He went in through a back entrance and was guided along corridors to a form of green room where the board of Calenture-Deutz was gathering before it went on stage. Pippa Deere busied around him and had him fitted out with a lapel microphone. She assured him that all the international video-links had been checked and were fully functioning. Yes, yes, fine. Ingram couldn’t really concentrate — he still felt a little light-headed and he ordered a coffee to quell his resurgent nausea. He smiled and nodded at his colleagues — the doctors and the Oxbridge professors, the ex-cabinet minister and the banking supremo — and there too were his nemeses, Keegan and de Freitas, looking over at him knowingly—
There was a gentle squeeze on his elbow and he turned to find his very own ‘Lord on the Board’, his brother-in-law, Ivo, smart in a tight dark suit, his thick hair gelled into glossy quiescence.
“Ivo…” Ingram said, drawing the name out, playing for time, then paused legitimately to accept the coffee brought to him by Pippa Deere. He took a quick sip, searching for a topic of conversation. “Did you see that lunatic outside?”
Ivo chose not to answer his question, posing instead a question of his own.
“Did you get my message?”
“I did. But I didn’t understand it.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
“I knew you’d say that. Exactly.” Ivo pulled down the lower lid of his right eye. “Exactly.”
“Why would you leave a message I wouldn’t understand? Why were you thanking me?”
Ivo leaned close. “For what you did.”
“I did nothing.”
“Quod erat demonstrandum. Q.E.D.”
“What has been demonstrated?” Ingram was growing irritated at this ambiguity.
Ivo sighed. “I had to say thank you, for god’s sake. It’s only reasonable, decent.”
“For what?”
“For what you did.”
“I did nothing.”
“You did not do nothing.”
Ingram began to feel he was in a Harold Pinter play, involved in a sinister duologue that could conceivably go on for ever.
“I. Did. Nothing.” He repeated the words with heavy emphasis.
“I know.”
“You admit I did nothing.”
“Yes, so to speak. But I thank you all the same.”
“For what?”
“For doing ‘nothing’.” Ivo used his fingers to make histrionic air-quotes. “I know that you know. And you know that I know you know.” Ivo tapped the side of his nose. “I can read,” he said, conspiratorially.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Exactly. Point taken. No worries. Good man, Ingram, I love you.”
Pippa Deere interrupted to guide them on to the stage and their appointed seats.
Ingram forced himself to stay awake as Professor Marcus Vintage, who was chairing the press conference, spoke about the year’s progress the company had made, and the tragedy of Philip Wang’s sudden and shocking death (silence in the hall), making no mention of Zembla-4, in his Yorkshire-accented monotone before handing over to Edward Anthony, the company secretary, who would present a brief financial report. The hall was nearly full, Ingram saw, full of part-owners of Calenture-Deutz, all apparently listening intently. He glanced down at the agenda: welcome from the chairman, welcome from the company secretary, statement from Ingram Fryzer, CEO. “Statement”—that was when he would detonate his little fiscal bomb. Little did they know, he thought, looking out over the audience, that everyone in this room was going to leave richer than when they’d come in. Theoretically. He allowed himself a small smile.
It seemed several hours later that he was called to the microphone, though a glance at his watch told him only thirty-five minutes had passed. Ingram waited for the mild applause to die down and unfolded his notes.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I want to make a brief special announcement that greatly affects the future of the company. As you all know, Rilke Pharmaceutical holds a 20 per cent stake in Calenture-Deutz. I want to let you know today that I have agreed to sell my personal shareholding in the company to Rilke Pharmaceutical. This will give them a controlling interest.” The room was completely silent. “However,” Ingram continued, “Rilke Pharma are proposing a complete buy-out of Calenture-Deutz as a share offer with cash alternative. Rilke is offering 600 pence a share, some 20 per cent higher than our current capitalisation. I, and the entire board of Calenture-Deutz, strongly recommend that you accept this generous offer. We envisage the takeover—”
“Point of order!” came a loud shout from the rear of the room. “Point of order, Mr Chairman!”
Ingram felt an itch spear through the sole of his left foot. He stamped down on it hard behind the lectern.
Marcus Vintage looked at him questioningly — should he yield the floor to this interlocutor? Mutterings sped round the room, the sound of hushed shock, speculation and calculation as people wondered how much money they were going to make. Ingram looked round to nod assent at Vintage and saw his hugely magnified image on the video screen nod assent…He looked back at the auditorium, shading his eyes against the spotlights, trying to see who had interrupted him. Stewards were approaching an elderly, pony-tailed man in a wheelchair but someone had already handed him a roving microphone.
“I would like to ask the board,” his amplified voice sounded nasal and aggressive — the voice of hate, Ingram thought—“if they could inform us of the exact number of children who died during the clinical trials of Zembla-4.”
Outrage, shouts, a collective drawing-in of breath erupted before the stewards bore down on the man, seized his microphone and swept him bodily out of the hall, wheelchair lifted off the ground, the man bellowing ‘We want answers! We want to know the truth!’ Ingram saw that one of the men operating the video cameras for the international feeds had swivelled round and projected wheelchair-man’s uncompromising expulsion on the large screen.
The crowd were now applauding. What, Ingram wondered? His own fortitude, the swift removal of the voice of anarchy, the prospect of riches? Professor Vintage was banging his gavel on the desk and crying ‘Order! Order!’ in a faint voice. Ingram felt the blood leaving his head and the room darkened. He grabbed the lectern with both hands and managed to stay upright. The room calmed, people who had stood up to see the disruption now sat down. Ingram drew in deep breaths as he consulted his notes, now worried that he might vomit at any moment.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…” Laughter. “The buy-out of Calenture-Deutz by Rilke Pharmaceutical should take place over the coming weeks once the various takeover requirements have been met. Calenture-Deutz will continue as a brand name but we will function within the unparalleled security and financial might of the third biggest pharmaceutical company in the world. As your chairman and chief executive I cannot urge you more strongly to accept this most generous offer.”
Loud applause, fervent applause, resounded through the room. Ingram looked across at the board to see them all clapping him — and there were Keegan and de Freitas clapping also, but formally, without the fervour of the room. What were their bonuses to be? Ingram wondered. Keegan was looking at him — and gave him a nod of acknowledgement as their eyes met — but not smiling. If anything, Ingram thought, he looked a little worried. De Freitas stopped clapping and whispered something in Keegan’s ear. Ingram turned to the room, gave a small bow and managed to walk off the stage.