The Business

by Iain Banks

  'Ah-hah.'

  'It wouldn't take much to get a serious investigation going, Mr Hazleton. Frankly I'm not entirely sure if there were other Level Ones involved, but I guess just telling all of them would get things moving.'

  'That's the sort of thing that might split the Business, Kathryn. If there were other Board members involved.'

  'That's a risk one might just have to take. Anyway, I suspect our fellow was acting alone. The point is that even if one or two others are implicated, the entire Board can't be involved or there would be no need to hide everything like this in the first place. No matter how you cut it, the person behind this scam would be in very serious trouble indeed.'

  'Of course, they might be rich enough not to care.'

  'They were rich enough not to have to undertake all this in the first place. The sort of person who'd organise this sort of wheeze does it because they love the organising, the gamesmanship of it all, the buzz of getting away with adding a zero to their personal worth just for the sheer hell of it, not because they actually need the money to spend on anything.'

  'You shouldn't underestimate the developing ambitions of rich people, Kathryn. One might decide it would be interesting to take on Rupert Murdoch in the international media business, for example. That would take a lot of cash.'

  'So would buying up a plot as expensive as the low-lying property we're talking about and then what? Selling it on to somebody else who might want their own state? Keeping it banked? Whatever. The person behind all this isn't going to be able to do any of that any more; they've been found out. The game is up and the ball is most comprehensively on the slates.'

  'It is?'

  'Scottish saying. Are you still with me, Mr H?'

  'I think so. So, let's proceed on the basis of this hypothesis then. For amusement value only, of course.'

  'Of course. Thing is, there might be a way out of a total loss situation for our hypothetical miscreant.'

  'Might there?'

  'If the person involved were to present the deal he had struck selfishly for himself to the organisation he is part of, if he were simply to give what he had worked for to his peers, asking for nothing from them except perhaps their thanks, then I think they might be surprised — even shocked — and suspicious, but they would be grateful, too. It would be nod-and-a-wink stuff, but they might decide not to investigate exactly how this coup was arrived at. They might simply accept the gift in the spirit in which it was apparently offered.'

  'Hmm. Of course, the person doing the presenting might be watched rather carefully in future by the others, in case he got up to any more mischievous schemes.'

  'A small price to pay for basically getting away with the crime, even if not actually benefiting from it. The alternative is much worse. Frankly, if I were a fellow Board member I might think about making a very terminal example of somebody who had betrayed my trust so comprehensively.'

  'My, you are unforgiving, Kathryn. Perhaps we had better all hope you never make it to the very top.'

  'Oh, I'm not totally ruthless, Mr Hazleton. I told Stephen Buzetski his wife was cheating on him without expecting anything else in return.'

  'More wasted effort, Kathryn. You could have used that information so much more constructively.'

  'Call me a sentimentalist.'

  'How did he take it?'

  'He sounded as if he was in shock.'

  'You realise he will probably hate you for ever for telling him?'

  'Yes. But at least I feel better about myself than if I'd got him told on the quiet by your people.'

  'So you are quite selfish, in the end, aren't you, Kathryn? Just like me.'

  'That's right. It just takes a different form.'

  'Indeed. Well, there we are. I imagine if I was in the situation you describe I would start taking steps to do something very like what you've suggested as soon as possible. Deliver that present well before Christmas.'

  'That would seem appropriate.'

  'Of course, there is a link in all this to that other, diametrically not low-lying, location.'

  'I was coming to that.'

  I had never felt so frightened. I thought I knew the way we worked, I thought I had an idea what we would stop at, or at least what we would stop at in what circumstances, but I wasn't sure. I felt vulnerable, sitting there in the park, waiting for Hans to return with my bags. What if the conspiracy went beyond Hazleton? What if in some bizarre way they were all behind it? Or just Madame Tchassot, and maybe Dessous, and Cholongai? That only left a dozen other Board members, some of them very inactive. What if I was up against too many of them, what if this was their power base, their stronghold? What if I'd somehow missed some crucial undercurrent of meaning and threat the previous evening, what if I'd totally misconstrued everything?

  I swung back and forth, looking through the bare branches at the distant château. Maybe there was a sniper lining me up in his sights right now. Would I get a glimpse of a laser flickering redly around the twigs of the trees between me and the château? Maybe a snatch squad was already an its way from the compound. Maybe I'd disappear into the vaults and catacombs that riddled the mountain behind the château, maybe I'd end up old and out of my mind in the Antarctic base in Kronprinsesse Euphemia Land. Maybe Hans had instructions only to drive me towards the airport, and then stop suddenly at a lonely prearranged rendezvous where Colin Walker would suddenly appear, looking regretful and carrying a silenced automatic.

  Was I paranoid, or just being sensible? I got a prickly feeling on my forehead and jumped off the swing, walking towards the trees that would hide me from the château on the far slope. I rang Hans on the car phone.

  'Yes, Ms Telman?'

  'How are things going, Hans?'

  'I have your luggage, Ms Telman. Where should I meet you?'

  'At the Avis office in town. In twenty minutes.'

  'Very well. I shall be there.'

  I walked to the Hertz office, hired an Audi A3 and drove it round to a corner opposite the Avis lot, then crouched down and phoned Dessous. Not available. Madame Tchassot then; put my side of the story, assuming Poudenhaut had gone straight to her. Answer-machine. Tommy Cholongai. In a meeting. I looked up the number for X. Parfitt-Solomenides, the guy who'd also signed the Pejantan Island deal but whom I suspected wasn't involved in Hazleton's scam. Not taking calls. I was starting to get really worried now. I actually started to call Uncle Freddy.

  Thulahn; the Prince. All land lines out. Luce, then. Luce, please be there…

  'Yup?'

  'Thank fuck.'

  'What?'

  'You're there.'

  'Why, what is it, hon?'

  'Oh, just getting paranoid. I think I've just committed commercial suicide.'

  'What the hell are you talking about?'

  I told her as much as I could. This probably only made the whole story even more complicated than it was anyway, and it was pretty complicated in the first place, but she seemed to get the gist. (Maybe too quickly, a part of me thought. Maybe she's in on it somehow, maybe she's like some sort of deep-entry spy put there by…but that was just too mad. Wasn't it?)

  'Where are you now?'

  'Luce, you don't need to know that.'

  'But are you still in Switzerland? Or was this auto-da-fé shit with the Ferrari conducted in Italy, where it is probably a capital offence?'

  'Hold on, my luggage has just arrived.' I watched Hans pull up to the kerb across the street in the silver 7-series. No other cars seemed to be following him, or drew up nearby at the same time. Nobody else in the BMW, either. Hans got out and peered through the window of the Avis office as he put on his cap.

  I got out of the A3. 'Keep talking to me, Luce. If I get cut off suddenly, call the police.'

  'What, the Swiss police?'

  'Yeah, or Interpol or somebody. I don't know.'

  'Okay. But now I need to know where the hell you are.'

  'Yes, you do, don't you?' I said as I crossed the street, dodging
honking traffic and gesticulating drivers. ' Ah, fuck you too, asshole!'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Not you, Luce. Hans! Hans!'

  'You all right?'

  'Shouting at the chauffeur. I'm in a town called Château d'Oex in the Vaud Canton, Switzerland.'

  'Right…This isn't that chauffeur, is it?'

  'No. Hans, danke, danke. Nein, nein. Mein Auto ist hier.'

  'Ms Telman. You are crossing the road in the wrong place.'

  'Yes, sorry. Could I just take my luggage?'

  'It is in the trunk.'

  'Fine. If you could just open it, I'll take it.'

  'Where is your car? I will drive to it.'

  'That's okay.'

  'No, please.'

  'Right, okay. It's over there.'

  'Please, get in.'

  'It's just across the road, Hans. I'll jay-walk again.'

  'But this is not a place for crossing. See. Please, you will get in.'

  'Hans. There's no need. I'll walk. Okay?'

  'But here it is forbidden.'

  'You okay, Kate?'

  'Fine. Fine so far. Hans, please either open the trunk or get in the car and chuck a U-ie.'

  'Yeah! Do as she says, Hans!'

  'I don't think he can hear you, Luce.'

  'What is a U-ie, please?'

  'U-turn. It's a U-turn, Hans. Perform a U-turn.'

  'That is forbidden here too. See.'

  'Jeez. Anal or what? That guy needs therapy. Let me talk to him, Kate.'

  'Quiet, Luce. Please. Hans, look —'

  'Oh, you want me to stay on the line but you want me to shut up, right?'

  'Right. Hans. Could I have my luggage?'

  'Please, you will get in, I will to the other side of the street drive, and all is good.'

  'Did I hear that right? Did he really the verb at the end of the sentence put? Well, haw-haw-haw!'

  'Luce —'

  'Please.'

  'No, Hans.'

  'But why not, Ms Telman?'

  'I don't want to get into the car.'

  'You don't want to get into the car?'

  'That's right.'

  'You tell him, kid.'

  'Why do you not want to get into the car?'

  'Yeah, come to think of it, why don't you want to get into the car?'

  'Oh, for fuck's sake. Torture and death can't be any worse than this. Okay, Hans, you win. I'll get in. We're going over there. The green Audi hatchback. Okay?'

  'Yes, I see. Thank you.'

  'You got into the car?'

  'I'm in the car.'

  'What's happening now?'

  'Hans is getting into the driver's seat. He's taking off his cap. He's putting it on the front passenger's seat. He's putting the car into Drive. He's checking his mirrors. We're driving off. We're in the traffic now. We're heading down the street.'

  'Cool. Any nice shops?'

  'Will you shut up?…We're going quite a long way down the street. We haven't done a U-turn yet. I'm starting to get worried. Hold on. Hans?'

  'Yes, Ms Telman?'

  'Why haven't we turned round yet? The car's back there.'

  'It is forbidden. The signs. See. It is forbidden. Up here we may turn. I will turn there.'

  'Okay, okay.'

  'Now what's happening?'

  'We're slowing down. We're turning up a side-street…we're turning down another street…and another…and back on to the main street. Yeah, heading back towards the Audi. Looks cool. Looks cool.'

  'What fucking Audi?'

  'My hire car. Right. We're here. I'm getting out. Thank you. No, I can…Ah, thank you, thank you. Vielen dank.'

  'Ms Telman.'

  'Thank you, Hans. Wiedersehen.'

  'Goodbye, Ms Telman.'

  'Yes, thank you. Drive carefully. 'Bye… Luce?'

  'Yeah?'

  'Thanks.'

  Call me really fucking paranoid, but I left the hire car at Montreux, took a taxi to Lausanne and used cash to buy a ticket on a TEE to Milano via the Simplon tunnel (good dinner, pleasant talk to a terribly camp and charming textile designer and his gruffly butch partner; relaxed). Cash again to buy a tourist ticket on a delayed Alitalia 747 to Delhi via Cairo; upgraded once we were in the air using my non-company Amex (stewardesses less glamorous and more efficient than last Alitalia flight a few years ago; coffee smelled tempting, but avoided). First so empty I could have got up to any amount of shenanigans, if there had been a willing partner. Slept — instead — very well indeed.

  In Delhi, going through the formalities, I tried calling Stephen. The phone just rang and rang and rang, the way phones do when the person at the other end is there, hasn't got their answer-machine or voicemail switched on, but can see your number and name on their phone's display and just doesn't want to talk to you. 'Stephen, don't do this to me,' I whispered. 'Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone…' But he didn't.

  I tried elsewhere.

  'Mr Dessous?'

  'Telman? What in the hell is going on?'

  'You tell me, Jeb.'

  'Was it that bastard Hazleton? Is he the Couffabling son-of-a-bitch you were talking about?'

  'I really couldn't say, Jeb.'

  'He's called an EBM for Wednesday in Switzerland. Know anything about that?'

  'Sorry, Jeb, what's an EBM?'

  'Extraordinary Board Meeting. Shows how often we have them if somebody like you doesn't know what they are.'

  'Good.'

  ' "Good"? What do you mean, "Good"?'

  'It's good you're having an EBM.'

  'Why, dammit?'

  'Mr Hazleton may have a pleasant surprise for you all.'

  'Oh? It isn't to get you kicked out, then? There's an ugly rumour you assaulted Adrian Puddinghead or whatever the hell he's called.'

  'Poudenhaut. Actually it was more his car I assaulted.'

  'What? What did you do?'

  'I used a search engine.'

  'Telman, will you just tell me what the hell is going on?'

  'I'm taking up the post in Thulahn.'

  'Good.'

  'Not necessarily.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'I think the plan we have for Thulahn may be too radical. Too destructive.'

  'Oh, you do, do you? Well, I'm sure we'll thank you for sharing those thoughts with us, Telman, but it isn't up to you what we do in Thulahn. You'll be there in a purely advisory capacity, understand? You might get bumped up to L-Two, but that still doesn't mean you're on the Board. Am I making myself clear?'

  'Abundantly, Mr Dessous.'

  'Right. So, we'll see you at Château d'Oex on Wednesday.'

  'Ah, probably not.'

  'What do you mean, "probably not"? I'm telling you to be there.'

  'I'm sorry, Mr Dessous. I can't. I'll be in Thulahn.'

  'Cancel it.'

  'I can't, sir. I've already assured the Prince I'll be there,' I lied. 'He's expecting me. Could you possibly, like, un-order me to be in Switzerland? That way I won't be disobeying a direct command. There's some delicate negotiating to be done in Thulahn.'

  'Jesus! Okay. Get your ass to Thulahn, Telman.'

  'Thank you, Jeb.'

  'Right, I gotta go, see how that idiot nephew of mine's doing.'

  'Why, is there something wrong?'

  'You haven't heard? He got shot.'

  'What? Oh, my God. When? Where?'

  'Yesterday, New York City, in the chest.'

  'Is he all right?'

  'No, he isn't all right! But at least he's not dead. Probably isn't going to die, either, just cost me a fortune in hospital bills.'

  'What happened?'

  'The posters.'

  'The posters?'

  'Yeah. I saw one. Can't believe I didn't spot it myself.'

  'What? I don't understand.'

  'You know that dumb-ass always wanted his name above the title?'

  'Yes?'

  'So the posters for his play say, "Dwight Litton's Best Shot".' />
  'Oh, good grief,' I said.

  'Yeah. Some crazy asshole took it literally.'

  EPILOGUE

  I don't know. What is it that really matters to all of us? We're all the same species, the same assemblage of cells, with the same unarguable needs for food, water and shelter. The trouble is that after that it gets more complicated. Sex is the other big drive, of course, the one after the absolute necessities. You'd think we all need love, in some form, too, but maybe some people can get along without it. We are individuals, but we need to co-operate. We have family and friends, allies or at least accomplices. We always think we are right, and — search as I have — there is no evil under the sun that somebody somewhere won't argue is actually a good, no idiocy that hasn't got its perfectly serious defenders, and no tyrant, past or present — no matter how bloody — without some bunch of zealot schmucks to defend him or his reputation till the last breath in their bodies — or preferably somebody else's.

  So. Why am I doing this? Because it seems like the right thing to do. How do I know it is? I don't. But at least I don't have to tell lies to myself to justify what it is I am doing; I don't have to think, Well, they're not really humans, or, They'll thank me later, or, It's us or them, or, My country right or wrong, or, History will vindicate me. None of that sanctimonious bullshit.

  I'm doing what I'm doing because I think good will come of it in the long run, and that almost nothing bad will come of it in the short run anyway, so even if I'm wrong maybe I can change my mind. Though I doubt I will. Either way, nobody's going to die. Nobody is going to suffer. Maybe I'll live to regret it, and it's possible some others will too, but even then I'll try to take as much of the hardship on myself, what little of it — I hope — there may be.

  This makes it all sound far too selfless. Actually there's a lot of self in this. All the same, part of me is recoiling in horror at all this. Part of me is thinking, You're going to do WHAT? What is this shit? Because in one way of looking at it, this is just another example of the same old sad self-sacrificial martyrdom crap I've lamented in my gender throughout my life. We have spent so many generations thinking of others, thinking of our families and thinking of our men, when all they do in return is think of themselves. Just in the last few generations, finally able to control our own fertility, have we been able to act more like men and contribute more with our brains than our bodies. I loved feeling that I was helping to make a case for my half of the species being worth more recognition than that due to a womb alone. And yet here I am going back on all that, or seeming to.