Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,7

it wanted to hear regardless of the actual facts – Grantham’s cantankerous frankness took some getting used to.

‘Are you referring to our former Prime Minister?’ asked the amused, languid voice of the second most senior officer in the room, Piers Nainby-Martin, a thirty-year veteran of the Service, educated at Eton and New College, Oxford.

‘No, Piers, I’m referring to Simon bloody Cowell … Yes, of course I mean the Right Honourable Nicholas Orwell, one-time member for the constituency of Blabey and Trimingham, now fully occupied feathering his nest. What’s this I hear about his new business venture? Some kind of investment fund for the stinking rich … Come on, let’s be having it.’

Another officer, Elaine McAndrew, a bespectacled, mousy, bluestocking type in her thirties, stood up and pointed a remote control at a large plasma screen: ‘This is footage from last night …’

The screen came to life with grainy shots of a lavish outdoor party. A large circular dinner table, decorated with a splendid floral centrepiece, had been set beside a spotlit swimming pool. At the far end of the pool stood two silk-draped pavilions. Within one of them, two uniformed chefs stood behind a spread of whole lobsters, spectacular king prawns, a perfectly pink joint of roast beef, golden glazed chickens, silver bowls of pasta, rice and salads of every description, and a pair of chafing dishes whose fragrant, spicy contents would have graced a three-star restaurant. In the adjacent pavilion, a barman was ready with premier cru wines and vintage champagnes, European, Asian and American beers, and a selection of single malt whiskies for those who preferred spirits.

‘This is the Castello di Santo Spirito. It’s an estate in Tuscany, about ten kilometres from Siena, owned by an American called Malachi Zorn,’ the woman continued.

‘The American speculator?’ Grantham asked.

‘That’s right, sir, yes.’

Grantham harrumphed. ‘His speculations appear to have been successful, then.’

‘Yes sir, he’s believed to be worth in excess of fifteen billion dollars.’

There was a shuffling of papers from down the table and a voice piped up: ‘Fifteen point three, to be precise, according to the latest Forbes magazine list of the world’s richest individuals.’

A grimace of indifference tinged with disgust crossed Grantham’s face. ‘So what was the occasion?’

‘A dinner party, sir,’ said the female officer. ‘For guests of similar wealth.’

The camera turned to look back up a flight of stone steps towards a country house. From the champagne glasses whose rims were occasionally visible at the bottom of the picture it appeared to be attached to one of the wine-waiters. The camera came to rest on a man. His black suit was perfectly cut, but artfully crumpled, and his white dress shirt was tieless, its top three buttons undone to reveal a tanned, hairless chest. A group of guests – Grantham counted nine men and women – were following him down the stairs, like children trailing the Pied Piper.

‘Mr Zorn, I presume,’ said Grantham.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What’s the story with him, then?’

Nainby-Martin took over: ‘Could you pause the video a moment, please, Elaine?’ As the image froze, he glanced down at a file in front of him. ‘Malachi Vernon Zorn. Born in Westchester, New York, in 1970. His father was a banker, his mother a full-time housewife. Malachi was the only child. Educated privately at Phillips Exeter Academy, then went up to Harvard to study mathematics, for which he had a phenomenal aptitude. As a boy he was also an accomplished horseman, played a lot of tennis and was a competent yachtsman. So far, so conventionally privileged. But then came an unexpected twist. Both his parents died: mother first, then the heartbroken father.

‘Zorn was in his final year at Harvard, but walked out without graduating. He proceeded to hit the New York party circuit, apparently set on throwing away every penny of his inheritance as fast as possible. Aside from occasional mentions in the gossip columns, no more was heard of him until 1995, when he set up a small company called Zorn Financials. It was a one-man band. Just Zorn, alone in an office, surrounded by screens, essentially placing bets on a variety of financial markets.’

‘Any market in particular?’ Grantham asked. ‘I thought most of these people were highly specialized: particular commodities, currencies and so forth.’

‘Absolutely,’ Nainby-Martin agreed. ‘And what’s more, they tend to use other people’s money. Young Zorn, however, took positions without any apparent regard for the type of market, or its location, or the nature of the play. And he did it by risking every penny he