The Crash, page 33
*
Tudor turns up to the BBC’s rooftop gazebo without a coat or a scarf, and is freezing. Schoolboy mistake. ‘You’ve been here so many times before, prime minister. Had you forgotten how cold it is?’
‘Don’t be such a wimp. A bit of cold air never hurt anyone.’
Jane Walters raises her eyes to the heavens. It’ll be a bad look if her boss’s teeth chatter during the interview. ‘You’ve got six minutes, Gil. Do. Not. Go. Over.’
I nod mischievously at Emma. I’ve never in my life kept an interview to six minutes; part of the ritual of these things is Jane’s invective when we bust it.’
I interview the prime minister standing up, with evening creeping in on the snowy peaks behind him. Emma does the sync clap, and I plunge in.
‘Prime minister, that was the shortest privatisation in history. What on earth is going on?’
‘You say “the shortest privatisation in history” as if it’s a bad thing, Gil. But Modern Labour doesn’t think it’s appropriate for the government to keep hold of assets one minute longer than is strictly necessary. The widely respected Mr Jackson made the government a generous offer that will potentially yield taxpayers a profit in the long term.’
‘But as I understand it, what you’ve effectively agreed is an arrangement where taxpayers will continue to take most of the risk and Mr Jackson will end up with most of the gain. Many would say that is scandalous.’
‘That’s a misrepresentation, if I may say so. What we’ve put in place is an arrangement that carefully calibrates risk and reward for both sides.’
Meaningless. Jackson has turned him over, though I’ll never get him to admit that on camera. I turn to the Saudi rescue of PTBG.
‘It’s not a rescue,’ says Tudor. ‘It’s a far-sighted investment by one of the world’s younger growing economies, in a business central to the UK’s prosperity. It’s a vote for the future success of Britain, and it’s good news.’
He might as well be reading straight from Elliott’s press release. When I ask him how concerned he is that the woes of banks, and the squeeze on lending by them, is tipping the UK into recession, he launches into a sermon about how Modern Labour will never let down the hard-working British people. ‘But you can’t compel banks to lend, can you?’ I ask. ‘That sounds like what happens in China.’
‘I am not going to give you the details here and now. But we will restore confidence, and credit will start flowing again.’
Jane has put herself in my line of sight, and is doing frantic windmill motions with her arm, meaning, Wind up or you’ll never get an interview again.
I put on a forced smile and say, ‘Sadly we’ve run out of time. Thank you, prime minister.’
Jane is fuming. ‘I said six minutes. You’ve really pushed your luck this time, Gil.’
She barks at the prime minister that Sky are expecting them. ‘You couldn’t get me a warm drink, could you Jane?’ he replies. He’s shivering, and his lips are blue.
Before he leaves, and while Jane is instructing another aide to find a hot chocolate for the PM, I grab him for one off-the-record question. ‘Prime minister, I simply don’t understand why you’ve given NewGate to Jackson. It doesn’t make sense.’
He leads me to one side, out of earshot. ‘I think you probably do. NewGate. PTBG. Athena. The Saudis. If the real story came out, Labour would be out of office for a generation.’
‘I get the feeling Lord Ravel’s been talking to you.’ He gives me a half nod, which is all I need. ‘But it’s nothing to do with you, prime minister. The corruption and fraud is all Johnny Todd.’
‘For God’s sake, Gil, I wouldn’t expect you to be so naive. In the public mind, Johnny is Labour, whether or not he’s still PM.’
*
At 8.30, Jess and I arrive at the Alte Post. I’ve been here before: it’s old-fashioned Switzerland, verging on Disney clichés. Wooden farmhouse-style chairs, with backs in the shape of hearts and smaller hearts carved in the middle of each of them. Dark oak-panelled walls, red cloth napkins.
I pause at the front door. Jess squeezes my hand, in encouragement. If meeting Jackson was hard, seeing Elliott in his pomp will be excruciating.
‘We don’t have to go.’
‘It’s the job.’
Elliott is waiting for us as soon as we cross the threshold, all floppy-haired public schoolboy charm. He greets us as long-lost friends, not a hint that the last time we met he said he would masturbate over a mental image of me being thumped.
‘Wonderful you could make it,’ he enthuses. ‘Britain’s next prime minister was very sad to hear about the loss of your vital member.’
‘You’ll understand how traumatic it was for Gil,’ says Jess, ‘because his little finger is the same size as your cock.’
Elliott’s comeback is prevented by the approach of Jackson. This is going to be a much better evening than I feared, thanks to Jess.
‘Brilliant blog, Gil,’ Jackson booms. ‘Where do you get your extraordinary information?’
Patrick Munis joins in. ‘I loved your interview with the PM. When he was forced to defend what you called “the fastest privatisation in history”, he almost choked. Priceless.’
It’s a fucking Malmsey society reunion. I can see Ravel in the background, too. It’s disorientating to be surrounded by men who have no moral core and think they can get away with anything.
Todd is also here. No shame or remorse, he heads straight for me. He extends a hand, and then remembers and tries to withdraw. But I won’t let him off. I grab his hand with my mutilated right and squeeze hard, adding extra force where my little finger should have been.
He winces. ‘I see you’ve recovered from your bicycle accident.’
‘Yup. I’m in the pink again.’
‘Good to hear it. How did it happen?’
‘The accident?’
Oh my God, he actually wants to play this stupid game.
‘I was just looking in the wrong direction, didn’t notice the danger.’
‘After what happened to your sister, you must’ve been really shaken.’
Wow. He’s so arrogant he’s actually telling me he killed Clare. He thinks he’s untouchable. Maybe he is.
‘Actually I see it as good luck. I’m still here.’
‘Yes. Both of us. Still here.’
Jess has been on my right, talking to Munis, but is shooting me concerned glances. She leads the shadow chancellor in our direction and turns to Todd. ‘Does the prime minister know you’re dining with the leader of the opposition?’
Todd’s smile is oleaginous. ‘Oh, I don’t think it would be of any interest to him, do you?’
Alex Elliott is hovering, with Chris Ravel. ‘We’re all friends here, aren’t we?’ he says. ‘Including you, Gil. You’ve been writing such insightful things recently.’
Ravel looks at me. ‘I’ve always said about our friend here that he’s the only journalist who properly understands the system.’
A white-jacketed waiter hands me a glass of white wine. I gulp it. Is this my life from now on, colluding with these monsters?
I turn to Todd. ‘Are you here for the duration?’
Todd shakes his head. ‘Chris and I are leaving tomorrow morning.’
‘You’re missing Tudor’s plenary speech in the afternoon?’
He snorts. ‘I’ve done my duty by Neville over the years. I’ve just come from seeing him, in fact, to congratulate him on selling NewGate to Harvey. He finally understood that privatisation is what Modern Labour is all about.’
There’s the clang of an alpine goat bell.
‘They’re saying we should go in for dinner,’ says Elliott.
I turn to Jess. ‘I need to make arrangements for tomorrow. If you go through, I’ll be back in two minutes.’
I step outside, into the snowy street. The cold air pinches my nostrils, though it is thawing and a few flakes of snow drift down. As I make my call, one of the sword-length icicles hanging from the eaves falls and shatters. I do my business and return.
Elliott isn’t staying for dinner. He’s the organiser, but rarely does he hang around for the event itself. He doesn’t have the attention span. He always needs to be in transit, in this instance to a party in his enormous rented chalet over by Davos Dorf. We’re all invited. He leaves encouraging us to enjoy the wine. I note what it is: Château Palmer 1989. I feel confident I will drink too much.
I am seated next to Munis, while Jess is opposite next to Stella Barnsbury. The chair on Stella’s other side is empty, but only for a moment. There’s a booming South African voice behind me. I swivel to see Jimmy Breitner, founder and owner of Media Corp, which owns the Globe tabloid as well as the Financial Chronicle.
‘Apologies for being late, Mrs B,’ he bellows. He turns to Jess. ‘And you, Miss Neeskens, are doing fantastic work covering the banking crisis. You do me proud.’
Jess thanks him with convincing sincerity, though I know she is as repulsed as I am by how he deploys his newspapers and television channels to promote the biddable politicians who pay homage to him and serve his commercial interests. Stella Barnsbury is owned by the man on her right, whether she admits it or not.
In front of us are vast pots of melting cheese, the fondue, on burners. We each have skewers to stab chunks of bread or new potatoes, to immerse in the molten Gruyere. Mrs Barnsbury taps her fork on the side of her wine glass to attract our attention.
‘Before we tuck in, I wanted to thank you all for being here. And to remind our media friends that this is all strictly off the record. I don’t know about you, but I think change is in the air. I read somewhere, I am not sure where, that Neville Tudor was tired and had run out of ideas. That it’s time for a new team to take over. Where did I read that, Jimmy?’
Breitner roars with laughter and makes a thumbs up. ‘The Globe was one hundred per cent right on Tudor. He’s turning profit into a dirty word, crushing enterprise, stealing our precious freedoms.’ He looks directly at Johnny Todd. ‘He’s not even a pale imitation of his predecessor. He can’t be turfed out soon enough.’
There are cries of ‘Well said,’ and ‘Hear hear.’ I’m dying with embarrassment; Jess is stony-faced. I turn to my right to see Patrick Munis mouthing ‘Thank you’ at Breitner. As for Todd, he’s grinning from ear to ear. Why am I putting myself through this torture?
Munis spends most of dinner trying to extract as much information from me as he can about how Tudor operates and what’s happening inside the banks. I say as little as possible while getting him to open up about his plans for government. It’s what mathematicians would call a zero-sum game, in which it’s impossible for each of us to end up on the credit side of the balance sheet. When it’s time to go, Munis is scratchy. Maybe I won, this time.
Jess scoops me up and we head for the door. ‘We could skip Elliott’s party,’ she says.
‘Nah. It’s the only point of coming to this terrible place.’
Munis is already in the minivan that has been laid on to whisk us there. He’s about to shut the sliding door when I wave at him and we climb in. ‘I’m not going to stay late,’ says Munis. ‘I’m talking at a Schon breakfast in the morning.’
‘Pull the other one, Patrick,’ I laugh. ‘You’re always the last to leave. I wish I had your stamina.’
Elliott’s party is filled with politicians, hacks and bankers, who turn up to mingle with the film stars and ageing rock gods who are clients of his celebrity PR operation. They come to Davos to urge world leaders to end poverty, stem climate change and educate young girls in developing countries. It is a giant washing machine for the consciences of the overpaid and the entitled.
The chalet door is patrolled by half a dozen women with East European accents in skimpy black dresses.
‘Does Elliott lay on the escorts for the theatre of it, or do you think they provide personal services?’ Jess asks.
I’ve always been too squeamish to investigate.’
‘Hmmm.’
Although we’re here to schmooze, we can’t be bothered. I want to dance, and Jess humours me. It’s an appalling playlist: Davos Man has pedestrian tastes, early Rolling Stones, late Fleetwood Mac and mid-period Bowie. But we don’t care. We’re pretty much on our own till the DJ makes a concession to the year we’re in, and plays ‘Low’ by Flo Rida. The floor is suddenly heaving with men whose dancing prowess is in inverse relationship to their net worth.
I lean close into Jess and shout, ‘What are apple bottom jeans, and who’s shawty?’
‘Stop being so fucking OCD and hold me tight.’
I pull her close and this time whisper, ‘Sorry for everything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry for involving you and Amy in my nightmare. It’s not fair.’
‘She’s OK. We’re OK.’
‘I love you, Jess.’
‘I know, stupid.’
She puts her hands behind my head and pulls my mouth towards hers. She kisses me full on the lips. In front of everyone.
Chapter 29
‘I
S IT WORTH RINGING ROOM service for a cup of coffee?’
I am naked in Jess’s bed in the Steigenberger. When we’re together, everything in my life feels more hopeful. I roll over and kiss her cheek.
‘You can try,’ she yawns. As she stretches, I can see her breasts through her T-shirt. It’s all too good to be true. ‘It’ll take hours, though.’
‘OK. Let’s dress and get a free coffee from the conference centre.’
She wags a finger at me. ‘I can’t believe you said that. Nothing is free here. There’s a price on everything.’
I stoop down and kiss her. ‘On everything?’ I ask.
‘Oh lord, Gil. You’ll never change.’
We jump in the shower and then head to the lobby. As we exit the lift, my world of Jess-infused happiness dissipates, when Jackson sees us and summons us.
‘Can I have a word?’ He is talking to Jess.
I’m worried. The kidnapping of Amy was as appalling a trauma for her as anything that has happened to me. Can she keep her composure with Jackson?
I shouldn’t have doubted her professionalism. ‘I thought you’d already given Gil all the scoops,’ she quips.
‘There’s so much more to our takeover of NewGate,’ he says. ‘Gil gets the headlines, but it’s you and the FC who get all the important nitty gritty.’ He’s laying it on. ‘Shall we grab a coffee? Now, if you’re free.’
He means without me.
‘I’ll head over to the conference centre,’ I say. I turn to Jess. ‘Text when you’re done.’
I head out and down the treacherous stone steps to the Promenade, and then left through the thick snow to the big white blocks of the main conference building. Later today, Angela Merkel, the German chancellor, will be the main event in the central auditorium, along with Henry Kissinger, Mick Jackson, Angelina Jolie – and Neville Tudor. I leave my Conran overcoat in the cloakroom and head through to the members’ room.
Before I reach the staircase, I run into Stan Blackwell. He looks genuinely pleased to see me.
‘I heard about your crash. Are you OK?’
Perhaps I am being naive, but my sense is he doesn’t know the truth of it. ‘I seem to be. I was pretty shaken. How is it with your new Saudi owners?’
‘Early days.’ He glances over his shoulder. ‘I can’t pretend it’s easy, though. Big cultural differences.’
‘With the Saudis?’
‘They’ve appointed Chris Ravel to the board to look after their interests. Between you and me, he’s a nightmare. He wants to micromanage everything.’
I suppress a smile. Blackwell is notorious for being a control freak who can’t delegate, so to have another control freak as – in effect – his boss is a recipe for stress. They deserve each other.
‘Thanks for what you wrote when you got wind of the deal,’ he continues. ‘Made a huge difference. Without it I think we’d have struggled to get approval from the government.’
Not the plaudit I would choose.
‘Quite all right,’ I say. ‘I just write as I see.’ The problem with lies is they inevitably breed new lies.
The marble-floored hall is buzzing with the self-regarding chatter of people who know they matter. Over Blackwell’s right shoulder I see Elliott, Todd and Ravel forging towards us I press hard on my stump. The plan was to inure myself to them, like taking small doses of poison, but whenever I see them I find myself back in their torture chamber at the top of the Canary Wharf tower.
‘I thought you’d gone,’ I say, abruptly.
‘Just leaving now,’ says Todd. ‘Primakov is lending us his helicopter, to take us down the mountain.’
I look directly into his green eyes. ‘What’s your relationship with Primakov?’
‘He’s a client, and a friend.’
‘Don’t you feel bad about all that money he lost backing the initial NewGate bid?’
Todd shrugs. ‘Rough with the smooth. Petr understands that. Why else would he be giving us a lift in his chopper?’
He ostentatiously checks the time on his Patek Philippe, as if to say, If you were more like me, you could afford one of these too. ‘We should go.’
‘Just the three of you?’ I ask.
‘Harvey’s joining us,’ says Todd.
Ravel sighs. ‘You mean I have to sit in a confined space with that fuckwit?’
‘Relax, Chris. It’s only a short ride.’
‘I’ll catch you at Prince Andrew’s soirée,’ I say to Blackwell. The event only ever serves cheap white wine and stale crisps, but it is always heaving. There’s a view among the British businessmen here that it would be unpatriotic to stay away.
‘Stan will be there if by some miracle he’s managed to get the data I need by then,’ says Ravel. He looks directly at the PTBG boss. ‘Those numbers you sent me last night were a joke.’
If it were anyone but Blackwell, I’d be sympathetic. But it’s still tedious to be a witness to Ravel’s bullying, so I wish them a pleasant journey home and head for the members’ room – where I grab my coffee. Sorting through my emails, the senior partner of a Silicon Valley venture capital fund is introduced by his PR minder and starts evangelising about all the amazing digital services that are coming down the track. I’ve heard it all before. I need another coffee.
