior and kisses for Laura. Ben disgusted himself with an involuntary half-bow, the pseudo-royal nature of the occasion overcoming him. The whole party squeezed into the doughnut.
‘Happy one-hundredth birthday to Virtual Savings and Trust!’ The wonderfulness of the occasion was even getting to Casey.
The Californian maître d’ said, ‘The singing of the elevator is beginning,’ and for a moment no-one noticed. Then the lift began singing ‘Happy birthday to you.’ Junior congratulated Gyro, who looked at Ben. Ben went white until Casey whispered in his ear, ‘I bought Proximity Communications over the weekend. It’s a fun business.’
‘The singing of the elevator is ending.’
In the auditorium, applause engulfed the guest of honour. Gyro led Junior and his female companion on a perambulation among the lesser arrivals while Ben headed back down to greet late-comers. The lift said, ‘Welcome to Voice 2.1. The orderliness of the announcements is ending. The creativeness of the announcements is beginning.’
Ben felt queasy; Casey’s sense of humour might not prove universal. Nevertheless, the late-comers by and large enjoyed the short solemnities which accompanied them on their ascents. Ben thanked God that the Prime Minister would be staying by the lakeside and would not hear them.
The Maharishi Swami Tandoori and his speaking assistant arrived at 6.35pm, just as the speeches were about to begin. ‘Welcome Your Holiness,’ Ben offered, holding out his right hand.
‘His Holiness is in silence,’ the assistant replied, ‘but He thanks you for your greeting.’
‘The opening of elevator doors is an illusion.’ Presumably the lift’s sensors detected a spiritual aura. ‘The closing of elevator doors is also an illusion.’
The Maharishi applauded impishly. ‘His Holiness would esteem your lift’s insight,’ explained his assistant, ‘but unfortunately insight is also an illusion.’
---
But there are no random events, nor are there events or things that exist by and for themselves, in isolation. The atoms that make up your body were once forged inside stars, and the causes of even the smallest event are virtually infinite and connected with the whole in incomprehensible ways.
ECKHART TOLLE6
Wearing her academic gown, Dianne had arranged the guests by the lake in order of protocol: herself first, representing the college; then Mark Topley, local MP and Minister for Health; and finally the donor and newly-ennobled moneybags, Alex Bakhtin. Greg positioned himself to one side, near the two police officers with submachine-guns. The other two present were the TV cameraman and the interviewer, the latter so young that even Greg was shocked. Presumably he was a local since the fleeting visit merited only a couple of softball questions. Greg got a big kick out of playing on the team with ear-pieces, or ‘whisperers’ as Greg called them: himself, the police and the TV crew – the people who really made things happen.
Greg had been on-site and ready for more than an hour; he knew better than all of them how to wait. The others fidgeted but did not move around. They could not hear the speeches in the tower, but they all felt conspicuous in front of the many eyes packing the glass spaceship as they stood on parade where Dianne had put them.
Greg had gone for a young executive look with a pin-striped suit, charcoal shirt, white shirt collar and a restrained tie. His yellow-topped lapel pin was prominent. He had not seen Henderson all day. She had said Haddrill would be in charge, but Greg had assumed that was talk to show what an empowering boss she was.
With the Prime Minister coming he had been certain that she would show, but it seemed that he was wrong. If she had shown, the whisperers would have said, so everyone knew who was in charge. Well, any minute now all the cards on the table would get turned over, and who had been right about possible threats would no longer be a matter for judgement or discussion.
For Greg had not made the mistake of relaxing his vigilance. Forcing the primary suspect to be off-site from noon had been a big win, and he would not let Henderson forget who had won it. But there was still the sorcerer’s apprentice, Ben, and the mysteriously prescient queen, Dianne. Perhaps the target was more billionaires than any of them had ever seen before; if so, Ben was the main threat and the Prime Minister was unplanned icing on the cake.
But if the Prime Minister was the target, all eyes needed to be on the woman who had known he was coming far ahead of anyone else. And Greg’s eyes were on her. She had put herself next to where the Prime Minister would stand. She was showing too much expensively tanned flesh to be wearing a bomb, even one made in a Paris couture house, but a stiletto could be almost as quick. So from Greg’s point of view MP-5 machine-pistols with a full auto fire rate of 800 rounds per minute, which the two officers carried, were not overkill at all.
The police whisperers said something and an officer motioned everyone away from the landing area. Greg was the first to see the dot in the eastern sky and said, ‘Over there’. The cameraman tucked his pony-tail under his slate-leather jacket and hoisted his camera to his shoulder. The interviewer pointlessly combed his hair as the wind picked up.
The arrangements with Number Ten were for an exclusive interview of a few minutes to go out as lead item on the channel’s 7.30pm news, with a 60-second clip on the main nightly news and made available to competing channels. Where each of them would stand had been marked by golf tees, making sure that the tower was in shot.
Dianne looked over to Greg and mouth
ed, ‘OK?’
Greg nodded.
The flying chariot approached. For once the winking red light on the top of the tower seemed prudent rather than fanciful. The helicopter shot over them twice, first in navy-blue substance and then in muddy brown shadow from the evening sun. The downdraught gave Dianne trouble with her hood. Alex helped her hold it in place. The rotor beat out circular arcs in the lake.
The roar dropped to a whine and then declined towards silence. One of the police officers opened the passenger door and saluted. The Prime Minister stepped out, followed by Ed Lens. As he emerged the Prime Minister’s impression of a human was not bad; presumably he had turned to grin at Ed before the door opened.
Dianne did the introductions. The longest was between the Prime Minister and Lord Bakhtin. The introduction did not take long as both knew how many pounds make £4 millon.
Greg glanced at his watch. A voice in his ear told him that the speeches and the musical tribute in the tower were finishing on time, and everyone would be ready to watch the Prime Minister in the flesh and on TV screens.
The cameraman and interviewer took their positions. Dianne invited the Prime Minister and the other guests to stand at their marks. Since the Prime Minister had not been here for the rehearsal, the camera angle had to be checked. Also in the last half hour the angle of the sun had shifted, eliciting different reflections from the tower. Ed Lens handed the Prime Minister his prompt card. The Prime Minister glanced at it, put it in his pocket and nodded to the interviewer. Ed stood back near Greg and the police officers, out of shot.
The interviewer started a voice check and then stopped. The cameraman needed to readjust. A white light like very bright moonlight had started to flood the valley from the tower. Everyone had acquired a second shadow and turned to look. The tower had become like Columbia’s torch on the cinema screen: a spectacular start to the festivities for the tower’s opening.
The Prime Minister congratulated Dianne. ‘Most impressive. It will look even better on the television news.’
Mark and Alex added their congratulations.
‘It does show off the tower stunningly well,’ agreed Dianne coyly. ‘I hadn’t realised it was in the plan.’
Once again the cameraman was ready to go.
6 A New Earth: Awakening To Your Life’s Purpose, op. cit.
MONDAY 9 JULY (AFTERNOON)
Connie
Is it remembering how utterly, stupidly, crazily I let Frank have the car battery that makes me nauseous, or something else? I stand up in the middle of Amelia speaking and mutter something about a stomach upset. ‘It’s nothing, I just need a few minutes,’ I say to Ben.
When you’re fine tile aesthetic doesn’t matter and when you’re sick you don’t care, but there is a zone in between in which bathroom vibe is important – is it clean or a germ safari park, graffiti central or lounge music, that kind of thing. I’m unreasonably grateful that this one is what I need now – comforting and solid. The toilet stalls have been designed for human beings – you can use them without having your arms surgically repositioned – and the walls and cubicle locks haven’t been borrowed from a doll’s house. I don’t doubt it’s bugged, but that doesn’t bother me. My spasmodic dry heaves aren’t fake.
How can we be so organised and logical, and then suddenly do something so impulsive, flying without or in the face of any reason? Part of me wants to say that I knew, I really did know, here in the place from which I’m throwing up air, that Frank couldn’t harm a fly.
And part of me knows in the same sick place that I knew nothing of the kind. In the world of data I didn’t know enough about the man to tell you where he last went on holiday. Had his partner left him with a broken heart? Did he attend the psychiatric department at Alderley hospital every month on Wednesday afternoons? I had no clue. Yet out of a dank crevice in our mind comes the water of intuition, and we drink.
After the spasms pass I wash my face and rejoin our strange inquisition. Amelia and Ben have re-arranged the chairs so all three face the large screen. Strangely, I find I’m quite excited to see for the first time what happened. Amelia can probably describe in her sleep what I’m about to see, image by image, and of course Ben was there. Still, something has altered the energy level in the room because the animation of Amelia and Ben’s conversation when I enter surprises me. Just for a second I wonder whether Amelia has put something in my tea.
---
Ben
‘Are you OK?’ I say.
Connie assures me that she is, putting one hand briefly on my knee as she sits down. ‘I think it was something I had at lunch, but I’m fine now. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’
Amelia smiles and taps the remote control. ‘Not at all, you gave me time to line up the two videos. The first set of images was shot in the tower by the cameraman recording for Virtual Savings and Trust, and they are covered by the Official Secrets Act.’
Connie and I nod.
‘Then I’ll show you the images from the television camera outside. You’ve seen them before, on television or on the internet.’
‘28,014,000 views as of yesterday,’ I say.
Amelia rolls her eyes. ‘Beyond those two videos, the technicians were able to recover one or two pieces of audio from the tower. However, for obvious reasons it was chaos and we lost vision. So I’m counting on watching what happens now to jog your memory, Ben.’
I don’t think it needs jogging. ‘You impounded the video, didn’t you?’
‘Everything that we could. That was one of the things that went right. Of course, what the BBC sent round the world from the TV camera …’ Amelia shrugs.
‘Finally just to remind both of you, don’t worry about whether you’re remembering something relevant; that’s my job. So just raise a hand and we’ll pause.’
I confess I’m excited now. These are my home movies, even though this is the only time I will be allowed to watch them.
The VST camera pans over the glass auditorium, which is full and then some. Everyone is standing. Those not in the front rows are watching on widescreen monitors. Amid the suits and evening gowns the camera briefly catches in peripheral vision the orange-and-purple hair of Luscious, the singer, before focusing on the lectern (glass, of course), and next to it Gyro and Junior and Casey. Laura is standing in the front row but isn’t part of the podium party.
I pause the action to point out where I’m standing in my dinner jacket and ungainly earpiece. To be honest I’m a little podgier than I had imagined. I have positioned myself at the lakeside end of the second row, close enough to the glass wall to look down vertically and towards the lakeside where the Prime Minister will land.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Gyro raises both hands like a presidential candidate and calls out.
A memory comes to me. ‘I remember checking my watch with a huge sigh of relief. We were starting the speeches on time. Dianne had laid into Gyro about punctuality because of the Prime Minister’s helicopter. I was thinking it was such incredibly good news to be on time after all I’d been through in the last week.’
The auditorium does have outstanding acoustics and Gyro does not need notes: for him inaugurating the tower is the culmination of three years’ passion. He recites the various welcomes and then moves on to the symbolism of the tower. The tower will be a unique model of leadership for the 21st century and an unforgettable learning space from which generations of future leaders will draw lifelong inspiration. I remember what comes next, and it does – the Sistine Chapel of leadership. There are cheers from the audience.
Gyro introduces Junior. The auditorium quietens. Junior holds the lectern briefly before unfolding sheets of square notepaper from his breast pocket. He has written this speech with a fountain pen and without Cardew. A tribute to a 100-year-old global business; a son’s report to his dead father; a father’s hopes for an only son less than half his age; a qui
et man’s bid for history. Junior is speaking all these things.
Connie snorts, ‘Why doesn’t he just say, I paid for all this, so there!’ But the light-hearted poke falls a bit awkwardly. Money talks but Junior himself is no longer alive to answer.
In the tower it is 6.55pm. Junior is due to wind up. Remarkably, he is going to add something impromptu. He folds away his notes, turns to Gyro and takes the dean’s hand.
‘Bill,’ he says. ‘When you first outlined to me what this tower could be, I will tell you frankly that I did not imagine the half of it.’
Appreciative laughter and applause.
‘At that time we agreed that I would now name this unique space the Pinnacle Strategic Leadership Auditorium.’
More applause. Junior is holding Gyro’s hand quite tightly. In the distance, a low-flying dot is becoming visible over the hills.
‘But going around it with you today, I have to say, Bill, you have created so much more than an auditorium. It isn’t just a place for listening, it’s an unforgettable and all-encompassing visual environment.’
Deafening applause. On the periphery of the screen I am holding up three fingers – signalling to the dean that there are three minutes to landing, I explain to Amelia.
‘So on the centenary of the finest bank in the world, Virtual Savings and Trust, what greater privilege could I have than to name this tower, a pinnacle not just in name but in conception and design, the Pinnacle Strategic Leadership Auditorium and Visual Environment.’
Connie sniggers. This isn’t like her, I think, but realise that it’s her nerves, because of what’s coming up in – what? – about six and a half minutes.
Ecstatic applause. Gyro breaks Junior’s grip and joins in. Then Gyro resumes the lectern.
‘Now, Junior, Casey, members and friends of the Pinnacle family, ladies and gentlemen, Hampton has a small surprise for you. An entirely fitting surprise given Junior’s standing among forward-thinking global business leaders. A surprise for which Junior has kindly given his permission, but which for security reasons we did not broadcast to the rest of you. If you look down towards the lake behind me, or on the monitor screens, we are greatly honoured to receive a short visit from the Prime Minister, who is going to make a televised announcement.
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