CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TEATIME
Park Lane was hot and dusty, but Hunter was chilled in his soul, and a little tight into the bargain. Harris had provided some handy background, but the florid man fell short of a new instalment in the Wonders saga, and Hunter felt he deserved a little time off. Somebody else could bash out the fillers. What he really needed was somewhere quiet, and restful, but not too lonely, with a pot of tea at his elbow, and perhaps a cucumber sandwich or two, sliced very thin. He decided to ramble down Park Lane to the Hilton, and treat himself to afternoon tea: the Hilton had a resident pianist, and sometimes some goodlooking strays - though the strays were reputedly also sometimes rather mercenary. He would rest, and sober up, and prepare himself for the Russians.
The Hilton lobby was busy with international tourists and travellers milling about, coming and going, but the first floor lounge was a haven of rest. The pianist tinkled gently in the background, there were plenty of empty tables and comfortable cane chairs, and deft waiters with napkins on their arms stood ready and poised to serve.
Hunter chose a corner table where he could relax, but still be watchful, made himself comfortable and looked about him. A middleaged couple a couple of tables away were nibbling at cakes, and by their clothes looked American. A small group of orientals, probably Japanese, were deep in animated discussion. A handful of solitary men dotted the tables nearest to the pianist, and appeared to be listening, or perhaps dozing.
A waiter brought tea and cucumber sandwiches, and several small cakes on a little dish, and he munched contentedly. He was doing nothing for his dieting plans, but the cucumber was fresh, and the bread very thin, and his head began to clear, and his fears ebbed a little. Nothing threatened him at the Hilton.
The pianist changed tempo, switching from a gentle tinkle to a faster, more rousing rhythm, and he began to think of making his way back to his flat to prepare for an evening out clubbing. Hella flashed up in his mind, and he winced as he munched on the last of his small cakes. She had been fun, and he had fancied her strongly. But then it had all blown away. The thought made Hunter wryly philosophical as he prepared to pay. Life might be a great game, but it could also sometimes prove really unfair, not to say littered with lost opportunities.
Then a movement caught his eyes as the waiter bowed away gratefully - Hunter was in a generous pre-party mood. Two women stood beyond the piano, one dark, one fair, plainly taking a view. He glanced at his watch, quickly changed his mind about leaving, and settled back into his chair. He had plenty of time in hand, and both were attractive, maybe in their early or mid-twenties, fashionable in silky summer dresses, but not too ostentatious, well-heeled suburban shoppers perhaps, breaking for a relaxing gossip before wending their way home. He prepared to look hopeful.
The women hovered indecisively for a moment, and then made for him, hovering like a pair of butterflies, before settling at the next table. Hunter watched them covertly, and changed his assessment. Both had something of a practised air about them, a touch of hardness in the way they looked around, and his curiosity quickened.
He pretended to be lost in thought. The waiter closed on them and both women suddenly grew animated as they make their choices, laughing together, and gesturing with their hands in small fluttering movements, and they were plainly signalling that they were both in the friendliest of moods. The waiter smiled, and said something, and the two women laughed. Now Hunter was certain.
The waiter moved off, and one of the women smiled at him quickly. It was an invitation, albeit coded and very discreet. Hunter smiled back. A couple of the solitary males shifted a little in their chairs so they could also watch the newcomers, and the two women were no longer random newcomers seeking refreshment after a hard afternoon's shopping, but a twin focus for a ballet of money and lust and availability. Hunter got to his feet, and strolled to the women's table. Now both smiled, and their smiles were encouraging.
‘Hello.’ The dark woman had glossy black hair and huge eyes. She might be Indian or Sri Lankan by origin. Her companion was blonde, with a fairness that had been helped by an able hairdresser. Both had a toughness in their eyes that belied the innocence of the dark woman's greeting.
Hunter pulled up a chair and sat down. He was curious. Both women inspected him hopefully, and it was plain that he was expected to prove rewarding. He gestured towards the waiter.
‘Can I offer you something?’
The dark woman leaned forward a little towards him. The top button of her silk dress was unfastened, and Hunter glimpses a generous cleavage.
‘Are you staying here?’ Her voice was warm and encouraging.
Hunter shakes his head. ‘I just came here for tea.’
The woman's eyes immediately lost their welcoming glow, as though bedroom lights had been switched off. ‘Pity.’ She smiled a steely little smile. ‘We could have had fun.’
Her blonde companion continued to glow for a moment. ‘You don't fancy booking a room?’
Hunter shook his head again. The two women both continud to smile. But now their smiles were fixed, and they also seemed impatient.
The waiter hovered in the background, but the dark woman waved him away. She waited for a moment, and then stared hard at Hunter. ‘I think you better go, sir.’ Her voice was crisp and dismissive. ‘We're hoping to meet some guests.’
She watched Hunter get to his feet, and looked away, and now she was smiling winningly towards the dusting of solitary men grouped around the pianist. A working girl had a living to make, and Hunter was very much in the way.
Hunter shrugged and headed for the stairs. Why spend money on mutton, when Nash was promising a cost-free evening with tasty spring lamb.
Meanwhile Terry Manning, Financeday's editor, and Charlie Archell, the paper's chairman, were taking tea in Lord Archell's penthouse suite at the top of the Financeday building. The suite was restful in pastel greys and greens, with an enormous picture window overlooking the Thames forming one side of the huge room, a good place to escape the rush and bustle of daily newspaper life several floors below them. Lord Archell stirred his cup thoughtfully as Manning outlined Hunter's plan to build Cradock's papers into a major scandal. He was an Edinburgh man, tall and aquiline, with the distinction that money and power often confer, and very canny.
He waited for Manning to finish, and looked judicious. ‘You say he wants to hang it on an interview. Who with?’
‘He won't say.’ Manning's voice was approving. ‘It's the best way.’
‘Oh, aye.’ Lord Archell sips his tea. ‘People talk.’ He was silent for a long moment, and then bent forward to take a chocolate covered ginger biscuit from a plate on the coffeetable between them. ‘Do you think he'll go for Goodman?’
His voice was studiously neutral. Sam Goodman was Home Secretary, and controlled government plans to set up a vast information network linking every computer in Britain. Archell had been cultivating him assiduously, as part of Financeday group plans to strengthen its IT interests. But Goodman had been playing very coy and hard to get, and the two men were not the best of friends. Now Hunter might chip in some interesting options. Knifing Goodman could be counted on to anger Downing Street, but just hanging a sword over his head might open the way to some profitable horse-trading. A good Hunter interview might set the Home Secretary up neatly, and allows Financeday to trade Hunter for IT leadership.
Manning was thoughtful. ‘He might hit Johnny Davenport.’ Davenport was Defence Minister, and a man with equally doubtful antecedents.
Archell shook his head. ‘Johnny was never one of the iron fist men. Too careful.’
Financeday's editor smiled slowly. Goodman was tough, and contemptuous of newsmen. But arrogance often bred the seeds of its own destruction. ‘Sam was a hustler.’
‘Anything to get invited to shoot on Dux's estates.’ Archell furrowed an aquiline brow. ‘I think I wrote something about socially ambitious Scots lawyers at the time - I was learning the ropes at The Scotsman.’
‘Scots?’
‘Well, he was born in Edinburgh.’
Manning smiled again, and it was a shark smile. ‘He'd be the soft target.’
‘Hunter would have to hit him really hard.’
‘He would.’ Manning paused to take a chocolate biscuit of his own. ‘Richard is a good man. He does his homework.’
Archell was still thoughtful. ‘D'you think he could face Sam out?’ He spoke cautiously, for Goodman had a name as a skilled street-fighter and a legendary ranter.
Manning's shark smile was a smile of death. ‘I think he could bury him with the greatest of ease.’
The two men munched together on chocolate coated ginger biscuits, and their communion formed a compact as they set a man to fight for his political survival. But both also realised that one door might well open as another closed, and Manning waited attentively.
Archell swallowed and fastidiously dusted some wayward crumbs from his lap. He looked pensive. ‘I imagine Downing Street would take a close interest.’
Manning looked alarmed. ‘You won't tell Jim?’
‘I'll wait until the shit hits the fan.’ Archell rolled the vulgarity on his tongue. ‘More impact that way.’
Financeday's editor frowned. ‘It's a good tale.’
Archell looked magisterial. ‘The French have an expression - 'raison d'etat'.’
Manning sighed. It was plain Archell visualised Hunter as no more than a valuable bargaining counter. ‘You'll have a gun at Jim’s head.’
The two men stared at each other.
‘Guns threaten best when they remain threats.’ Archell's soft Scots voice was very gentle.
‘I suppose so.’ Manning nodded doubtfully. He was a newspaperman, and the thought of castrating or killing a really big story pained him. He pondered for a moment, and sighed again. ‘What would you do with Hunter?’
‘He's a bright lad.’ Archell beamed. Suddenly he knew he was holding a handful of aces, and Jim Small would have to eat out of his hand, and he would have the power to dictate some very tough terms indeed. ‘We'll find him a nice slot somewhere in the City, something really lush. It's about time he takes a step up in life. He deserves a bit of promotion.’
Manning was still doubtful. ‘He won't like it.’
Archell frowned. ‘He'll have to lump it.’ He was silent for a moment, and then spoke again, as though he felt he had been too harsh. ‘We'll set him up for life, put him on the ladder for one of these seven figure jobs, something cushy in banking.’
‘He might try to cut and run.’
Archell snorted disbelievingly. ‘Not a hope. Nobody would touch it, if we turned it down.’
‘New York?’
‘It's an old story. Too parochial. The Wall Street Journal owes us a favour or two.’
Manning nodded reluctantly. ‘Ok. But we'll have tears.’
‘We'll dry them.’ Archell beamed again. ‘Let him enjoy the thrill of the chase and scare Sam's pants off, and then we’ll put him on hold for a few days, before quietly tidying the whole thing away. It'll break his heart, for a day or two. But he'll recover: he's a newsman. Newsmen always do.’
Manning was not convinced. Jim Small was a wily prime minister, and often given to making, and then breaking, promises. ‘What if Jim doesn't play ball?’
Archell reached for the last biscuit. ‘Hmm.’ He was thoughtful, debating this possibility of betrayal. ‘We’d still have Hunter. We’ll screw Jim, if he tries to screw us. I don’t think he’d chance it.’
‘We'd have to do it at speed.’
‘Quite so.’ Archell looked a little frosty. It was not for Manning to tell him how to do his job. ‘We'll write a contract in blood.’
Manning realised his error, and looked contrite. ‘Definitive.’
Archell rescues a wayward crumb from the corner of his mouth, and smiled. ‘Naturally.’
His words were both a decision, and a plan for action. Hunter must now hunt, so that men could barter in high places, and pile rewards impressively high.