Iain Banks: The Business

'Of course, they might be rich enough not to care.'

'They were rich enough not to have to undertake all this in the first place. The sort of person who'd organise this sort of wheeze does it because they love the organising, the gamesmanship of it all, the buzz of getting away with adding a zero to their personal worth just for the sheer hell of it, not because they actually need the money to spend on anything.'

'You shouldn't underestimate the developing ambitions of rich people, Kathryn. One might decide it would be interesting to take on Rupert Murdoch in the international media business, for example. That would take a lot of cash.'

'So would buying up a plot as expensive as the low-lying property we're talking about and then what? Selling it on to somebody else who might want their own state? Keeping it banked? Whatever. The person behind all this isn't going to be able to do any of that any more; they've been found out. The game is up and the ball is most comprehensively on the slates.'

'It is?'

'Scottish saying. Are you still with me, Mr H?'

'I think so. So, let's proceed on the basis of this hypothesis then. For amusement value only, of course.'

'Of course. Thing is, there might be a way out of a total loss situation for our hypothetical miscreant.'

'Might there?'

'If the person involved were to present the deal he had struck selfishly for himself to the organisation he is part of, if he were simply to give what he had worked for to his peers, asking for nothing from them except perhaps their thanks, then I think they might be surprised — even shocked — and suspicious, but they would be grateful, too. It would be nod-and-a-wink stuff, but they might decide not to investigate exactly how this coup was arrived at. They might simply accept the gift in the spirit in which it was apparently offered.'

'Hmm. Of course, the person doing the presenting might be watched rather carefully in future by the others, in case he got up to any more mischievous schemes.'

'A small price to pay for basically getting away with the crime, even if not actually benefiting from it. The alternative is much worse. Frankly, if I were a fellow Board member I might think about making a very terminal example of somebody who had betrayed my trust so comprehensively.'

'My, you are unforgiving, Kathryn. Perhaps we had better all hope you never make it to the very top.'

'Oh, I'm not totally ruthless, Mr Hazleton. I told Stephen Buzetski his wife was cheating on him without expecting anything else in return.'

'More wasted effort, Kathryn. You could have used that information so much more constructively.'

'Call me a sentimentalist.'

'How did he take it?'

'He sounded as if he was in shock.'

'You realise he will probably hate you for ever for telling him?'

'Yes. But at least I feel better about myself than if I'd got him told on the quiet by your people.'

'So you are quite selfish, in the end, aren't you, Kathryn? Just like me.'

'That's right. It just takes a different form.'

'Indeed. Well, there we are. I imagine if I was in the situation you describe I would start taking steps to do something very like what you've suggested as soon as possible. Deliver that present well before Christmas.'

'That would seem appropriate.'

'Of course, there is a link in all this to that other, diametrically not low-lying, location.'

'I was coming to that.'

I had never felt so frightened. I thought I knew the way we worked, I thought I had an idea what we would stop at, or at least what we would stop at in what circumstances, but I wasn't sure. I felt vulnerable, sitting there in the park, waiting for Hans to return with my bags. What if the conspiracy went beyond Hazleton? What if in some bizarre way they were all behind it? Or just Madame Tchassot, and maybe Dessous, and Cholongai? That only left a dozen other Board members, some of them very inactive. What if I was up against too many of them, what if this was their power base, their stronghold? What if I'd somehow missed some crucial undercurrent of meaning and threat the previous evening, what if I'd totally misconstrued everything?

I swung back and forth, looking through the bare branches at the distant château. Maybe there was a sniper lining me up in his sights right now. Would I get a glimpse of a laser flickering redly around the twigs of the trees between me and the château? Maybe a snatch squad was already an its way from the compound. Maybe I'd disappear into the vaults and catacombs that riddled the mountain behind the château, maybe I'd end up old and out of my mind in the Antarctic base in Kronprinsesse Euphemia Land. Maybe Hans had instructions only to drive me towards the airport, and then stop suddenly at a lonely prearranged rendezvous where Colin Walker would suddenly appear, looking regretful and carrying a silenced automatic.

Was I paranoid, or just being sensible? I got a prickly feeling on my forehead and jumped off the swing, walking towards the trees that would hide me from the château on the far slope. I rang Hans on the car phone.

'Yes, Ms Telman?'

'How are things going, Hans?'

'I have your luggage, Ms Telman. Where should I meet you?'

'At the Avis office in town. In twenty minutes.'

'Very well. I shall be there.'

I walked to the Hertz office, hired an Audi A3 and drove it round to a corner opposite the Avis lot, then crouched down and phoned Dessous. Not available. Madame Tchassot then; put my side of the story, assuming Poudenhaut had gone straight to her. Answer-machine. Tommy Cholongai. In a meeting. I looked up the number for X. Parfitt-Solomenides, the guy who'd also signed the Pejantan Island deal but whom I suspected wasn't involved in Hazleton's scam. Not taking calls. I was starting to get really worried now. I actually started to call Uncle Freddy.

Thulahn; the Prince. All land lines out. Luce, then. Luce, please be there…

'Yup?'

'Thank fuck.'

'What?'

'You're there.'

'Why, what is it, hon?'

'Oh, just getting paranoid. I think I've just committed commercial suicide.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

I told her as much as I could. This probably only made the whole story even more complicated than it was anyway, and it was pretty complicated in the first place, but she seemed to get the gist. (Maybe too quickly, a part of me thought. Maybe she's in on it somehow, maybe she's like some sort of deep-entry spy put there by…but that was just too mad. Wasn't it?)

'Where are you now?'

'Luce, you don't need to know that.'

'But are you still in Switzerland? Or was this auto-da-fé shit with the Ferrari conducted in Italy, where it is probably a capital offence?'

'Hold on, my luggage has just arrived.' I watched Hans pull up to the kerb across the street in the silver 7-series. No other cars seemed to be following him, or drew up nearby at the same time. Nobody else in the BMW, either. Hans got out and peered through the window of the Avis office as he put on his cap.

I got out of the A3. 'Keep talking to me, Luce. If I get cut off suddenly, call the police.'

'What, the Swiss police?'

'Yeah, or Interpol or somebody. I don't know.'

'Okay. But now I need to know where the hell you are.'

'Yes, you do, don't you?' I said as I crossed the street, dodging honking traffic and gesticulating drivers. ' Ah, fuck you too, asshole!'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Not you, Luce. Hans! Hans!'

'You all right?'

'Shouting at the chauffeur. I'm in a town called Château d'Oex in the Vaud Canton, Switzerland.'

'Right…This isn't that chauffeur, is it?'

'No. Hans, danke, danke. Nein, nein. Mein Auto ist hier.'

'Ms Telman. You are crossing the road in the wrong place.'

'Yes, sorry. Could I just take my luggage?'