Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

“Does this employee know you’re talking to his legal people?” the smoker asked.

“No. He believes he has client confidentiality.”

“Good,” the wine drinker eventually said. “We know you’re aware of your responsibilities.”

Another veiled warning, Gibran thought: clear up the Hellier problem or don’t expect to be around too long at Butler and Mason. “I’m always aware of my responsibilities, gentlemen,” he replied calmly. “Believe me, there’s nothing I take more seriously.”

“Of course you are,” the smoker agreed. “You have a great deal to offer. Which is why we were wondering if you have ever considered becoming involved in politics?”

Gibran found it difficult to hide his surprise. “Politics?” he asked. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. I’m not a political animal.”

The man with the cigar laughed, smoke spilling from his gaping mouth. “Trust me, to be successful in politics, it’s better not to be too political.”

The wine drinker laughed in agreement, but Gibran didn’t see the joke, just their self-assured arrogance and condescending belief that somehow they understood how everything worked. No, it went beyond that; they believed they controlled how everything worked.

“We’re not asking you to consider becoming an MP, merely whether you’d be interested in a role as a special government adviser. It could be arranged. You’ll find all governments are desperate for the advice someone like you could offer them, otherwise all they have are civil servants whispering in their ears about things they know nothing about.”

“Which political party did you have in mind?” he asked them.

Again the mocking laughter of wisdom from old men. “Whichever one you want,” the wine drinker answered. “Our organization makes very generous donations to both the main players. We feel a man like you could almost immediately be placed in a position of real influence at the government level. Adviser to the minister for trade, perhaps?”

“Or perhaps the foreign secretary would interest you?” the smoker offered. “We have to plan for the future to remain competitive. To have someone of influence in the heart of government would be very useful for our organization.”

“Well, I’ll certainly take it under consideration,” Gibran promised, “but I’ve always enjoyed working away from the limelight. I like to make things happen without being seen. It seems to suit my personal ambitions better.”

“Fine,” the smoker replied. “But don’t take too long to make up your mind. What we’re offering you is something very special. Remember, Sebastian, religion is dead. These days it’s not down to priests and popes to tell us who to worship. Heavenly gods are dead to mankind. It’s the gods made of flesh and blood that people worship. Urban gods. Would you like to be an urban god, Sebastian?”

Was that what these old men thought they were? Gibran asked himself. Gods? And did they really believe he would ever want to be like them, old and weak? Their power was an illusion, built on markets that could disappear overnight.

The smoker didn’t wait for him to reply. “And don’t forget to take care of that little problem we discussed, before it gets. . embarrassing.”

“Of course,” Gibran said. “But we should bear in mind that this particular employee knows a great deal about our, shall we say, business practices. If it was felt we needed to move him on, then I think it would be best to move him to one of our lower-profile offices, in say Vancouver or Kuala Lumpur. Somewhere we could still keep an eye on him. I would be uncomfortable having someone with that amount of knowledge potentially working for a rival.”

“Agreed” was all the wine drinker said.

Once again the restaurant manager appeared at his shoulder, speaking softly into his ear. Gibran nodded once that he understood.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he addressed the old men while getting to his feet, “it appears to be speech time.” They said nothing as they disappeared behind a cloud of heavy white smoke.

Hellier entered the Criterion shortly after 9 P.M., late but unconcerned. He took his seat at the table and was relieved to see Gibran wasn’t there: at least now he could order himself a proper drink. He nodded at the other people around his table, some of whom he knew and others he didn’t. He didn’t care either way, and neither did he care what they thought of him. He grabbed a passing waiter.

“Large scotch with ice,” he demanded. “And make sure it’s single malt.” He released the waiter and searched the room for Gibran, who was nowhere to be seen. He was probably hiding in a toilet somewhere, preparing his annual speech. Hellier wished they’d let him make a speech. He’d like nothing more than to tell a room full of sanctimonious shits a few home truths.

As he waited for his drink and the next speaker, his mind kept wandering to Corrigan. Hellier knew cops, he understood how they worked, but there was definitely something about Corrigan that disturbed him, warned him to be more careful than usual. He must beware of hubris, stay focused, and stick to the script. There was to be no ad-libbing on this one. Corrigan was dangerous to him; he sensed it. His thoughts were disturbed by someone in a dinner jacket and bow tie tapping a microphone on the small stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next speaker tonight, Sebastian Gibran, from Butler and Mason International Finance.” The room applauded generously, if politely, while Hellier groaned inside. Thankfully his drink arrived at the same time. He swallowed half of it in one go.

Gibran raised his hand to bring an end to the applause. “As most of you know,” he began, “I’m not one for making public speeches. But it is always a special privilege to be invited to address so many influential people from our industry.”

Modest applause rippled through the room, drowning out the obscenities Hellier was muttering under his breath.

“Thank you,” said Gibran, feigning modesty. “Thank you.” He waited for the applause to cease. “I’ve worked in finance all my adult life, but never in more trying times-times where the creation and ownership of wealth are seen as morally corrupt, not just by those consumed with the politics of envy, but by power-hungry politicians who are all too keen to appease the noncontributing majority. They assume so much and know so little.

“A long time ago, one of the richest men in the world, when he was close to death, gave away everything he had, absolutely everything. When asked why, he said, ‘There is no greater sin than to be the richest man in the graveyard.’ ” Laughter floated around the room. Gibran continued before it had stopped. “The thing is, he was right. There is no point in wealth for wealth’s sake. This is not merely my personal ideology, this is the ideology of my organization.

“Since the banking sector abandoned all caution and reason in the pursuit of quick individual profits, people have lost faith in anyone even remotely connected to the financial markets, and that includes us. We have become fair game for anyone looking to ascribe the blame for their own failings to the mistakes of others, and we need to be aware that this is the brave new world in which we all now live. Only the other day I was having dinner with my wife and friends when a woman boldly informed me that the trouble with people like me is that we have no product, that all we do is make money for our masters who reward us with money. That essentially we produce nothing. We’re never going to make a beautiful piece of furniture or educate a child. We don’t build houses or save the lives of the sick. We create nothing and therefore have no value ourselves.”