Bad Intentions Read online

  'It is proof,' replied Jack. 'Virtually.'

  'Virtually isn't good enough.'

  'Then I need one thing from you.'

  Symonds sounded suspicious. 'What?' he asked.

  'The bonds,' replied Jack. 'I need to know who is buying the bonds Kizog is issuing as part of its funding of the bid.'

  'The usual people, I imagine,' said Symonds. 'Insurance companies, fund managers, wealthy investors. All the people who buy corporate bonds.'

  'Get a list,' said Jack. 'I'm sure your people are capable of finding out who the buyers are. The ultimate owners. It may turn out to be crucial.'

  'May I ask why?' asked Symonds.

  'I'm working on it,' answered Jack.

  Once again Symonds wondered why he was trusting someone who appeared so elusive.

  'What's the price of October Kizog puts?' asked Jack.

  Symonds checked on his Reuters screen. 'Eighteen pence,' he answered.

  Jack made a quick mental calculation. The futures contract would enable him to sell Kizog shares at 670 pence and each right cost eighteen pence, meaning he would start making a profit as soon as the price went below 652 pence. He was sure it was going a lot lower than that. 'Start buying,' he told Symonds.

  'There has already been some activity in Kizog options,' said Symonds.

  'People are getting cold feet, I suppose,' said Jack innocently.

  'I'll see you tomorrow,' said Symonds warmly.

  'Fine,' answered Jack. 'And watch out for yourself over the next twenty-three hours. They can deal very roughly with anyone who gets in the way.'

  Jack put down the phone, glanced along the street, and turned out of the phone box. He began walking the couple of blocks back to the hotel by himself. The streets were familiar, yet somehow different; as if seen through other eyes. His perspective had changed, and it struck him for the first time that this might be the last day he would spend in London for some time. Perhaps for ever. Would he be saddened to leave it all behind? It was hard to know. For the moment, he was just sure that he would be glad to put the events of the past few weeks behind him.

  It was up to Symonds now.

  The silver-grey Mercedes pulled up outside the Thistle Hotel, just off Southampton Row. Shane climbed out, clunking the door behind him, and fed a couple of pounds into the parking meter. Fuller trailed along behind him as he walked into the lobby of the hotel.

  Shane doubted that they would be here. It was just a little too smart for their needs. The service would be too good; too many receptionists, too many bellhops and too many chambermaids to grow suspicious of the couple with all the computer equipment, who hardly ever went out. No. If he was in their shoes, this would not be the sort of place he would choose. Somewhere a little more down-at-heel would be his preference. There was no way of knowing what sort of mistakes they might be making, yet, from everything he had seen over the past few days, he suspected they would do the smart thing. Still, the only way to find them was to start at the beginning of the map and work his way through to the other side.

  He would trap them, he thought to himself with a smile, as a spider traps a fly; slowly, methodically and for a living.

  Patiently, Shane waited behind the Japanese tourist who, in faltering English, and amid helpful smiles and bows from the receptionist, was trying to check into his room. He glanced down at the girl behind the desk, introduced himself, introduced Fuller, and flashed a police badge; it was a fake, but good enough to fool the untrained eye. When she asked how she could help, Shane produced pictures of Tara and Jack. Were they staying in their hotel, he wanted to know?

  The girl shook her head, and said no, she had not seen them. She checked with her colleagues, and they too could not recall seeing either of them. Paid cash, probably, explained Shane. Stayed in their room most of the time. The girl shook her head again. No, nobody like that staying here, she said with obvious relief. Sorry.

  Shane and Fuller thanked her for her help. He tucked the photographs back into his pocket and crossed the Thistle off his list. Together, they began walking down the street. Another thirty to go, he thought.

  As Jack shut the hotel door behind him, he saw Tara at the computer, tapping away at the keyboard. He walked silently across the floor, standing behind her, running his hands through her short, uneven hair. With the palms of his hands he massaged her back. Below, he could see her hands slow down on the keyboard. She turned her neck, and their eyes met. For the first time Jack felt he could detect something different in her expression; a warmth and an eagerness that had not been there before. Desire, he decided. He leant forward and kissed her, their lips meeting, and in that moment Jack could feel his fears and anxieties dissolving.

  'Tomorrow at ten o'clock,' he said.

  Tara checked her watch. 'Twenty-two hours,' she said. 'I think we can survive until then.'

  'Let's hope so,' replied Jack.

  Tara had been spending the day typing up the results of their investigations into a neat, single document, straightforward enough to be understood by the bankers and officials for whom it was intended. Jack sat down at the desk, and began scrolling through her work, making occasional amendments as he went through it.

  SUMMARY:

  Kizog has since the middle of the 1960s been systematically researching biological weapons on behalf of various Western governments. It was paid for this work through the health budgets of the governments involved. The company provided perfect cover for biological warfare research because:

  - it had ready access to a pool of biochemical research talent.

  - the expenditure did not have to be disclosed to the public as it might have been in a normal military research establishment.

  - the research would be unknown to the Soviet Union, and therefore would not be a target for infiltration by agents.

  At its peak, this research was worth £300 million a year to Kizog, most of it pure profit.

  As well as researching the weapons, Kizog also tested them in the Third World, usually in local wars, to establish data on battlefield effectiveness. The testing was organised through a network of pharmaceutical counterfeiting operations in the Third World which provided cover for manufacturing and delivery of the weapons.

  One of the weapons developed by Kizog was Ator, the virus, which was extensively tested in Third World wars. It was based on leprosy, and developed from work originally done by a Dr Josef Zmitt, a defector from the Czech Republic, who had earlier worked on Soviet biological weapons programmes. As a result of battlefield testing of the virus in localised wars during the early 1980s, the Ator virus seeped into the general population, becoming a major health hazard by the early 1990s. Some biochemists working in the field had already started to suspect that Ator might be a military virus, but those closest to establishing the truth were assassinated by agents working for the company.

  From 1990, military revenues to Kizog started to fall dramatically. The company began a programme of normalising its activities, which involved transplanting the counterfeiting operation to the West to replace revenues lost from the military work. Money from the counterfeiting operation was channelled into Kizog via a series of offshore property transactions. At the same time the company decided to release a vaccine for Ator, which had been developed simultaneously along with the virus. For this purpose an outsider was brought in, to make it appear that the virus was of Soviet design, and to obscure the fact that Kizog had possessed a vaccine all along. The takeover of Ocher was designed as the last phase of the normalisation process. Afterwards the reorganisation of the merged companies would allow both the biological weapons and the counterfeiting operations to be wound down. Mr Borrodin and Ms Ling would be held responsible for those activities, absolving the company of any blame.

  'You left out the best part,' said Jack.

  'We can't prove it yet,' replied Tara. 'Until we have evidence, we should forget it.'

  The lobby of the New Bloomsbury Hotel was bare and sparse. By the desk were a pi
le of leaflets for musicals and plays, and the tourist attractions. The one receptionist was a man in his forties, with thinning hair, and a pallid complexion. He was sitting down, reading a book laid out flat on the desk.

  His eyes glanced upwards at the man and woman standing in front of him. He did not recognise them. They were not guests. A couple looking for a room for the night, most likely, he thought, although they had no baggage. In the car, perhaps.

  Shane took out his badge, and flashed it at the receptionist. He pulled the photographs from his pocket, and put them in front of the man. His lines were well-rehearsed by now, and were delivered in a slow, mechanical tone. This was the ninth hotel they had visited so far today.

  The receptionist shook his head. No, he said, he could not recall seeing them. They were definitely not guests here. Shane asked if the other staff might have seen them, but the man said he was the only person on duty tonight. He knew who was occupying all twenty rooms, and this couple was not amongst them.

  Shane thanked him and left. He and Fuller stepped out into the street. Darkness was now falling, and Shane checked the map under the light of the hotel porch. They had covered about a third of the area so far. He glanced at his watch. It was just after seven.

  'Plenty of time still,' he reassured Fuller.

  It had seemed the most natural thing in the world. By early evening Jack and Tara had finished the dossier, checked through it a dozen times, and printed out five copies. Each was stapled together. The supporting evidence had been neatly marked up, leaving an easy trail for anyone to follow, and packed up in the sports bag, ready to be stowed away. Everything was ready.

  Jack had left Tara alone whilst he slipped outside to pick up a couple of pizzas from the Pizza Hut around the corner. Along the way he dropped into the off-licence and bought a bottle of wine. If this was to turn out to be their last night together, he reflected, they might as well enjoy it.

  On his return, he found her sitting on the floor. She had showered already, her legs were crossed and she appeared deep in thought. Jack sat next to her, uncorked the bottle of Australian Chardonnay, and poured it into two tumblers he had retrieved from the bathroom. He opened the boxes, and they ate the pizza with their fingers. Throughout the meal they joked about the orange furniture in the hotel room, the cardboard taste of the pizza, and the temperature of the wine. Both of them studiously avoided the one thing that was preying on their minds: tomorrow.

  'You knew all along that Kizog was involved in Ator, didn't you?' asked Jack suddenly. 'Why did you ever get involved?' Tara put down the pizza in her hand, and looked up at him. 'I suspected,' she replied. 'That's why I agreed to take the job. But I didn't know.'

  'I'd have run a mile,' said Jack.

  Tara turned her eyes to one side. 'I was obsessed,' she answered. 'After David died, I had to find out why. This seemed the most obvious course to follow. I'm only sorry that you became involved.'

  Jack lay down on the floor, resting his head on her lap.

  'They've been planning to set me up for years,' he said softly. 'I can see that now. Since before they posted me to Thailand.'

  Casually, she slipped her fingers into his short hair, running her palms across his scalp. 'I'm glad you're here,' she said softly. 'I would hate to be doing this alone.'

  When the food was finished, they sat with their backs to the bed, finishing the wine, and still talking and laughing. Jack would be unable to recall the exact moment later, but he could feel them drawing closer. They shared more than just fear now; they shared hopes as well. Hopes, Jack reflected, of being together.

  He leant across and kissed her. Her lips fell towards him, hungrily, biting at his neck, and his hands started to roam across her body. He took her in his arms, and they drifted lazily towards the bed, collapsing on to the mattress still wrapped up in each other. His mouth ran across her face and neck, nuzzling her with kisses. She responded warmly, tugging him closer to her. She seemed different somehow. Her hair was gone, and without it the shape of her features had changed. Her body was unfamiliar. But he was intoxicated all the same. He lifted her T-shirt above her arms, and ran his tongue along her nipples, feeling them stiffen beneath his lips. He ran his arms along her back, kneading her soft flesh between his palms. Jack was aware that this might well be the last time he made love in a long time. Perhaps for ever. He was glad it was her.

  There was a passion and intimacy to her that Jack found enthralling. Though it was their first time together, there was none of the fumbling uncertainty he would have expected for a sexual debut. It had been a long courtship – too long, perhaps, Jack found himself thinking – and they were already used to one another. Tenderly, he kissed her eyelids, and felt himself disappearing into her body. He could feel her, wrapping her legs around him, smothering him with her passion, and, in his mind, he could picture them, far way, somewhere hazy and exotic. In those instants, he felt afterwards, both of them had forgotten everything.

  When it was over, he cradled her in his arms, feeling the warmth of her breath on his chest. Jack lay beside her, wondering about the other man, the one who had led her into this quest, the one who was now dead. Does she still love him? he asked himself. Or does she love me?

  The receptionist studied the pictures carefully. This was the twenty-sixth hotel Shane and Fuller had visited, and they were by now just going through the motions. They knew they would get there eventually, but each visit held no sense of anticipation.

  'I'm not sure,' he replied.

  Shane's eyes darted upwards, scrutinising the man. 'They might have changed their haircuts, or disguised themselves in some way,' he said.

  'With shorter hair, yes,' the man continued hesitantly. 'I think it might be them.'

  'Plenty of computer equipment in their room?'

  The man nodded. 'I thought they must be IBM salesmen, or something, they brought in so much stuff,' he smiled. 'And they insisted on a direct-dial phone. Paid extra for it. In cash.'

  Shane slapped his hand down on the desk. 'It's them,' he muttered. 'How long are they here for?'

  'Since Monday,' said the receptionist. 'Room 302. They paid in advance until Friday.'

  Shane took the photographs back, thanked the man, and, with Fuller, walked towards the back of the dingy, poorly lit lobby. 'They're here,' he said.

  Fuller could see his jaw harden as he mouthed the words. 'You want to deal with them now?' she said.

  Shane shook his head. 'This is central London,' he said. 'You can't just walk into a hotel room and start blasting people away. Creates a nasty atmosphere.'

  'Later,' suggested Fuller.

  'Yes,' replied Shane. 'Let them rest. We know they are coming out. And I know how to deal with them in the morning.'

  TWENTY-SIX

  The sleek, blue, chauffeur-driven Daimler had turned in from the M25 and was heading towards the City. Inside, a glass partition separated the driver from the Chairman and his finance director, and the shaded windows protected them from the early morning sunshine. The Chairman was flicking through the morning's papers, reading the financial pages; they were all predicting an easy victory for Kizog when the deadline for acceptances of its offer by Ocher shareholders passed at noon today. The Chairman savoured every word, and smiled discreetly to himself as he read. 'The merged company will be dominant within its industry, and will be one of the most powerful private corporations in the world,' said the Telegraph. Quite so, he thought to himself. And more than anything else, it will be mine.

  For the first time in days the Chairman felt composed and relaxed. He had spoken to Shane late last night and learnt that the last obstacle had been trapped. Soon they would be dealt with. And by noon, everything would be perfectly in place. He would enjoy lunch today. There would be much to celebrate.

  He checked his watch. It was just after nine. Plenty of time. Picking up the mobile phone, he keyed in the number of the one person he wanted to speak to. After two rings, Shane answered. 'Is it done yet?'

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p; 'Not yet,' replied Shane. 'They haven't come down yet. But they will soon. They don't have much time left if they are to make that meeting.'

  'Let me know when you have them.'

  'Right.'

  Shane folded the mobile back into his pocket. He had booked a couple of rooms at the hotel; it was unlikely that Tara and Jack would try to move in the night, but he didn't want to take any chances. He had sent Fuller off the get some sleep, while he waited in the lobby, sitting on one of the sofas, keeping his eyes firmly peeled on the staircase and the lift. At three, Fuller had come downstairs, and he had slipped upstairs to get some sleep. By five-thirty, refreshed and feeling fit, he had come back down, sipping on a series of coffees, and smoking his way through half a packet of cigarettes, whilst he watched and waited. There were no Camels in the hotel machine, so he had switched to Rothmans. Apart from that he felt fine. Just fine.

  Jack woke first. He looked at his watch and saw that it was just after seven-thirty. No hurry, he thought. There was plenty of time. He reached out across the bed, feeling her body, warm and comforting and asleep. His kisses woke her, and her eyes opened slowly. She greeted him with a smile, and tugged him close to her body. For ten minutes they just lay there, holding on to one another, reluctant to let go, enjoying a few brief moments of security.

  Rising from the bed, Jack showered, and ordered some breakfast. Whilst Tara was washing, he drank a coffee and read once more through the dossier they had prepared. He felt good. The work was convincing. The evidence was all there. And there should be nothing that could go wrong now. For the first time in weeks, he was starting to feel calm and composed. By lunchtime today, he reflected, all of this would be over. They would be free. They would be rich. And they would be together.

  Tara joined him, and they ate breakfast together. Just before nine, they dressed, and Tara started applying a few light touches of make-up to her face; it was an important meeting, she decided, and, despite the state of her hair, she would do her best to look good.