Bad Intentions Read online

  Jack looked across the table. 'May I direct your attention to the last page, sir,' he said.

  Donaldson turned to the relevant page of the document. 'Perhaps you could explain?' he said.

  'It says that money is being channelled into Kizog via HKS Pharmaceuticals, which is a deposit point for money collected through counterfeiting operations.'

  'I see,' said Donaldson.

  'If we could prove that HKS was also funding the bid,' continued Jack, 'that in effect the bid was being financed by laundered criminal money, that would be a breach of take-over rules, and the Bank could intervene.'

  At his side, the legal expert whispered something in Donaldson's ear. 'True,' replied the Deputy Governor.

  Jack turned to Symonds. 'You found out who was buying the bonds?' he asked quietly.

  Symonds nodded. He reached beneath the desk and pulled up his attache case. For a moment Jack held his breath. If his hunch was wrong, they were done for. The waters would close above them. The bid would proceed. And they would be left to fend for themselves.

  From the look of relief on Symonds's face, Jack knew he had been right. Out of his case Symonds pulled a sheaf of documents, laying them out on the table in front of him. 'Working out who has been buying the bonds Kizog issued was of course far from easy,' he began. 'We had to trace the orders through a string of registrars and nominee accounts. But we have been able to establish that the ultimate beneficiary of a substantial portion of the bond issue is HKS Pharmaceuticals. You should also note, Deputy Governor, that the bonds have warrants attached, meaning that the board can, if it chooses, convert them into equity at a later date. Meaning, of course, that HKS would, if the board took that route, end up owning a controlling interest in Kizog.'

  Of course, thought Jack, the last piece of the jigsaw. The warrants would allow the Chairman to use the counterfeiting money to buy a controlling stake in Kizog. He would not only run the company; he would own it as well. It was so simple, he started wondering why he hadn't realised earlier. Everything fitted together.

  Donaldson and his two advisers were studying the documents and charts Symonds had pushed across the table. From their expressions, Jack suspected they were satisfied with what they saw laid out before them. Across the table, he could see defeat written across the faces of the three men. Morrison was wiping his brow, his features creased up in humility; he was deciding whether it was time to sacrifice his client, Jack decided. Finer was peering down at the ground, avoiding eye contact with anyone. And the Chairman was leaning forward, the lines on his face suddenly deeper and craggier, his hands laid out flat on the table. He seemed to have aged a decade in the last few minutes.

  He shot a look of pure hatred at Jack. 'What happened to Shane?' he muttered.

  Jack shrugged, and allowed a playful smile to cross his lips. 'Mr Shane has been downsized,' he replied.

  Donaldson ignored the conversation. 'Do you have anything to say about this, Sir Kurt?'

  'Not until I consult my lawyers,' said the Chairman wearily.

  'I'm sure that will be necessary,' replied the Deputy Governor sharply. 'In the meantime, Mr Symonds, you may inform your client that the Bank is this morning suspending the bid pending further inquiries. Off the record, you may tell them it is not likely to be allowed to proceed.'

  A smile broke out on Symonds's face. He took out his mobile, preparing to put a call through to Basle. Across the room Jack could see a secretary entering. She stopped, whispering in the ear of the Deputy Governor, who directed her towards Jack. Walking silently down the length of the table, she put a fax in front of him. Jack glanced down. He recognised the Zurich Financial logo and he scanned the details; two million had been deposited in their joint account, and the money spent on Kizog put options. The bank, it pointed out, would be charging £383 a day in interest on the loan.

  Jack folded the fax away, and leant across to Tara. 'It's done,' he said. He took the key from his back pocket, and pushed it across the table to Symonds. 'Locker 342. St Pancras left luggage,' he said. Symonds passed the key to his assistant, instructing him to retrieve it. Immediately.

  Jack took Tara by the arm and stood up. Together they began walking towards the door. As they passed Donaldson, they stopped and looked down. 'Are we free to go?' asked Jack.

  The Deputy Governor shrugged. 'Search me!' he replied. Then he smiled. 'I doubt that a man of my age would have much chance of stopping you. Good luck.'

  Together they started walking down the corridor, their arms bound tightly round one another. As they neared the steps, they heard a discreet cough behind them. Jack turned, and saw the Swiss ambassador walking along the corridor towards them.

  'My driver is returning to Zurich this afternoon,' said Helms. 'By private diplomatic plane.'

  Jack nodded.

  'You would like to accompany him?'

  Jack nodded again.

  'The blue Mercedes, outside,' said Helms. 'There are first-class tickets booked in your name on the Swissair flight to Bangkok, with onward connections to Vietnam.'

  Jack turned, walking up to the ambassador, shaking his outstretched hand. 'Thank you,' he replied.

  'I believe you may soon come into some substantial sums of money,' the ambassador continued with a knowing smile. 'The banks in my country are very safe, and very discreet. You would be well looked after.'

  Taking Tara by the arm, Jack guided her into the Mercedes. Without a word, the driver pulled away from the kerb, heading west through the mid-morning City traffic towards Heathrow. Sitting back in the deep leather seats he tugged Tara close to him, kissing her softly on the brow. He could see a tear trickling down her face. 'We made it,' he whispered in her ear.

  They completed the drive largely in silence, both of them too exhausted, their nerves too strained, for either of them to speak. Arriving at the airport, the driver escorted them to the first-class Swissair lounge. 'Your plane will be ready within an hour,' he told them.

  In the corner of the room Jack spotted a Reuters terminal and, instinctively, he walked towards it. Casting his eyes through the list of FTSE stocks, he clicked on KZG.L. A story appeared instantly on the screen.

  KIZOG BID FOR OCHER SUSPENDED

  London: 12:06 GMT: The Bank of England said this morning that it was suspending the bid made by Kizog for its Swiss rival Ocher pending investigation of various irregularities. The Bank declined to comment on what the irregularities consisted of, but senior sources said it was unlikely that the bid would now be allowed to proceed. The bid had been scheduled to close at noon today, and Kizog was widely expected to emerge as the victor.

  Kizog shares collapsed on the news, and are currently trading down 224p. Analysts were caught out by the sudden suspension of the bid, and are speculating that financial problems have emerged at the company. 'It is a very confused situation,' said one. 'The market is trading on zero information.' Meanwhile, the price of Kizog put options, the scene of significant turbulence in the last forty-eight hours, has soared. October puts are currently priced at 238p. 'Someone has made a killing,' said one trader.

  Jack could feel Tara's arm slipping around his waist as he completed the story. He turned and smiled. 'What do you want to do now?' she asked.

  'Shower,' replied Jack. 'And then take a long holiday. A very long holiday.'

  She rested her head against his shoulder. 'Sounds good,' she said softly.

  Jack gripped her close to him. 'So long as you come too,' he replied.

  EPILOGUE

  The machine spun endlessly around, the drum rotating to an even beat, as the chemicals inside were mixed to perfection. It connected to a compressor, from which emerged a steady flow of small, circular yellow pills, each one exactly three millimetres in diameter. Jack plucked one from the line, standing next to the row of Vietnamese packaging workers, and held it between his thumb and his forefinger. Perfect, he thought to himself. Grasping the pill in his fist, he walked slowly down the line. The second machine had just been installed,
doubling the capacity of the small factory on the outskirts of Saigon. The orders had been booked, and with this extra plant the company would start making money.

  Tara had been absolutely right, he decided. Vietnam was emerging fast, and the country felt fresh and young and ambitious. He was happier here than he had been anywhere.

  After exchanging a few words with his foreman, Jack walked through the rest of the factory, and into the distribution centre, keen to check that the day's deliveries had been made on schedule.

  He was standing among the shelves when he caught sight of her standing in the cramped foyer, his pulse quickened and his jaw slackened. As it had done in the past, a riff started strumming through Jack's mind. Get down on my knees.

  'It's been so long,' said Layla.

  Jack allowed a warm smile to cross his face as he leant across to kiss her lightly on the cheek. Without quite knowing why, he realised he was pleased to see her.

  'Ralph is waiting outside,' she continued. 'Is it all right if he comes in?'

  Jack shrugged. Why not? he thought. We are safe here. And a lot of time has passed.

  Finer emerged from the Mercedes parked on the forecourt, and walked hesitantly towards the factory. He shook Jack stiffly by the hand; his expression, Jack noted, seemed cloaked in uncertainty.

  He led them back through the factory, and towards the laboratory. Inside, Tara, flanked by her two assistants, bent over her microscope. He patted her on the back, pointing towards Layla and Finer. 'Unexpected visitors,' he said.

  Tara stood up, standing close to Jack, and eyeing them warily. 'What brings you to Saigon?' she said, her tone polite but cool.

  'Business,' replied Finer. 'Possible joint ventures. And to see you.'

  The man looked older now, his jowls heavier, his eyes surrounded by bags, and his face craggier. Burdened down, thought Jack. 'What happened?' he asked.

  Finer rested his arms on the lab bench, and took a sip from the cup of Chinese tea that had just been brought in by the secretary. 'Let's put it this way,' he began. 'Not everyone at the company was following the same agenda. You probably guessed Fuller was working with me. There were clues after all. She sent you a message to escape. And I routed the money to you via HKS. It would have been easy to route the money through a shell company. Unless I wanted to make it easy for you to collect the evidence.'

  'And after we left?' asked Jack.

  'It was all quite hairy that morning,' Finer replied. 'The Chairman was losing it badly by then. The Bank told him the bid had to be dropped. It was either that, or they would call it off and make sure he went to jail for fraud. He had no choice really. A statement was made that afternoon. A few weeks later the Chairman resigned. There was no great surprise in the City. After the fiasco over the bid the share price had sunk like a stone. It came down by almost three pounds. Anyone who had bought some put options would have made a fortune.' He smiled at Jack. 'They brought in Sir Charles Betts, who used to be a junior minister in the Ministry of Defence, as the new chairman. A few weeks later Taylor resigned as chief executive. We got a new public affairs director as well. The company's image had, after all, taken quite a battering. Scott went. He took early retirement. And I was made the new chief executive. It was the only choice really. There has to be some continuity at the company. Business carries on.'

  'That was the plan all along, right?' said Jack. 'You wanted the Chairman to fail, so that you could take his place. That's why you made it easy for us.'

  'I never had much faith in his strategy,' replied Finer. 'It was all too complex. At some point it was all bound to unravel. Perhaps now, perhaps later. But eventually. It was different during the Cold War. We were just working for certain people in the defence establishment, and we had their backing. Sir Kurt had the support of the old guard, but he was basically blackmailing them, threatening to reveal what had taken place. That was not, in my judgement, a sustainable relationship. Sooner or later they were going to throw us to the wolves.'

  'So you decided to jump ship?' said Jack.

  'It seemed the best thing to do,' replied Finer. 'Plus I didn't like what was happening to you.'

  'But if we hadn't succeeded,' countered Jack, 'no one would have known you were helping us.'

  'It's a cold world,' said Finer. 'People mainly look after themselves.' He paused, taking another sip of his tea. 'Anyway, I wanted you to know there have been some changes at the Ministry of Defence. Several senior officials took early retirement. And all investigations into Ator have been quietly dropped. If you wanted to return home it would be quite safe.'

  Jack shook his head, holding Tara close to him, and Layla noted the gold wedding ring on her finger. 'We are quite happy here, thanks,' he replied. Shaking hands with Finer, he led him back through the factory, out on to the forecourt, and watched as Finer climbed back into the waiting car.

  Layla hesitated for a moment, standing at his side, looking up into his eyes. 'It isn't nearly so much fun without you around,' she said.

  Jack smiled. 'When this company gets a bit bigger, I'll offer you a job. We need someone to get the rumour-mill grinding,' he replied. 'What's your title now, anyway?'

  She turned to face him, her eyes sparkling. 'Special assistant to the Chairman,' she answered.

  Jack reached across and squeezed her arm. 'Well,' he said. 'Watch out for yourself.'

  If you enjoyed Bad Intentions why not try:

  Absolute Measures

  Humphrey Hawksley

  Chapter One

  Timothy Pack left Jennifer in his house in Queens Borough Terrace, lying face down on the bed. Outside there was a clear winter sky with a new, thin crescent moon, hanging over London. It was bitingly cold, colder than he had thought or he would have brought a scarf.

  There was a hazardous attraction about Jennifer of both wildness and commitment. She was not the type to dis entangle after casual sex with a kiss on the cheek, and he had never meant to sleep with her, certainly not so soon before his posting, because, right now, he couldn't afford that complication.

  When Stephen Walmsley called out of the blue, Jennifer didn't try to hide her irritation. She lit a cigarette and lazily let the ash grow until he fetched an ashtray.

  'Only be about an hour,' he said breezily, getting dressed, and topping up her glass of champagne.

  'Lunch 'em, bed 'em, leave 'em,' she said, sarcastically.

  'I'll dine 'em as well, if they hang around.' He kissed her on the lips and she raised her head just enough to show she wasn't rejecting him.

  Out on the street, Tim pulled up his jacket collar and looked across the road where two prostitutes paced back and forth around the comer, keeping warm.

  'Hey blondie,' one of them cat-called, and Tim walked the other way, down towards the park to find a taxi.

  Stephen Walmsley was his ticket out of England, and until Tim was safely ensconced in a foreign country, he would trot along every time Walmsley beckoned. The alternative was too grim to contemplate: the English winter, the tube and family weekends where he would be nagged about not having a wife.

  At Walmsley's club, overcoats were hung up in rows on a wood-panel wall and Tim put his jacket among them. It was a building of faded glory in Pall Mall, a place for settled people, older people who knew their roles in life, and Tim felt awkward, at least a generation too young to be at ease with the portraits, history and low voices. Walmsley was in the library pouring himself a coffee at a table by the door.

  'Didn't interrupt anything, did I?'

  'Not at all,' lied Tim.

  Walmsley waved his hand over the table, indicating that Tim, too, should help himself, then he walked as far away from the other guests as he could to a pair of comer chairs near the fireplace.

  When Tim sat down, Walmsley put an envelope on the table. 'Betrayed, captured and being held just outside of Khartoum.' He let his statement hang, leaving time for Tim to absorb it. 'We know the house. We know the room. We want you to go in there to check it out. Guide the me
n in, as it were.' Walmsley was in his early fifties, twenty years older than Tim, yet his piercing eyes were both youthful and commanding. 'Don't open it now,' he said. 'No documents are allowed in the main club rooms.'

  Tim picked up the envelope and turned it over. 'Who is it?'

  'You don't need to know. This operation is known !o the head of SIS, the director of 22 SAS, 38 Group Air Transport, the Prime Minister, some Americans, me and you. People will be watching because it's your first with us, first since that unilateral bit of action you did in the Balkans.' Walmsley paused allowing Tim to put his own past in context. 'So I know you won't let us down.

  'We're using a Hercules,' he continued. 'There will be an SIS person from the embassy at the lobby bar in the Hilton Hotel in Khartoum from 19:30 to 21:30 on Saturday. You don't know what they look like. But they will know you. Once they see you there, they will signal that the Hercules can proceed. If there is anything wrong at all, don't go to the Hilton.'

  'And then?'

  'There's no flight until the early hours. Ask the hotel manager to arrange a trip to some archaeological sites the next day. Get back to Khartoum in the evening and then get the hell out of the place.'

  Walmsley tapped the envelope. 'Your name's Raison, archaeologist. Your great-grandfather was an official in al-Kadarou, the town you're checking out. These are briefing notes and some stuff on archaeology in the Sudan. Commit it to memory and don't take the file with you.'

  Walmsley fell silent as a waiter came out from a door on the other side of the fireplace, making his way to the other end of the room. 'I always find things are safer when there's no safety net. Try not to involve us. Think of being totally alone.'

  When Tim got home the bed was still a mess and Jennifer had left a note on the fridge with her phone number on it.