Bad Intentions Read online

  The phone went dead. Orders are orders, thought Jack, even if they don't make much sense. A quick call to Dr Scott's office had told him that Tara would meet him in the main lab building. Right now.

  Neither the Chairman nor Dr Scott had mentioned that she was Oriental, or, judging by the lightness of her skin, and the roundness of her eyes, perhaps half Oriental. His two years in Thailand had taught Jack to distinguish between Asiatic races; he could tell Thais from Chinese, and reckoned he could distinguish the Japanese from the Koreans, but he could not place her. She could be from anywhere. 'You are considering joining us?' said Jack after he had introduced himself.

  'Considering? Yes,' said Tara.

  Her accent contained no trace of the Orient, thought Jack. Mid-Atlantic, and hard to place. Except that it was clearly Caucasian. 'I'm told you are a brilliant scientist.'

  'Everyone is very flattering,' she replied.

  They had started walking through the labs. The corridors stretched out before them, painted an industrial grey, and every ten yards exactly there was a solid steel door, with a window, through which three scientists, each in regulation lab coats, could be seen. Most were stooping over test tubes, or peering into computers. Some of the labs had pictures on the wall; mostly Far Side cartoons, or Dali pictures. There were clocks everywhere, all of which were constantly referred to. For a supposedly creative part of the company, Jack reflected, it was about as industrial as it could be.

  'Development,' explained Jack as they walked by. 'This is really the most intensive part of the research centre. And the most mundane. Development, as no doubt you know, is a matter of legwork.'

  He found it hard to imagine that the prospect of joining the lab rats, cooped up in these cages all day with their test tubes, held much appeal. He was already wondering how to explain away his failure to bring her on board to the Chairman. Inscrutable Oriental seemed a good line. Difficult people to predict.

  'You work with the Chairman, don't you?' asked Tara suddenly.

  'Special assistant,' replied Jack.

  'What does that mean?'

  Jack paused. It was a good question. Glorified gofer didn't sound very good. Nor did errand boy. 'I work on special projects. And I keep tabs on different parts of the company's operations,' he replied. 'The eyes and ears of the Chairman,' he added, allowing a touch of pride to seep into the tone of his voice.

  'And the brains?' asked Tara.

  There was something about her manner which made Jack suspect she was being sarcastic; not enough to be rude, yet enough to raise his suspicions. He could feel himself becoming defensive.

  'One or two of my suggestions have been implemented.'

  'Such as?'

  'I helped set up the company's operation in Thailand,' replied Jack.

  Tara turned away, as if such matters did not interest her, and together they continued their stroll through the labs. Inwardly, she noted the expensive Boss suit, the smart watch, and the carefully shined half-brogue black shoes he was wearing; standard executive armour, she decided, and he was probably a standard corporate creature, although there was something about the half-smile constantly playing on his face which suggested Jack did not take his role one hundred per cent seriously.

  Tara commented on how expensive it all looked, and Jack agreed. It was a fabulous amount of money devoted to research; seven hundred million a year, almost half of it spent in this building alone, he told her.

  'At the National Institutes we could probably do twice as much with only half the money.'

  Jack laughed. 'The overheads are higher here.'

  'Like my plane ticket, and the chauffeur,' said Tara. 'A lot of the money must be wasted. Still I suppose it prevents the profits from appearing too high.'

  Sharp, thought Jack. 'True. But it is also a way of keeping the share price high. The stockmarket always figures the more you spent on research the better, and none of the analysts or fund managers would ever be able to figure out whether you were spending the money well. Everything goes into the research budget. Company jets, conferences in Hawaii, the Chairman's mistress, bribes to Italian officials. The more you spend, the happier everyone is.'

  They had drifted towards the coffee area now. At the intersections of each of the four wings of the lab buildings there were cakes and biscuits on the tables, and newspapers and scientific journals on display next to the comfy armchairs. It was one of the Chairman's personal innovations, and taken very seriously. His idea had been to introduce some free space, like an academic common room, where scientists from different disciplines could meet and talk and swap ideas. Cross-discipline creativity, had been the phrase used at the time, which sounded to Jack like something the McKinsey people who drifted through every couple of years had come up with. For a few months it had been virtually compulsory to drop in for an hour or so a day and talk about what was on TV last night; the researchers, Jack noticed, all seemed to be keen viewers. Now it was practically empty.

  'Have you decided?' he asked.

  'Not yet.'

  Jack wondered what tack to take. 'The Chairman wanted you to know that I could be your contact on the commercial side of the company. That if you have problems with the work you were doing here, we could take them directly to Sir Kurt. It is a most unusual arrangement. He must want you very much.'

  'How much do you know about Ator?' asked Tara.

  Jack sensed the conversation was about to wander into territory he was unfamiliar with. 'Third World virus. It is new and mysterious. A few cases are now emerging in the US and Europe,' he said vaguely.

  'Would it be a priority disease for Kizog?'

  'Now that it is appearing in the First World, yes, perhaps.'

  'Not before?'

  'Unlikely.'

  'Then why has the company done so much work on it?'

  'It has?' answered Jack, realising after he spoke that his tone betrayed his surprise.

  'Dr Scott has been leading me through some of Kizog's research,' Tara continued. 'It is very impressive. They are quite close to a vaccine. But he believes they need access to some of the research I have done on leprosy to take them closer. That is why they want me here.'

  Jack was unsure how to respond. He was intrigued by all that she was telling him, but mindful as well of his mission. 'Aren't you keen to help? I mean, apart from the money we would pay you, it would be a major scientific achievement.'

  Tara cast her eyes down, lost for a moment in her own reflection. 'It would.'

  'Then what is holding you back?'

  'The research they have shown me is strangely incomplete,' Tara said. 'As if they were holding something back.'

  'Until you join the staff, it is impossible for them to be entirely open with you,' he said.

  Her eyes met his, and for the first time Jack could detect a softening in her expression. 'Are they always honest with you?'

  'So far,' replied Jack. 'It is a big and sometimes brutal organisation. But keep an eye on the rules, and things usually work out.'

  'Perhaps so,' said Tara, the firmness returning to her eyes. 'And perhaps not.'

  THREE

  Pausing at the traffic lights Jack stuck a CD into the hi-fi on his new company BMW, one of the remastered Costello reissues; this was the soundtrack of his adolescence, and it still touched plenty of chords within him. 'They call it instant justice when it's past the legal limit,' sang Elvis. 'Someone's scratching at the window I wonder who is it?' Jack tapped his fingers in time to the music as he drove.

  The beamer had been delivered to him just yesterday, and it still had that strangely disinfected smell of an unused machine; the faint aroma of leaked oil and burnt brake pads they acquired after a few thousand miles was still absent. If he was honest it was not his favourite car; there was too much of the yuppie-mobile about it. He would have preferred a Mazda or one of the new MGs, but the forms that came down from personnel offered only a 3-series or a Ford Scorpio. Hardly any choice at all, Jack reflected.

  Who ca
res? he decided. Take the rough with the smooth. The car was fast, it was powerful, and, best of all, it was free; a sign that he was on his way. Another three years, he decided, perhaps four. The last reshuffle of the board had seen one of the younger guys promoted to director: Harry Smile, and he was only thirty-six then. He too, like Jack, had joined the company in his late twenties, after an MBA from INSEAD and a spell with one of the consultancies the Chairman liked to call in every year or so, followed by a posting abroad and a stint in the Chairman's office. What can stop me? Jack thought, touching his foot on the accelerator a little. A seat on the board. Plus stock options worth a minimum two hundred thousand a year. Enough to keep a family, raise children, retire before the company took too much of a toll. Enough, as well, to get out while he was still young and fit enough to enjoy the rest of his life. London, he realised, would take some time to adjust to. Thailand he had enjoyed, even though he had never quite been able to figure out why Kizog sent him there. After following his parents as the oil company shifted his father from one territory to another, entering a new international school every few years, he had felt more at home somehow in the Far East; he was used, he realised, to being a foreigner. Back here, as a native, he felt strangely dislocated. As much as he liked England and the English, for him it was a place without roots, and he regretted the fact that his parents were not here now that he had returned; his father had often spoken of retiring to the south-east of England, and Jack was still pained by the knowledge that he had not lived to make that happen. He would have liked to have had a family here with him. It would have made things easier.

  Briefly, his memory touched on the death of his father two years ago. It had been sudden and unexpected, a heart attack only a few months after the posting to the Ukraine that he had expected to be his last. It had happened only a few days after Kizog told Jack they wanted him to transfer to Thailand for two years. Even now, he could still vividly recall the look on his mother's face as he told her he was leaving the country, just as she was trying to come to terms with retiring alone to the cottage they had bought together to pass their last years in. Exactly like your father, she had told him, not with bitterness but with remorse; unable to stay for long in the same place. On reflection, Jack could see now that she was probably right.

  It was one of the last conversations he had with his mother, which was why, Jack reflected, he remembered it so well. She had died a year after he departed for the Far East, and the funeral had been the most miserable moment of his life so far. Her few surviving relations were there, and though they said nothing to suggest it directly, he could not help but sense their disapproval of his absence from the country during the last year of her life. Whether they really disapproved or not, he could not tell. He certainly disapproved himself, and that was what counted.

  Jack was still pondering his sense of loss, contrasting it with the opportunities he could feel lay ahead, as he parked the car, and walked through the neatly trimmed lawns towards Administrative Block A, the Helin Building. I have sacrificed a lot to get where I am today in this company, he decided to himself. I should make sure I don't blow it now.

  'You're late,' said Jenny, as Jack walked purposefully towards his desk.

  She might have only been working with him for a few days, but the secretary was already starting to adopt an air of reassuring familiarity. 'The Chairman wants to see you at eight sharp,' she continued.

  'Anyone else in yet?' asked Jack.

  The secretary put a cup of freshly brewed coffee down on his desk. 'Sam and Layla are here, but they are not involved in this gig. The Chairman asked just for you.'

  'Good or bad?' asked Jack.

  'Sam and Layla looked quite miffed,' answered Jenny. 'That's good. But the Chairman had a particularly vague tone in his voice when I asked him what he wanted to see you about. That's bad.'

  Sam and Layla, miffed, thought Jack. My two new colleagues, so called. All three of them had the title 'special assistant'. The ice around the office was starting to melt, and a quick check on the fate of the earlier special assistants had revealed some interesting statistics. Of fifteen over the past seven years, three had made it on to the board. Two had dropped out somehow so they didn't count in the calculation. Another five had left of their own accord. And five were stuck in some remote outpost of the Kizog empire. His chances were good, he figured; but so were Sam's and Layla's. Particularly Layla's. There had never been a woman on the Kizog board, and, around the office, there were rumblings that accusations of sexism were starting to be an embarrassment for the company. If the Chairman was of a mind to remedy that situation, which he might be, given his hang-up about a progressive public profile for the company, then he would certainly want it to be one of his girls. And Layla was the only girl he had.

  Most likely Layla has been spreading this talk about it being time for a woman on the board, thought Jack to himself. Hoping it will percolate up to the fifth floor. 'Heading up?' said Layla, poking her head around the office door.

  'I was just thinking about you,' said Jack.

  'Dreaming, more likely,' said Layla.

  Which was true up to a point, thought Jack. With long, thick, red hair, a fine figure, and a pert face, Layla was certainly attractive, and her feline way of moving through the corridors, stalking gossip and leaving behind a trail of conjecture and rumour, had always impressed him. They had met soon after he had joined the company, when she was still working in marketing research, and had remained friendly ever since. She flirted constantly, and, at first, Jack had felt there might be something between them. Until he noticed that she flirted with everyone. Better to keep the relationship professional, he decided. We might be rivals one day.

  Jack stood up and walked towards the lifts side by side with Layla. 'Seeing the Chairman as well?' he asked.

  'No such luck,' replied Layla. 'Monday morning smoochies with Sir Kurt Helin would really get my week off with a bang. No. I'm seeing Geoff Wheeler.'

  'PR?' said Jack, his voice adopting a tone of mock disgust.

  'Candyfloss, Layla. Some way from the real heart of the business, I'm afraid.'

  'Too true,' said Layla. 'Although I might be able to mention the speech that CBI guy made the other day about how every Footsie company should have at least one woman on the board. All too true, I suspect. Patriarchy could be turning into a real problem for this company.' The lift door slid open, cutting the conversation short. 'Good luck,' said Layla, turning away. 'Mention that CBI speech to the Chairman will you, there's a sweetie.'

  The contrast between the fifth floor of the Helin Building and the rest of the company was sudden and striking. Unlike the fiercely modem, utilitarian designs that dominated the rest of the Kizog headquarters, the fifth floor was cloaked in the style of a nineteenth-century country house. The walls were panelled in fine old wood, portraits of past chairmen were hung on the walls, there were elegant sofas and chairs sitting empty in each hall, and, next to them, bookcases crammed with old leather-bound editions of classic works.

  Mrs Bames, the Chairman's PA, was on the phone, and when she finished Jack asked if it was OK to go in now. The Chairman was busy, she told him. Wait five minutes. Jack sat down. He had prepared his ground well, he reflected to himself. He had run the lines through his mind a hundred times, tuning each one until he felt happy with it. It did no good, of course. He was still nervous.

  The advice yesterday evening had been invaluable. Before leaving the office he had grabbed five minutes to re-introduce himself to Ralph Finer, the finance director. Finer was the closest he had to an ally in the company, at least among its senior figures. They had worked together before Jack was posted to Thailand, and they got on well. He suspected Finer might have played a part in his recall to head office. He certainly seemed pleased to see him, offering him a drink, and engaging him in some light-hearted banter about his time in the Far East. His manner only changed when Jack brought up the subject that was troubling him most.

  Finer frown
ed: 'They want you to become an infiltrator in a counterfeiting racket?' he asked hesitantly. 'Does the Chairman know about this?'

  Jack shook his head. 'He volunteered me to assist the Forum, but I don't imagine they told him what they wanted me for.'

  'You have to be careful with Sir Kurt,' said Finer. 'There is often no way of knowing what he does and doesn't know. I find that constantly.'

  Jack thought for a moment. 'Would you do it?'

  'Of course not,' Finer replied instantly. 'But if it is a request from the Chairman...'

  'What's the downside?'

  'Black marks, at the very least,' said Finer with a wide smile. 'Possibly a posting to Eastern Europe.'

  'That bad?' Jack asked rhetorically.

  'You know how the Chairman is about loyalty,' said Finer. 'I'd get guarantees if I were you. Make absolutely sure you are protected. And make sure there is a reward. You don't want to walk away from this empty-handed. If he refuses, say no. The Ukraine isn't so bad, I hear.'

  Finer patted Jack's shoulder sympathetically. 'And talk to me if you need any more advice.'

  'There is one thing I need to know,' Jack said. Finer raised an eyebrow. 'Is Ator a priority for the company?'

  The finance director waved his hand dismissively. 'A side issue. I wouldn't get involved in that project if I were you, whatever Sir Kurt has to say.'

  'I already am marginally involved.'

  Finer's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked directly at Jack. 'A mistake.' He paused before continuing. 'Listen, if anything develops on that front let me know about it. The Chairman isn't getting any younger and we could be into the endgame sooner than anyone imagines. You'll need friends at the court after the king is gone. And remember, not everything is always the way it seems.'

  Jack was still pondering the significance of the remark when a barked command from Mrs Barnes snapped him from his recollections. The Chairman was ready now, she said. Jack began walking into the office. 'The boardroom,' instructed an icy voice behind him. Jack turned and began walking back along the corridor. He could see Sam Taylor, the chief executive, walking through the door. He nodded to him, and said good-morning, but Taylor merely raised his eyebrows. Jack figured that Taylor didn't know who he was.