Tom Cain - Carver

‘That sounds great,’ said Nikki Wilkins. ‘Full speed ahead!’

Wentworth

Malachi Zorn had been unable to contact Nicholas Orwell during his helicopter journey. The total embargo preventing anyone revealing the location of the conference or reporting from the Rosconway refinery applied even to ex-Prime Ministers. But that embargo ended at 10.25 a.m. Immediately reporters began filing their first scene-setting stories via TV camera, microphone, mobile phone and laptop. They described the awesome scale of the refinery, the hubbub of the hastily improvised conference, and the status of the people who would be attending. This, it was agreed, was a remarkable response by the Prime Minister, and though critics would surely be quick to suggest that he was showing signs of panic (Opposition politicians and spokespeople, glued to their TV screens, immediately began drafting precisely such suggestions), there could be no getting away from the speed and seriousness of his actions.

Zorn was, as always, tracking the news channels. It took him a few seconds to grasp what he was seeing. ‘Of all the oil joints, in all the countries, in all the world, they walk into mine,’ he murmured. He frowned as he digested the reality of what was about to happen. This was going to be what was known as a Black Swan Event, a totally unpredictable occurrence with massive consequences. Except that he, alone of all the world’s investors, actually could predict what was going to happen within the next fifteen minutes.

The adrenalin started to pump through Zorn’s system, sharpening his mind as it began to process all the possible permutations of events and reactions that could take place over the next few hours. He’d skied black runs, free climbed sheer rock faces without anything but his hands and feet to keep him from falling hundreds of feet, and sailed through storms in the Southern Ocean when the waves had towered over the mast and icebergs had loomed out of the darkness like frozen ghosts. But no fight against the natural elements thrilled him as much as the moments when he took on the market and risked everything he had on his ability to beat the odds.

Zorn realized that Orwell was in very great, possibly fatal danger. He felt no personal concern whatever for the ex-Prime Minister’s well-being. But Orwell’s death would seriously complicate plans for the rest of the week: though Orwell did not yet know it, a vitally important role had been set aside for him at the Zorn Global launch on Friday evening. There was, though, nothing to be done about that now; even if Zorn had been able to get through to Orwell, it would have been impossible to give him a reason to turn the helicopter around without giving away what was about to happen at Rosconway. So his fate was sealed. And it would, Zorn now realized, be very useful if someone so famous and so closely associated with his fund should be among the casualties. Yes, this was actually an extraordinary stroke of luck.

Very quickly, and taking even greater than usual care to cover his traces, Zorn did everything he could to increase his exposure in all his most highly leveraged trading positions. He staked his own capital and every last cent that his investors had given him, and did it in such a way that his wins, or his losses, would be many, many times the value of what he had put in.

As he always did at moments like this, Zorn looked at the picture of his parents that went everywhere with him. ‘OK, Dad, Mom, here we go. I’m going to make them all pay, I promise. I’m so close now… So wish me luck, guys. I’m going all-in.’

Rosconway

Carver found Tyrrell and Schultz staring despondently at a podium set up in front of a massive steel column, ringed by gantries and pipes. It looked like a rocket on a launch pad. More columns, chimneys and buildings rose behind it. Massive steel pipes wove between them, and ran past the small open space where the minister would address the media. A crowd of journalists and civil servants milled around, waiting for the show to begin. Willie Holloway, meanwhile, was having a heated argument with a pink-faced young man in a pinstriped suit who seemed unhappy with the positioning of the dais. Carver saw a look of undiluted loathing on Holloway’s face as he caught a braying, arrogant voice declaring, ‘I don’t give a damn about your ridiculous health and safety rules. The minister has to have the optimum backdrop. You’ll just have to move it.’

The SBS men were no happier. ‘Look at this,’ Schultz moaned, waving in the direction of the columns. ‘Fucking firing positions everywhere. Enough cover to hide a fucking regiment. Even a fucking para could get a shot off before we could stop him.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but I can’t say I disagree,’ Tyrrell said, giving Carver a nod of greeting. ‘How familiar are you with the way these things work?’ he asked.

‘I know more about mining and ore extraction.’

‘Well, you heat the crude up to about six hundred degrees centigrade, till it vaporizes, then stick the gas in these distillation columns, where it separates into different petrochemicals. They all condense at particular levels of the column: the higher up you go, the finer the product. And here’s the bit that we need to worry about: every one of those petrochemicals has different properties of flammability, explosiveness and toxicity.’

‘In simple English, having a bloody great media bunfight at a refinery is like having a barbecue at a fireworks factory,’ said Schultz.

‘Well, you lads enjoy the party,’ said Carver. ‘Can I have the keys to the car?’

‘Off to the pub, are you, sir?’ asked Schultz, smirking.

‘No, just curious about something Holloway and his lads might have missed.’

Tyrrell frowned. ‘Anything I need to know about?’

‘Not yet,’ said Carver. ‘Just want to take a look around the area.’

Tyrrell looked at him searchingly. ‘That’s all you’re doing?’

‘Positive.’

‘Well, if you come across anything suspicious, give me a call.’

‘Will do… So, the keys?’

‘Catch,’ said Snoopy Schultz.

Carver plucked them from the air one-handed, and headed for the car park.

Blackpole Retail Park, Worcester

Shortly after 10.30 A.M. Uschi Kremer pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s restaurant located within a soulless shopping centre on the northern outskirts of Worcester. She had driven hard from Rosconway, cutting across South Wales and up into the English Midlands, avoiding motorways, tolls and the CCTV cameras that came with them.

‘You can turn your phones on now,’ she said, oblivious to Brynmor Gryffud’s notional status as group leader. ‘In fact, I think you should use them. Call some friends, or maybe, Bryn, you could check in with your office. Keep it nice and light, everything very normal. OK?’

‘I’m bursting for a piss,’ said Smethurst, getting out of the back of the car, closely followed by Gryffud.

‘If you guys do that, then make your calls, I will get you some food,’ said Kremer, walking beside them towards the golden arches. She gave them both a cheeky smile. ‘So… you want to go large?’

‘Looking at you, love, I’m getting large already,’ Smethurst replied.

‘Really? I didn’t notice,’ Kremer said, putting him in his place. ‘So, Bryn, are you hungry?’

‘I won’t have anything, thanks,’ said Gryffud. ‘I don’t want to give McDonald’s any money. I don’t approve of their impact on the environment.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ Smethurst sneered. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, you’re about to blow an entire fucking refinery to pieces… and you’re worried about having a Big Mac? You’ll be telling me meat is murder next.’