The Business

'I don't think so.  You've been in on this from the start.  Kirita Shinizagi trusts you.  And Mr Parfitt-Solomenides doesn't speak Japanese.  Frankly even if Mr Shinizagi wasn't expecting you, you'd have to go because Mr Parfitt-Solomenides's expecting you to be there and if you ever hope to leave Level Four, you don't go upsetting Level One executives because you have a dental problem.  And Mr Shinizagi is expecting you.  If you didn't show we might…Never mind.'

'What?'

I didn't quite succeed in stifling a giggle.

'Are you — ?  You're laughing!  I can't fucking believe zhish!'

'I'm sorry, I was going to say we might lose face.'

'What?  Oh, very fucking funny, Kate!'

'Thank you.  Now, make those calls.  And make that flight.'

'Oh, Jeshush.'

'This is no time for superstition, Michael.  Orthodontics is your only hope.'

'You vishish bitch, you're enjoying zhish, aren't you?'

'Not in the least.  And never call me a bitch again, Michael.'

'I'm shorry.

'Make the calls, Mike, and be sure you have some pain-killers to hand for when the anaesthetic wears off.'

'Okay, okay.  Shorry to have dishturbed you.'

'That's all right, given the circumstances.  I hope it all works out, and give my regards to Kirita Shinizagi.'

'If I can shtill talk Japanezhe with no teesh.'

'Just do your best.  I'm sure they have very good dentists in Japan.'

'Huh.'

'Good night, Mike.  Safe journey.'

'Yeah.  Good night.  Umm… shanks.'

The phone went dead.  I looked at it, wondering, then I switched it off.  I draped the towel over the side of the bath, unlocked the door and returned to the bedroom, feeling my. way across the unfamiliar space to the bed.

'What was that?' a deep, sleepy voice said.

'Nothing,' I said, slipping between the sheets. 'Wrong number.'

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Kathryn Telman.  I am a senior executive officer, third level (counting from the top) in a commercial organisation which has had many different names through the ages but which, these days, we usually just refer to as the Business.  There's a lot to tell about this particular concern, but I'm going to have to ask you to be tolerant here because I'm intending to take things slowly and furnish further details of this ancient, honourable and — to you, no doubt — surprisingly ubiquitous concern in due course as they become relevant.  For the record, I am one point seven metres tall, I weigh fifty-five kilos, I am thirty-eight years old, I have dual British/US nationality, I am blonde by birth not bottle, unwed, and have been an employee of the Business since I left school.

Early November 1998 in the city of Glasgow, Scotland.  Mrs Todd the housekeeper cleared away my breakfast things and padded silently away across the pine floor.  CNN babbled quietly from the television.  I dabbed at my lips with a crisply starched napkin and gazed out through the tall windows and the light rain to the buildings on the far side of the grey river.  The company apartments in Glasgow had been shifted a few years earlier from Blythswood Square to the newly fashionable Merchant City area on the north bank of the Clyde.

This building had been in company ownership since we built it, in the late seventeen hundreds.  It was a warehouse for nearly two centuries, was leased out as a cheap clothing store for a decade, then it lay unused for a number of years.  It was renovated in the eighties to create office and retail units on the ground and first floor and loft-style apartments on the three remaining floors.  This, the top floor, was all Business.

Mrs Todd glided back to complete the tidying of the table. 'Will there be anything else, Ms Telman?'

'No, thank you, Mrs Todd.'

'The car is here.'

'I'll be ten minutes.'

'I'll let them know.'

My watch and mobile agreed that it was 0920.  I rang Mike Daniels.

'Yesh?'

'Ah.'

'Yesh, "Ah" indeed.'

'They couldn't find you a dentist.'

'Zhey found me a dentisht but zhere washn't time to do anyshing.  I shtill look like a fucking footballer.'

'Pity.  Sounds like you're in a car.  I take it you're on your way to Heathrow.'

'Yesh.  Everyshing'sh on schedule.'

'Any pain?'

'A little.'

'Did you call Security?'

'Yesh, and Adrian G.  Zhey were even lesh help than you.  I don't shink Adrian George likesh me.  He'sh calling Tokyo and Pee-Esh'sh offish to let zhem know, sho it won't come ash a shock.'

'Very considerate.'

'He shaid Shecurity would want to talk to me when I get back.  Anyway, zhey're going to inveshtigate.  Had to hand my flat keysh over to shome flunkey before I left thish morning.  Oh, who'sh Walker?'

'Walker?'

'Shumshing to do wish Shecurity.'

'Colin Walker?'

'That'sh him.  Adrian G said he thought he'd sheen him in the Whitehall offish a couple of daysh ago.  Sheemed to find it mosht amuzhing that he might be doing the inveshtigating.'

'I doubt that.  Walker's one of Hazleton's people.  He's his chief of Security.  Well, more enforcement, in reality.'

'Enforshement? Oh, shit, ish thish shome department I haven't heard of?  Shomeshing not for ush Level Foursh?'

'No.  Officially Walker's Security.  It's just he's usually regarded as Hazleton's…muscle.'

'Mushle?  You mean like shum short of fucking henchman?'

'Henchman's a bit fifties B-movie-ish, don't you think?  But I believe you could call him a person of hench.  If we had hit-men, he'd be one.  In fact, he'd probably be their boss.'

I know a little more about this sort of thing than most execs at my level because I started out in Security.  That was before an interest in gadgets, technology and future trends got me angled across the company's career tracks and on to the plutocratic mainline.  Maintaining contacts in Security may well prove to be one of the more astute investments I've made in my own future.

'Hazhleton.  Shit.  Ish he azh shcary azh everybody shesh?'

'Not normally, but Walker is.  I wonder what he's doing in the country?'

'I heard a rumour zhere wash shome short of meeting nexsht week, at…umm, in Yorkshire.'

'Really?'

'Yesh.  Shumshing to do wish the Pashific shing.  Maybe he'sh here for zhat.  Maybe Hazhleton's coming over from the Shtates.  Advanshe guard.  Checking out the grim old pile before Hazhleton showsh.'

'Mmm.'

'Sho, izh zhere a meeting, Kate?'

'Where did you hear this rumour?'

'Izh zhere a meeting?'

'Where did you hear this rumour?'

'I ashked firsht.'

'What?'

'Oh, come on!  Ish zhere shome high-level meeting or not?'

'I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly comment.'

'…Shit, doesh zhat mean you're attending?'

'Michael, you ought really to be concerning yourself with your own assignment.'

'Ha!  I'm trying to take my mind off it!'

'Anyway, I have to go; there's a car waiting for me.  Have a safe and productive trip.'

'Yeah yeah yeah.  All zhat shtuff.'

I was on sabbatical.  One of the privileges that comes with my rank is that I'm allowed one year in every seven, on full pay, to do just as I please.  This has been a Business institution for those at my level and above for about two and a half centuries and seems to be working well.  We'll probably keep it.  Certainly I had no complaints, even though I had not taken what most people would regard as full advantage of such a serious perk.

Nominally and for tax purposes I was based in the States.  I spent about a third of the year travelling, generally in the developed world.  I was still enjoying this largely airborne lifestyle, but when I did want to feel the earth under my feet I could always retreat to the modest but comfortable cabin I owned in the Santa Cruz mountains just outside the town of Woodside, Ca, within easy reach of Stanford, Palo Alto and the rest of Silicon Valley (that's 'modest' and 'cabin' in the Californian Opulent sense, with a pool, hot tub, five bedrooms and a four-car garage).  If home is the place that best displays your character, then this was my home.  From the stuff on the shelves you could have told that I liked German composers, Realist art, French films and biographies of scientists.  Also that I was addicted to technical journals.