Authors: Graham Lancaster
Payback
Copyright © Graham Lancaster
2014
The right of Graham Lancaster to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1997 by Hodder and Stoughton.
This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
To William and Lynda...
The
author is grateful for permission to reproduce the DNA ‘recipe’, from page 3 of
The
Thread
of
Life
, by Susan Aldridge, published by Cambridge University Press, 1996.
Allan Calder put down the file and looked inquisitively at the younger man. ‘A seemingly stateless black male. North African. Or possibly Angolan. Washed up on the banks of the Tagus,’ he said in his soft Highlands burr. ‘It’s a matter for the Lisbon police. Possibly Europol. But not us.’ As chief of MI6, the UK’s Secret Intelligence Service, he spent much of his time keeping well out of other people’s messes. There was more than enough to do on his dwindling budget.
Neil
Gaylord looked uncomfortable, but he was there at the suggestion of his director, Calder’s own number two. Despite this he knew he was telling his chief something he did not want to hear. ‘Since that report, I’ve had details of the post-mortem. Technically, the cause of death was drowning. With concussion from the fall a contributory factor. Forensic evidence from his clothes, shoes and hands has identified paint and rust from the Lisbon Almada suspension bridge. That and the drift of the body point to him jumping. Or being pushed.’
The
Scot’s attention span was notoriously short. ‘Drowning. Suicide. Whatever. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out, man.’
‘
Yes, chief.’ But even now he paused a few moments longer before attempting to make his case. ‘He jumped in a state of near delirium—hours, maybe just minutes before he would have died anyway. By choking. You see, sir, he’d been subjected to a mild dosage of some new genetic strain of botulinum toxin.’
Now
at last he definitely had Calder’s full attention. ‘So. It’s true. It’s bloody true! Those supplies
were
for weapons development.’ One of the Service’s best sources of intelligence came from banks and certain materials suppliers, companies briefed to report any unusual or suspicious orders or transfers. In this instance a chemical firm had informed them some months earlier of an order from Lisbon for a highly specialised biological agent: a catalyst growth medium. Its only uses were in the manufacture of a type of fertiliser—or for biological weapons. They had informed the Portuguese, whose inspectors had twice made unannounced visits to the plant buying the stuff. Each time, however, they had found evidence only of the perfectly legitimate production of experimental fertilisers.
‘
And I’m afraid that
this
most certainly makes it our business.’ Gaylord passed over the order for another supply of the biological agent.
‘
Same as before?’
He
nodded. ‘Sir James Barton, and his genetics company, Temple Bio-Laboratories Inc.’
Calder
sighed. ‘I knew Barton semi-socially a little. Before his fall from grace. When he was still a junior Foreign Office Minister.’
‘
What was he like?’ The chief almost seemed to be confessing, clearing his conscience of his acquaintance with the controversial man.
‘
It was difficult to know what to make of him. He was always the loud man at the party. You know the type. Women loved him. He drew them like a magnet. Amazing to watch, actually. But there so obviously had to be another side to him. He’s very bright, and you just knew all that hail-fellow-well-met stuff was a front. You sensed he was keeping a large part of himself hidden behind it. When he went bust—that’s what, some four years ago now?—I figured that he’d finally revealed all there was to him. A pushy, minor aristocrat trying to bolster depleted family coffers. Sailing close to the wind in high-risk deals. Brilliant businessman. Eye for the main chance. But no worse. It seems I was wrong. Perhaps all this Lisbon business is letting the mask slip for the first time.’
‘
What should we do?’
‘
Given who he is, or was...I’ll have a word myself with DGSS, and see what new they may have on him. There are still probably some political sensitivities around. Ex-Minister and all that. You alert Lisbon Station and get an agent inside Barton’s Oeiras operation. That shouldn’t be too hard, it’s full of ex-pats out there around Cascais. And let’s recruit someone very close to Barton. Someone who should really know what’s going on. His Finance Director, or someone like that.’
‘
The Recruiter?’
Calder
was always amused by his old friend’s new Service nickname. ‘Absolutely. It’s a perfect job for the Recruiter. Drag old Perry Mitchell away from his cocoa and slippers and task him to find someone. And this time—tell him from me, not to get this one shot!’
Gaylord
laughed. ‘I’ll quote you on that, chief.’
‘
Do that.’ Calder smiled fleetingly back, but it was clear his mind was already on other things.
The Château Mouton-Rothschild from the legendary year 1945 showed a little brown edge with age in his uncut, paper-thin crystal glass. As if to draw a line under six years of butchery, the soils, sun and rains of Bordeaux that year had conspired to produce its finest vintage ever.
Sir
James Barton, Bt., first nosed, then tasted it reverentially, finding eucalyptus, cinnamon, ginger, blackcurrant and still enough tannin left to keep the great wine great for a further half-century. But given what he had paid at auction—£10,000 a bottle, over £1,500 a glass—it damn well should be special, he thought to himself. And that was the entire point. This dinner had to be the most memorable, most conspicuously expensive event in the lives of these four extraordinarily powerful men. Men whose own wealth and influence was the match of any medieval despot. Men whose drugs cartels supplied or controlled two-thirds of the world’s cocaine trade.
The
vast dining hall of the castle was decked with Germanic heraldic flags and bunting, and two huge open fires blazed at each end, billowing smoke periodically across the torch-lit room. Eight embarrassed-looking young men, four on each side, dressed in pantaloons and striped tunics, were holding colourful standards copied from those used at the Palio in Sienna. Seemingly identical-looking, gorgeous serving wenches—each wearing a flaxen wig with plaited tails, flowing waisted dresses and displaying acres of suck-me, wet-nurse cleavage—waited on table. Two were allocated to each guest, there to attend to their every need. Now, and in mock
droit
de
seigneur
, later...
This
heraldic bouillabaisse was exactly the effect that Barton wanted. He had paid a film-set designer to dress and light the mock Spanish castle, built in the 1930s by an American media mogul, and re-create the baronial Europe of Ruritania up there in the hills behind Acapulco. Style and Old World money were, he knew, his strongest cards with these world-weary men. His own hereditary baronetcy, his Eton, Oxford and Guards background, along with his handsome, tall, aristocratic bearing, his accent and rich, deep voice added up to the one thing they each lacked. Class. But if their money could not themselves buy class, it sure as hell had enabled them to buy him.
Standing
up to his full height, he gently tapped the table with the Masonic ring on the little finger of his left hand, calling for their attention. At six foot two and sixteen stone, he cut a powerful figure. His baronet’s badge hung from miniature-wide ribbon under the collar, close up below the black tie to his dinner jacket. Under his thick fair hair, his piercing blue eyes shone with enthusiasm. The small, up-turned nose and the way his upper teeth always seemed to show gave him an Irish look, and there was a distinctive dimple cut deeply in his chin.
‘
Gentlemen,’ he boomed. ‘This has been your fourth meeting together, since Aruba. And only my second with you as a group since being appointed your—what may I call myself?—your chief operating officer. I think the figures I presented to you earlier covering our first six months trading fully demonstrate the wisdom of your decision to form the Aruba Mutual Alliance, formalising the existing trading relationships between your great organisations, and developing them further, for greater profit and mutual protection.’ He spoke slowly, using even clearer diction than usual, knowing the Burmese Warlord had only basic English. ‘Building on the foresight of our Colombian brothers in calling your first ever joint meeting in Aruba, you now have a highly sophisticated international trading company, and an exciting business plan to drive us forward to even greater success. With me as your first—and I hope long-serving!—CEO.
‘
Our annualised combined sales turnover is running at some $300 billion a year. That’s bigger than the national income of many countries. And the treasury management of your huge cash flow is now as efficient as that of any major corporate, as my figures showed.
‘
But no less important is combining our strength to fight the biggest threat any of you have yet faced, from the new US-sponsored anti-drugs taskforce. From the trade sanctions imposed on your governments. And from new sequestration and deportation powers. You have charged me to develop a plan to counter this. Fast. We need to send a shock wave that will be felt across the world. The US President, especially, must learn that you are not mere local criminals or gangsters, but a significant and highly organised world force. I will not fail you. You have my pledge...
‘
All that’s for the near future. But for now, tonight, gentlemen, please join me in a toast. Your glasses have been filled with the finest wine any man has ever drunk.’
On
cue, the serving wenches came forward to hold back the chairs of their charges, indicating that they should stand. Getting up uncertainly, the four men cut an odd sight. Each was wearing a dinner suit, although the young Mexican—the one extrovert amongst them—had already taken off the white bow tie to his white tux. He contrasted with the quiet, suspicious-eyed, bearded Colombian, the baby-faced Burmese and, the oldest amongst them, the balding, Medici-nosed Italian-American. Whereas these three could have been a group of powerful bankers meeting together, the Mexican looked and behaved more like a playboy night-club entertainer. He even liked to be known as Dino, jointly named after his favourite star and his favourite Ferrari.
‘
The toast is: the Aruba Mutual Alliance!’ Barton called, thrusting out his arm.
The
first to drink, Dino spat out the precious wine, spraying it across the table. ‘This is panther piss!’ he yelled, laughing. ‘I wouldn’t put it on my zits, man!’ He then grabbed one of his girls and tried to force her to try it, the glass at her lips, and wine pouring down her chin and into her cleavage.
The
others looked at him coldly, each wishing they could have found somebody else equally dominant in the vital Mexican market. ‘To the Aruba Mutual Alliance,’ they said in unison, the importance of what they were agreeing lost on none. As a group they did indeed already have the economic power of a medium-sized nation. Now, in responding to the threat from the US President’s taskforce, they had just voted Barton a foreign policy and defence budget to match.
*
Lydia Barton was having a good day.
One
of her team of TV buyers had succeeded in booking cheap test-market rates for a campaign the TV contractor knew was no more a test-market than he was the King of Siam. This was a dream start for their relationship with the new client. But what had made her most happy was the advance sight of the independent media audit on the agency’s biggest client, Eastern Foods Worldwide. It showed how well the media department had bought for them over the recent months. Most of the budget, over £35 million, had been spent on TV through her team. No audit would be complete, however, without one or two niggles, and this was no exception. There was the usual criticism about not enough centre breaks, which minimise channel zapping. And a crack about too much going to Channel 6. This last point was all the more irritating for being true. But, all in all, a great report for a tough and demanding client to see.
As
TV Buying Group Head in the media department of Fielding Katz Toombes—FKT—Lydia, aged twenty-seven, headed a team of six responsible for buying almost £200 million of TV slots a year at this, the London office of the middle-ranking advertising agency. ‘Philip!’ she called out.
Philip
Kerr’s workstation was just outside the ever-open door of her small office and he shuffled in immediately, his hesitant yet unhurried movements and body language faintly irritating, as ever. Lydia did not like people who walked slowly. ‘How do we come out?’ he asked nervously, nodding at the open media audit on her desk. As usual the untidy outer perimeters of her office were lost in a dark gloom at this time of a winter’s afternoon. She never switched on the overhead lights, and used instead an old-fashioned anglepoise lamp, throwing a stark pool of yellow on her messy desk.
‘
It’s good stuff. Pretty damn good,’ she replied.
‘
But...With you, there’s always a but,’ he said, quite bravely.
‘
Just a little one. About your friends at Channel 6. And I’ve decided now is as good a time as any to wrap up our next year’s deal with them.’ There was a note of mischievous steel in her voice.
‘
Don’t squeeze them too hard,’ he warned. ‘We did well out of them last year. They waived the penalty charges in October, remember? When we had to change that detergent campaign at the last minute.’
But
he could see that she was barely listening as she called up BARB data on her DDS screen. ‘Yes. But in turn, Philip,
I
did
not
appreciate getting that call at one o’clock on the nail a couple of weeks ago. With a pre-emption on the evening news centre break.’ All TV advertising has to be confirmed by agencies at least two months in advance of the screening, by the Advance Booking Deadline—the AB Deadline. Despite this, media space—like any other valuable, tradable commodity—operates in a moving market, and media owners reserve the right to take advantage of this by gazumping advertisers if it suits them. A TV contractor can tell an agency as late as one o’clock on the day of transmission that their client’s ad will not be showing on the slot promised.
Reaching
for the phone, she tapped the pad to automatic-dial the station’s Sales Director. It was the week between Christmas and New Year, and she was late agreeing the next year’s agency deal with him. Some contracts were done client by client. Others, as now, agency by agency. They had held three meetings already, the last with her boss, the Media Director.
‘
Lydia. Hi. Enjoy the little party?’ The Sales Director had a phone system that flashed on his screen the name and customer details of incoming calls.
This
kind of telecom wizardry was, Lydia felt, efficient, but definitely iffy. ‘The little party was fun.’ Of course there had been nothing remotely ‘little’ about the station’s Christmas bash for its largest customers. First-class air tickets and an overnight in Los Angeles, taking in being filmed as extras in a bar scene for an episode of the latest cult half-hour sit-com, followed by dinner with the to-die-for cast members. Channel 6, the
Daily
Mail
and
Reader’s
Digest
were all famed for laying on great client entertainment. But for the lucky recipients, understatement went with the territory. Unshockable was cool. Been there, done that was
de
rigueur
.
‘
And just wait ’til you get the TVRs for Christmas Eve and Day. It’s going to be terrific. Just like I said.’ The analysis of viewing figure for programmes was produced by media analysts BARB nine days after screening, and formed an essential part of the negotiating armoury for both sides.
Lydia
had the latest available data up on her DDS, its green glow making her look spooky in the gloomy office. The system enabled her to analyse the viewing audiences for virtually any commercial TV programming, terrestrial or satellite, broken down by area and any one of fourteen standard audiences. ‘So what happened to the new sci-fi programme earlier this month, then? It bombed.’
‘
It’ll build. A slower burner than we thought. But remember how
The
X
Files
grew.’
‘
Sure. And I also remember when RAC men used to salute my grandfather. That was a long time ago too. Anyway, that’s not why I called. We need to finalise our discussions on next year’s deal.’ Her tone had now perceptibly changed, and the hint of estuary English she used when negotiating hard crept in. Despite all the computers and sophisticated media evaluation techniques, this was still, above all, a trader’s world. A good media buyer would feel completely at home as a bond trader, or in an open-cry commodity’s pit. ‘We’ve had our arguments already about ratings. And we
still
say you’re not investing in the youth market. Cheap imports and a nightly hour of poor man’s MTV isn’t cutting it. And you know it.’
‘
But I’ve shown you the new schedule...’ He had also toughened up his attitude, knowing what was coming.
‘
Like you showed me the youth schedule in October. And it didn’t deliver! Did it?’ Time to press home her advantage. ‘Time’s tight now, and the bottom line is this. Thirty million pounds. Which, after media inflation, is up twelve per cent in real terms on last year, and raises your share of our spend to fiftteen per cent. For twenty per cent discount against market price. And promised slots. With more first in breaks. That’s it.’
‘
Twenty per cent! When you
know
what we’re going to deliver on the ratings?’ The shock in his voice sounded real enough. ‘Can’t do it. It’d kill me out here.’
‘
It’s a tough New Year we’re staring at too. Clients expect us to make every penny sweat. And a lot—a
lot
—are pulling out of TV completely. Throwing serious money now at integrated marketing. On-line, mobile, direct mail, loyalty cards, big sponsorships, customer magazines, tailor-mades with big retailers...It’s a whole new ball game out there.
I
don’t like it. You don’t like it. But our delicate sensitivities, and our bonus pots, don’t figure too high on my clients’ priorities just now. Curious, that...’