‘It’s about to start. You shou
ld probably grab a seat.’
He glanced over at Lara.
‘We’ll talk later?’
Up at the front, Stefan banged a coffee mug on the bar to get everyone’s attention and a large flatscreen came to life showing images from warzones, rioting, the G20, the front steps of the White House and Number Ten, all illuminated by flashbulbs. Then the pictures became more specific. The cities were less obvious: Copenhagen, Geneva, the locations office buildings or expensive private residences. Lara recognised some of the faces too, but not all of them. Bankers, Russian politicians. These were the stories Le Caché had worked on, not all of them familiar to Lara, but that made sense: even the most explosive exposé about government corruption in, say, Austria, would barely make the world news section of the Chronicle – but that didn’t mean it wasn’t vital to bring them to light. No story too small, no lie too big.
The images faded and Eduardo stepped up onto a low stage. A ripple of light applause ran around the room and he graciously nodded. Lara had to hand it to Sandrine: she had landed the most impressive man in a room full of pretty impressive individuals.
‘Thank you for the welcome,’ he said. ‘But I’m here to welcome all of you: this conference is of course about all of us. The world press calls us a collective and that, at least, they get right.’
As a hum of amusement fluttered around the room, Lara could immediately see how good he was at this; how he instantly had the audience in the palm of his hand, how he could keep them quiet and captivated. The previous evening, Lara had done a deeper dive into the life of Eduardo Ortega and it was no wonder he was this slick and confident. Eduardo had family money and deep pockets. The grandson of Vincent Ortega, the Spanish industrialist worth over a billion euros, Eduardo hadn’t followed his father and cousins into the family business. His French mother was a documentary film-maker and he seemed to have inherited her crusading zeal rather than the capitalistic instincts of the other Ortega family members. But he clearly had some of the same drive: Lara might question Le Caché’s methods, but there was no denying it was ‘getting shit done’, as Alex always put it.
‘We do this together,’ continued Eduardo from the stage. ‘Because it is the only way it can work. Working alone in our own little corners, the information is fractured and scattered, but come together and we make the picture whole. And that’s what we stand for: telling the whole story, shining a spotlight into the darkness, making that which is hidden seen.’
He paused to look around the room, to make eye contact.
‘We work together, because the stakes are too high to do anything else. This week we have seen just how high, with the tragic loss of one of our own.’
Eduardo’s voice cracked on the final word and he looked down, composing himself, hiding his vulnerability. When he looked back towards the room, he raised his coffee mug. ‘So here’s to the work we have done and all the work we will do. Because we have to. Sandrine Legard. This conference is for you.’
As the crowd erupted into applause, Lara felt the depth of emotion for Sandrine in the room. It was a lovely thing and she knew her friend would have been pleased by that too.
The mood shifted into something more business-like as Stefan stood up to outline the activities for the morning: there was a lecture by a professor from the LSE and a panel discussion on interview technique. Lara chose a Q&A on global politics ‘through a spy’s eyes’. About twenty delegates crammed into a side room where a bald man with wire-rimmed glasses was already deep in discussion with a woman with wild hair, debating whether the paranoia of Hollywood and spy fiction was real. The discussion’s title sounded lightweight, but Lara found it fascinating. Lara had been to a number of these things at literary festivals and they were usually either horribly dry or annoyingly thin. This however had the air of truth and authority about it, with the speakers beginning sentences with ‘the Iranian ambassador told me…’ or ‘I was talking to the deputy director of the CIA…’. This was why Lara had always been attracted to this profession: she wanted to see what was really happening behind the news.
As the talk finished, everyone filed out of the room. Lara had already spoken to a handful of Le Caché journalists, dropping in Sandrine’s name where she could, hoping she could tease information out of them, but few people seemed to know her well. For all the talk of collaboration, it seemed that the journalists only shared their work through servers and the occasional conference call.
Eduardo was standing at the door, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries like a vicar passing blessings to his congregation, which Lara supposed he was. Lara was bracing herself for an awkward encounter when Eduardo gave her a wry smile.
‘You came,’ he said simply.
‘I did.’
‘So, could I take you to lunch?’ he asked.
‘Now?’ she said glancing at her watch. It wasn’t even noon, but Lara realised she was hungry. Since Sandrine’s death she had barely eaten anything.
‘Sure.’
They went out onto the street. It was working up to be a warm day and Lara knew she was going to be overdressed in a black trouser suit and white shirt. She took off her jacket as they walked.
‘Your welcome address,’ said Lara. ‘They were nice words you said about Sandrine. I’m glad you did it.’
‘Sandrine would have loved it here,’ said Eduardo. ‘You know she did the keynote speech at last year’s conference?’
Lara hadn’t known but she could certainly imagine her standing up on that stage, loving the atmosphere, loving being at the centre of all that. Lara glanced across at Eduardo.
‘Look, I’m sorry about Saturday. I was upset, emotional, but I shouldn’t have been so bloody rude.’
Eduardo nodded.
‘I’m sorry too. As first meetings go, I’m not sure it was what Sandrine had in mind.’
‘No. Probably not,’ said Lara sadly.
They headed away from the rush of the main road, weaving into streets of identical whitewashed terraces. ‘The pub’s just down here,’ said Eduardo. ‘It’s a bit of a walk, but it does serve a very decent moules frites.’