Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,75

work out the final casualty lists. So you could just disappear off the grid, couldn’t you?’

‘The CO’s not going to like that. I’m a company sergeant major. I’m supposed to set an example, do my duty, not piss off on private jollies.’

‘Don’t worry about that. The man I was just talking to is a very influential individual. If I ask him to square it for you, trust me, there won’t be a problem.’

Schultz pulled up at a red light and gave Carver a long, searching look. ‘What exactly was it you said you did for a living, boss?’

‘I didn’t say.’

‘But we’re going after this Zorn geezer?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you know a bloke who can just call up Poole, get my CO on the line, and tell him what to do?’

‘Yes.’

The light turned green and Schultz drove away. ‘And what exactly do you want from me?’

‘Drop the girl at the hospital and get me to the airport at Haverfordwest. Then head for London. Give me a number and I’ll call you. We’ll be doing the job tomorrow. We’re going to need someone else, too, someone we can trust. And I mean, absolutely. One word of this gets out—’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got the right man. He was in the Service, got out about six months ago. Just about to fuck off to Iraq with one of them Yank security companies.’

‘And he’s good?’

‘One of the best.’

‘Then that’ll do me.’

‘And we’re going to take this Zorn bastard out?’

‘Well, Snoopy,’ said Carver, ‘just you wait and see.’

On the radio the presenter was saying, ‘And now let’s cross back, live, to Surrey, where we are about to hear an official statement from the man who predicted a tragedy like today’s, and who was a close personal friend of the late Nicholas Orwell. I can see on my monitor that the statement is about to begin. So this is Malachi Zorn …’

56

* * *

Wentworth

MALACHI ZORN’S PR PEOPLE had advised him to wait a few hours before he faced the media. It was worth taking time, they said, for their best writers to craft a statement. He had said no. ‘I don’t want a crafted statement. I just want to go out and speak from the heart.’ The PRs had protested, but at the same time, he had seen their minds working out how to use his determination just to go out and speak his mind on behalf of a departed friend as a story in itself. It was a nice human touch: the media would gobble it up. Of course, he’d had hours to contemplate his reaction to Orwell’s likely demise, and months to think about the refinery’s destruction. So there was very little that was spontaneous or off the cuff about what he was going to say. Nor was it an accident that the few rough notes – ‘NB: VICTIMS most important … Nicholas counsellor, contributor, friend … human not financial tragedy … business as usual,’ and so on – scrawled on the sheet of paper in his hand had been written large enough to be picked up by zoom lenses. Even the hesitation with which he opened had been considered in advance.

‘Ahh …’ Zorn grimaced nervously and cleared his throat as he ran his eyes over the crowd of reporters in front of him, hoping to give as many of them as possible the impression that he had looked directly at them. He felt a momentary shock of alarm as the thought struck him that Carver might be out there in the crowd, ready to fire the bullet that would blow his brains out. The image didn’t frighten Zorn. It thrilled him: the shot of physical danger spiced up his financial gamble like a splash of chilli oil. He coughed to hide his excitement, and then began: ‘I want to make a short statement about today’s tragic events at the Rosconway refinery in Wales.’

Zorn looked down at the notes, as if seeing inspiration and reassurance from them, though he knew perfectly well what he was going to say. ‘My first and, ahh, deepest thoughts are for the victims of this terrible atrocity: the dead, the wounded, and all the loved ones who are feeling such loss and anguish at this dark hour. There will be much talk of the political and economic consequences of what has happened, but you know, we must never forget that this is a human tragedy that touches us all.’

He gave another look around his audience, drawing them in, making them complicit in