The Ice: A gripping thriller for our times from the Bailey’s shortlisted author of The Bees. Laline Paull
everyone thinks you deserve it.’
Sean took a slow pull at his Cobra.
‘My price?’
‘Come on.’ Parch looked at him sideways. ‘A Special K. You said you wanted one.’
‘Wasn’t that some kind of old nightclub drug?’ Sean knew exactly what it was, slang for a knighthood. But how on earth did Parch know he wanted that?
‘I believe it might have been. Didn’t you mention it at that brilliant party after Wimbledon last year? Or was it Royal Ascot? Land of Hope and Glory ring any bells?’
‘Not really.’ Sean looked at his new watch. He remembered all too well. It was at a post-racing party in Berkshire held on the Last Night of the Proms. Things had been very bad with Gail – or rather, he had behaved extremely badly yet again and only a massive bender could anaesthetise his shame.
It had all culminated at this party. At first all was well – the beautiful horses in their stables and the Union Jack bunting, the strangers who shared their coke, the cocktails – and then out of nowhere he was talking about his marriage, any marriage, surely everyone knew marriage was hard, surely everyone needed help?
The coke grabbed him by the lapels and announced through his drunken mouth that he didn’t mean to be such a shit, he was going to fix that just like he’d fixed himself his whole life, he wasn’t finished yet, and one day it was his ambition – he was up on a table by this stage – his ambition to serve his country and do something that mattered. He would show the world that he was a man of honour and the proof would be that he, Sean Cawson from nowhere, would win a fucking knighthood. For his country. He loved his country even if it didn’t love him. People had clapped, someone had helped him down. No. He had fallen. He shuddered at the memory.
‘I was totally fucked up too,’ Parch confided, ‘much worse than you, don’t even worry. I only remember it because it was such a rousing speech. You were like Russell Crowe in Gladiator when he’s going to kill the one with the twisty face. I thought, aha now, there’s a man to watch. And wasn’t I right? By the way, I even heard you mentioned at Chatham House the other day, in the same breath as the words: paradigm shift. Before you won the bid. Certain people have been watching you very closely. Obviously I can’t reveal who.’
‘Obviously.’ Sean went to drink his beer and found it empty. While Parch wittered on, name-dropping the latest world leaders and giving the impression he was almost on sleepover terms, Sean kept an eye on Philip Stowe. The new Defence Secretary paid smiling and intent attention to each of the Indians in the circle. Sean could not decide which way the interview was going – or if it were a circle of wolves deciding whether they would eat the creature in the middle. As he looked at his watch, Stowe disengaged from the group and came over.
‘Go away, Parch.’ Philip Stowe had a pleasant voice and twinkly eyes, which he kept on Sean. He offered his hand. ‘Good of you to come.’
‘And you to ask.’ Sean shook with equal brevity and firmness. Stowe had asked for the date, let him lead.
‘How’d you do it?’ Stowe didn’t mess around. ‘Midgardfjorden. Not the biggest, not the prettiest, ruled out weeks ago – but suddenly you’ve got the ring on your finger.’
‘Charm?’ Sean picked up his beer again. Parch was already on the far side of the mess, hooting with laughter at someone’s joke. Stowe didn’t smile.
‘Well done. However you did it. Wanted to congratulate you in person, not bloody email.’ His smile flashed. ‘So, the Midgard Consortium—’
‘Trust. It’s a trust.’
Stowe’s eyes flickered at his misinformation.
‘A trust. Registered in Tortola, administrated through Jersey?’
Stowe was guessing. He had no legal power to compel Sean to shed more light, and was himself known for many obscure directorships. He knew all the routes. Sean smiled. Stowe looked irritated for a second.
‘So that’s your management company for the consortium. Private British equity with some foreign partners, correct?’
‘Correct, sir.’ Sean intuitively added the sir, not from respect but because he’d sized up Stowe as not nearly as rich as he was grand – and therefore likely to resent the far greater wealth of the self-made man. Whatever deal was on the table, Sean wanted him to feel superior. That was when people revealed themselves.
Stowe’s eyes were also recording Sean. ‘You got, what? Forty, forty-five per cent majority?’
‘Fifty-one.’ That much Stowe could discover; he would save him the trouble. ‘The balance shared between my foreign partners, one of whom has dual Swiss-American citizenship. But in both law and cultural perception, Midgard Lodge will be a British enterprise.’
‘You’re the CEO. Buck stops with you.’
‘One hundred per cent. The work has begun and should be completed next year. The season is very short.’
‘So soon?’
‘I commissioned the plans when I made the proposal to the vendors. I’ve had the architect and contractors on retainer.’
Stowe raised an eyebrow and Sean knew what he was thinking. How expensive. But instead the Defence Secretary looked thoughtful.
‘Midgard. Norse mythology. The world of men.’
‘That’s the name of the fjord, since whaling days. Maybe because the mountains are in the shape of—’
‘Fascinating political environment, Svalbard.’ Stowe looked up as the Middle Eastern golf-buggy passengers with the hawk entered. He paused to catch their eye and raise his hand, before turning back to Sean.
‘Our Norwegian friends are relieved it was bought by a British citizen.’
‘Rather than …?’
Stowe twitched a smile. ‘The Russians still believe Svalbard is theirs. Svalbard and a large part of the Arctic up to and including the North Pole.’
‘Because of the Lomonosov Ridge.’
‘Exactly. We’d do exactly the same if we could. Shetland doesn’t quite cut it.’
‘But don’t Norway and Russia have an amicable relationship on Svalbard?’
‘Amicable is a word that only ever implies tension.’
Sean thought of the email from Gail’s lawyer, waiting in his inbox first thing that morning. The word ‘amicable’ had been used. The Arab group were moving closer, the bird now unhooded and staring around with fierce golden eyes. A nervous waiter came up with a saucer of raw meat. The bird turned away.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ Stowe didn’t look. ‘They’re early. Bringing the falcon’s a good sign. We’ve got too many pigeons. Tell me the real reason they chose you.’
‘Tell me why I’m here.’
‘You’re attracted to power. You’re curious.’
Sean decided he liked Stowe after all.
‘OK: the money was right, but we’re small, British, environmentally committed – we’re not a threat.’
Stowe leaned forward.
‘Bullseye. No flags on the seabed, no subs turning up unannounced with two hundred men for an unscheduled sleepover, no new settlements under construction. You’re a legitimate British business with an environmental champion at your helm, a clean tech hedge fund filling in, and a Chinese partner bringing stability and responsible investment to Guinea Bissau and the DRC.’ The eyes twinkled again. ‘Or do I mean the Central African Republic?’
‘Both.’ Sean didn’t smile. ‘It’s like you’ve