Iain Banks - The Business

'That's what I thought. Apparently not.'

'Hmm. That is also interesting.' She looked thoughtful. 'Have you made a decision yet, Kathryn?'

'I told the Prince no.'

'Oh. The rumour I heard was that you were undecided. Well, that might be unfortunate, or fortunate. Would you still consider the post in Thulahn?'

'I am still considering it.'

'Good. I hope you did not turn the Prince down only because you thought that we had manoeuvred you into the position of being asked.'

'No. I turned him down because I don't love him.'

She seemed to think about this. 'We are so lucky, aren't we,' she said, 'to be able to marry for love?'

This was probably as distracted as I was ever going to get her. 'Do you know anything about the Silex thing, Madame Tchassot?'

She frowned. 'No. What is the Silex thing?'

'I'm not sure. I thought perhaps you could tell me.'

'I'm afraid I cannot.'

'Then I may have to ask Mr Hazleton.'

'Ah. Mr Hazleton. Do you think he knows about it?'

'He may. Silex is a chip-manufacturing plant in Scotland. There seemed to be something odd about it. I was looking into it.' I paused. 'I think Adrian Poudenhaut was, too. I wondered if he'd said anything to you.'

'Why would he do that, Kathryn?' Now there was a reaction. She coloured faintly. My bet was that Madame Tchassot was either an extraordinarily gifted actress, or she'd been telling the truth so far.

'I hear rumours too, Madame Tchassot,' I said. I gave a small, nervous-looking smile and lowered my eyes. 'I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you.'

'Adrian and I are close, Kathryn. But we do not discuss business…how should I say?… gratuitously.'

'Of course.' I smiled in what I hoped was a friendly way. 'I was hoping to have a word with Adrian about the matter. But please don't say anything to him. I'll go through Mr Hazleton.'

We talked a little more after that. Madame Tchassot smoked a few more cigarettes.

'Telman?'

'Mr Dessous. Hello.'

'How the hell are you, Telman? What can I do for you? And why did this call have to be scrambled? Yeah, and why aren't you calling me Jeb like I told you?'

'I'm fine, Jeb. You?'

'Mad as hell.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. What's happened?'

'Damn Feds took away my Scuds, that's what.'

'Oh dear. Do you mean Scud missiles?'

'Of course. What the hell else would I mean? Thought I'd hidden them too good. Those fornicating interfering scumbags must have been tipped off. Informer in the ranks, Telman. Least you're not on the list of suspects. I never did tell you where they were hid, did I?'

'Not that I can recall. Where were they?'

'Inside a couple of grain silos. My idea. Grain silos, missile silos. Clever, huh? Thought that would be the last place anybody'd look if they ever did come snooping around.'

'Didn't they do that in a Man From U.N.C.L.E. episode?'

'What?'

'I'm sure there was a Man From U.N.C.L.E. episode where the bad guys hid missiles in grain silos. Long time ago, of course.'

'Damn! You mean it wasn't an original idea? Hell's teeth, Telman. No wonder they guessed. Never watched the programme myself. Serves me right for not being more into popular culture, I guess. One of those FBI bozos must have seen the same episode as you, Telman. Maybe we haven't got a turncoat here, after all.'

'Maybe not.'

'So, Telman, what's up?'

'Freddy Ferrindonald, Jeb.'

'Oh, yeah. Sorry to hear about that. You there for the funeral?'

'Yes, it's just finished.'

'So, Telman. Thulahn. Hazleton says you told the Prince to go to hell. That true?'

'No, Jeb. I just refused his offer of marriage.'

'Same thing to a guy, Telman. You going to tell me old Suvinder don't feel like he's been kicked in the teeth?'

'I hope he doesn't feel that. We parted on what I thought were very good terms.'

'Telman, any guy with a nickel's worth of brain cells thinks long and hard before asking a girl to marry him, and if he isn't only asking because he's got her pregnant and he feels he ought to ask then he gets nervous as hell worrying about what she's going to say. This guy's a prince: not only has he got his own future to think of, he's got the future of his whole damn country to think about too. Plus, the way the people round him see it, and probably him too, is he's doing you a big favour and making a huge sacrifice even thinking about asking you, because you're not some princess or lady or something. You're a Level Three exec. You're probably a lot better off than the Prince but that doesn't seem to be what matters to these people. It's breeding. Pile of horse manure if you ask me, but that's the way it is and the fact remains that even if we bumped you up to Level Two you'd still be just some kid out of a project in Scotland.'

'Schemes. We call them schemes in Scotland, Jeb. But I take the point. However, I think I let Suvinder down as gently as possible and I hope we'll still be friends.'

'Hooey, frankly, Telman.'

'You don't think that's possible?'

'I doubt it. You've wounded the man's pride. And if and when the Prince does get hitched and you're around, no self-respecting wife's going to let him stay buddies with you.'

'Well, I may not be there, anyway. I'm still thinking about whether to take the post in Thulahn or not.'

'So I hear. Well, don't take for ever, okay? We ain't got that long. So. What you going to do now?'

'I'm going to ask you if you know what happens to Fenua Ua once we complete the deal with Thulahn.'

'Jesus wept, Telman. You be careful what you're saying, will you? This call might be encrypted or whatever you call it but —'

'What happens, Jeb?'

'What do you mean what happens? Nothing happens. That bunch of food-coupon-grabbing good-for-nothing welfare dumbasses get whatever they can from the US, the French and the Brits before the dung hits the fan, we get the hell out and they go back to incest and alcoholism. Why the hell are you so concerned about them all of a sudden? Jesus, Telman, you haven't gone soft on us just because you saw a few sherpas and their cute little kids, have you? You might get to be our representative to Thulahn, Telman, you ain't our ambassador to the fucking UN. Goddamnit, Telman! Now you've got me swearing! What the hell's wrong with you!'

'Jeb? Mr Dessous?'

'What?'

'I suspect we're getting Couffabled.'

There was a near silence at the other end of the line. Listening carefully through the odd lilt of white noise the scrambling circuit added to the connection, I could just hear Dessous breathing. I hadn't even been sure that he would recognise the name of the French exec who'd cheated the Business out of what it saw as rightly its own, over a century ago. Obviously he did. He cleared his throat. 'You serious, Telman?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Okay. So, how significant is the operation?'

'It's at your level, Jeb.'

Another pause. 'The hell it is, huh?'

'I thought maybe you were in on it, but now I don't think you are.'

'Uh-huh.'

'But I don't know enough yet. And I can't start accusing anybody. I just wanted someone to know.'

'I see. Well. You be careful what you're getting into there, Telman.'

'I'm trying to be.'

In the evening, after the funeral and after all the rest of the mourners had left, Miss Heggies and I sat up round the fire in the little living room just off the main kitchen, drinking whisky and reminiscing.

Madame Tchassot had been chauffeured back to Leeds-Bradford and her Lear jet, the locals had retreated to the pub where Uncle F had put a couple of grand behind the bar for them to have a proper wake to mourn his passing, and Mrs Watkins had returned to her Leeds hotel. Freddy's few relations, all distant, had made themselves so, despite having been invited to stay. I got the impression Miss H was relieved they hadn't accepted. I hoped I wasn't spoiling things by being the only one to stay, and — after a couple of drams — I said as much.