Silent Truths (64 page)

‘Mm … So where are you meeting? Who else is going to be there?’

‘Just him and me. He’s picking me up at the office.’

‘You’re going somewhere with him in a car, and you don’t know where?’ she cried.

‘Calm down,’ he laughed. ‘The man’s not stupid. There are just too many of us involved in this now for him to be planning my dispatch from the mortal coil. Besides, one of Stan’s colleagues will be following on behind.’

‘With a gun?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ he laughed. ‘But I’m telling you, nothing’s going to happen. At least not the way you’re thinking. Incidentally, I’m arranging to meet Rose Newman earlier in the day, the
independent documentary producer. Do you know her?’

‘Not personally, but I know her name, obviously. She’s TV’s answer to you.’

‘I’m not sure how to respond to that, but we’ve been discussing coverage deals with one or two cable stations here in the States, and Rose is probably the best person to talk to in Britain. She does a lot for French and German TV stations too, so she’ll probably bring them into the deal. You should meet her when this is over; I think you’ll like each other. Her daughter’s about my age, not interested in the business at all, and her son’s just taking over from his father as Rose’s cameraman.’

‘I’d love to,’ Laurie responded. ‘Which newspapers are you talking to?’

‘Obviously not your old employer,’ he answered wryly. ‘We’re still working on it, but it’s looking like the
Guardian
or
Express
in London; the
Wall Street Journal, Boston Globe, Times Picayune
and
Dallas Morning Herald
in the States.
Le Monde, Berliner Zeitung, La Repubblica, El Mundo, Far East Economic Review
, the
Australian
, South Africa’s
Mail
and
Guardian
…’

‘That is quite a line-up,’ she declared.

‘If all goes well we could retire on this,’ he told her wryly. ‘But coming back to earth, I want to be in LA before you go to see Beth Ashby. When is it again?’

‘Thursday at twelve. Mitzi Bower’s agreed to see me on Wednesday.’

‘Great. This really is coming together from all angles now. Where are you staying?’

‘W Hotel in Westwood. All the rooms are suites,
apparently. Murray’s booked you in too. I’ll get him to alter the dates.’

‘OK.’

He fell silent then, but she knew he was still there.

‘So I guess that’s about it,’ he said finally.

‘I guess so,’ she confirmed.

‘You ready for bed?’

‘More or less.’

He paused again, then said, ‘Am I allowed to say I miss you?’

His words reached her like an embrace. ‘I’m not sure,’ she answered, trying hard to stay detached, but failing miserably.

‘Then perhaps I should just say goodnight.’

‘Perhaps you should.’

Several seconds ticked by.

‘Haven’t you hung up on me yet?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘You usually do.’

‘I miss you,’ he said softly.

Her heart was in her throat. ‘Elliot, don’t say things unless you mean them,’ she said.

‘I mean it,’ he said.

There was so much she wanted to say, too much, but she only let quiet seconds tick by before whispering, ‘Goodnight,’ and putting the phone down.

The following morning she boarded the American Airlines non-stop flight to Los Angeles. Stan was with her, tickled pink that he was travelling in business class, which Elliot had insisted on because of the length of the journey. After they’d drunk
their welcome champagne, checked out the movies on offer, listened to the flight safety procedures, then made their meal selection from the small
à la carte
menu, Laurie took out her computer and called up
Carlotta’s Symphony of Love and Death
.

Because the flight was ten and a half hours long she only made it halfway through the book before her computer’s battery gave out. Never, she thought, as she lowered the lid, had a battery been so cursed, for by then she was so entranced by the story and emotionally involved with the characters that it was like wrenching herself away from intense desire. It simply wouldn’t leave her, she had to know more, because Beth Ashby’s stunning gift for prose, the way in which she wove reality into dream and dream into reality, moved so fluidly through time and back again, plundered emotions and entwined cruelty with love and weakness with obsession so that it was impossible for each to exist without the other, was breathtaking, brilliant, beautiful and intensely harrowing. And what made the battery failure even more unacceptable – before the stewardess showed her where to plug in – was that she was just starting to see how, or at least why, this book had caused Marcus Gatling so much concern.

On Tuesday evening, after Murray and Gail had gone, Elliot remained at his desk, a single lamp funnelling a glow over the paperwork in front of him, while the window behind was like a vast, black canvas portraying a few scattered stars, and the small sprinkles of light from planes flying soundlessly by. The street below was silent, except
for the occasional passing car, while the river undulated its shapeless reflections like quivering sheets of vellum. His computer, along with the rest of the high-tech machinery that had a solid hold on the place, was quiet for once, though a five-page fax had just come through from Tom Maykin in New York. He cast an eye over it, then returned to the documents he’d been studying for the past few hours.

It was all tying together: the billions invested in put options, futures speculations on commodity exchanges; the slide of the euro versus the dollar and pound; the fluctuation of global interest rates that chimed with certain international and economic policies – and most importantly of all, from his perspective – examples of what it could all mean for the British public.

Sighing, he sat back in his chair and rubbed a thumb and forefinger across his eyes. The biggest problem they were facing was linking it all to the syndicate members themselves. There was simply no evidence to show that any one of the names they had, such as Gatling, Kleinstein, Brunner, Wingate and Sabilio, would be the personal beneficiaries of the strategy, though certainly there were links to the corporations, banks and big industries in which they were involved. However, the idea of exposing those companies, watching their stocks plummet, their employees getting laid off and customers suffering, while those responsible not only remained anonymous and unaccountable, but rich, wasn’t one either he or the rest of the investigative team were prepared to tolerate.

Getting to his feet, he was on the point of going
to recharge his coffee when the phone rang.

‘Mr Gatling is waiting downstairs,’ a voice told him.

Elliot glanced at his watch: ten minutes before the appointed time, but that was OK, he was as ready for this as he’d ever be considering he was only guessing at its purpose. Putting the phone down, he picked up his coat and tucked Maykin’s fax into an inside pocket. There were plenty more copies between here and New York, so he had no fear of Gatling seizing them. To the contrary, he might find it worthwhile revealing what they’d found so far.

As he stepped out into the street a brisk wind tore at his coat, while a passing river barge hooted into the night. A sleek black saloon car with tinted windows and personalized plates was parked at the kerb, a uniformed chauffeur standing beside it. Elliot glanced up the street to where one of Stan’s colleagues was parked in a dark Toyota Corolla. Neither man gave any indication of seeing the other, but both knew the other was there.

The chauffeur came forward. Gatling had warned him he’d be frisked, so Elliot allowed it to happen then waited as the man opened a back door of the car and gestured for him to get in. As he did so Elliot felt a thud of unease. These past months had more than proved how deeply Gatling’s power had infiltrated not only governments, media and financial institutions, but the very laws that controlled them, so by getting into this car now he wasn’t just stepping into the lion’s den, he was doing so knowing that his only protection was his wits – and the man in the Toyota Corolla who
wouldn’t be able to save his life, but might at least witness its end.

Gatling was alone in the back compartment, where a single light burned overhead and Mozart played quietly on the sound system. He directed Elliot to a backward-facing seat opposite his own. He was wearing a light-coloured raincoat over a smart, pinstriped suit, and a heavy Gladstone briefcase was beside his feet. His fleshy jowls were quivering slightly, though Elliot knew they always did, just as his jutting lower lip was constantly moist.

The chauffeur closed the door and to Elliot’s surprise and relief, resumed his sentry position beside it.

‘It was good of you to spare the time,’ Gatling said, his gravelly voice expressing no pleasure.

Elliot said nothing, only looked at the sharp, watery eyes, with their bristly brows that met on the bridge of his nose and divided in a large V towards his hairline.

‘You’ve gone far enough with your investigation to know that we cannot allow it to continue,’ Gatling stated, coming straight to the point. ‘You’ll never get the evidence you’re looking for, so the wisest course you could follow now is to stop trying and let this go.’

Elliot merely looked at him.

‘It would be in your own best interests,’ Gatling advised.

A few seconds ticked by, then Elliot said, ‘Or you’ll do to me what you’re doing to Colin Ashby?’

Gatling’s eyes were like flint.

‘Or what you had done to Beth Ashby?’ Elliot suggested.

Still Gatling didn’t answer.

‘Or maybe you’ll go as far as to repeat what you did to Sophie Long?’ Elliot said.

Not by even the flicker of a muscle did Gatling show any response to the accusations. He merely continued as if Elliot hadn’t spoken. ‘Your speculations could lead to serious disruption, not only here in this country, but around the world,’ he said. ‘And that’s all it is, speculation. So are you really prepared to face the consequences of going public with your findings, when you have no means of acquiring the proof you’re seeking? Can you afford the considerable legal problems you’ll incur, and that’ll tie you up for years?’

Elliot’s eyebrows went up. Threatening to sue him was not an eventuality he’d expected, though in retrospect he probably should have. ‘So what would you suggest I do with my findings?’ he enquired.

‘Burn them.’

‘Well, we both know I’m not going to do that, so shall we move on?’

Gatling’s face twitched, and for the first time, as he loosened his collar, Elliot got a glimpse of just how pressured he was. He had a mental image of the syndicate’s élite sitting around a table ordering Gatling to go and sort this out. If it weren’t for that silly little hooker, none of this would be happening, and since this was Gatling’s territory, it was Gatling’s problem, therefore Gatling’s neck was on the line. And what was the penalty if Gatling didn’t succeed, Elliot wondered. Just what were they planning to do in the event that Elliot Russell and the two dozen or more reporters already involved
in this didn’t play ball? They clearly had to be insane if they thought anything anyone did could alter the course now, and insane they weren’t, so he was more than intrigued to find out where this was going.

‘I know you to be a man of common sense and integrity,’ Gatling said, ‘so I don’t believe you’d act irresponsibly over this.’

Elliot blinked, not entirely sure he’d heard right. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Are you telling me you believe it would be more honourable for me to save
you
from a multibillion-dollar loss on put options, than to alert the European public to how you, in the guise of Britain and America, are intending to cripple their economies? Is that what you’re saying? You think I would put your corrupt little power-broking empire before the integrity of this nation? You think I really give a fuck about your assets compared to those of the people you’re trying to cheat out of everything, from their democratically elected governments, to their entire life’s savings? Let me tell you this, I care as much about your syndicate and its diabolical strategies as you and your wife cared about Sophie Long’s life. Now, does that paint the picture of my integrity clearly enough for you? Is there anything about it you don’t understand, because I’ll be happy to explain further, if there’s something you didn’t quite catch.’

The way Gatling had flinched at the mention of Sophie Long’s name should have told Elliot to stop there, but disgust and anger had carried him away, giving Gatling a chance to recover and behave as though it hadn’t happened.

‘I was afraid, or maybe I hoped, that would be your response,’ Gatling said. And leaning forward he opened his briefcase. For one appalling moment Elliot truly believed he was going to bring out a gun, but all that emerged was a single sheet of paper.

Elliot read it quickly. This time there were no surprises, for this proposal, these figures were actually what he’d expected – indeed, they had to know that, apart from murder, inviting him in was the only way they were going to stop him. And certainly the number of zeros on the bottom line was enough to stop most, even if there were thirty or more who needed paying off too. He looked at Gatling and in the dim light saw the beads of sweat on his face. If he played this out long enough he’d either double the figure in front of the zeros or give Gatling a heart attack.

‘You can become a multimillionaire overnight,’ Gatling told him, perspiring profusely now, ‘and it will all be legal. You won’t even have to make an investment. That’s already been done. All you have to do is collect.’ His hand went up as Elliot started to speak. ‘No, don’t give me an answer now. Think about it first. Think of what it’ll mean to your life, the freedom it’ll buy you, the … That’s it. That’s right,’ he said as Elliot folded the sheet of paper and pocketed it. ‘Think about it, then call me and we can talk again.’

‘You know what I can’t quite believe,’ Elliot said, ‘is that you thought, even for a minute, that I’d go for it.’

‘It’s a lot of money, for Christ’s sake!’ Gatling spluttered. ‘Five million pounds. And that’s just to
start. No man in his right mind walks away from that.’