Bryant nodded. ‘Sure.’
When the door closed, Louise Hewitt spun on Notley.
‘Did you hear that? You know where that comes from, don’t you. That’s chess and bullshit neojap philosophy, courtesy of Chris bloody Faulkner. The man is a fucking toxin, Jack. He’s the real loose cannon around here.’
‘It doesn’t show up like that in the numbers, Louise.’
‘It’s not about the numbers.’
‘No?’ Notley raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I missing something here? Would you care to tell me what Shorn CI is about besides the numbers?’
‘Don’t be obtuse. It’s about an ethic. A corporate culture. A way of doing things. And if we let that go, this,’ she jabbed a finger at the surveillance film. Masked figures, collapsed like unstrung marionettes. Pools and snakes of blood. ‘Is what happens. Structural breakdown, anarchy in the streets. It’s axiomatic. Does anyone sitting round this table have any inkling why Nick Makin might have acted the way he did? Why he found it necessary, even believed perhaps that it would be acceptable, to breach Shorn etiquette like this? Think hard, Jack. Think about a certain major client, beaten to death in conference a week ago. Think about the way you rewarded Faulkner for that. Does anyone see a connection?’
For a fraction of a second, Jack Notley closed his eyes. When he spoke, there was a soft warning in his voice.
‘I don’t think we need to revisit that, Louise.’
‘I think we do, Jack. You gave Chris a green light for behaviour beyond any acceptable limits. And Makin learnt the lesson, resulting in this mess. And meanwhile we’ve got Bryant, our best driver, talking like a fucking ombudsman. Any way you look at it, Jack, you’ve destabilised what we’re about. And we can’t afford that.’
‘I wonder if Martin Page would see it that way?’
Hamilton and Hewitt traded a glance. Hewitt came to the table and seated herself carefully.
‘Is that some kind of accusation?’
Notley shrugged. ‘Let’s just say that your talk of loose cannons is selective, Louise. Page was a junior partner. What you did to him ran counter at least to an unspoken understanding of how partnership works here.’
‘I resent that, Jack. Page was a filed challenge.’
‘Yes, a challenge without a vacant post to justify it. Executive brawling at partnership level. An act of pure, equity share greed.’
‘Which you underwrote, as I recall.’
‘Retrospectively, yes. Because back then, Louise, you were the loose cannon, and I admired you for it.’
Hewitt smiled thinly. ‘Well, thank you. But I think there’s a limit—‘
‘Oh, shut up. Don’t talk to me about,’ Notley gestured impatiently, ‘destabilisation, as if it’s something we have some kind of choice about. As if it’s something we can avoid. What we do here is built on instability. It’s a fucking prerequisite.’
Philip Hamilton cleared his throat. ‘I think what Louise means is—‘
‘Yes, I thought it was about time you weighed in, you little sycophant. Christ, you’re beginning to sicken me, both of you.’
Notley stood up and strode to the head of the table. He stabbed the projector control with two folded fingers, and the wall behind him was abruptly blank. His voice was tight with leashed anger.
‘Louise, I helped you climb to the top of this pile, and now you’re up here all you want to do is surround yourself with low-threat colleagues like this bag of guts, and kick away the ladder in case anybody sharper gets to scramble up and destabilise things for you. Haven’t you learnt anything on the way up? Either of you? You can’t have stability and dynamic capital growth. It’s textbook truth. Come on. What transformed the stock market back in the last century? Volatility. Competition. Deregulation. The loosening of the ties, the removal of social security systems. What’s transformed foreign investment in the last thirty years? Volatility. Competition. Small wars. It’s the same pattern. And what ensures that we stay on top of it all? Volatility. Innovation. Rule-breaking. Loose cannons. Christ, why do you think I hired Faulkner in the first place? We need that factor. We have to keep topping up with it. Otherwise, we all just turn back into the same fat-fuck, complacent, country-club scum that nearly sank us last time around. Sure, men like Faulkner are unstable. Sure, they keep you looking in your rearview all the time. But that’s what keeps us hard.’
For a couple of beats, silence held the conference room. Nobody moved. Notley stared from Hewitt to Hamilton and back, daring them to dispute. Finally, Hewitt shook her head.
‘It may make you hard, Jack,’ she said with measured insolence. ‘But to me it’s just bad business. We have structures in place to ensure volatility and competition. I don’t think we need to go courting chaos into the bargain. I’m making a recommendation this quarterly that we let Faulkner go.’
Notley nodded, almost affably.
‘Alright Louise. If that’s the way you want it. But understand this. We’ve been courting chaos since the day we signed on for Conflict Investment. All of us. It’s what drives us, it’s what gets results. And I’m not going to watch you sell that out, just because you’ve got comfortable. You go on record with that recommendation, I will find reasons to call you out. Do you understand me? I will drive you off the road.’
This time no one broke the silence. Notley leaned his neck hard to one side and they heard it click in the stillness.
‘That will be all.’
When he had gone, Hewitt got up and went to stare out of the window. Hamilton pushed out a long breath.
‘Do you think he means it?’
‘Of course he means it,’ said Hewitt irritably.
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ She came back to sit on the edge of the table. She looked down into Hamilton’s face. ‘But I’m going to need your help.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Out in the corridor, Mike Bryant quizzed security. They told him Chris had taken a lift to the ground floor. Seemed pretty pissed off, admitted one of the guards. Mike called a lift of his own and bombed downward in pursuit.
He spotted Chris, already halfway across the sun-lit cathedral expanse of the lobby. The holos and fountains and subsonics were all switched off, and there was nobody about. In the Sunday afternoon emptiness that was left, the space felt suddenly steely and inhuman.
Mike cleared his throat and called across it.
‘Chris. Hey, Chris. Wait up a minute.’
‘Now’s not a good time, Mike.’ Chris flung it back over his shoulder, not stopping.
‘Okay.’ Mike jogged to catch up. Residual bruising across his chest made it painful. ‘You’re right, it’s not a good time. So why don’t we go and grab a drink somewhere.’
‘I’ve got to get my car back from Hawkspur Green. And then check into a hotel.’
‘You’re not going home?’
‘What do you think?’
Mike put out a hand, breathing heavily. ‘What I think is, you need to drink some of that seaweed-iodine shit you like, and talk about this. And, luckily, I’m here to listen to you spill. Alright? Come on, I saved your life out there, Chris. At least buy me a drink. Alright?’
Chris looked at him. An unwilling smile bent his mouth. Mike saw it and grinned back.
‘Alright. I’ll get the car.’
They found a tiny antique pub called The Grapes, tacked onto the Lime Street edge of Leadenhall Market, catering mainly to the insurance crowd and powered down to a single barwoman for the Sunday trade. Like most city-based hostelries, it opened seven days a week because the simple fact that it was always open was worth something in itself. Brokers knew they could get fed and watered there whatever day they were working, and the knowledge stuck. There was no room for five-day amateurs.
Three - or four? - whiskies in, Chris had drowned his fury and was slumped on a stool, watching dust motes dance in the streams of sunlight that fell in through the windows opposite the bar. A faint, pervasive odour of alcohol seeped up off the polished wood counter. The Laphroaig sat on top of the cheap three fingers he’d taken in Break Point, the codeine tabs and no food to speak of. He felt like a mud-smeared windscreen.