Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

‘How about anyone who isn’t a provider?’

‘What — investors, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘Possibly. They’ll need heavy backing, though, because the up-front investment will be considerable.’

‘How about Al-Bashir?’

Johnson nodded. ‘Definitely. He’s already got a share of the Batnev system. It’s not his normal field, but he’s got the investors to go with him.’

‘Like who?’

‘Middle Eastern, mostly. They’re very traditional, but not averse to risk. And they’ve got lots of oil money sloshing around.’

Riley suddenly saw what Richard Varley had been driving at. ‘Is Al-Bashir a Muslim?’

‘Yes — as are his backers. Their investment rules are a bit rigid, but bringing communications to the masses will appeal to them. The one thing he can’t afford to do is upset the more fundamental elements.’

‘Are there any local investors in the running?’

‘Certainly. They’ve got the money and the interest, even if they’re based abroad.’

‘What’s in it for the various states in this so-called federation?’

He shrugged. ‘Control. They’d have control of the technology release, and I’m pretty sure they’d control prices and even the manufacture of the equipment. With command of the network, they could control all other electronic industries in the region.’

‘But that’s frightening. What does Moscow think of it?’

He pursed his lips. ‘I gather they’re not bothered. They’ll get a spin-off benefit, anyway… and Putin’s probably happy because it’s spitting in the eye of western conglomerates.’

‘So what would it mean for the eventual winner?’

Johnson puffed out his cheeks again. ‘God knows. They’d have to give a lot away to the various controlling state bodies, but in return, they’d have a monopoly, with no threat of competition and the backing of the regional governments. Most analysts reckon they can’t lose.’

‘Apart from having the federation peering over their shoulders.’

‘True. But they’ll still make a killing. I wouldn’t mind having shares in it.’ He looked at Riley and tilted his head to one side. ‘You know something, don’t you? You’ve been researching-’ He sat up as if he’d been stung. ‘Christ — oligarchs! Is this connected with Helen’s death?’

But Riley was already getting to her feet. The more she heard about it, the more she was beginning to see the astonishingly weak link in Al-Bashir’s grand plans: his wife, Asiyah. If the rumours were true, it brought to mind David Johnson’s earlier comment about his backers.

‘The one thing he can’t afford to do is upset the more fundamental elements.’

Once outside, Riley ducked into a quiet doorway and rang Natalya Fisher. She was lucky to catch her between lectures.

‘Miss Gavin,’ the professor greeted her, coughing wetly with the effects of another illicit cigarette. ‘How is that nice young man you were with?’

‘Palmer? He’s fine, thank you.’ It was a reminder that, once again, she didn’t know where Frank Palmer was. It was something he’d again managed to avoid telling her.

‘How can I help you?’

‘The oligarchs we were talking about,’ said Riley. ‘Could they out-bid someone like Kim Al-Bashir in a bidding war?’

‘Al-Bashir? Al-Bashir the shopkeeper?’ Natalya laughed. It produced another coughing fit. When she recovered, she apologised and said, ‘Of course — if they wanted to.’

‘But his financial backers have deep pockets.’

‘So do Levels One and Two, Miss Gavin. They could buy him without even noticing… for, what you call it — small change.’ She clearly didn’t like the man.

‘And Level Three?’

‘Not so easy. I suppose they could join forces with others. But they would then run into their main competitors.’

‘The other two levels.’

‘Precisely. They are like fleas on a dog, these people. The pecking order has its rules.’ She chuckled. ‘I am mixing metaphors, a little, I think. But people who break the rules rarely survive.’

‘But if in doing so, they go home with the school prize?’

‘Then you have a different situation, Miss Gavin. Then all the rules are changed.’

Over the years, Frank Palmer had followed more suspects than he cared to think about. He’d tracked men and women across crowded city centres and deserted suburbs; through colourful shopping malls and dreary industrial landscapes; he’d followed them through open territory and down arrow-straight motorways — even, on occasion, along cold, wind-swept canals and waterfronts. Following Varley through London proved simple by comparison. At least, on the surface.

After waving Riley off, Varley walked for a while, his long stride easy and assured, a man working off a leisurely lunch before heading back to the office. He seemed to have time to spare, wandering into one or two clothes shops, but emerging without any noticeable purchases. By the time he reached Grosvenor Square, an hour had gone by and Palmer was beginning to think he was wasting his time. Maybe he was a publisher after all, enjoying some free time. Then Varley seemed to come to a decision and flagged down a passing cab.

Palmer did the same and told the driver that he was on a company initiative test, and promised a generous tip if he didn’t lose the other vehicle.

‘No problem,’ said the driver disinterestedly, and concentrated on the road ahead.

Varley’s vehicle turned north, cutting across Oxford Street towards Marylebone. The journey took a brief turn along the crowded chaos of Marylebone Road, then turned left, skirting Regent’s Park and picking up speed. Palmer told the driver to hang back. The leading cab eventually turned north-east, finally pulling in near a row of shops in Camden Town.

Palmer told the driver to pull over. Ahead of them, Varley paid off his cab and crossed the pavement, stopping for a moment to look round before entering a glass-fronted shop.

Palmer handed the driver his money and dodged across the street, heading for a cafe on the other side. He turned once he was through the door and studied the premises where Varley had disappeared.

The shop was called MailBox Services, with a post-box motif on the fascia. It was a post franchise, where boxes of varying sizes could be rented by the day, week or month. The windows were plastered with special offer stickers and a pin-board of personal ads, but Palmer could just about make out the interior. It had two rows of steel boxes, one on each side and a counter at the back, topped by a glass and aluminium security frame.

Varley was standing just inside the door, watching the street.

‘You want something?’

Palmer turned. A jowly woman with a shock of coarse hair was scowling at him from behind the cafe counter, a dishcloth in one hand. Steam was hissing into the air around her head, drifting over a wobbly stack of cups and saucers and misting the glass on a battered display case holding a selection of tired-looking pastries. There was nobody else in the place, which he took to be a bad sign.

He ordered coffee but gave the pastries a miss on health grounds, and sat back from the window where he could watch Varley without being seen. He thought at first that the publisher was waiting for someone. But it was soon obvious that he was actually watching his back, scanning the street and the faces of passers-by. Where he was standing, he was masked by a series of posters, and would be virtually invisible to anyone coming along the pavement in his wake.

Palmer felt a familiar drumming deep in his chest. Normal people didn’t do this. But then, normal people didn’t have the training or the need. Was Richard Varley unusually cautious — or something else entirely?