by Gareth Flood
‘That’s, uh, great Sir. But what about the actual work?’ Eric said, trying to move the dialogue back to something sensible.
‘Oh, that’s great fun too. Let me tell you. I was the man who had led the company back into Colombia after the initial operation was nationalized in fifty-three.’
‘Wow.’ Eric Jones said.
‘Then I was the man to get the company back out again.’
‘Oh.’ Eric said, slightly confused.
‘I led them into Venezuela and, okay, it all went rapidly wrong from that point in that particular country but most of it was justifiably not my fault. Damn rebels could never be trusted to keep their word. What you don’t want-’ Falcus said before leaning in closer to Eric.
‘What you don’t want is to be “on the out” with the boys club that runs the organization.’ Falcus said softly.
Boys club? Eric thought incredulously. I was on a diversity course yesterday for god’s sake!
‘Yes, with the ease of a shift in the breeze,’ Falcus continued, ‘the invites to yacht clubs and polo matches stop coming. But if you are patient and happy to hide in the shadows for a while - the opportunity will present itself to get back in.’
‘Boys club?’ Eric asked. ‘There really is a boys club?’
Falcus completely ignored Eric’s question. He was more talking to himself now.
‘But as I look back, yes, I have done some pretty impressive things. How many other people could say they took a bullet in Paraguay? I’ve got properties on three continents. Okay, the ex-wives are taking up two of them, but still, impressive nonetheless. Today, I’m category “W” in the hierarchy of the company. This new deal I have someone cross referencing will put me into the “X” category of executives – the people who actually run the place-’
‘The old boys club?’ Eric interrupted.
‘No! The old boys old boys club. Oh and the perks. A company Lear Jet at beck and call, ridiculous allowances, the finest hotels while you send edicts that the minions are not even allowed to look at anything as nice as a Novotel. Enough money to afford women who have such flexibility they would have had a job for life in the old Turkish Empire. The stock options, the golden handshake…once you’re in, if you truly get fed up with it, you can jump on the table at the AGM, urinate on the annual report in front of the world press and they would still pay you two million just to go away. It’s sweet.’
Eric Jones rose out of his seat. ‘Excuse me. There’s something I have to do – urgently.’ he said, before walking away. Eric Jones was going to hand in his resignation. He had signed up to convert the world to wind power – not deal with nutcases intent only on self-preservation.
‘Get me a whiskey on your way back.’ Falcus called after him, ‘no ice.’
Talking about minions, Falcus thought, as he settled back into his chair, Jonathan better be making good progress. I have faith in that kid. If I pull this off and get made an “X”; I will definitely put in for the boy to get a five percent salary increase next year. That’s two percent higher than inflation - I’m good to that kid.
Jonathan was close to despair.
He was fast running out of time on the analysis and the numbers he had been charged to work on - were still not adding up.
The analysis was essentially about shifting huge amounts of crude oil westwards, out of Russia to the Mediterranean. There was only way to shift the volume that was proposed and make the numbers add up to the initial spreadsheet received from production was for quite a few geopolitical elements to change.
Since the numbers were not adding up, he would have to go to macro environment factors that could influence such a change to occur.
Jonathan had now spent the best part of the day trawling through online databases; trying to find or verify anything of public record lodged within the planning systems of the European Union. The same was done for Eastern European states aspiring to join the Union.
Information was always sketchy in the eastern part of the world.
He came across some vague land acquisition orders that started to form a rough patchwork running east to west. He then started to dig further up the government paths of the countries involved, to see who where the drivers behind these changes.
He did not get very far before hitting a dead end.
His final act was to scan local newspapers that had been translated into English; looking for evidence of local villages being cleared in the last few years.
‘This is all taking way too long.’ he said to himself.
The spectre of Falcus was growing larger behind him as time ticked on.
It was the end of Monday and the booming voice of Falcus still rang in his ears about “Close of play Wednesday – or else!”
‘I can’t afford to spend any more time on this.’ he said, starting to close files. ‘I’m going to have to put a hypothesis together and insert it into the presentation.’
He stopped typing and sat back while tapping his fingers on the table.
Though this is linked to the earlier problem I was working on - the people present in the “stakeholder graph”. he mused.
“Stakeholders” were defined in the organisation as people who have an interest in a particular issue; therefore may be inclined to influence any decisions that are taken about that issue.
In any attempt to bring about change in an area, or become involved in a project or solving an issue - it was often useful to identify the likely sources of support. Stakeholders could be allies but also opposition – people who might oppose the issue.
There could also be stakeholders who the project needed to have “on board” with any recommendations.
Jonathan had plotted a graph of stakeholders depending on their level of power and interest in the proposed project.
Obviously there were many parties interested in shifting large amounts of oil east to west in a profitable manner.
Jonathan’s challenge, was to narrow it down to only the most interested and likely to gain or lose from the potential outcome. These were the people that could influence such an event occurring or block the event from happening.
When he had started the analysis the previous week and had gotten bored with just looking at the numbers, he had taken a break by doing a full ranking of powerful people who would have an interest – positive or negative – in the potential pipeline.
He sat up in his chair as he began re-reading his work from the previous week.
‘Whoah!’ he said to his computer screen, ‘This is interesting.’
It turned out that potentially the most revealing part of the entire analysis was not the numbers but the stakeholder graph.
In the graph he had produced last week, there were two people with enough power and influence to make the great oil shift happen or be hampered.
Jonathan sat staring at his screen as the names of Maslov and Mitchell glowed back at him. If those two names were removed, the new names below them, by default shifted to the top. The two names to be shifted to the top were the natural successors to the previous heads of the largest oil company and most relevant government department. He looked in a kind of mute horror at the names that would be shifted to the top of the grid: Anatoly Kirkov and Warren Tarrant.
Jonathan took deep breaths to calm himself down. He had no proof of anything – it was just an analysis. It was his job to analyse and generate hypothesis and that’s what he had done.
I’m not comfortable with this but I’m just doing my job. he thought. It doesn’t mean there is any substance behind this – it’s just a hypothesis.
What he was missing though was time to re-rank all the other names according to the criteria for the graph but also more crucially, the qualitative evidence of whether all the names would be for or against such a proposal.
It’s too late to re-run the stakeholder graph now Jonathan thought, exasperated. There’s too much crucial information missing. All I can do is leave the original graph in there, then put a new o
ne in with Maslov and Mitchell taken out so the names that were below them are now shifted to the top – that’s logical to anyone who reads it.
Plastered all over the new graph he put the word “illustrative”. This was essentially a consultant disclaimer put on work when data was lacking. He inserted the stakeholder graphs at the back of the analysis.
A huge sigh was released as he put his head in his hands.
‘Monday is already gone.’ he groaned.
‘It will take me a day to tidy up all the numbers, then most of Wednesday to polish off the report before Falcus charges in like a wounded bull and demands it.’ Jonathan said, with a note of desperation.
He could not work anymore tonight at a productive rate so started shutting his computer down.
‘I’m due a holiday.’ he said to no-one, ‘it’s time to accelerate the plan for a new life.’
The information he lacked was that Maslov and Mitchell were secretly opposed to the pipeline, but the names below them were not!
10
Moscow, London
It was Tuesday morning and the President of the Russian Federation was drumming his fingers on his desk in irritation.
Kekushev and Demetchev had filed in to give their latest report from the security services. Anatoly Kirkov had ordered them to personally update the President.
The report was not good.
Kirkov was standing to the right and behind the president again, practicing his rapport moves by mirroring and matching the frustrated movements of his superior.
The President had not even offered them a seat. There was not a lot of progress to report in their investigation. Kirkov stepped in and pushed possible links to terrorist groups and ultimately - blamed the Chechens. It was always a winner.
The President told the security men to get out and come back when they had something.
‘By tomorrow!’ he yelled at the closing door.
The Vice-President smiled.
In London, something similar was happening between superiors and their reports.
The same thing would happen in Langley.
Another “roundtable teleconference” was held later that day. It fast descended into a circus, where the only thing people had to report, was that they had nothing to report.
Jonathan staggered back into the office at ten in the morning.
The sleepless nights that always came when Falcus was in his life had returned.
Visions of Venezuela and running screaming, naked through the jungle, always made him bolt upright whenever his eyes managed to close for a few minutes.
He quickly got ramped up again on caffeine and powered through tidying up the presentation until noon. Although it was Tuesday - he knew Falcus and knew how he worked. Jonathan had an uneasy feeling the excrement was about to start being flung at the fan.
At precisely five minutes past twelve, just as Jonathan was printing out the entire report at the printer, the door to the open plan office banged open and twenty consultants hit the floor. Only a wearied Jonathan remained standing. He was already holding the document in his hands.
Falcus was at the door in a freshly pressed cream suit. His grey eyes zoomed in on the document in Jonathan’s hands with a laser like intensity. The corners of his lips curled up and his leathered face begin to crease into something that was half a smile and half a smirk.
Jonathan’s eyes started to well up.
‘I need more time.’ Jonathan wailed.
Heads started to peep over the tops of desks everywhere, as people tried to catch a glimpse of the show, without being recognized.
‘Horse Manure!’ yelled Falcus, ‘Your time is drying up quicker than an old whore!’
He banged the door shut behind him. ‘Plus, you already have it in your hands.’ he repeatedly stabbed an accusing finger at the document.
‘It’s still a draft.’ Jonathan moaned, taking a step back.
Falcus came on relentlessly.
‘Hot cowpat! A draft by your standards. You got more brains than the Concorde designers had pencils. It’s good enough - gimme what you got!’
‘It’s still a draft, I have crosschecked the numbers; they do not add up but the calculations are right. That was the main piece of work. There is also a risk matrix and stakeholder graph which has thrown up some interesting results and feeds one really left of field hypothesis - but that’s it!’ Jonathan bemoaned, ‘I am not comfortable sharing it yet and want it to go up and down the review committees within the consultancy.’
He put the document behind his back, like a petulant child holding a toy away from his sibling. Falcus was right in front of him now and started making grabs for it with his left and right arms. Jonathan was twisting away accordingly. They started shuffling around the office in a kind of bizarre hopping and shoulder rolling dance. People started laughing while still cowering behind their desks. Falcus started puffing and turning red.
He stood up, huffed, reached out and flicked Jonathan vehemently on the nose. Jonathan brought his hands around to instinctively protect his face while howling ‘Owwww!’
Falcus grabbed the document with both hands and ripped it from his grasp.
‘You could have helped me review it!’ Jonathan bawled.
Falcus was already starting to pivot away from him on his white heel.
‘No chance!’ yelled Falcus as he headed for the door, ‘I am at the level now where I do not do anything myself anymore. You’ve seen the management framework for people at my station. It is all about “Delivery Through Others” for me. I just yell at people like you to do it.’
He stopped at the doorframe, turned and looked back, ‘I got a power play meeting with one of the big boys upstairs and this baby,’ he said, waving the document in front of his face, ‘is pressing the launch button on my own personal space shuttle.’
He winked at Jonathan and disappeared.
Jonathan slumped. Everyone else in the office slowly got up, dusted themselves off and pretended nothing had happened. He knew though, that they would all be frantically sending messages to each on the secure online instant messaging system; gossiping and bitching like a bunch of schoolgirls talking about the one that wasn’t at the party.
He trudged back to his desk and threw himself in his rotating chair. He had never cracked up like that before - apart from Venezuela.
It was the Falcus effect.
He hadn’t slept in thirty hours.
There was a meeting request flashing on his computer screen to talk about his next project. He slumped further. The will to continue was gone. He reached out and closed the screen on his laptop, picked up his jacket and slunk out of the office to go to bed.
An hour later, the elevator light on the top floor of the Head Office lit up. The metal casing made a bing noise to signal the arrival of the lift. The silver doors made a shooshing noise as they opened.
Falcus Loader stumbled forward out of the elevator as his shoes encountered the half-a-foot-high shag pile carpet. He stopped to stare at the carpet. Legend had it that the carpet cost over a thousand pounds per square foot, and had been hand stitched from the finest mohair by orphans in Tibet.
The weave underfoot was luscious in its ruby redness and if there was movement in the air from the powerful air-conditioning, it gave out the effect of seaweed underwater - wafting in the current.
As he felt his feet sinking into the floor, he placed his hands against a wall of the finest mahogany that money could afford for Peruvian Indians to chop down, carve and send to Europe.
He looked up to see his hand was just nestling the edge of an original romantic landscape painting by JMW Turner.
I’m here! The top floor. Where I belong. he thought. It even smells like the stately home I will soon own.
A disapproving throat clearing pulled him out of his reverie. He looked to his right to see an old battleaxe of a secretary glaring down her nose at him. It was clear to her from his awestruck behaviour that he was not used to being up here
.
The secretary frowned and pointed at the painting.
‘Oh.’ Falcus said, jerking his hand away, before standing erect like a chastened schoolboy. He adjusted his white tie to regain composure and began wading his way through the carpet towards her.
‘I have an appointment!’ he attempted to make his voice boom with authority. The shag pile muted all acoustics and his voice sounded uncharacteristically weedy.
The secretary shook her head.
Clearly never been up here. she thought.
He finally arrived at her desk. Just in time too, his thighs were starting to burn from the effort.
The secretary looked down into a notebook.
‘Mr…Loader, I presume?’
‘Yes, yes, Falcus Loader. One and the same. And you are?’ His attempt to turn on the charm fell flat with the icy queen of the gatekeepers. Her left eyebrow arched a quarter of a millimetre.
‘Mr. Willis is through that door.’ she said, as she slowly extended her arm towards a panelled door to the right.
‘Aah, right. Thank you.’ Falcus said.
She went back to her notebook and Falcus set off wading towards the door.
This is it. Through that door is power and glory! he thought.
When he finally arrived, he tapped tentatively and placed his ear against the thick wood.
‘Come.’ Echoed a muted voice of authority.
Falcus placed his hand on the cold handle, crafted from the finest silver that could be extracted from the mines of outback Australia, before smelting by freemasons in Sheffield.
He had to pitch his shoulder against the heavy wood to open the door. As he stepped inside, the first thing that struck him was the immense size of the room. It was the size of an average London house! The next thing he noticed was the size of the desk at the top of the room; it was the size of an average London flat!
Behind the vast expanse of horizontal wood that had been reconstituted from Viking longboats dredged from the bottom of the North Sea, sat an austere grey haired man in a dark blue suit.