The End of the Road, page 18
Getting into the spirit of Carrie Moore, she would imagine what such an heiress would be doing and act accordingly. Her first move had started in the transit lounge at Hamburg airport, calling the hotel and ordering a chauffeur to pick her up on arrival at Kastrup, followed by an appointment with a masseur that evening and at a hair salon first thing in the morning. Another reason for her delayed departure from London had been because the wardrobe had to be right. It was a little-known fact that MI6 used the services of two West End theatre dressers, experienced in supplying appropriate clothes at short notice. Carrie Moore was travelling with two evening dresses, three day wear business outfits and five pairs of designer shoes. Who said she couldn’t enjoy her work? This was better than birdwatching in Rømø from the back of a camper van.
Her white Mercedes limousine was standing by as arranged, with a uniformed driver waiting with a name card, which he quickly cast aside before helping her with her hand luggage.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Moore. I hope you had a good flight. The car is just outside the arrivals hall. Please follow me.”
Deferential, understated. She could definitely get to like this.
Arrival at the Nimb hotel in the city’s famous Tivoli Gardens was not disappointing either. Originally built in 1909 as an Arabian fantasy castle by the pleasure gardens’ Danish head architect, the flamboyant exterior in Italian marble stucco was an imposing sight. The interior, featuring solid Dinnessen wooden floors and Oland granite, gave its entrance a simple clean quality feel with a warm welcoming Scandinavian designer influence.
Dusk was descending and the evening – cool and dry – cosmetically hid the prospect of rain, promised by the growing cloud cover. Multi-coloured lantern lights of the Gardens were switched on, puncturing the growing gloom, attracting visitors to the numerous and diverse restaurants clustered under the park’s trees and its permanent funfair, complete with big wheel and roller coaster. The atmosphere was created by the sound of chatter, laughter and occasional distant screams from the funfair, together with the gentle tones of jazz music, although she was unable to see exactly where it was coming from. The view was a feast for the eyes, but Carrie (as she now was) had simpler tastes.
Tonight was about ‘R&R’ and preparing in detail for the day to come.
*
Triore’s office was about a twenty-minute taxi ride away, on the second floor of a red brick mews building above a stationery shop, close to the Stock Exchange and the Nikolaj Art Gallery. She timed her entrance to be at exactly 10.50 in the morning, gambling on the fact that, in all likelihood, her target would be finishing a meeting before going on to the next. Although there was a lift, she chose to climb the stairs, using all her observation skills to better understand his surroundings, in order to help build a picture of the man. The area was A-list and in all probability had rents to match. The camel-coloured walls were adorned with framed modern art posters acquired from across the road. The floors and stairs wooden. What was it with the Danes and wooden floors? Perhaps the noise of her heels on the stairs was a useful informal warning to those in his office that a visitor was approaching. Outside the office there was a modest Perspex plaque, simply inscribed ‘Henning Triore, Advocaat’.
The door was ajar and she walked in. If the noise of her steps had served as an early warning system, nobody in this office had been paying attention. Her first sight was of a desk strategically positioned to block any unwelcome visitor getting access to the open plan area behind. It was simply furnished with three workstations occupied by as many studious-looking young women staring at their screens earnestly, as a customer would doing their online grocery shopping. To the right, a glass partition subdivided into two rooms, with both hogging the available window space. One was clearly a meeting room (empty at that moment), the other a glass box occupied by her target, Triore, leaning forward as he spoke rapidly on his mobile. Despite being engaged on the call, Triore looked up and registered the office’s new guest. He nodded and offered a vague smile. Their communication was interrupted by the woman closest to the door (behind the biggest desk) eyeing her up before asking, “Yes, can I help you?”
It was almost as though they were already in a conversation and Moore’s attention had lapsed.
She had already noted that the visitor wasn’t a local, hence the English language from the outset.
“Hello. I am a visitor in Copenhagen and would like to make an appointment with Mr Triore.”
“What’s it about?”
“I have documentation relating to claims to speculative hydrocarbon drilling rights in the southern North Sea. I have been recommended to talk to Mr Triore.”
The receptionist’s interest waned.
“May I have your name?”
“Mrs Carrie Moore.”
“Address?”
“Here is my card – my office address is in Hamburg. But as I am in Copenhagen for a few days I suggest you use the mobile number.”
“Mr Triore has a scale of charges for consultations.”
Carrie looked directly at the receptionist and wondered whether she had noted her designer outfit. Maybe, given this upmarket neighbourhood, all women dressed this way.
“I am more interested in the quality of his advice,” she replied.
“Mr Triore will not be available for a consultation until 16.00. Is that OK? Do you want to leave any documents for him to review in the meantime?”
“I think not. I really want to discuss the matter with him in the first instance.”
“Right, shall we look forward to seeing you later?”
Carrie took the opportunity of looking beyond the receptionist into Triore’s office, making a point of establishing eye contact once more.
“Yes, thank you. I will see you then.”
The receptionist offered her an obligatory smile and returned to her screen, Carrie to the staircase. Roll on 16.00.
Her initial objective had been achieved.
*
Roberts understood that he had a week, in effect some five working days, to present his plan for the revamping of the HCCVD project. He knew he had the support of Sir Gavin but, owing to the ‘standoffish’ relationship with Des Kelly, the critical support he would need from that quarter could not be assumed. Yet he felt in control of the situation. He had got to know Werner well and knew he would be loyal, and then there was this new guy, Ifor Williams – he shouldn’t have any pre-determined allegiances to anyone. Communication would be his mantra and his mission would be to ensure that three of his immediate colleagues were documenting each and every instruction from Des Kelly, not with the purpose of challenging his authority, but of making sure that an appropriate record was maintained. Part of his plan was also about bringing new funding partners to the table whose resources would enable the pace of the project to be accelerated.
With this in mind, he was confident about getting Maximum Power Corporation to the table. They certainly had the resources to turn the project into a significant commercial concern. Roberts knew the stakes were high, and not just for him personally. To get his changes through he needed to prepare the ground and sell his ideas in an informal setting.
Knowing Des’s fondness for a pint of real ale, he didn’t have to be too imaginative to come up with the right location for broaching this sensitive topic and the Woodstock Arms was an obvious choice.
Jake had worked hard to get this right. Reserving a table in a corner by a window at the furthest point from the bar had been the first move. Together with Kelly – Liebelt and Williams.
Pint in hand, Roberts took the initiative.
“Guys – we are the management team for HCCVD. Our work will shape the development of the project and ensure that the Lauriston remains the leading research institute on this topic globally. We wouldn’t even be in this game it wasn’t for the extraordinary efforts of Des, so our focus must be to support him better so that he can get a grip of the scientific challenges ahead and take care of his family. As a management unit our decisions will ensure the other 200 technicians we are responsible for will not only keep their jobs but have careers in this new industry.
“What I am talking about is not the direction of our work but the management processes we should follow. If we continue to be so reliant on Des, then we all become vulnerable. God knows what we would do now if he was to get run over by a bus.”
Des raised an eyebrow and sipped his beer.
Roberts continued, “So I don’t want to be responsible for introducing a load of bullshit procedures. I would rather we adopt a set of principles to work to. The key one is that nobody on the team works on any practical component testing alone. The test leader will allocate at least one person to document the procedure and once recorded the test leader must review it, authorise it and submit it to you, Ifor, for cataloguing and sharing with us as a management group. I envisage the four of us meeting for a day each month to review all the previous month’s activity. We will also have time to discuss any other business of relevance, for example, our shared effort to secure new project funding. Des, are you OK with this?”
“We can give it a try and see how it works. Provided we could make adjustments, based on our practical experience, I will support it. I think, Jake, there will be another heading for our new management team meetings. That is ‘forthcoming prospects’ where I will set out our future project deliverables.”
“Werner? Ifor?”
The others nodded in agreement.
“That’s great – so we can present a united approach to Sir Gavin in the morning? That’s worth a couple of pints on me, I think. Same again?”
Jakeman Roberts’ approach had worked well so far, and he felt he was fulfilling the expectations Sir Gavin had of him. Privately, he had hoped for a one-to-one with Sir Gavin ahead of the team meeting but his offer had been declined, the boss realising that it could be misinterpreted in the present circumstances.
Laidlaw was indeed happy with Roberts’s plans and the group broke up early, having covered all outstanding matters. It was at this point that he decided to break the news.
“By the way, team, I have just been advised of a pretty important development which I wanted to share with you. Within the next two weeks a fifth member of the SMT will be appointed, who will report on a day-to-day basis to Des, with a dotted line to me. Professor Doctor Boris Ponomariev, late of the Russian Academy of Sciences and recently working on specialist military propulsion systems in Kaliningrad, is joining us on a permanent basis. He has decided to leave Russia for good and has been through an exhaustive process of assimilation before his British citizenship could be confirmed. He is a major asset for us and, together with Des, we have genuine cause to be excited about our prospects. His departure has yet to be realised by the Russian authorities and will be a major loss of face for them and a real security risk to us. I have been personally involved in planning to ensure he is safeguarded. Amongst other measures he is being given a new identity – Guntis Karins – and a fellowship of the University of Riga, Latvia. It is in all our interests that the Russians believe him to be dead, as the likelihood of them pursuing him here is high. May I remind you all that your work here requires compliance with the Official Secrets Act. Under no circumstances is there to be any reference to his true identity outside of this group, no internet searches and no social discussion relating to him personally or where he will be living. Outside the monthly team discussion your contact with him must be pre-authorised by Des. Is that clear?”
There was little doubt the group had been taken by surprise and even Des had not been aware of his intended role of chaperone. Leaving Sir Gavin’s office there was an immediate temptation to talk about it but with their boss’s words ringing in their ears, each thought better of it. It was Des who changed the subject, talking to Ifor.
“This must all be coming as a bit of a shock to you?”
The Welshman shrugged his shoulders.
“Not really. I was the chief scientific document control officer at Imperial, and that job had its moments, for sure. Once we get into the way of working together, I’m sure we can pick up the pace all round, especially with the new guy, Guntis, on board.”
News of the new addition created uncertainties for Jake. Firstly, this man was obviously pretty senior to be inserted into the team. Secondly, Sir Gavin was undermining his new collegiate approach by designating Des as his line manager. Thirdly, what did this say about his own relationship with Sir Gavin, which was clearly not as special as he had been led to believe.
*
Aldo de Leonibus had a lot on his mind following the previous night’s dinner at the Grand Hotel in Sofia. There was little doubt this was a career-defining moment and ideally timed, with some five years to go until his retirement. This deal would take care of all his personal concerns – he could take Iveta, give her regular flights home to see her family, work three days a week, have extended downtime in Arezzo and take global leadership for the most significant scientific development in his professional career. But it wasn’t all good news.
To begin with, he would have to live like a prisoner in one of those claustrophobic secured estates for foreigners, eat out of a token supermarket, limited to a diet of basic products that no mature Italian would want to keep in their cupboard, and with limited supplies of alcohol-free lager to drink; the prospect of drinking quality wine was non-existent. Strangely, these frustrations of daily life would not be deal-breakers in his mind, but the freedom to operate as an independent international expert in his field could be.
This idea that he would be able to make policy and take actions without referral to a state official of some description was troubling. He could see situations emerging where his chosen course of action could be overruled. Reputationally it could be disastrous. There was little point in starting a job like this only to fall out with his new employers months later.
Yet he was torn, driven to escape from the present professional backwater that was Bulgaria, and to step out of the shadow of some of his peers like Des Kelly.
He had undertaken to fly to Riyadh at the end of the month to look before making a final decision. Frustratingly, he also realised that under the circumstances, he would need the support of a handful of other global experts, including Des, to educate him on some of the technological intricacies with which he was not familiar. His initial conclusion – there was another trip he had to make before going to Saudi.
That was to the UK to catch up with Des Kelly.
*
Carrie had used the hours prior to meeting with Triore well, having toured the Nikolaj Gallery and had an open sandwich at the nearby Maven wine bar. She arrived ten minutes early and was shown into the glass-enclosed meeting room. She thought being positioned next to Triore’s office she would get to eavesdrop on his business of the moment, but he wasn’t there.
“Don’t worry, madam. He knows you are coming. He is very precise and punctual, so he will be here in just a minute.”
The girl receptionist, whom she had met earlier, laid on the charm now she was aware Carrie was a client. Either that, or she wasn’t a morning person.
As predicted, Triore arrived with a minute to spare and with no sense of apology. Tall, athletically built, with a smart shirt which looked as if it had been sprayed onto his torso, this was a man who looked every inch an urbanite – clean-cut French designer suit, English brogues and a relaxed demeanour.
“Mrs Moore? A pleasure to meet you. Please be seated. My assistant is bringing coffee and almond cake. It’s a Danish tradition. Is this your first time in Copenhagen?”
“No, but it is a while since I was last here. Much has changed.”
“For the better, I hope. Speaking as a Dane of colour, this is still one of the most civilised cities to live in Europe, I think.”
“You are probably right. Hamburg definitely has a rough edge to it these days.”
Coffee and cake arrived.
“How can I help?”
“I am recently widowed. My late husband, Otto, was a commodities investor and trader, who I lost to a heart attack. Before he passed away, he told me he had acquired hydrocarbon exploration rights in the North Sea, within a 20-kilometre radius of Helgoland, the island off Germany’s north-west coast, and they were potentially valuable and a key part of his estate. Although he didn’t explain why, he mentioned your name, in particular, as the person best placed to advise what to do with them. When you are a woman in my position, you tend to be vulnerable and prey to unscrupulous financial advisers. He thought you were trustworthy. Unfortunately, he passed away before he could tell me where to find you, so for the last few weeks I have been trying to trace you.”
Triore studied her face as if considering whether her trust could be reciprocated. He didn’t take long to decide.
“Forgive me, I don’t remember him, but that may have been because he operated through a nominee company, which is not unusual. We probably had dealings when I was working on the Jutland Gas Field for Flogaz, in Esbjerg. At that time, I was negotiating rights on the neighbouring sector off Rømø, close to the German jurisdiction.”
“I think you are right – he did say he thought you lived there and that was how I found you here.”
“Well, your efforts have been rewarded, Mrs Moore. I can definitely help you with this. Have you got the certificates?”
