Taffin on Balance

  Activity in the yard below diverts his attention. A huge articulated truck pulls in through the gates and stops under his window. Two, three men get out and open the back, which drops as a ramp.

  He watches as they manhandle a sleek white car down to the ground and wheel it with difficulty towards the barn, out of his line of sight.

  What was he doing? The phone. Let’s see if it works.

  AT THE SAME MOMENT a hundred miles away, Gordon Glennan is staring from his fourth floor apartment at the traffic snaking along Brompton Road.

  Here is London, laid out before him, a sight he would have considered idyllic at one time; now a tableau vivant of infinite loneliness.

  ...That is the land of lost content,

  I see it shining plain;

  the happy highways where I went

  and cannot come again.

  When did he consign that to memory? Long ago, in more innocent times. He wanders through the empty rooms, stopping at another window, gazing out. Strange how easy it seemed to rise through the ranks and float on the surface, buoyed up by wealth, influence and plenty of time to enjoy it.

  Now he daren’t show his face outside for fear of – what? The press? Not yet: the StarTrack story is still easy enough to explain away, and will be until the truth comes out, as he is sure it must.

  What then? The fear is real, a lead weight inside him. He has dipped his toe in a world of criminality that’s going to drag him down while Frey-Morton walks away, tramples more lives, makes other fortunes.

  Legal or lethal? You have to be involved to know the difference.

  His own wife will bury him with a smile, with hardly a flicker behind those drooping eyelids. But is she any safer than he is? Glennan closes his eyes. Janice lives on cold confidence – and by Frey-Morton’s code, loose talk kills.

  And there’s the root of it. Forget the press; never mind the disgrace; a deadly threat stalks him now and there’s no safety in this apartment or out on the street.

  Sounds in the hallway. Something happening in the next apartment or someone at his door? The walls seem to be closing in and there’s no time for caution. He grabs his coat and marches out, not looking to right or left.

  The mirror in the lift shows the face of a hunted man, collar turned up.

  Through the foyer: did two seated figures rise to their feet as he passed by?

  Out to the seething street with a backward glance – not sure if he was followed. A taxi; where’s a taxi when you need one? Where to anyway? Not thinking straight. A member of HM Government not thinking straight. Arm raised by tribal instinct and a taxi pulls up, disgorging an elderly couple who fumble for change while he stands close and leaps in as soon as they move from the door, leaving them wondering if that heavy-breathing pushy bastard was What’s-his-name, the Minister of... whatever.

  The driver leaning an ear for instructions. Name a place, anywhere.

  ‘Lancaster Hotel.’

  A man’s face stooping to look in at him as the taxi pulls away. Was that face in the foyer as he went through?

  ‘Lancaster Hotel it is...’ The driver has recognized him and wants to talk. ‘So you’re not going to waste billions on that StarTrack, then? Thought better of it?’

  Glennan makes vague acknowledgement and pulls out his mobile in self-defense. And it comes to him, like the slap of a distant shock-front, that there is no one who would want to hear from him.

  ‘WAVE TO THE CAMERA, MISTER SHERMAN, we can see you.’ Kath watches her screen as the old man turns on unsteady legs until he is looking right at her.

  ‘You can really see me?’ Bob Sherman waves the iPhone at her and advances with a benign smile. ‘This gadgetry is truly extraordinary.’

  ‘What can we do for you, Mister Sherman? Is everything alright?’

  ‘Yes, yes, never better. I thought it might be worth telling you about what’s happening here. There hasn’t been much going on for a while, in fact that’s something of an understatement, it’s been wonderfully peaceful.’

  ‘I’m happy to hear it.’ Kath glances at Charlotte, who has moved up to look over her shoulder. ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘Some people have turned up in a large lorry that contained a white motor car. I couldn’t really describe it but I suppose it’s another of those rare and valuable machines you and your friends were working on. They’ve just wheeled it into the barn.’

  ‘Are the people still there? Could you describe any of them?’

  ‘Three chaps in overalls. I can’t see their faces because I’m looking down on them. I think they’re leaving now – do you want me to check?’ He turns and shuffles to the window. ‘Yes, the lorry is driving away. One of the fellows has just closed the gate, and they’re off. It’s all peace and quiet again.’

  Charlotte takes over from Kath. ‘Thank you for letting us know, Mister Sherman. Are you sure they’ve all gone?’

  ‘I can’t see anybody. I must say, I’m quite proud of myself for getting this phone to work – and you can really see what I’m doing, can you?’ Bob makes an attempt at a dance step, turning slowly.’

  ‘We’re following every step. That was very elegant.’

  ‘Thank you. I used to be rather good.’

  ‘You haven’t lost it. Is there anything else we can do for you?’

  ‘I’ll be happy to see any of you when you’re passing this way.’

  ‘We will be very soon, Mister Sherman.’

  ‘Bob – call me Bob.’

  ‘Thank you Bob. One or other of us will be with you before you know it.’ Charlotte turns to Kath. ‘Where’s Himself gone – he’ll definitely want to know about this.’

  Kath looks out of the window. ‘The Mustang’s still here so he must be around somewhere.’

  ‘No – he’s off again.’ Charlotte has caught a glimpse of the Jeep heading away along the lane. ‘Why can’t the bugger ever tell me where he’s going?’

  TAFFIN WALKS INTO THE LOW-LIT BAR at the Lancaster Hotel and pauses. The place is practically empty but for a bow-tied barman and a scattering of transitory guests; no regulars in a bar like this.

  Gordon Glennan, hiding in a corner behind a copy of the FT, cockles a page to check out the new arrival’s silhouette: a slab of dark suit and that characteristic slightly bow-legged walk. A sigh of relief.

  A moment later Taffin is sitting beside him without apparently having covered the distance.

  Glennan peers round his paper. ‘You move fast for a heavyweight.’

  ‘You called me. You sounded desperate.’

  ‘I didn’t know who else to contact.’

  ‘I’ll ask the same question as last time we met –’ Taffin speaks without looking at him – ‘what am I here for?’

  ‘I’m being followed.’

  ‘What d’you want me to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m being watched. I can feel it.’

  ‘Recognise anyone in here?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I came in a cab and I didn’t see anyone follow me in.’

  ‘So whoever it is, you’ve lost them.’

  ‘It looks like it, for the moment – but I can’t stay here all day. I’m expected to show my face in various places, but I don’t feel secure enough to do that.’ He peers gloomily around the room. ‘I thought you might be able to come up with an idea.’

  ‘Time we was going.’ Taffin hands him a bunch of keys. ‘Get down to the car park. Look for a grey Jeep – the number’s with the keys – get in and wait for me. Take your time. Move slowly.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Just do as I say, Minister.’

  Taffin watches while Glennan rises to his feet, folds his paper and walks too quickly to the door, stumbling on the shallow stairs on his way o
ut.

  When he is out of sight, Taffin orders a beer at the bar and allows himself time to enjoy it. When he is sure no one followed Glennan out, he pays and leaves.

  The Jeep is two levels down and he takes his time reaching it. Glennan is sitting in the back, shielded by his paper, and starts visibly as Taffin gets in.

  ‘Was I followed?’

  ‘Only by me.’

  ‘You probably think I’m paranoid.’ Glennan now feels secure enough to let irritability show. ‘There was definitely someone around all the time I was at the apartment. No doubt about that – I could practically hear them breathing through the door at one stage, you know what I mean? Nothing you could put a finger on but you can sense when someone’s paying close attention. I felt unsettled all the time I was there.’

  ‘You’re used to having the press underfoot. No one’s interested now and you can’t get used to it.’

  ‘Alright, you’ve had a wasted journey. I apologise.’ Glennan folds the paper and shoots Taffin a bleak look. ‘Just take me back to Knightsbridge and I’ll lie up in the apartment in the hope that eventually I’ll feel safe enough to show my face in public.’

  Taffin turns to face him, one arm along the back of the passenger seat. ‘I don’t know if you’re paranoid, Gordon, but you’re not safe. You need to disappear for a while.’

  ‘How can I disappear? I’ve got nowhere to go.’

  ‘That’s why you called me. Sit back, read your paper and don’t ask questions.’

  THREE MEN STAND AT THE RAIL watching the yacht’s wake cut a milky trail on the lead-grey swell of the Atlantic.

  ‘Looks like we’re turning.’ Silver has got used to shouting over the rush and hiss of the ocean; he steadies himself against the steady rise and fall, still inclined to hang on to anything solid in spite of his painful right arm.

  ‘It’s necessary.’ The crew member to his left speaks English with an accent Silver can’t identify. The man at his right shoulder hardly speaks at all.

  The wake, usually straight as an iron track, has described half a circle. The darkening eastern sky that should be behind them is now to their right.

  ‘I don’t pretend to be a navigator –’ Silver sets his glistening teeth against the wind as the ocean sucks and heaves – ‘but we seem to be heading back the way we came. Have we got a problem?’

  ‘We make full circle. It’s necessary.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what worries me –’ Silver is serious now – ‘we’ll be in the Virgin Isles any day now I and I still haven’t been briefed on what I’ll be doing when we get there.’

  ‘Plenty of time.’

  ‘For you, maybe. I still don’t know what I’m expected to do and I need to think about it, so chop chop – let’s get on with it.’ Silver glances at the wake again. ‘And you still haven’t explained why we’re going in a circle.’

  ‘It’s routine – safety practice.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Silver holds tight to the rail. ‘What’s going round in circles got to do with safety?’

  ‘When there’s a man overboard we make a circle to look for him and maybe rescue him if he’s lucky. It’s correct safety procedure. Regular practice is important.’

  ‘I don’t see that going round in circles takes any practice – give me the wheel and I could do it. This is a fucking waste of time – there’s no man overboard and if there was, they wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance in the dark – so straighten this thing out and get me to where we’re going.’

  ‘Be patient one minute more.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to be patient, pal. I’m the VIP on this trip, and I’d be obliged if you’d remember it.’

  ‘This is true.’ The man to Silver’s left nods briefly to the man on his right.

  Silver aware of a silent exchange.

  A hard hand under each armpit heaving him up – feet clear of the deck.

  A moment’s realization – teeth barred, eyes wide, a half gasp snatched in the air, hands spread to claw the wind, body turning over one last time, impact on water like a sheet of steel. All sense frozen.

  THE MAP, printed on carpet tiles, takes up most of the floor space in this otherwise featureless hotel room.

  Daniel Frey-Morton paces along two sides of it and walks to the middle.

  ‘Ten by ten. Do you know what you’re looking at?’

  ‘I’ve never seen a map you can walk on. That’s Stoleworth behind you, isn’t it? And you’re standing on Lasherham.’ Janice Glennan steps carefully across the detailed landscape. ‘I’m standing... in a field five or six miles away.’

  ‘Rather more, in a Westerly direction. Mostly open country at the moment. A new metropolis by the time we’ve finished.’

  ‘But Daniel, this is huge. It’s unthinkable.’

  ‘To some people.’

  ‘How do you expect to develop an area this size?’

  ‘A step at a time –’ Frey-Morton paces the floor again – ‘with patience, purpose and clear thinking. Now perhaps you begin to realise what real money is for.’

  ‘This carpeting can’t have been cheap.’

  Frey-Morton turns a cold stare on her. ‘Understand, we’re talking about money as a simple tool. In the right hands it becomes limitless. It redefines ownership, thus reserving control for visionaries. Not one person in ten million has any grasp of that.’

  ‘You want your own town.’

  ‘Towns become cities – and I’ve no intention of living in it.’

  ‘A soulless new town, then.’

  ‘I imagine it will appeal to a high-energy market – entrepreneurial people, apartment-dwellers who prefer to base themselves in a town that never sleeps with every amenity close at hand – shopping malls, fitness centers, gaming and gambling facilities, hotel and conference complex –’ Frey-Morton is pacing now, head down – ‘and a prime attraction to put the scheme on the map – the most complete classic motor museum in the country. Planning will require a concession to what they call affordable housing, but that will add an interesting dynamic.’

  ‘Well, what can I say?’ Janice looks for somewhere to sit; the furniture has all been pushed against the walls. ‘Most people would call this insanity.’

  ‘Your husband would, I’m sure. He reached his limits long ago. What about you?’

  ‘Am I part of this?’

  ‘You will be instrumental. Think of yourself as venture capital. Beyond that, it depends how you handle yourself.’

  ‘I’ve already handled my husband. I hope you’re suitably impressed.’

  ‘You enjoyed it. He’s a broken man now. That’s life – he’s served his purpose.’

  ‘He has the Knightsbridge apartment at his disposal. He’ll be alright.’

  ‘If he survives. Men in public life are a fragile species. As for you, you’re overdressed; and I need the touch of silk. You must choose which bit of the county you want to fuck over.’

  ‘WHERE TO, MISTER MORTON?’ Dean Elton takes his seat behind the wheel and inclines an ear for instructions.

  ‘Portsmouth. I shall be at sea for a while. In the meantime I need you to do some tidying up.’

  ‘Just say the word, Mister Morton.’

  ‘I understand Gordon Glennan has gone missing. You know him by sight. Find him, as a matter of urgency, whatever it takes.’

  ‘Right, Mister Morton.’

  ‘I have no use for amateurs. The men who were watching him clearly didn’t take their work seriously enough. You’ll liaise with them, use them as you see fit.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Gordon Glennan is a weak man with the capacity to do a lot of damage. His political career is finished and he lacks the moral fiber
to cope with his inevitable public disgrace. I do not expect him to survive.’

  ‘Elton nods slowly. ‘I understand.’

  ‘His wife may be useful in locating him but if she can’t help, feel free to think of her as collateral damage.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Now we come to Mister Taffin. I don’t believe you’ve met him yet.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘It’s time he was out of the way.’

  ‘Whatever it takes, Mister Morton?’

  ‘An elegant outcome would be preferable. Right now he’s looking for a rare car – a Cord. He will soon know where to find it and when he does he’ll want to drive it himself. I don’t expect him to get far. Look in the glove-box beside you – what do you see?’

  Elton leans to flip open the glove-box, takes out a mobile phone and holds it up. ‘A white smart phone.’

  ‘A white smart phone.’ Frey-Morton looks away. ‘It has the Cord’s number. Text 812 and the driver will get the surprise of his life.’

  ‘Understood.’ Elton takes a moment to prioritize. ‘What will you expect of me after that?’

  ‘I will expect you to take early retirement.’

  Elton says nothing for a moment, then risks a look over his shoulder at his boss. ‘I’ll need to work, Mister Morton. I’m not a wealthy man.’

  ‘You will be. A package has been put in place so you will never have to work again.’

  A taut silence while Elton casts around for words, then: ‘I don’t know what to say, Mister Morton. That’s more than I could ever have asked for.’

  ‘You didn’t ask. You will earn it. There are conditions.’

  ‘Of course, Mister Morton. May I say, it’s a privilege...’

  ‘If I should require your services in the future I’ll expect you to respond immediately. Be assured I will always know where to find you. That aside, your time will be your own to enjoy – with unlimited resources. I take it you accept.’

  ‘Of course, Mister Morton.’

  ‘Drive on.’