Denny could sense Jeff waiting a moment or two before ringing off. He picked up his phone. “Hello, Jeff.”
“You’re okay. Thank God.”
“I’m fine – sort of.”
“What’s going on?”
Denny took a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Is it serious?”
Denny pulled one of the medical journals towards him. Tucked inside was the English translation of one of the highlighted stories. It gave details of a series of mysterious deaths in six European countries, all from an unexplained wasting disease. “You could say that.”
“What is it, Dad?”
“I warned them.”
“Who?”
Denny couldn’t speak any more and shook his head.
“The loss of Lycad is obviously affecting you more than we expected.”
Denny thought again. Mitsanomol was only for the truly obese. Most of the people who go to slimming clinics are just overweight from eating or drinking too much. What Norsteadt had done is to put their genes in overdrive and... He started to sob.
“Come to the States and spend some time with me at my new place. You’ll love it, and maybe, see things another way.”
“I can’t run away.” This is a repeat of what happened to those two engineers... but on a much larger scale, he thought.
“Promise me this: if it gets too bad, you’ll come.”
“Okay.”
*
The Prime Minister looked at the latest opinion poll findings. He couldn’t understand it. For more than twenty-five years the economy hadn’t been in better shape. Unemployment was falling, production rising, the pound strong and interest rates low. And there hadn’t been a major strike for as long as anyone could remember.
Yet the standing of Frazer Drucas and his party in the country was at an all-time low. On top of that, his party had lost the last ten by-elections, eight of which were in once strong seats. And everyone put the loss down to the failure of the government’s economic policies.
“Things have never been this good in a generation,” Drucas said. “But...”
“Can I speak frankly, Prime Minister?” asked Sir Wesley Heffner. Heffner was the former financial editor of The Times and now sat on the board of one of London’s best-known investment banks. He was also one of the two people Drucas listened to on communications: the other was Nathan Kelloway.
“That’s the only way I want it.”
“Your message is not getting across.”
“You sound like Bram Norsteadt.”
“Now he’s the sort of person you need: independent and self-made. He can really get a message across.”
“We’re testing him at the moment. He’s a temporary adviser to one of our committees; to see if he’s up to it.”
“Why not get him to do one of those briefing papers you like so much?”
“Won’t be necessary.” Drucas smiled and picked up a copy of Norsteadt’s book. “Anyone who can write this, doesn’t need that kind of test.”
Sir Wesley took the book and flipped through the pages.
“Look at this.” Drucas pushed a copy of the Sunday Times book section towards Heffner. “He’s already made the top ten of the non-fiction list,” he said. “If he doesn’t disgrace himself in the committee, I have plans for Mr Bram Norsteadt.”
*
“Where have you been?” Norsteadt asked. Without warning, Denny had appeared at Norton-Hunter’s offices. He had been missing for nearly a week. Norsteadt came from behind his desk. “We were all worried about you.”
“I needed to think.”
“About what?”
“You don’t have to ask that.”
Norsteadt knew exactly what was going on in Denny’s mind, but he had to play down its importance. Norsteadt could still make use of the man, although Deny had to get over this silly display of conscience.
“I know you’re worried. I would be disappointed if you took it any other way.”
“Is that all you can say? Surely you’ve seen the reports of the deaths in Europe.”
“We’ve checked. There’s no evidence that we’re involved.”
“But the symptoms are the same as the two engineers.”
“Total coincidence,” Norsteadt said. “Giles, you’re the only one who has suggested a link – and that’s just guesswork on your part. If we can’t establish a link, I’m sure no one else can.”
Denny was about to protest.
“That’s as long as you don’t go around making silly accusations. You still have a great future at Norton-Hunter... don’t spoil it.”
Twenty Nine
Norsteadt was not impressed. Everything about the operation looked tatty. The outside of the little West London house hadn’t been painted in years. Inside it looked almost as bad. Styrofoam cups half full of cold coffee were left uncollected for God knows how long and he was expected to sit on a chair that looked like... that.
Bonnie had warned him what to expect. “It’s all designed to unnerve you,” she explained. “But they are the best in the business.”
Despite the assurances, Norsteadt was convinced the whole thing was a waste of his time and the company’s money. He had mastered communications – everybody said so, including the Prime Minister. So what was the need of training for television?
“Television is different,” Bonnie said. “It requires special skills. And if you don’t have them, you can die.”
Blacksmith Media Consultants were one of the many companies that had sprung up during the last twenty or so years offering to teach businessmen how to handle themselves in front of aggressive interviewers. It had been started by Reggie Black, who had made his reputation in the early 80s as a brutal television front man.
Things had become too hot for Black after he had reduced a former Cabinet minister to tears during probing about the unnatural relationship he had with his mother. When his television production company asked him to leave, he decided he could make more money selling his know-how to captains of industry than as a “professional inquisitor”.
Black’s training allowed industrialists to go through a complete simulation of a television appearance, but in risk-free privacy. He knew that appearing good on television was a trick. Although he would never admit it, it boiled down to becoming familiar with a studio. Once fear of the unknown had been overcome, managing things like nerves was easy.
That, together with a couple of fundamentals, and most businessmen could put up a passable performance on the box. It was money for old rope, Black boasted to his friends.
“Bonnie, darling,” Black said. The two kissed each other on the cheek. He then turned to Norsteadt. “And, of course, you are Bram. Every time I open a paper or a magazine, there you are.” Usually, Norsteadt warmed to such flattery, but there was something about Black he didn’t like.
“Before we start, what’s this programme we are training you for? I understand it’s something very special.” Black said.
Norsteadt wanted to tell Black but he couldn’t. It had to remain a secret, for the time being at least, that the Prime Minister had asked him to “star” in a series of three party political broadcasts.
Black’s studio was an extension built on to the back of the house. It was sparsely furnished with a simple round table and two chairs. There was a microphone on the table and a camera in one corner.
“Appearance on television at a crucial time can be make-or-break stuff,” Black said. He patted the camera. “This medium can be cruel. It gives no second chance.”
Norsteadt looked around the studio. He was already beginning to feel nervous. Bonnie watched him from the next room through a small window.
“An interview can be as short as thirty seconds. Do it well and you’re walking on water. Do it badly and it’s enough to sink you and your company.”
Black’s methods were simple. He would reduce his “victim” to a nervous wreck through intensive grilling under steaming ho
t lights in front of a television camera. Then he would run through a recording of the interview, pointing out mistakes in technique, and how to correct them. Finally, through careful coaching, he would build up a person’s confidence again.
Black threw every myth, rumour and half-truth at Norsteadt, who mumbled and fumbled as Black challenged him about the big profits earned by inflated drug pricing; the way his industry tested products on animals. Black even suggested that drug companies regularly bribed family doctors to prescribe their products when a cheaper medication from a competitor would have done just as well.
Later, Black and Norsteadt sat silently in the room, watching a video of the performance. This was an eye-opening experience for Norsteadt. Until he saw himself on the screen he hadn’t realised how bad he was.
“You’ve got to remember, there are two different sets of rules in a TV interview. The journalist has to create good television – but you have to get your message across.”
Norsteadt squirmed as Black freeze-framed the moment when he wiped a bead of sweat from his face. It seemed as if he was picking his nose.
“This morning you committed the cardinal sin: failure to prepare. You allowed me to control everything.”
“But I was answering your questions.”
“The trick is to ignore the question. Have what you want to say clearly in your mind... and say it, whatever happens.” It sounded strange but he assumed Black knew what he was talking about. “And if you can get your message across in the first answer, so much the better. Interviews can be edited or suddenly cut short because of pressure from a bigger story.”
Norsteadt took a sip of wine.
“That’s another mistake,” Black said pointing at the glass. “Be on guard in the studio hospitality room. Dutch courage might seem a good idea before an interview... but it will lead to disaster. You’ve got to be clear headed.” Black took Norsteadt’s wine away and replaced it with a glass of water.
*
Companies House was an outpost of the Department of Commerce and Business. It was housed in a grim-looking office block, half way up City Road. For people like Kit Thayer, who knew where to look, it could be a treasure trove.
It took him less than twenty minutes to discover all he and Finian wanted to know about Riverdale Management Consultants, who owned the organisation, how many employees they had and details of its recent change of registered trading address from a private residence in the Buckinghamshire town of Beaconsfield to a smart town house close to Westminster.
*
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Finian said and punched the air when Kit showed him his notes.
“A small company, with just two employees: Margaret and Abraham Norsteadt. Well I never,” Finian tutted.
“Cheeky bugger,” Kit said. “He’s being paid twice – once as chief executive and once as a consultant. I bet not many people know about this.”
“They will soon.” Finian made two phone calls and then started to tap away at his laptop. Five minutes later, he showed Kit what he had written.
“Will we get away with it?”
“See no reason why not. I knew it would be a good idea for the union to hang on to those shares,” Finian said.
Kit looked over Finian’s shoulder and read aloud, “‘Shareholders in the pharmaceutical giant, Norton-Hunter, have formed a new organisation to fight recently uncovered examples of corporate greed among the company’s most senior management.
“‘Called the Friends of Norton-Hunter Shareholders, they have already discovered a series of unexplained payments to a mystery organisation owned by Mr Bram Norsteadt, the company’s chairman, and his estranged wife’. He and Bonnie will go berserk,” Kit said.
Finian rubbed his hands together. “If we can’t get him one way, we’ll do it another.”
*
In the afternoon there would be a second interview to show everybody how much improvement had been made during the day. That much had been explained to Norsteadt. What Norsteadt didn’t know was that Black had asked Bonnie for details of a sensitive issue that could be used in the interviews.
As Norsteadt finished a round of smoked salmon sandwiches, Black excused himself. “Back in a moment.”
Bonnie was waiting in his office. She passed him the questions he had asked for. “These are piss-poor, sweetie. These aren’t going to make him squirm,” he said after reading them.
“That’s all I could think of.”
“Your man’s good. He’ll be able to handle these with little problem. I want something that will cause a brown-trouser job,” he said. “You want him to get his money’s worth?”
Bonnie thought for a moment. It was essential Norsteadt was tested. If he broke down in front of Black, in private, there was no damage. But if he went to pieces before live television cameras, it would certainly be the end of all their plans. “I need reassurance that everything said here is strictly... and I mean strictly confidential.”
“Absolutely.”
Bonnie knew that if Black broke his promise, he would be out of business. From her briefcase she took a scratch pad with Kelloway and Bains printed at the top of each page. Quickly she tore off a sheet and scrawled a name. “Try this.”
Black left Bonnie using the phone in his office. She had a million calls to make.
Back in the studio, Norsteadt checked his hair in a mirror and straightened his tie. He made sure his jacket was unbuttoned so it wouldn’t look crumpled on the screen. The second interview would be perfect.
“We’re going to try something different this afternoon. Normally, I carry out the second interview myself. But I’m giving the job to someone else.”
The door opened and in walked Murray Leech. He led the team of investigative reporters who fronted the new Channel Twenty-Five Live programme.
Channel Twenty-Five was a satellite station that had opened six months before and its controversial “Live” current affairs programme had become compulsive viewing for millions. Although a “face”, Leech was not well paid and was happy to take a couple of hundred pounds off Black for a bit of moonlighting.
If Bonnie had been watching, rather than making calls from Black’s office, she would have halted the interview there and then, before Black could pass on the new and sensitive question.
Leech wasn’t like Black. He started the interview softly. There was none of the strident hammering Norsteadt had been put through that morning. Leech asked him about the problems of running multinational company.
“Your job must be enormously stressful,” he said, encouragingly.
Norsteadt found himself admitting to problems he didn’t have. He would have to be on his guard against the softly-softly approach in future.
Maybe it was because Leech’s gentle questioning had lulled him into a false sense of security. Or he could have been misled by an over-inflated view of his own abilities, but when the question came, it hit Norsteadt like a runaway train. It mentally winded him.
“I’ve read the annual report of Norton-Hunter. Could you tell me why there’s no mention of... Glynworth Slimming Clinics?”
Norsteadt froze. Should he lie? He didn’t know that all Bonnie had given Black was a simple name. Neither Black nor Leech had any idea of the significance. All they knew was that it might wind Norsteadt up. And it did.
What if he stormed out in a rage? That might raise suspicion, he thought. In the end he used his wits.
“That is a very interesting...” He started to cough. “Sorry about that. As I was saying...” The coughing began again.
Norsteadt stood up and pointed to his throat. He looked urgently around the room. “I must find some water.” Black offered to go with him, but Norsteadt gestured for him to stay there. Black and Leech could hear Norsteadt’s coughing go down the corridor.
Norsteadt found Bonnie in Black’s office still making free with the phone. “Lunch next week? Certainly, Jane.”
Norsteadt slammed his hand across the phone cradle cutting her off. “
What are you doing?” she asked.
“You stupid little fool.” Bonnie shook her head in bewilderment. “How did they know about Glynworth Clinics?”
“It’s just a name I gave them. To see how you would react under sudden stress.”
“Do you know what you’ve done?”
“They have no idea of the significance.”
“You’d better be right.” He thought for a moment. “Get me out of here.”
“How?”
“They think I’ve gone to find some water because of a coughing fit. Tell them it’s got worse and I’ve gone home.”
“Won’t that make them suspicious?”
“Depends on how you handle it.”
Bonnie went into the studio, explained that Norsteadt wouldn’t be back, and left to catch him up.
Black and Leech looked at each other. “Now what brought that on?” Leech asked.
He looked at the scrap of paper on which Bonnie had scribbled the name of Glynworth Clinics. Leech shrugged and stuffed in into the top pocket of his jacket.
“What shall I do with the video recording?” asked the cameraman.
“Put it in the archive.” Black said.
Thirty
Nathan was right. It had taken a while, but Finian managed to replace nearly all the business that Norsteadt and Bonnie had persuaded to leave his agency. Most pleasing was the fact that much had come through Finian’s own efforts and not via Nathan’s recommendation.
He was now so busy that he had to take work home at nights. He sat in the corner of the room while Emma and Kit watched television. As a reporter, he had learned to write in the strangest and noisiest places, so the television was no distraction.
The announcer said, “And now a party political broadcast on behalf of the Conservative Party.” Kiki groaned and left to listen to music on her iPod.
“Running the government is like running a major business,” the voice said. “It needs people who have a clear idea of what’s involved. In the Conservative Party we understand that and...”
“Finn, isn’t that Bonnie’s client?” Emma said.
Finian glanced at the screen. He was about to return to his papers when he stopped. There, in his Savile Row suit and Jermyn Street shirt and tie, his hair beautifully cut, was the business hero... Bram Norsteadt.
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