Yuk. Totally done, signed, sealed, delivered and set in reinforced ferroconcrete. Look, I've said I'm sorry, but at least I did tell you as soon as I realised.
Ferroconcrete is reinforced. And I bet you did not just think of this. And as I seem to recall telling you, Adrian G is your immediate superior while I'm on sabbatical, not me. Plus I just scrolled back through all this and you have not said you're sorry.
All right! I'm sorry! Really. Look, I don't have to tell AG, do I? He really doesn't like me. Say it ain't so. I'll make it up to you. This is all off the record, obviously.
Helps to say that at the start. You do have a lot to learn. How did you get to be an L4? Anyway, I won't tell AG, but in the event that anything does happen with the deal concerned, you're going to have to confess all to the relevant authorities. As the deal's done, and the CEO was apparently happy, we're probably OK, honour satisfied. But, like I say, in the event, you'll have to own up. And another thing: have you talked to the girl since? Has she said she confessed all to her pa? I mean it looks like he found out, but through her?
She won't return my calls. I'm starting to regret telling you this. Look, if something did go wrong later, this could end my career. You won't grass on me will you? Kathryn; please.
I'm not promising anything. If all you pay for this is losing a few teeth, we'll all have got off lightly.
Who's this We, white man? Might I point out that I've taken all the shit here; as far as the biz is concerned the phrase Scot free comes to mind, my little Caledonian chum. You, ie the company has lost fuck all.
Yes, and you'd better pray it stays that way.
I thought you were an atheist.
It's just a form of words; don't get hot under your dog or any other collar. Where the hell is your dumb ass - sorry, arse - anyway?
Home in a dark and rain-swept Chelsea. You?
I'm in Karachi, and a quandary.
Oh. Isn't that the new Toyota?
Never mind. You should be asleep. Do try not to fuck up any important mega-deals or lose any major body parts while in the land of nod.
Make it so, number one. Oh, forgot: Adrian G changed story again. Apparently it definitely and definitively was not our large secure friend Mr Walker he saw in that taxi the other day. My fault for getting totally the wrong end of the stick, allegedly. Just thought I'd tell you.
Right. So now we know. Night, and then again, night.
We'd been lifted off the Lorenzo Uffizi by the helicopter from Tommy Cholongai's yacht. For a while I'd wondered whether we'd be taken straight to the yacht and never actually set foot on the sands of Sonmiani Bay, but we did, plucked from the deck and lowered to the beach in groups of four, and stood in the shade of the enormous stem of the old liner while Mr C glad-handed the boss-men of the ship-breaking concern that would be scrapping the vessel.
Even while we stood there, the water still drying on the vessel's patchy red hull-bottom paint and draining from the weeds and encrusted growths that had accumulated under the waterline since her last scraping, a squad of little men and skinny boys pushing oxyacetylene cylinders on trolleys came jogging past us. They split into groups of two stationed every hundred feet or so down the length of the hull exposed above the now retreating tide, ignited their torches, flipped dark goggles down and started cutting into the ship's plates to form a series of beach-level doors.
The Pakistani bosses were all smiles and politeness and invited us to take tea in their offices further up the beach, but I got the impression they just wanted rid of us so they could get on with the job of taking the ship apart. Mr Cholongai declined their offer gracefully and we were all ferried out to the yacht in the little Hughes, apart from Adrian Poudenhaut, who was picked up by his fancy Bell-with-the-retractable-undercarriage, the swine.
There was a feast arranged on board the yacht, and something of a party. The Lorenzo Uffizi's captain and first officer and the local pilot received presents from Mr C. They didn't unwrap them but they seemed very happy with them all the same. Gorgeously attractive Malay girls wandered the teak decks and main lounge, serving cocktails and seafood.
'Mr Poudenhaut did not stay long,' Tommy Cholongai observed, joining me at the port deck rail. Most people were either in the air-conditioned lounge or on this side, in the shade. Even in the shadows, with a gentle breeze produced by the yacht heading parallel with the coast towards Karachi, it felt fiercely hot and humid.
'A man with a mission,' I said, and sipped my margarita.
'A present, I understood.' He held a glass of iced coffee.
'Yes,' I said, aware of the weight of the disc in my jacket pocket.
'From Mr Hazleton, it would be obvious to infer,' Cholongai said, nodding thoughtfully. He smiled. 'Forgive me if I'm being too nosy, won't you?'
'That's all right. Mr Poudenhaut was delivering something Mr Hazleton thought I ought to see. I take it you weren't aware of what it was.'
'Indeed no. Mr Poudenhaut's visit was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.' He glanced at me. 'It was a surprise to you, wasn't it?'
'Yes.'
'I thought so.' He looked out towards the shore. We had left behind the last of the scrapped ships' ragged outlines a few minutes ago. A thin, dark line of mangrove trees had replaced the tawny sands. 'Of course,' he said, 'given what I have told you about today, and given that the Level One executives all know of this matter, there is bound to be, oh, how would one say it? Some jockeying for position.'
'I think I'm starting to appreciate that, Tommy.'
'We shall be staying in harbour in Karachi for a day or two. I have to entertain various worthy but not very sparkling industrialists this evening; you are certainly invited, though I think you might be bored. However I would be honoured if you would join me for lunch tomorrow.'
'If I have time to do a little shopping when we get ashore I'll happily join you for both. Boring industrialists hold no terror for me, Tommy.'
Cholongai looked pleased. He glanced at his watch. 'It would be quicker to send you ahead in the helicopter.'
'Oh,' I said. 'Good.'
Having been met by Mo Meridalawah at the airport and transported across the ocean of poverty that was Karachi to the archipelago of shops where serious money could be spent, I had time to buy a new frock, a satellite phone and a DVD player.
'Hello?'
'Mr Hazleton?'
'Yes. Who is that?'
'Kathryn Telman.'
'Well, hello. Have you a new telephone, Kathryn?'
'Yes. A satellite phone. Thought I'd test it out. This is my first call.'
'Oh. I suppose I ought to feel honoured, oughtn't I?'
'You rang off rather abruptly yesterday.'
'Did I? I'm sorry.'
'Why did you want me to see that, Mr Hazleton?'
'What? The scene in the hotel? Oh, I thought it might come in useful for you.'
'It's blackmail material, Mr Hazleton.'
'It could be used as such, I suppose. I hadn't really thought of that. You weren't thinking of using it as such, were you?'
'Why should I use it at all, Mr Hazleton?'
'Oh, that's up to you, Kathryn. I simply thought to provide the material. How you use it is up to you.'
'But why, Mr Hazleton? Why did you provide it?'