Tom Cain - Carver

He gave another look around his audience, drawing them in, making them complicit in what he said. He saw no sign of Carver, just one or two reporters who actually nodded back at him. Good: they were hooked. Now to gently reel them in.

‘Of course, no one person’s life is of any greater value than another’s. But I hope you will allow me to pay a special tribute to my colleague and dear friend Nicholas Orwell. I got to know Nicholas very well over the past few months, as he and I worked together on the development of the Zorn Global fund. To the British people, he was of course a strong and greatly admired leader…’ Total bullshit, of course: Zorn knew perfectly well the contempt in which Orwell was held by many, if not most of his former electors, but no one wanted to be reminded of that now.

‘But to me, he was a fine man, a wise counsellor and an invaluable contributor to this venture. Above all, he had an incredible gift for relating to other people, and winning their trust and understanding. Nicholas made all our investors feel like true partners in a fund whose purpose is to unite people from different nations, different cultures and different generations in a single enterprise spanning the world we all share. We will all miss you, Nick, but I know that wherever you are, you will be delighted to hear that we will not be defeated or downcast by your tragic loss. Zorn Global is already trading, and its public launch will take place as planned on Friday evening.’

The last sentence had, as Zorn had intended, caught everyone’s attention. After all the obligatory tributes, here was a nugget of hard news: Zorn Global was going ahead whether Orwell was there or not. That he, the host, might also be absent, too, would not occur to anyone.

He continued, ‘Now, as many of you know, I have for many months warned that an event such as today’s might occur. In fact, I discussed it on the BBC World show HARDtalk earlier this week. It is also no secret that my security concerns have influenced the investment decisions I have made, both on my own account and on behalf of Zorn Global and its clients. You know, even within the past hour I’ve already seen speculation on various financial websites suggesting that I may have profited to the tune of tens of billions of dollars from what happened at Rosconway…’

As the phrase ‘tens of billions of dollars’ was jotted down in dozens of notepads, Zorn took on the voice and demeanour of a stern, high-minded headmaster, disappointed by the conduct of a few unruly pupils. ‘I am not prepared to dignify such speculation with any official comment. It is simply not appropriate to consider personal gain at a time like this; people’s lives are far more important than financial profit or loss.’

If it was not proper to consider personal gain, the clear implication was that there had been some… and the words ‘tens of billions’ were already on the record, just waiting to be attached to it. Now Zorn added a political dimension. ‘But I can say that I have already spoken to the British Prime Minister and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and assured them both that, at a time when I am enjoying the hospitality of the United Kingdom, I have no intention of harming its economy. I have therefore divested myself of all my short positions in UK-listed corporations, UK government bonds and sterling.’

Fighting hard to contain his amusement, Zorn contemplated the sheer panic that would be seizing the trading rooms of banks and hedge funds as they digested the news that he’d got out of all his positions. They would be racing to do the same as the market rebounded. The way things were now, if he said he was going long, everyone would want to pile in and do the same. And, of course, he’d already taken the fresh positions that anticipated such a move.

Now it was time to show he wasn’t just about making money. He could give it away, too. ‘I am sure that this great nation will swiftly and completely recover from the blow it has been dealt today, just as it recovered from the Blitz and the bombs of 7/7. And to do my bit in assisting that process, I will be setting up a fund to aid victims and their families, to which I will be making a personal donation of a hundred million dollars.’

There was actually a gasp from the crowd at the size of the donation. Maybe in time they would figure out that it was far less than one per cent of his personal profits. But for now the headline figure would be all that anyone cared about. Zorn caught the eye of a young woman to one side of the crowd. She worked for his PR agency, and she was gazing at him as adoringly as a thirteen-year-old girl worshipping a teen idol. He gave her a flash of his best, most dazzling smile, then returned to his speech.

‘Finally, I would like to say that I have absolute faith in the ability of the UK authorities to track down the perpetrators of this appalling crime, and bring them to justice. We all have a duty now to assist in this investigation in any way possible, to do everything we can to support those who have been affected, and to carry on with our lives as normal. Terrorism must not be allowed to win. I will be carrying on with my schedule exactly as I had planned, and I advise everyone else to do the same. Thank you.’

At once there was a clamour of questions from the media, and a forest of hands shooting up, seeking his attention. But Zorn paid no attention to them. He simply gave a couple of brisk nods, turned on his heels and walked back into his rented house.

Another stage of his plan had been triumphantly completed.

Bronglais General Hospital, Aberystwyth

It was 1.15 P.M. when the helicopter landed on a patch of open ground on the western edge of the University of Aberystwyth campus, close to the National Library of Wales complex. The hospital was just a couple of hundred yards away, and Carver was already out of the helicopter and walking across the grass, past groups of startled students, before the pilot had cut the engine. He made his way to the intensive care unit, flashing his ‘Andy Jenkins’ Ministry of Defence pass at the receptionist, and walking straight by. A young, uniformed female PC was stationed outside the room where Deirdre Bull had been taken.

‘My name’s Jenkins,’ Carver said, showing her the pass. ‘I need to speak to Deirdre Bull.’

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘That won’t be possible. No one’s been allowed in there. Not even us.’

‘I understand,’ said Carver. ‘But my boss has spoken to your boss. And I mean your Chief Constable. Go ahead and check.’

The policewoman had a brief conversation on her radio. ‘Well, that seems to be in order,’ she said. ‘But it’s not really a police decision. You’ll have to ask Dr Fenwick. He’s the one who can help you.’

‘I see. And where can I find Dr Fenwick?’

‘Right here,’ said a voice from behind Carver’s back.

Fenwick was a short, black-haired man. He placed himself between Carver and the door to Deirdre Bull’s room, and glared at him like a surly guard dog. ‘I’m not at all happy about you, or anyone else, speaking to Ms Bull,’ Fenwick said. ‘She’s suffered very serious injuries and considerable loss of blood, followed by a lengthy operation. She’s a very sick woman indeed.’

‘Well, I’m very sorry for her,’ said Carver. ‘But this is a matter of national security.’

Fenwick looked at him disdainfully. ‘National security is not my concern. Patient welfare is.’

Carver gritted his teeth. Fenwick was no more than five feet eight inches tall, mildly overweight, and presumably untrained in any form of combat, whether armed or unarmed. The temptation to give him an educational slap was all but over whelming. But Grantham had told him to use his charm, so, fine, he’d try that. Well, up to a point he would, anyway.