The Perfect Soldier Read online

  ‘That rather depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On you.’ He paused, dropping two sugar lumps into his tea. ‘How much do you want to know?’

  ‘About the money? What’s gone wrong?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everything.’

  Patrick nodded. Then he sat back behind his desk, the cup and saucer balanced in his lap. Giles, as she doubtless knew, was an active underwriter at Lloyd’s. He wrote business on behalf of a syndicate of Names. Names were the folk who put up their capital in return for a share of the profits. In a good year, they could make a great deal of money. In a bad year, there might be losses. In a very bad year, they might be wiped out completely.

  Molly nodded, following his explanation. To her shame, she’d never fully understood the way it worked.

  ‘So who makes the decision about the risks?’ she asked.

  ‘Giles does.’ He paused. ‘Did.’

  ‘Did?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘He ceased writing business at the end of last week. I understand the technical term is suspended.’

  Molly blinked, taking in the news, beginning to fathom the true depths of Giles’s private nightmare. However hard he’d tried to disguise it, she’d always known that he was a fiercely competitive man. It occasionally showed in little things: the parents’ race at James’s school, his regatta days in the dinghy. Fouling up at work, getting himself suspended, would have crucified him.

  ‘So what happened?’ she asked. ‘What does “suspended” mean?’

  Patrick was sipping his tea again. Her question prompted a frown.

  ‘Giles was investing his own money, your money, as well as relying on the syndicate’s Names. Lots of underwriters do it. It’s common practice.’

  Molly nodded. This much, at least, she knew.

  ‘Eighty-four,’ she said. ‘That summer we decided to send James away to school. His exam results were so awful at the comprehensive. You probably remember.’

  ‘I do. Vividly.’

  ‘Giles said we’d need a bit extra. Cash, I mean. Lloyd’s seemed the obvious place.’

  ‘It was. And he did well, too. In fact for most of the eighties, he did extremely well. Do you want the figures?’

  Molly shook her head. The figures were academic. What had mattered infinitely more was what the money had bought. James’s school hadn’t been cheap. Far from it. She hesitated a moment, remembering how quickly she’d taken this new wealth of theirs for granted. The holidays abroad. The workshop extension on the cottage. The extra couple of acres for the horses, and later, the sheep.

  ‘So what happened?’ she asked. ‘Where did we go wrong?’

  Patrick drained the cup, returning it to the tray. The details, he said, were complex but Giles had written a lot of reinsurance. That meant taking part of someone else’s risk in return for a share of their premium. Technically, this practice was known as ‘Excess of Loss’ insurance, and it had become a Lloyd’s speciality. Lots of underwriters had done it during the eighties and the returns could be enormous.

  ‘So what went wrong?’ Molly asked again.

  ‘More or less everything. Oil rigs going up in flames. Lockerbie. Hurricanes. Earthquakes. You name it. Huge losses. Huge claims. But the really nasty surprise was pollution, in America especially, and that’s where Giles and one or two others came unstuck. He gave me a copy of the cutting. Here …’

  Patrick opened a drawer and slid out a file, passing a folded newspaper cutting across the desk. The cutting came from The New York Times. A grainy photograph showed a sprawl of low factory buildings behind a tall, chain-link fence. A placard wired to the fence read ‘DANGER: TOXINS’. Underneath was a two-column story about a New Jersey armaments factory specialising in the production of something called ‘A/D Munitions’.

  Molly glanced up.

  ‘What does “A/D” mean?’

  ‘Area denial. It’s military jargon for keeping the opposition where you want them. Instead of high explosives, these people were contracted to fill artillery shells with various chemicals. The place is closed now. It seems they’ve been having leaks for years.’

  ‘But what’s that got to do with Giles?’

  ‘His syndicate reinsured a slice of the risk.’ He paused. ‘Quite a big slice, as it happens.’

  ‘And they’re claiming?’ Molly tapped the cutting. ‘These people are claiming?’

  ‘They have no choice. The US government has the power to authorise a clean-up. It’s a big site. Hundreds of acres. Physically, the whole thing has to be taken away. The lawyers are still arguing about the bill but the lowest estimate is one billion dollars.’

  ‘One billion?’ Molly stared at him. The sum was inconceivable. ‘And Giles owes all that? That’s what he’s got to find?’

  ‘No, nothing like. But even a tenth of that is still huge. A hundred million …’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a fortune, especially if the syndicate’s exposed to other risks.’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘Yes, I understand that’s why Giles has been suspended. I gather the managing agent thinks he’s been going for broke. Writing silly business. Double or quits.’

  ‘And is he right?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea. Not that it matters. Lloyd’s is a village. Reputation counts for everything.’

  Molly nodded, understanding at last why Giles had been so quiet, so unwilling to share his problems. He was a proud man. Even last week, even until the moment when they took away his job, he must have felt there was a chance of rescuing the situation, of piling up fresh business, of honouring his obligations to the other Names in his wretched syndicate. Knowing the man the way that she did, she was absolutely certain that the syndicate’s ruin would have weighed more heavily with him than the prospect of their own bankruptcy. The man had always been cursed with a conscience. It was one of the many reasons she’d fallen in love with him.

  ‘So why didn’t he tell me all this himself,’ she said quietly, ‘instead of getting you to do it?’

  Patrick looked at her for a long moment.

  ‘We ought to talk about the consequences,’ he said at last, ‘and then maybe you’ll understand.’

  Todd Llewelyn pushed his plate to one side, mopping his lips with the napkin. One of the problems of late middle age was weight gain. In his line of work, he told himself that appearance was all-important but the price of staying in shape was the need to stick to an almost permanent diet, a concept that sat uneasily alongside an invitation to ‘La Bellissima’.

  His host, twenty years younger, helped himself to another plateful of spaghetti Marinara. Martin Pegley had been in his new job exactly a year now, and hauling his old boss to one of Soho’s best Italian restaurants seemed a fitting way to celebrate. Not only that, but it might, with luck, put an end to the non-stop stream of phone calls.

  Llewelyn reached for his glass of Chianti. His lunch-time limit was two glasses. So far he’d barely touched the first.

  ‘So what do you think?’ he said.

  Pegley’s eyes went to the small lined pad beside his plate. He’d listed the programme ideas one by one, in the order that Llewelyn had pitched them. So far, none had raised even a flicker of interest.

  ‘I quite like the idea of a Hiroshima retrospective,’ he said carefully, ‘but I have to be candid. It’s a bit out of our league.’

  ‘I’d keep the archive to a minimum,’ Llewelyn said at once, ‘if that’s a worry.’

  ‘So what would we be looking at? What would we see? Going out there’s not an option. I was in Japan last month. The prices are outrageous.’

  ‘No question.’ Llewelyn was nodding vigorously. ‘We fly the guys over. On contra deals. Do the interviews here. Use their own stills. Minimum fee. Total buy-out.’

  ‘What guys?’

  ‘The survivors.’

  ‘I thought there weren’t any? I thought that was the story?’

  Llewelyn looked at him for a moment, uncerta
in whether he was being taken seriously. Five years ago, when they were both working in what Llewelyn still called ‘proper television’, Pegley had been his researcher: bright, hard-working, deferential. Now, the younger man headed the programme commissioning arm of the new People’s Channel, a consortium of newspaper and financial interests pledged to change the face of UK broadcasting. Pegley’s budget, according to the trade press, was in excess of £6 million and in the light of their previous relationship Llewelyn saw no reason why some of it shouldn’t come his way. He had the ideas. He had the track record. All Pegley had to do was say yes.

  He watched Pegley’s eyes straying back to the pad. Beside each of Llewelyn’s programme suggestions was a tiny pencil mark. These marks, as far as Llewelyn could judge, were identical. So if Hiroshima wouldn’t fly, it was logical to assume that the others were equally doomed. Llewelyn reached for his glass, deciding to try a new tack.

  ‘You’re forty-seven years old …’ he mused, ‘you’re married, nicely set up, still good-looking in a vulnerable sort of way. You have a son. An only son. He’s the apple of your eye. He goes off to Africa. He’s working for an aid charity. He’s digging wells, piping water, saving lives, all that. This makes you even more proud of him. Then he steps on a land mine. Bang. And suddenly he’s dead.’

  Llewelyn leaned back, sipping at the Chianti, pleased with himself. Pegley was still winding lengths of spaghetti round his fork. He glanced up. For the first time, he looked genuinely interested.

  ‘Fact or fiction?’ He picked a sliver of crab shell from his tongue and laid it carefully on the side of his plate.

  ‘Fact. As of yesterday.’

  ‘Been in the papers? Anyone else know?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  Llewelyn took his time, making the most of what little extra he’d managed to prise out of Robbie Cunningham. He’d phoned the young press officer before leaving for the restaurant, telling him they both needed to go back to the dead boy’s mother, but Cunningham had refused to play ball. He worked for the Director. Any assignments should come from him. Now, Llewelyn began to mop his plate with a crescent of bread roll.

  ‘Africa’s sexy just now …’ he began. ‘Rwanda, Mandela, you name it. But how much do we really know about the place? The way it works? The chaos? The killing? The risks these young guys take?’

  Pegley interrupted.

  ‘Which country are we talking about?’

  ‘Angola.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Llewelyn leaned forward, tapping the table. ‘Unknown Angola. The forgotten war. Refugees. Famine. Drought. Disease. A tragedy in the making and no one’s even heard of it. Believe me, it’s the perfect focus …’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For this film of mine.’

  ‘But what about the woman? Where does she come in?’

  ‘She goes out there. To Angola. To find her son.’

  ‘I thought he was dead.’

  ‘He is. That’s the whole point. Another white life. Another sacrifice. For Africa.’

  ‘So she goes out there to bring him back? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes, but first she has to find him.’ Llewelyn had picked up the butter knife now, waving it around, warming to his theme. ‘She’s blonde. She’s pretty. She’s middle class. And she’s white. But we’re with her. Through it all.’

  ‘Who’s with her?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So you and she go to …’ Pegley frowned, finding another splinter of crab leg on the end of his finger.

  ‘Angola.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. You and she fly out to find the son?’ Llewelyn shook his head.

  ‘The truth,’ he said, ‘we go out there to find the truth. About what really happened. Then we come home with the body. Film-wise, final cut, we probably start with the funeral, back over here. She lives out in the country, Essex somewhere. There’ll be a church, a graveyard, lots of mourners. The mother’s obviously there, and the father too.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, depends. Could be tacky …’ Llewelyn paused, his eyes narrowing, trying to visualise the next sequence. ‘Flashback might be nice, little dollops of Africa intercut with the funeral, in and out, just a taste, just a glimpse, the filth, the noise, the squalor, the kids, bang, then back to the funeral, bang, close-up coffin, bang, more Africa, bang, coffin into grave, bang, ashes to ashes … hey!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Great title.’

  Pegley pushed his plate away, trying to mask his smile. As a researcher, he’d worked for Llewelyn for nearly four years. Despite the bullying and the megalomania, despite the lies and the vanity, he still retained a strange affection for the man. Todd Llewelyn was the all-time survivor. He never took no for an answer. He absolutely refused to lie down. And even now, several years over the hill, he could still come up with a good idea.

  ‘So what would you need,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘from us?’

  ‘A commission. And a firm go-ahead. We have to move the idea along. Before someone else does.’

  Pegley said nothing for a moment. Then he frowned.

  ‘You know it’s not absolutely firmed up,’ he said, ‘this People’s thing …’

  Llewelyn blinked.

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘I don’t mean the money. The dosh is there. The backing. We have no problem with any of that. But there’s still a tiny glitch on the licensing side. I’m told it’s nothing to worry about, but we’re still waiting for a go-ahead. Officially, I mean.’

  ‘So where’s the problem?’

  ‘You tell me. The engineering boys say it’s to do with broadband allocation but that sounds like a cop-out. My own feeling is …’ He shrugged. ‘Take a look at the major backers. We’re hardly this government’s favourite people.’

  Llewelyn nodded. The newspaper group behind the People’s Channel was left of centre, a permanent thorn in the Cabinet’s side. That’s why the concept of People’s had raised so much interest in the trade. Serious money chasing the stories no one else would touch. A lone voice in the television wilderness.

  Llewelyn eyed the bottle of Chianti. His glass was nearly empty.

  ‘You’re telling me you’re not commissioning?’

  ‘No, not at all, I’m not telling you that at all. I’m telling you there’s a trillionth per cent chance of a problem. And I’m telling you I think it’s a great idea. Africa with a human face. Something we can all relate to. Something Joe Soap can get a handle on. What did you have in mind? Lengthwise?’

  ‘An hour special.’

  ‘World rights?’

  ‘Absolutely. In return for total funding. Plus I’ll throw in a print piece, too. At no extra charge.’

  Pegley nodded, agreeing at once, knowing it was a neat idea. Todd Llewelyn and his wandering housewife would sit nicely in a weekend supplement a day or two before transmission. Good promotion. Great profile.

  ‘You’ll take a camcorder?’ he said. ‘Do it yourself?’

  Pegley watched the older man thinking about it. Todd Llewelyn came from a world of six-men camera crews and mountains of silver boxes. Using a camera himself was clearly a departure, though already he was visibly warming to the idea. Like most television presenters, Llewelyn had always fantasised about absolute control.

  ‘You want me to shoot it as well?’ He nodded. ‘Sure, why not?’

  News of the fighting around Muengo reached Terra Sancta’s Africa desk in Winchester in mid-afternoon. It came not from the charity’s Luanda office, which was temporarily unmanned, but from the Geneva headquarters of the International Committee of the Red Cross. Their mission in Muengo was operating from a bunker beneath the house. The city was under intermittent bombardment but so far they’d suffered no casualties. Amongst the aid people they were keeping tabs on was Tom Peterson.

  Valerie Askham took the message to the Director personally. He read the telex from G
eneva then put it to one side.

  ‘All this fighting …’ He frowned. ‘What about the UN? Are they involved yet?’

  Valerie nodded. She’d talked to the UN office in Luanda as soon as the telex had arrived. They had observers on the ground in Muengo and they were trying to arrange a ceasefire to evacuate the aid workers.

  ‘Where on the ground?’

  ‘I’m not sure, exactly. I think they have a bunker of their own.’

  ‘So how are they doing this? How are they going about it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Normally they—’

  The Director broke in. He hadn’t slept well and it showed.

  ‘Do they know about Jordan? The problems Peterson’s having? Trying to get the wretched boy out?’

  ‘Yes, I imagine they do.’

  ‘Then why on earth …’ He shook his head, turning away, petulant, exhausted, and Valerie began to explain the situation afresh. War had swamped Muengo. People were probably dying in their hundreds. The remains of a dead British aid worker would count for precious little.

  ‘I know that, I know, but it makes no difference. We need to tie this thing up. It’s messy. And extremely unpleasant.’

  Valerie nodded, falling silent. Robbie Cunningham had released the news of James Jordan’s death that morning but so far reaction from the media had been muted. A couple of calls from the broadcast organisations. A request for more details from the Guardian. Yet in the absence of awkward questions, the Director seemed to be generating fresh tensions of his own. She’d seen him like this before, back in the days when they’d been fellow academics at the Institute for International Affairs. Then, the notion of putting away the books, of founding a new charity and trying to do something practical in the Third World, had seemed beyond reproach. Now, though, she wasn’t so sure.

  The Director was back at his desk, tugging at an elastic band.

  ‘What did you think of our Mr Llewelyn? Last night?’

  Valerie pursed her lips. After the meeting, the three of them had driven into Winchester for a meal. Llewelyn had spent most of the time talking about past triumphs, disappearing abruptly at ten to catch the last train back to London.

  ‘I’m not sure I like him,’ she said carefully.