I’m not comfortable with this, but I’m just doing my job, he thought. It doesn’t mean there’s any substance in this – it’s just a theory.
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 each name would be for or against the proposed but highly controversial oil pipeline.
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 one 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.
He released a huge sigh as he put his head in his hands.
‘Monday’s gone already,’ he groaned. ‘It will take me a day to tidy up all the numbers, then most of Wednesday to polish up the report, before Falcus charges in and demands it,’ he added to himself, with a note of desperation.
He could not work anymore tonight at a productive rate, so he started shutting his computer down.
‘I’m due a holiday,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘It’s time to accelerate my plan for a new life.’
The information he lacked was that Maslov and Mitchell were secretly opposed to the pipeline, but the two people named 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 service. 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, practising 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 highlighted possible links to terrorist groups – and finally blamed the Chechens. That 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 subordinates and their reports.
The same thing would happen in Langley.
In all the security services all over the world – nobody had anything 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 always made him sit bolt upright whenever his eyes managed to close for a few minutes.
He quickly got ramped up on caffeine and powered through tidying up the presentation until noon. It was Tuesday, and he knew Falcus and how he worked. Jonathan had an uneasy feeling things were about to become very uncomfortable.
At precisely five minutes past twelve, just as Jonathan was printing out the entire report on the printer, the door to the open-plan office banged open and twenty consultants ducked behind partition walls. Only a wearied Jonathan remained standing. He was already holding the document in his hands.
Falcus was at the door in a freshly pressed black 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 looked at him through bleary eyes.
‘I need more time,’ he said.
Heads started to peep over the tops of desks everywhere, as people tried to catch a glimpse of the show, without being recognized.
‘That’s one commodity you don’t have,’ said Falcus.
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 said, taking a step back.
Falcus came on relentlessly.
‘A draft by your standards. It’s good enough – give what you’ve got!’
‘It’s still a draft. I’ve cross-checked the numbers; they do not add up – but the calculations are right. That was the main piece of work. There’s also a risk matrix, and a stakeholder graph which has thrown up some interesting results, and feeds one really left-field hypothesis – but that’s it!’ Jonathan moaned. ‘I’m not comfortable sharing it yet, and want it to go up and down the review committees within the consultancy.’
Falcus was a couple of inches away now and tore it out of his hands.
‘You could have helped me review it!’ Jonathan said.
Falcus was already starting to pivot away from him on his heel.
‘No chance,’ Falcus said as he headed for the door. ‘I’m at the level now where I don’t do anything myself any more. You’ve seen the management framework for people at my station. It’s all about other people doing it for me. I just yell at people like you to do it.’
He stopped at the door, turned and looked back. ‘I got a power-play meeting with one of the big boys upstairs, and this report’ – waving the document in front of his face – ‘is pressing the launch button on the next phase of my career.’
He winked at Jonathan and disappeared.
Jonathan slumped. Everyone else in the office pretended nothing had happened.
He trudged back to his desk and threw himself into his rotating chair. He felt on the verge of cracking up again – just like 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 subtle noise to signal the arrival of the lift. The silver doors glided quietly open.
Falcus Loader stepped out onto the expensive pile carpet.
He looked straight ahead at the mahogany wall to see an original romantic landscape painting by J.M.W. Turner.
I’m here! The top floor, he thought. Where I belong.
A sound of disapproving throat-clearing pulled him out of his reverie. He looked to his right to see a secretary in a sombre suit glaring down her nose at him. It was clear to her from his hesitant behaviour that he was not used to being up here.
He adjusted his tie to regain composure, and moved towards her.
‘I have an appointment.’ He said in his most authoritative voice.
The secretary looked down at a notebook.
‘Mr … Loader, I presume?’
‘Yes, yes, Falcus Loader. One and the same. And you are?’
‘Mr Willis is through that door,’ she said, as she slowly extended her arm towards a panelled door to the right.
‘Ah, right. Thank you,’ Falcus said, nodding.
She went back to her notebook, and Falcus set off towards the door.
This is it. Through that door is power and glory, he thought.
He tapped tentatively and placed his ear close to the thick wood.
‘Come.’ A voice of muted voice of authority echoed.
Falcus placed his hand on the cold silver handle and pushed through the heavy door.
As he stepped inside, the first thing that struck him was the immense size of the room. The huge space was given perspective by a large desk anchored at the far end, behind which sat an austere gr
ey-haired man in a dark blue suit.
The austere man tilted his head slightly.
‘Jurgen from Production says you have an analysis for me.’ The man asserted, his voice floating out with a timbre of subtle power.
Falcus had already started making his way towards the desk.
‘Yes, yes. Mr Willis,’ he replied eagerly. ‘I have it right here.’
He placed it on the desk.
‘Delivered just as Jurgen stated in the brief,’ Falcus said, as he slid the document across the table. ‘Everything cross-checked. The analysis expanded upon. More hypotheses generated. I’ve had the best man in my team working on this night and day to get the result for the organisation.’
Mr Willis picked it up and started reading. After a few pages he leant back in his chair, looking impressed. He had not offered Falcus a seat and Falcus was certainly presumptuous, but not audacious enough to sit down in an office at this level without being asked.
Mr Willis continued to look impressed till he got near the end. On a few pages his brow furrowed, and his eyes widened momentarily at one point before he quickly regained composure.
He read all the way to the end and snapped the document closed before breaking a smile for the first time.
‘Very impressive,’ he said.
Internally, Falcus breathed a huge sigh of relief.
‘Who wrote it?’ Mr Willis asked.
‘Ah, well, one of my consultants. With strict direction from me – of course.’
‘Of course.’ Mr Willis smiled again. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Marshall. Jonathan Marshall. I’ve been his mentor ever since he joined the company.’
‘Good. He deserves singling out as well. Very … thorough … piece of work. I predict a bright future for both of you with the organisation. I am going to send this to the rest of the boys on the floor,’ Mr Willis affirmed.
Falcus smiled at the endorsement and what it meant.
‘Thank you, Mr Willis.’
11
London, Paris
It was now Friday, and Jonathan – exhausted by working on the report, had taken a day’s leave. He’d slept most of the day and was finally starting to feel more relaxed.
When he eventually got up in the afternoon, he was glad that Harry was still at work so that he had the place to himself to chill out for a while.
A text message came through on his phone from the office saying he was due in Paris on Monday morning for his next assignment.
As he fixed himself breakfast, he decided to go to Paris early and spend the weekend there. He pictured himself sitting in an outdoor café, sipping coffee with a view of Montmartre.
After eating, he packed his bags and set off to catch the Eurostar to Paris. The journey to the train station and ticket purchase were completely hassle-free.
Jonathan’s mood had definitely improved since the report had been handed in. He could feel the stress leaving his body, and even caught himself smiling for no reason at all.
Falcus should be gone now, he thought, chasing after the next mirage in his life and leaving me alone. I’m feeling good! I’m looking forward to the assignment in Paris, doing something new and spending some time in the city. All I need now is a nice girl to share things with, and life will be pretty much complete.
He took a seat in the boarding lounge, put his arms over the seats next to him in a relaxed manner, and smiled at the departures board.
Maybe I’ll meet a nice girl in Paris this weekend, he mused. After all, it is the city of romance.
His phone rang, interrupting his reverie. He pulled it out of his bag, his body stiffened with a jolt and his eyes widened as he looked at the little screen flashing repeatedly: Falcus
Jonathan groaned. He knew Falcus would just keep calling. He hit answer and slumped lower in his seat.
‘Hello?’ Jonathan answered in a tentative whisper.
‘Hey, buddy!’ Falcus yelled. ‘Guess where I’m calling from? Guess.’
Silence.
‘I want you to guess!’ Falcus yelled.
‘I’m in a public place,’ Jonathan whispered.
‘I’m in a company jet, boy!’ Falcus roared, oblivious to any of the organisation’s information laws on sharing information in public places.
‘They obviously liked the conclusions you made in your report and I’m rocketing to promotion. I’m, on the way to Hassi-Messaoud in Algeria, just over North Africa now, should be landing in about forty minutes. Tasked with restructure of major importance. I made it! So just wanted to say, well done to you. I put in a good word for you. You’ll get yours as well.’
Like hell, thought Jonathan.
‘Hassi-Messaoud, huh?’ Jonathan said, not knowing what else to say. ‘That’s still a pretty dodgy assignment. Heard it can get a bit hairy out there. What with guerrillas, kidnappings and villagers none too pleased about pipelines coming through the village ...’
Jonathan’s conversation-making effort was cut off by a loud noise coming out of the phone, followed by the connection going dead.
He tried to redial the number that had called him, but was only greeted by a metallic voice recording saying the number was no longer available.
Oh well, he thought, must be interference.
There was nothing else he could do, and the train was beginning to board. He put his phone away, picked up his bags, and looked forward to enjoying a two-hour nap in the carriage.
If Falcus had lost signal, he would not be calling again for a good while. Jonathan could feel his happy mood returning already.
A few hours later, Jonathan opened the door to his hotel room in Paris.
The journey had been mercifully uneventful. There were no messages on his phone when he had alighted from the train onto French soil. He immediately turned his phone off again. A taxi had taken him straight to the hotel, and after checking in he went straight his room. Kicking the door closed behind him, he threw his bags into a corner and dived onto the bed to flick on the news.
When he reached the allotted channel for BBC World, he sat bolt upright on the bed.
‘Holy Shit!’ he exclaimed in shock.
A presenter in the studio was talking to some correspondent somewhere in a standard cream parka. Jonathan did not even hear what they were saying. His ears where ringing and his eyes were wide at the headline taking up the bottom third of the screen:
BREAKING NEWS: OIL COMPANY PLANE BLOWN UP BY SURFACE TO AIR MISSILE OVER ALGERIA.
Falcus!
Falcus’s last words echoed in his mind: On a company jet heading for Hassi-Messaoud.
The phone had not been cut off by lack of signal; he remembered there had been a split-second sound of something else before the phone cut off.
Was it the sound of an explosion from the plane being hit by a missile?
He felt dizzy.
Where would those guerrillas get surface-to-air missiles? And why shoot the plane down? Jonathan thought frantically.
All the international oil companies had reached a tacit agreement with the local militias. The militias could occasionally kidnap and ransom some company personnel, which the company would then pay a couple of million dollars for, as long as the groups left alone the infrastructure and pipelines – which pumped out a couple of billion worth of oil a day.
So why blow a plane out of the sky? It doesn’t make any sense, he thought.
Finally jarred into action, he scrambled for his phone and switched it back on. It immediately rang. An unlisted number was flashing on the screen. He jabbed at the answer button.
‘Hello?’ Jonathan said.
‘Who was in my room?’ asked a high-pitched male voice.
‘Harry?’ Jonathan asked incredulously. ‘Why the hell are you calling me?’
Harry Shaftsbury, Jonathan’s flat-mate in London, was a product of the English upper-class boarding school system who had been ‘tapped up’ at Oxford to join the secret service. Although secret service staff were never supp
osed to talk to anybody about what they did, the fact that he worked for MI6 was probably the worst-kept secret in British government, though nobody could figure out what his role there was.
Jonathan thought he probably did not have the nous to be a fully-fledged agent. Harry was always twitching and sweating when events became slightly frustrating. That probably made him an analyst, which was less of a role than Jonathan had.
They had met through a mutual friend, who had given him Jonathan’s number when he first arrived in London and was looking for a place to stay. Since neither of them could afford a flat in central London by themselves, and neither were ever really at home due to work commitments, the relationship worked fine. To be receiving a call from Harry now, of all times, was bizarre.
‘Someone was in my room. I can tell,’ Harry said.
‘Oh yes, how can you tell?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Traini- … I just can. Was it you?’
‘No. I’m in Paris, for God’s sake. Or didn’t your spy computer tell you that?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harry retorted.
‘C’mon, Mr Bond. Every time you call me it’s from a different unlisted number. So unless you have some information about the plane that blew up over Algeria, I have bigger things on my mind than you having moved your x-ray specs while dusting!’
Jonathan hung up on him. His phone immediately beeped again as another message came through. It was a text message from the praying mantis-looking woman in Human Resources. The message read: PLEASE CHECK IN. SENIOR LEVELS ENQUIRING ABOUT YOU.
He threw the phone back into his bag in disgust.
Falcus was dead. He could not believe it.
What a freakish way to go, he thought. Dying in Algerian airspace. Still, Falcus would have preferred that on his epitaph to ‘pissed himself and died dribbling in his sleep in a care home’.
He considered calling Conor Wright but then decided there would be no point. No one in the office would know any more than the news channels right now.
There was nothing for it but to order room service. Get his mind off things, that was what he needed. The menu was standard international hotel fare, and he randomly ordered two dishes. There was nothing else on television. His mind was still running in a hundred different directions. He was getting itchy with the room he was in, the trip, the death of Falcus, the job, life … everything.
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