Chapter 1
If he had been clairvoyant, Luke Graham would have spent his final hours differently. Since he wasn’t, he just hurled down his pencil in frustration. It ricocheted off his rosewood desk, flew past the conference table and almost reached the door of his office on the second bounce. He raised his eyes to follow the trajectory and felt a glimmer of satisfaction.
There was precious little else to be satisfied about. He resisted the urge to throw the PetroProm file in the same direction, though for all the progress he’d made with his analysis of the contents he might as well. Nobody would raise a protest. Blake and Moorfield was one of the world’s top management consulting firms, and tradition was deep-rooted. Few people would dare take issue with anything a partner did.
Then, as if to prove him wrong, the door swung open.
“Sorry, I saw the light on and wondered who was in your office,” Bob Pearson said. “I thought you were supposed to be in Moscow.”
Luke’s heart sank at the prospect of an inquisition.
“I was over there. I flew back this afternoon.” He forced a grin onto his face. “You startled me. I figured I was the only idiot still left in the building this late.”
“No chance. First in last out, that’s me. So what dragged you in here from the airport? Problems at PetroProm?”
It was Pearson’s nose that was first in and last out of everyone else’s business, but it wasn’t done to tell your fellow partners to fuck off. Not the more senior ones, anyway.
“You know what these risk assessments of potential new clients are like,” he said. “Everyone seems to downplay problems and bend the rules these days. I’m the poor sod who’s got to make sure the risks and rewards stack up before you slick bastards all rush off and angle for increased profit shares on the strength of dodgy contracts.”
Pearson laughed. “I bet that attitude went down a treat with Leonid Borisov. He runs the Russian firm like he was a reincarnation of the Tsar.”
“Yeah, well, partners in charge of local offices don’t usually threaten to throw me out of the door.” Luke grimaced at the recollection. “But there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”
More to the point, he thought, local partners didn’t normally try to block discussion of important issues with their clients or turn a post-meeting debriefing into a table-thumping rant. He’d asked a few awkward questions about the viability of the project and the memory of Borisov’s fury was still vivid. The threat he’d seen in the man’s narrowed eyes still had the power to send a shiver down his spine.
“I don’t know why you bother with all that red tape crap anyway.” Pearson shrugged. “If the firm wants to do business in iffy markets like Eastern Europe you should just tick the boxes and look the other way. You can bet that’s what our competitors do.”
He felt the colour rise in his face. “That’s nonsense and you know it. One of the guys on the Management Board was joking about the same thing the other day – at least, I hope he was joking - and I’m fed up with it. We need to be more careful, not less, in that kind of environment.”
“In theory, maybe.” Pearson smirked and wagged his finger. “But take it from me, that kind of old-fashioned attitude won’t do your career much good. Anyway, PetroProm’s a huge company. You can’t seriously reckon there’s any risk about doing business with them, can you?”
Luke felt a flash of anger. Patronising sod. Then his forehead wrinkled in a frown. Maybe the whiff of corruption attached to the prospective contract was all in his imagination. Maybe. His office in Moorfield House was a far cry from the dingy décor and musty smell of PetroProm’s Moscow headquarters on Dubininskya Street where his day had started, but it wasn’t the atmosphere there that spooked him. Nor was it a matter of cultural differences. The Russians at the meeting were no ordinary businessmen, he was sure of that. They seemed eager to sign a contract without any concerns about whether the experts they wanted to hire knew what they were talking about. Clients for management consultancy services didn’t behave that way, even in the emerging markets where hidden agendas were a fact of life.
Not that it was any of Pearson’s business.
He suppressed the urge to say so. It might be fun to wind his visitor up a little.
“I reckon they’re crooked as hell.” He ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head as if puzzled. “I’ve still got a bit of work to do to find the proof, that’s all. There’ll be uproar at the Management Board presentation tomorrow if I recommend they walk away from a multi-million dollar deal just on the basis of my gut feelings.”
“Christ, you’re not going to do that, are you?”
The look of horror on Pearson’s face was comical, and Luke couldn’t resist the temptation to continue.
“Why not?” He smacked the file with the flat of his hand. “It’s all in here. There are some big questions about where the parent company gets its money from, and the banking arrangements are pretty murky. I figure Borisov knows it, too. He nearly had a fit when he found out I’d got hold of details of their finances.”
“You can’t be serious. Surely you don’t think there’s a major problem?”
He heard a harsh edge in Pearson’s voice and decided he’d pushed things far enough.
“Maybe, maybe not. We need to figure it out one way or the other pretty damn quick, though. That’s why I came into the office. David Tyler is good on banking stuff and I was hoping to talk it through with him.” He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Just my luck, though, he’s down at the training centre today.”
“You haven’t spoken to him then?”
The question burst out of Pearson’s lips like the cork out of a champagne bottle, and Luke recoiled with a frown.
“Not yet, as it happens. His phone’s off, so I’ve left him a voicemail and put copies of the papers in the internal mail for him instead. But what’s it to you?”
“Oh, nothing… just curious, that’s all.” Pearson’s eyes slid towards his watch and he clicked his tongue as if in annoyance. “Look, sorry, I must dash; got a few phone calls to make.”
Luke stared at the door as it swung closed behind his visitor. Who the hell was the man off to phone at this time of night? What a weird end to the conversation, even by Bob Pearson’s standards. Then he sighed and tossed the papers into his briefcase. It was time he went home, but that didn’t mean he could duck his responsibilities. When there was a big contract in the offing, all sorts of people started to play games. It wasn’t dishonesty, not really. It was human nature. So here he was again, growing ulcers over issues nobody else seemed to give a damn about.
He slammed the door behind him and limped down the corridor. The knee he’d twisted in the rugby match on Saturday hurt. What the hell, though. It was a small price to pay for one afternoon a week where there were rules people followed most of the time, and a referee to make sure.
In the lift he scowled down at the deep creases in his trousers that airline seats seemed designed to create. Appearances mattered, and he looked a mess. He straightened his tie and pulled his trench coat on over the travel-worn Armani suit. Better. Not much, but better. The lift sighed to a halt. He stepped out and strode towards the exit.
“Goodnight Sir.”
The security guard’s voice echoed around the stainless steel and glass of the atrium and he waved a hand in acknowledgement. Irritation and a touch of jet-lag lent unintended strength to his arm so that the revolving door clipped his heels and sent him with a stumble into the night. Rain plastered his thin blond hair against his scalp and he cursed as water slid coldly down his neck. He turned up his coat collar and set off down the street, preoccupied with his thoughts. He’d got himself into a real mess on this project, and it was entirely his own fault. He should have trusted his first instincts and acted sooner. Either that or he should have buried his doubts and chosen to look the other way a few days ago, when he had the chance. He snorted. Bob Pearson would have loved that.
The weight of the briefcase made his shoulder muscles ache, and he shifted it to his left hand, the wet leather slippery against his fingers. He shook his head. It was stupid to lug the file home. The real problem wasn’t in there. The hollow sensation in his stomach confirmed it was simpler than that. He was scared. Scared of finding proof of the corruption he suspected, and scared of the consequences if it ran as deep as he feared.
He tilted his head away from the driving rain and shrugged his collar higher over his ears. The city streets were almost deserted at this time of night, but London Bridge was close now. He’d find a cab at the rank there for sure. It was a lousy end to a lousy Monday and all he had to show for it was another missed opportunity to show his wife and kids he loved them enough to turn up occasionally before bedtime.
Sudden footsteps behind him drew closer, and the wind carried a whiff of aftershave. For some reason it reminded him of Moscow, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. Then he thrust the distraction from his mind and lengthened his stride. Cabs might be scarce on a night like this, and he wasn’t about to let someone else get in ahead of him. The footsteps came still closer and he heard a faint metallic click. It meant nothing to him so he ignored it.
Neither his expensive education nor his years of business experience equipped Luke Graham to recognise the sound. It was the slide-mounted safety being pushed down to the ‘fire’ position on a Makarov nine millimetre semi-automatic pistol.