2009 - Ordinary Thunderstorms (42 page)

“Oh, right—no worries.”

“Can I get you anything? Water? Soda? Cappuccino?”

“Cup of tea, please,”Jonjo said. “Milk and two sugars, thanks.” In fact it turned out that Major Tim was closer to twenty minutes finishing his conference call. The tea had been consumed as had the chocolate biscuit provided with it. Jonjo was about to say he couldn’t wait any longer when he was summoned by a secretary and led down a long curved corridor to Major Tim’s office.

He was still on the phone and he waved Jonjo to a seat. Jonjo examined his ten fingernails in close detail as Major Tim finished his call—it sounded as though he was talking to his wife about who was coming round for supper. Bloody hell, Jonjo thought.

“Jonjo,” Major Tim reached across the desk to shake hands. “Sorry to keep you—crazy morning. How’re things?”

Jonjo said things were fine and he was glad of this opportunity to talk directly with Major Tim as he’d changed his mind about Iraq and Afghanistan, and indeed all other Arab countries, come to that. He was ready to go, more than happy to—

The Major held up his hand and Jonjo stopped talking.

“People like you made the Risk Averse Group what it is,” Major Tim said, solemnly, with feeling. “We couldn’t have built up to the size we are today, couldn’t have such a presence worldwide, such a reputation, without men of your calibre and quality.”

“You’re the best officer I’ve ever served under, sir. No two ways about it.” They always liked hearing that, the officers did.

“Which makes it all the harder for me to have to tell you that we’re letting you go.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re off operations, Jonjo. We’re overwhelmed with young soldiers in their twenties—god knows who’s out there fighting for us—so here at RAG we’re reconfiguring our personnel. You know the army way, Jonjo: first in, first out, I’m afraid.”

He stood up. Jonjo noticed the darkness of his suit, a navy-blue so intense it might have been black, the cinched tightness of the waist of the jacket, the white shirt setting off the apricot blush of his silk tie.

“I wanted to let you know personally, man to man, not in some ghastly formal letter. I wanted to thank you as a fellow soldier. You’ve done us proud, Jonjo, and I’m sure you’ll agree it’s been mutually beneficial.”

Jonjo felt an unfamiliar lump in his throat. “You don’t want to lose old soldiers, sir.”

“We won’t lose you—you’ll be on our reserve list.” He laughed dryly. “Just in case the Yanks decide to invade any more countries. No—it’s a young man’s business now. We need soldiers with IT qualifications, telecommunications, languages, management skills.” He laughed again. “The old days have gone—we can’t just rock up and kill the bastards.”

Somehow Jonjo was steered towards the door. Major Tim shook his hand again and patted him on the back.

“There are a lot of security organisations out there, Jonjo. Not as exciting as Risk Averse, but you can make a decent living. We can give you any recommendation you like, glowing reference, etcetera.”

Jonjo thought it was worth one more try. He lowered his voice.

“I’m on to Kindred, sir…I’ve almost got him.”

Major Tim smiled vaguely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old chap.”

“Kindred—I’ve got a new lead. A licence plate. It’s only a matter of time before I catch him.”

“You’ve lost me, Jonjo. Communications gone down.” He stepped back into his office, a hand raised. “We’ll stay in touch. Good luck.”

Jonjo walked slowly along the curving corridor towards the leafy glade of the lobby, thinking hard. Something smelt, something ponged horribly, something else was going on here, he thought—such as Jonjo Case taking it right up the arse. He had said the name ‘Kindred’ twice. If Major Tim hadn’t recognised the name wouldn’t he have repeated it? “Kindred? Kindred who?” That’s what people did when they were confronted by an unfamiliar name. That was the natural expression of ignorance—repeat the name. “Never heard of this Kindred person, Jonjo.” No, there was none of that: blank stare, blank denial. Jonjo thought on, a flutter of anxiety in his chest—no, he knew who I was talking about so what was the real agenda? Why had he been called in for this meeting? He didn’t buy it—no fucking sale, Major Tim. He’d been there well over an hour now, what with the journey in, and ail-Outside the building he called Darren. He could feel a form of excitement building in him, the anxiety gone. He was experiencing the same adrenalin-creep as when you waited to go into combat.

“Darren—it’s Jonjo.”

“Jonjo, mate. How’re you—”

“What’s going on? What the fuck’s happening?”

“Happening? Nothing…I don’t know—”

“For Terry’s sake, then. Tell me. I saved Terry’s life half a dozen times. Tel would never let me down. Never.”

There was a silence.

“You’ve got two hours, I reckon,” Darren said. “They’ll look like cops, most likely.”

“Two hours to what?”

“Two hours to cut and run. Fuck off out of it. They got you, mate.”

Jonjo clicked his phone shut.

Jonjo sat and watched his house for thirty minutes, just to confirm that it wasn’t occupied, before he strolled to the front door, unlocked it and went inside.

The Dog was pleased to see him and then was clearly puzzled to be ignored as Jonjo moved carefully through every room. They had been good but not that good. Chairs were in almost their original positions, a door that had been open was closed. What were they looking for?

Then down in the garage he saw that his weapons were gone, all of them—the Tomcat, the 1911, his .870 Express Security—and the ammo. He searched for a chisel and with it worked free the semi-cemented brick in the garage rear wall. In the cavity behind it he kept, wrapped in thick plastic, a Clock pmm, £10,000 in cash and an unused mobile phone and charger. It was all he needed. Cut and run, Darren had said. So he would.

I
NGRAM FELT A LITTLE OVERWHELMED. A NURSE HAD COME INTO his room and said he had a visitor. She was swiftly followed by two young men who did a quick search and politely escorted her out. Then Alfredo Rilke entered with a bunch of flowers—full-bloomed, near-wilting roses, Ingram saw, a sure sign of last thoughts—and had drawn up a chair to his bed as the two men stationed themselves at the door.

Then he had removed from his pocket something the size of a slim old–fashioned transistor radio and had switched it on. Ingram cocked an ear: silence.

“Ultrasonic,” Rilke said. “Ambient interference—no one can hear us.”

“Alfredo,” Ingram said, reproachfully, “this is one of the most eminent and expensive private hospitals in London, not to say the world. This room is not bugged—I swear on my life.” He suddenly wished he hadn’t said that, given his current state of health.

Rilke ignored him.

“So, how are you doing, Ingram?”

“I feel perfectly well—apart from the odd strange symptom now and then—but apparently I’ve got a growth in my brain.” He paused. “My doctor suggested I had a brain scan and that’s what they found.”

Rilke winced in sympathy. He said something under his breath in Spanish that Ingram didn’t quite catch. It sounded like ‘
Madre de Dios
’. It was very rare to hear Alfredo speak Spanish.

“Ingram, Ingram, Ingram…”

“Alfredo…”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t really know.”

“It pains me—what I am about to say to you.”

“Well, I’m about to have brain surgery, Alfredo. My priorities are very clear cut. My resilience is supercharged. Please don’t worry.”

Rilke lowered his eyes and picked at the sheet edge around Ingram’s chest, then he looked up and made full eye contact.

“I am not buying your company.”

Despite his supercharged resilience this surprised Ingram, jolted him somewhat. He thought about his impending brain surgery—they were going to ‘debulk’ his brain they said—and he regained some perspective and composure.

“These crazy allegations about the dead children—is that what it’s all about?”

“No, no, no.” Rilke brushed invisible flies aside with both hands. “This we can deal with. You are already suing three newspapers and two magazines. There is a court injunction preventing future press speculation—”

“
Me?
I’m suing?”

“Calenture-Deutz is suing. Burton has had the lawyers in and they’ve gone to work very effectively. It’s a scandal.” Rilke uttered the word in a very unscandalised way, as if he’d said ‘It’s a snowdrop’ or ‘It’s a sausage’ or something equally unremarkable, Ingram thought.

“Malicious, nasty lies,” Ingram said. “It’s the real downside of our business.”

“Lies we can deal with, easy. We would have ‘ridden this out’, no problem.” Rilke pronounced the phrase as if he’d only just learnt it. His expression changed—Ingram could only interpret it as sad. “Yes, we have these accusations—every week—about our products. We deal with them, we make them go away. But this time, I’m sorry to say, there is a complication.”

“A complication?”

“Your brother-in-law, Lord Redcastle.”

“Ivo…”

“He sold 400,000 shares two days before your announcement of our buy-out of Calenture-Deutz.”

“I know.”

Rilke moved his jamming device closer.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“Ivo’s a fool, a complete idiot.”

“An idiot who looks like he knew something was going to happen. That there was something rotten in the apple barrel.” Rilke explained how it appeared from his angle, his point of view: Ivo sells all his shares. Then comes the announcement of the buyout. Then the allegations about the children’s deaths. “Did you see the fall in Calenture-Deutz’s share price?”

“I’ve been in the hands of doctors for two days. Tests, tests and more tests. I’m going to have brain surgery.”

“Your company’s lost 82 per cent of its value.”

“That’s absurd.”

Rilke shrugged. “The market doesn’t like what it sees. A board member dumping shares. It seems to everyone he knew something bad was going to happen. That there was some kind of cover-up going on in the Zembla-4 trials.”

“But there’s no cover-up, is there?” Ingram thought immediately about Philip Wang. It was like condensation slowly beginning to clear from a fogged-up windscreen. What had Philip Wang discovered?

“Of course there’s no cover-up,” Rilke said with iron assurance. “But the company is going to be turned over, now, picked apart because of your brother-in-law’s actions. Rilke Pharma cannot be associated under these circumstances. I’m sure you understand.”

“Ivo is a man with no money. He’s lost a fortune on stupid, hare-brained schemes. He was broke: he needed cash.”

“I hope you can make a good case to the investigation.”

“What investigation?”

“The Financial Services Authority. The Serious Fraud Office—who knows?” He reacted to Ingram’s genuine incredulity. “Someone really should have told you, Ingram: Calenture-Deutz shares have been suspended, the company is under investigation by the FSA.”

Ingram tried to feel rage against Ivo but, to his vague consternation, he could muster none. He felt an ironic laugh building in his chest. He coughed it away.

Rilke spread his hands. “You see our position: Rilke Pharma has to withdraw its offer. Burton will stay on as acting CEO—see what we can salvage.”

“Salvage?”

“We spent a lot of money on Zembla-4, Ingram. We have to find a way of recouping our investment. We can buy PRO-Vyril, the hay-fever inhaler, some of your other lines perhaps. Not all will be lost.” He reached over and squeezed Ingram’s hand. “It’s over, Ingram. We nearly did it, nearly. And it would have been magnificent.” He called for his two men and stood up, switching off and pocketing his jamming device.

“But what about Zembla-4? The licences? The PDA? Surely—”

“The PDA rescinded its approval this morning. The MHRA has put everything on hold in the face of this scandal. There will be no Zembla-4, Ingram. We will not cure asthma.”

Rilke leant forward and kissed Ingram’s cheek.

“I like you, Ingram. I was looking forward to our triumph. And now I’m sorry for your ill health. I wish you
buena suerte
.”

He walked out of the room and one of his henchmen closed the door behind him.

A
ARON LALANDUSSE FROWNED, THEN shrugged resignedly. “There’s nothing I can do. They won’t run any of my pieces about Zembla-4 and Calenture-Deutz. I can’t even mention their names. There are armies of lawyers out there, just waiting to pounce.”

“But that’s outrageous,” Adam said.

“Of course it is,” Lalandusse said. “But everything, so far, is pretty circumstantial, you have to admit. We have no smoking gun. What we need is a grieving family. An inter-office memo. Sure, it’s all on the Web…But so are ten thousand other conspiracy theories. I think you’re bang on to something sordid. And the legal might arrayed against us would seem to indicate that you were, but—from the journalism side, we’re stymied.”

Adam sat, thinking.

“I’d relax if I were you,” Lalandusse said. “Calenture-Deutz has had its shares suspended. Rilke Pharma has abandoned the buyout, it seems. No drug authority in the world is going to dare to license Zembla-4, what with all these rumours about the trials and the dead children swirling around.” He smiled. “If I were you I’d be feeling pretty chuffed.”

“Fourteen children died during the clinical testing of Zembla-4,” Adam said. “Those are the simple facts. And they covered it up in order to get a licence that would allow them to make billions and billions of dollars selling a potentially fatal drug.” He would have liked to have added that they covered it up to such an extent that they had had their head of research and development murdered when he’d discovered what was going on; that they had tried to kill me, Adam Kindred, because I was some kind of witness with a key piece of evidence; and that, in trying to kill me, they killed a young woman called Mhouse and orphaned her son. He felt his powerlessness and he felt his smallness. What could he do? So all he said was, “Somebody should be called to account. People should be prosecuted. Fryzer should be in jail, charged with manslaughter.”