MI6 headquarters
Jack Grantham gave a sigh that seemed to hint at disappointment. ‘Hmm… I don’t suppose there’s too much to worry about. Nicholas Orwell appears to be making a few more bob by helping this Malachi Zorn — and sundry other equally plutocratic types — to become even wealthier than they already are. They’re all consenting adults. If anything goes wrong they have no one to blame but themselves. Who are we to object?’
Piers Nainby-Martin cleared his throat. ‘Well, there’s just one more thing.’
‘Really?’ Grantham became instantly alert, like a hound that has just caught the scent of a distant fox. ‘What would that be?’
‘There’s a freelance reporter in New York called Camilla DaCosta, who helps us out from time to time. I asked her to look into Zorn, tell people she was writing a newspaper profile of him. Well, she managed to get quite a bit of material, including an interview with an old girlfriend of his…’ Nainby-Martin glanced down at his notes. ‘Name of Domenica Cruz, an ex-stripper.’
‘You mean he’s kinky? If he’s vulnerable to blackmail, that could be a problem.’
‘No, that’s not it. The woman was only working at a club to pay her way through college. She sells insurance now…’
‘A rather less honourable profession than stripping.’
‘Quite possibly. Anyway, her views on Zorn’s personal demons caught my attention. And there’s something at the end that might interest you, too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just a remark she makes. It’s nothing concrete, but it’s been niggling at me. See what you think. I must apologize, by the way, if Miss DaCosta’s interrogation technique is a little, ah, fluffy for your taste.’
There was a suppressed chuckle around the table. Grantham was one of nature’s bad cops, known for the speed and toughness with which he liked to extract information. He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for the worst, and then said, ‘Let’s see it, then.’
Once again a grainy video image appeared on screen, this time shot at a sidewalk cafe on a busy Manhattan street, two cups of coffee on the table. An attractive brunette in a formal business suit was looking into the lens with a worried look on her face.
‘You promise me that you’re not going to write nasty things about Mal? I mean, I don’t want to end up in some supermarket tabloid,’ she said.
The voice that answered her was that of a young, upper-middleclass Englishwoman. ‘Oh no, I quite understand. That would be terrible. But don’t worry. You’re quite safe with The Times. We were founded more than two hundred years ago and we’re terribly respectable. The paper of record, and all that sort of thing.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Grantham groaned.
‘She knows what she’s doing,’ Nainby-Martin assured him.
On screen, Domenica Cruz relaxed a little, though there was still a trace of hesitancy as she said, ‘Well, in that case, I guess it’s OK if I help you.’
‘So tell me about Mr Zorn. You met at the Penthouse Club, isn’t that right?’
A fresh look of alarm crossed Cruz’s face, and she held a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God! I was just trying to pay my way through college and…’
‘I think pole-dancing’s terribly sexy,’ said Camilla DaCosta, encouragingly. ‘I went to classes for a while. My boyfriend absolutely loved it!’
‘Huh! I hope he was nicer than some of the assholes I had to dance for!’
‘Was Mr Zorn an asshole?’
‘God no, Mal was great!’ Cruz said, smiling for the first time. ‘Really smart, you know. He just, I don’t know… got it. And people, too. It was like he knew what they were gonna do or say next. Got a little spooky actually, sometimes.’
‘How do you mean?’
Cruz frowned, trying to find the right words. ‘I guess he could just take in an incredible amount of information, analyse everything, and then figure out what to do faster than anyone I ever met. And, believe me, he had a LOT of information. He has people all over the world working for him.’
‘Like spies?’
‘Kinda, I guess. He’s always one step ahead, that’s for sure.’
A little laugh from DaCosta, then: ‘I’m not sure I’d like a man who knew what I was going to do next!’
Cruz laughed, too. ‘Totally!’
‘It sounds like you had a real connection. I mean, I can see why any man would be drooling over you. You’re so gorgeous!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, someone get me a sick-bag!’ Grantham interjected.
‘Wait!’ Nainby-Martin implored his boss. ‘She’s getting good material here.’
On the screen, Cruz was making the obligatory self-deprecating woman-to-woman remarks about how much she hated her own body — her upper arms and ankles seemed to give particular grounds for concern. ‘But, yeah, I know, most guys don’t seem to care. They just want to bang a dancer.’
‘Zorn doesn’t sound like that kind of man, though.’
‘No, that was what I liked about him. He saw beyond that. He was interested in me, you know, as a real person. I think we kind of bonded over our parents, too, you know?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I was raised by my grandmomma, ’cause both my parents died in an auto smash.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry…’
‘Thanks, but it’s OK. I mean, it was a long time ago.’
‘Didn’t Mr Zorn’s parents die, too, when he was a boy?’
‘Exactly. We really connected over that. And for Mal, losing his people was just a huge, huge issue.’
‘You mean he hadn’t got over it?’
Cruz sighed: ‘You have no idea… What happened was, Mal’s mom got sick in the head. She was stuck at home all day. Her husband was away in the city working totally crazy hours, and she just got lonely and bored and miserable. You know what it’s like for a guy who works for one of those big banks. They own him. If it’s a choice between doing something for the bank or doing something for his family, the bank wins. And the little woman back at home still has to be the pretty, smiley wifey. It’s like Mad Men or something. If Mal’s mom started drinking or popping pills, God, who can blame her?’
‘Is that what happened?’ Camilla DaCosta’s hand could be seen coming into shot and lifting a coffee cup.
‘Uh-huh, pretty much. And Mal’s dad tried to help. I think he really loved her. But he couldn’t ever take the time to really be there for her, because Lehman’s always came first, and it really tore him apart. From what I heard-’
The cup was almost slammed back on to the table. ‘Sorry, did you say Mal’s father worked at Lehman Brothers?’
‘Oh yes, didn’t you know? Mal hated Lehman’s… The way he saw it, the bank had killed his parents. What happened was, his dad had to put his mom in rehab because he couldn’t look after her at home. She’d been there a coupla months or something when they let her come home for a weekend. But while she was in the house, Mal’s dad was called back to the city for a meeting, and had to leave her. You know, just for an afternoon, or whatever. Anyway, when he came back, she was dead. Took an overdose. Mal found the body.’
‘God, how terrible.’
‘I know… Mal’s dad lived for a few more years, but he was totally heartbroken and guilty about not caring for his wife. He passed away from a heart attack while Mal was at college.’
‘Poor boy, he must have been totally devastated.’
Cruz nodded: ‘Oh yeah… but totally motivated, too.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, that was what drove him to be successful. He wanted to get his revenge on all the people who had wrecked his family. And I guess he did.’
‘You mean when Lehman’s collapsed?’
‘For sure. But I don’t know… It sounds crazy, but I don’t think he’s gonna stop there. I mean, I really like him, but he does have a whole other side that’s so intense it’s scary.’
‘You mean he’s violent?’
‘God no! He was always a total gentleman… It’s just, well, the night we met, he told me that bringing the bank down was just a rehearsal.’
‘A rehearsal for what?’
‘He never said. I don’t know, maybe he was just kidding around. It definitely got to be that way after a while, like a private joke between us. You know, if one of us did something cool, or outrageous, we’d be, like, “That was just a rehearsal, baby!”’
‘So how come you broke up? It sounds like you were great together-’
Cruz sighed. ‘We were… I really loved that guy, and I think he loved me. But it just got to the point where he wanted to be by himself. It was like he was on a mission, and he just didn’t want the distraction of a relationship.’
The screen went dead.
‘And your point is?’ Grantham asked.
‘My point is that there’s more to Malachi Zorn than meets the eye,’ Nainby-Martin replied. ‘I agree with DaCosta. I want to know why he’s rehearsing, and what for.’
‘I should have thought that was obvious. He made a lot of money betting against Lehman’s. But he wants to make even more. Hence, presumably, this fund of his.’
‘That’s a perfectly reasonable interpretation,’ Nainby-Martin agreed. ‘But I can’t help feeling there’s something more to it than that. Something bigger.’
‘Bigger than, say, the threat of Iranian nuclear weapons?’ Grantham asked. ‘Or Chinese industrial espionage? Or al-Qaeda? I’m sorry, Piers, but unless we have some concrete evidence of a threat, I can’t divert resources from our major priorities to investigate the vague possibility that Malachi Zorn might be anything other than another greedy financier.’
Nainby-Martin began gathering his papers with the frustrated air of a man who has just lost an office battle.
‘But,’ Grantham continued, ‘I will concede that the Orwell connection bothers me. So keep an eye on this fund of Zorn’s. And if there’s any firmer information, I’ll be willing to take another look at it. Fair enough?’
‘Completely,’ Nainby-Martin said, his normal self-possession restored.
‘Good, then I think we’re done.’