Transition

by Ethan Arkwright

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ethan Arkwright grew up in South Africa and New Zealand. He studied English and Marketing. He lives in England with his wife and children.

  www.ethanarkwright.com

  By the same author

  Sub-Sahara

  TRANSITION

  BY

  Ethan Arkwright

  NORTH SHIELD PUBLISHING

  Published by North Shield Publishing

  www.northshieldpublishing.com

  First published in 2017

  Copyright © Ethan Arkwright 2017

  The right of Ethan Arkwright to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book has been written and edited in British English.

  ISBN: 978-0-9568880-7-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published, without prior consent of the publisher.

  1

  London

  He was in deep trouble.

  As Jonathan Marshall kept looking at the computer screen from different angles, he knew he had just unwittingly entered a world of deep, abiding, vexing turmoil.

  ‘Well, something’s not bloody adding up,’ he said quietly to himself at his desk.

  He jerked his tie away from his throat and twisted his head vigorously left and right to loudly crack a few neck bones, before settling his eyes on the screen again.

  Something’s definitely not right, he thought.

  He could feel ‘the pressure’ building up inside him. It was the pressure of delivering the current project on time, at all costs – or face a surreptitious firing.

  He looked up and out the window to try to clear his mind. He could see some fields on the other side of the business park on the outskirts of London. It was technically a great view from the office window, but did little to ease Jonathan’s current state of mind as a worker in the department.

  The department in question was an ‘internal consultancy’ which undertook projects for ‘the Organisation’. Jonathan worked with people who all had to be slightly unbalanced to work where they did, and endure the hours they put in.

  ‘The Organisation’ was the largest oil company in the world.

  Jonathan looked back at his computer screen. On it was a map of Europe, Russia and the Middle East. The map had lots of coloured lines running across it at various angles. They were oil pipelines: some existing, some proposed.

  The screen depicted the energy security and supply options for the European Union over the next fifty years.

  ‘What’s at stake here is the balance of power in Europe, Asia and the Middle East,’ he said to himself, as he leaned forward and tapped a few of the coloured lines with his finger.

  ‘These results are vital to the EU and to this company ... Europe has no oil and wants to move away from the Middle East as a supplier – the only answer is to run a new pipeline straight from east to west, from Russia ... but that would never happen unless there were serious political and property changes in the countries it would have to go across ...’ his voice trailed off because the results of his recent calculations on the map scared the hell out of him.

  His mind screamed: I want out!

  At times of extreme stress, he always thought about the village he came from in Oxfordshire. He often wondered how he had gone from living amongst people who were transparently honest, to mixing with packs of political backstabbers in the corporate jungle.

  He had redone the calculations twice with the same result. Something was not stacking up with his analysis against the information in the rest of the project, and he was the one who had to sort it out.

  The success of the project and its wider ramifications were all resting on his shoulders.

  It was stressing him immensely.

  Focus, dammit, he thought desperately. I need to figure this out. I need to finish it! Otherwise I’ll get fired! I’ll have no house, be stuck living with bloody Harry forever, and never get a woman! I need to find out why the analysis isn’t stacking up, and why someone wants an analysis done on something that’s impossible. I need a second opinion. From the only person I trust in this corporate snake pit.

  He needed his friend, the one he bounced ideas off – Conor Wright.

  The hubbub behind him was becoming intolerable. It was a Friday afternoon in the large open-plan office, which was getting noisy as people sensed the weekend approaching.

  ‘What are you working on?’ a voice said over Jonathan’s shoulder.

  Jonathan flicked a few buttons on his computer keyboard to change the view to another program, before turning around.

  Oh no, Tom Aleck! Jonathan thought as he saw who was behind him.

  Tom Aleck’s nickname was ‘Metaphor Man’ as he had spent so long in American business schools and as a consultant that he could no longer take part in a normal conversation. He could only speak in business metaphors.

  Tom was pointing at Jonathan’s screen.

  ‘Pie graphs showing market share, eh?’ he said in his softly spoken American accent. ‘One hundred percent of a market being the total size of the cake on offer. Each segment of the cake representing the market share of each player in the market and their size of the cake.’

  Jonathan looked back at his screen.

  He had brought up market share graphs for the international and government-owned oil companies across Europe and Russia. The screen showed a series of circles that had many segments cut within them – just like a birthday cake cut into slices of varying thicknesses while still remaining a circle.

  ‘And?’ Jonathan asked with a streak of annoyance.

  I’m under enough pressure without someone talking to me about bloody cake, he thought.

  ‘I was looking at something similar earlier today,’ Tom said, oblivious to Jonathan’s tone. ‘Thing is, the share of all the international oil companies has been declining for some time.’

  Tom pointed at the screen, at a series of thin segments in the largest circle. ‘Being squeezed by governments and oil companies owned by governments – essentially we’re left playing with smaller pieces of cake.’

  ‘Playing with smaller pieces of cake!’ Jonathan exclaimed incredulously. ‘That’s pushing it on the business metaphor front – even for you?’

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘The only way for an international oil company to grow now is to break out of the current segment they exist in – cross over to others.’

  Jonathan’s face dropped. ‘Holy crap,’ he said. ‘You’re absolutely right. You’ve just given me a massive clue to something I was working on. Thanks!’

  ‘Any time,’ Tom said, before walking away to comment on someone else’s work.

  Jonathan turned back to his screen – stunned.

  Of course! The only way we can break out of our market share segment and get more of this bloody cake is if we do things we said we never would … by dealing with people we said we would never touch. That’s what this analysis is! We could never do this proposed pipeline on our own, or through legitimate business means alone ... so why am I checking if it’s possible?

  ‘Now I definitely need that second opinion,’ Jonathan said to his screen.

  His head started spinning.

  His thoughts were now contending with the noisy office discussion weekend plans as it approached leaving time.

  To him it was a cacophony
of voices with twenty different accents competing for ascendancy.

  He pushed his chair back and stood up – everything counted on finding Conor Wright.

  2

  London

  ‘On my way,’ Conor Wright ended the call from Jonathan on his mobile phone, paid for his coffee and marched out of the canteen.

  As soon as Jonathan put the phone down to Conor, he immediately fell back to being transfixed by the screen. Apart from things not adding up, his frustration came from not knowing who he was doing this work for.

  The assignment had arrived in an email from the vice president of the consultancy. It came with just a note saying ‘for someone important’. Jonathan hated all this political intrigue crap. He’d recently begun to feel, with some discomfort, like a faceless cog in a big machine; not even allowed to question why he was working on something. He yearned for some excitement and adventure in his life.

  He felt a presence sneaking up behind him. A cold chill ran through his body as he contemplated that it was Falcus Loader.

  Falcus was a previous boss with whom Jonathan had endured a horrific experience in Venezuela. Jonathan never wanted to see or have anything to do with Falcus Loader ever again. But he had heard that Falcus was back in London and was therefore terrified at any potential meeting-point. Memories of the ‘Venezuelan Incident’ flooded over him in waves of horror. He turned slowly to see another consultant, Lambdon Jilbani, trying to look over his shoulder at the screen.

  Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief that it was not Falcus, before becoming intensely irritated. Lambdon deeply annoyed him at the best of times. Now was not the best of times. He just wanted to talk the analysis through with Conor, not deal with an idiot like Lambdon.

  Lambdon was British of Indian descent, and one of those annoying consultants who always assumed himself to be best at every conceivable conversational topic. He was in the ‘avoid like Ebola’ column in the mental spreadsheet of people that Jonathan kept in his mind.

  ‘Piss off, Lambdon,’ he said.

  ‘Oooh!’ cooed Lambdon, stepping closer.

  Jonathan turned the screen off with a jab of his index finger on its power button.

  ‘You seem a bit stressed. What’s the name of the project you’re working on?’ Lambdon asked casually.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Project nothing?’ Lambdon asked.

  ‘Don’t be moronic. Just because you claim to come from another culture doesn’t mean you have to take everything literally,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘What is it, then?’ Lambdon persisted.

  ‘Fine. Project Globe.’

  ‘Is it a global project? That is, the scope covers every region around the world?’

  ‘Yes, the clue is in the name,’ Jonathan said, the irritation clear in his voice.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Lambdon said. ‘This company is full of misnomers. Not too long ago I worked on a “global strategy for fuels” – it was neither global, nor a strategy, and only had something vaguely to do with fuels.’

  ‘I can’t discuss it with you,’ Jonathan said flatly.

  ‘Hah!’ Lambdon retorted. ‘Think you’re working on a confidential project? Mine is so top secret, I dare not even speak its nom de plume. I’m not even working here in the office. I’m on the twelfth floor – in Portfolio. Where the top secret work happens: divesting, market entries, mergers and acquisitions. I only came down here to pick up my mail and grace you plebs of a lower caste with my presence.’

  ‘Great. I’m so happy for you,’ Jonathan said. ‘Now will you piss off?’

  The door to the office banged open and Conor Wright marched in clutching a coffee; he fixed his steely blue eyes on Lambdon as he marched toward him and Jonathan.

  Lambdon’s eyes widened and he quickly shuffled towards the other end of the office.

  Conor sidled up to Jonathan’s table and leant against it, placing his coffee down.

  ‘So watch’ya want?’ Conor asked in his thick Massachusetts accent.

  ‘I’m doing this analysis,’ Jonathan explained. ‘Economics of building a new Eurasian pipeline, and I’m sure the methodology is right; but what I’m seeing as the final result isn’t adding up – or not in the real world, anyway. The main piece of work was done somewhere else in the company, by someone in Oil Production. I’ve fixed a few things, but the final result is either wrong – or scary. I want you to cross-check it for me before I take it any further. You’re the only one I trust around here.’

  ‘Sure, man. I have some spare capacity this afternoon. Whiz it through on email,’ Conor said, as he picked up his coffee and took a swig.

  The phone on Jonathan’s desk started ringing.

  Jonathan stared at it.

  ‘You gonna pick that up?’ Conor asked.

  Jonathan’s extended his hand slowly and picked up the receiver. He brought it gingerly to his ear and muttered a very soft ‘Hello.’

  His face drained of colour and he immediately hung up.

  The door to the office banged open and a man with a shaved head in a black suit was standing in the doorway. The man was holding a mobile phone aloft.

  ‘Just checking you’re there,’ the man said loudly in a deep, booming voice.

  ‘Shit!’ Conor exclaimed. ‘Falcus Loader! I can’t help you here, buddy.’ Conor got up quickly to move back to his own desk.

  Falcus jerked his thumb towards an empty meeting room nearby and Jonathan meekly walked into it with Falcus, closing the door behind them.

  ‘Who’s that guy?’ the young female consultant sitting next to Conor asked, as he arrived back at his desk further down the office.

  Conor thought he may as well give it to the young woman straight, and finally shatter any of her illusions about the company she was working for.

  ‘That … is a hangover from a previous time – they call him the “Black Prince” – he makes the deals “off the books” with people no-one else wants to deal with. With today’s legal frameworks, I’m surprised the organisation is still able to employ him.’

  The young consultant leant in closer to Conor, who was watching the scene with amusement.

  ‘What’s his deal with Jonathan?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘I thought Jonathan was one of our top guys. But I just saw him go as white as a sheet when that pointed at him.’

  ‘Well, when Jonathan was recruited into the company and ranked as “top management potential”, Falcus there was assigned to him as a mentor. In those days, Falcus was busy leading the company back into Venezuela for the third time. He had free rein out there back then. Jonathan was sent to join him in Caracas.’

  Conor sighed, before continuing. ‘Nobody really knew what went on there for a year, but something went wrong – badly wrong. It was referred to in hushed tones around here as “the Venezuelan Incident”. Apparently staff from the organisation had to get airlifted out of the country pretty damn quickly. Nobody knew why – but it was bad.

  Nobody who was there would talk about it. Any mention of Venezuela still has the effect on Jonathan that you saw earlier.’

  ‘Wow!’ said the young consultant, her eyes agog at the story. ‘I thought I was just here to work spreadsheets.’

  ‘Oh, you are,’ replied Conor. ‘The final rumour around the big screw-up was that once Jonathan made it back to England, there was a four-month recovery programme sponsored by the organisation in Sussex. He came back – and he’s still one of the best of us. Jonathan is someone the organisation has plans for.’ Conor turned to the young woman. ‘Though why they keep Falcus around is beyond me. The days of swashbuckling oil are over – he’s going to lead us into serious trouble one day.’

  Inside the austere meeting room, Falcus fixed Jonathan with his steely grey eyes. ‘Jonathan,’ he said evenly, ‘I’m disappointed, it seems like you don’t want to talk to me.’

  Jonathan had to be careful. Falcus was still vastly more senior than him and could still end his career.

 
‘I’m just very busy, my current assignment is very challenging.’

  ‘And how’s that assignment progressing?’

  ‘A tough analysis, but we’ll get there in the end.’

  ‘You always do,’ Falcus smiled. ‘That’s why I chose you to do it … you’re working for me.’

  ‘What … ’ The words died in Jonathan’s mouth.

  ‘That’s right,’ Falcus continued. ‘The interesting piece of work you’re engaged in right now ... is for me. Well, not me directly, I’m doing it as a favour for an old friend in Oil Production. Know him from a brief foray into Siberia. I see it as a simple cross-checking of something done by a spreadsheet monkey on the other side of the fence in Production.’ Falcus leant forward. Jonathan could feel is eyes boring into him. ‘I’ve got special dispensation from your boss,’ Falcus said. ‘You’re working for me on this, and nothing else. It needs to be complete by next Wednesday – or else your career and life as you know it is over. There’s a meeting of bigwigs in Moscow in the next few days to decide if we’re in on slapping some new pipelines across big sections of the map. Our company needs good reasons to show why we need to be in on that deal – that’s what your analysis must show. Nobody knows about the pipeline now, but when it’s announced in the next few days, we need to be prepared, and seen as leading the deal.’

  Jonathan visibly slumped in his chair. It was like a trapdoor to hell had been opened up beneath him.

  ‘It doesn’t add up,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Finish it, by Wednesday,’ Falcus said, standing up. ‘Or you’re done here.’ He stared at Jonathan for a few seconds longer to ensure he understood the position he was in, then turned and walked out.

  Jonathan looked up and could barely register his own reflection in the blank screen of the large plasma television installed on the far wall.

  He looked like he had just been lobotomized.