Prologue
The sea stretched out for miles in every direction, nothing but blue and green and glints of gold. Privacy. That’s what money bought you. The ocean was empty save for one solitary superyacht, her long white hull reflecting in the water; it might as well have been floating in space.
BOOM!
The walnut stock jerked against his shoulder.
BOOM!
‘Another two there, I think,’ he said, breaking the shotgun and watching the shells spin away into the water far below. The two men standing on the upper deck smiled as there was a sudden burst of applause from the cocktail lounge to the rear of the yacht.
‘You’re too kind!’ called the grey haired man as three beautiful women in bikinis raised their cocktail glasses and whooped their approval.
‘Sycophants,’ he muttered to his companion.
‘They merely appreciate a master at work,’ smiled the younger man, raising his own gun. ‘Pull!’
A uniformed crew member released the clays, arcing up over the starboard side of the yacht.
BOOM!
One clay shattered.
BOOM!
The other span across the horizon and dropped into the sea.
‘Oh, bad luck.’
Except of course it wasn’t. He’d missed the second clay deliberately. It was all part of the game. Let your opponent win, or at least think they have.
He looked down at the other guests watching this one-sided duel. The women in sarongs and sunglasses, the men all impeccably dressed in tailored shorts and shirts, despite the heat. Jermyn Street. Nantucket reds. Something discreet like a Breitling or a Chopard. Preppy, they called it in the States, but it was a uniform, a rigid dress code that spoke of history and privilege, a costume that declared their allegiance to capitalism and wealth. And above all, to continuity. Which was the real reason they were here. Not just shooting off guns for the fun of it.
He pulled two shells from a crystal bowl and slid them into the breech, cocking the gun with a satisfying click. When a gun cost more than a brand new Rolls Royce, you expected it to function perfectly and of course it did, just like everything else in this life. Almost everything.
‘So your problem is sorted now?’ he said, looking across to the grey haired man who nodded.
‘Pull!’
The clays flew in a perfect parabola.
BOOM! – pause – BOOM!
‘Yes, your man Schmitt was very good, as you promised. You always do know the best people.’
‘I’m here to help,’ the younger man said graciously, swinging his gun up in an arc. ‘Any problems and you can always come to me.’
‘BOOM! BOOM!’
‘You know I am grateful for our friendship.’
He put his gun down, ready to make his move. Outwardly he was calm, but inside, he knew how high the stakes were.
‘Speaking of which, there is something you can do for me.’
He spoke smoothly, but this was a break with protocol. He never asked for help. He was the man who fixed other people’s problems. But Schmitt couldn’t sort this one. In fact the only man who could was standing right next to him. There was a moment’s pause, then the grey-haired man raised a regal hand, signalling to yacht staff. The bloodsport was over, for now at least.
‘I think this calls for a drink, don’t you?’
Chapter 1
Lara had expected the press, but she hadn’t expected the crowds. She could hear them even before they got to the entrance, chanting some slogan she couldn’t quite make out.
‘Looks like the fan club has turned out, hmm?’ said Gerald Rawles, the Chronicle’s barrister, as he led them through the high lobby of the law courts.
When Lara had first walked into the Royal Courts of Justice two weeks previously, she had been awed by its magnificence: the high Gothic exterior, the polished marble floor, statues and carved archways pressing in on either side, it was all designed to drown you in grandeur, to put you in your place. The great cathedrals worked on the same principle, to remind you that whatever your troubles, there were greater forces at work – God and the law. And in this building, they were one and the same. Or they had been.
Lara looked back at th
e grand staircase to her left, towards Court number three. Today the law had let Lara down, it had let them all down. Despite having evidence, despite knowing that they were absolutely right, her newspaper had lost their libel case against Felix Tait, a stronger, better connected opponent. And now this great open lobby felt claustrophobic and a little grubby.
As they reached the huge arched doors, the noise outside began to swell and suddenly a cheer went up.
‘At least someone’s having fun,’ muttered Nicholas Avery, the Chairman of the Chronicle. He was a tall, aristocratic man, the kind for whom a Savile Row suit seemed part of his being rather than a style choice, a throwback to the old days of the ‘inkies’ when newspaper owners were Lords and journalism was a gentleman’s career, but even Nicholas’s upright bearing had sagged a little during the libel case. Not that the judgement against the paper had been a surprise – not really. In hindsight, who would have bet on the Chronicle beating a libel case against Felix Tait, one of the most wealthy and powerful men in the world? Yes, the Chronicle was a respected title with an international reputation for breaking news, but Felix Tait was, well, Felix Tait. If he didn’t own something, he could just buy it up and shut it down. But now he didn’t need to: he had crippled them.