Incitement (20 page)

Earlier he had watched a news broadcast detailing the aftermath of a riot that had exploded in one of the city’s deprived neighbourhoods. It had only lasted a few hours but the damage to
property was substantial. The reporter had said that police felt the riot had been spontaneous and had sparked a few isolated incidents of looting in broad daylight. A local politician had warned
of the growing number of addicts who had been priced out of the drug market. Due to scarcity of supply, prices had rocketed and people were being forced to go to desperate lengths. Some analysts
were calling for government intervention to set up treatment programmes in the worst-hit cities.

The call he had just completed had been to authorise the release of more funds to the string of rehabilitation clinics he was financing. At the moment they were struggling to cope with the surge
in demand. Staff morale had plummeted and some key personnel had resigned. Including this latest round of funding, the clinics had already accounted for twice the original budget and he doubted it
would end there.

Despite his best efforts, he was anxious about this meeting.

He knew that the stance he intended to take would be difficult and he would come under pressure. He wasn’t used to being in any position but total control. Normally when he entered a room,
no matter how many others were present, he invariably became its focus, without ever having to try. It was just the natural order. A combination of more than forty years of calling the shots and a
habit of not straying beyond his own select circles ensured others gravitated towards him. Despite his lack of celebrity, Wallace was recognised for what he was among his associates: a king. There
were other names to describe individuals who wielded so much influence: movers and shakers, captains of industry, but the regal title fit best. After all, there was virtually no limit to what he
and the small number of genuine peers could do if they wanted.

He wondered how much of where he found himself was due to hubris.

He had been born seventy years earlier, no more than a few miles from where he now stood. His father had been a baker desperate to continue the tradition of ensuring the next generation moved
that little bit further up the ladder. He remembered the old man’s pride when he had graduated from college. Pride and something else. Fulfilment. When his father had died a few months later,
he knew the old man had been content.

He doubted he’d ever experience that sense of contentment. The best he hoped for now was to make up some of the deficit.

After graduation he had initially worked as a manager in the automobile industry but quickly realised real success for him lay in another direction. His greatest talent was a remarkable ability
for analysis. He could effortlessly break down the most complex of systems, processes and practices.

He also had a need to control his own future. The ideal application for this lay in strategic consultancy, advising businesses on how they could eliminate inherent weaknesses and optimise
revenues. It had been slow going at first; it took time for the young Wallace to build up his credibility. But within four years he was employing more than thirty bright young business minds and
had a host of blue-chip clients. Eventually, the mere announcement of their retention as advisors was enough to elevate an ailing firm’s share price. Within the business circles in which he
operated Wallace garnered a reputation bordering on mystical. His advocates boasted there was no situation or problem that was beyond him.

Much of his success had come down to picking his battles and recognising the right opportunity. A perfect example was Wallace Consulting being one of the first to recognise the potential for
cross-pollination that consultancy offered. If his auditing division identified a shortcoming in a company, their professional services division could fill the gap. Similarly, though, Wallace had
been the first to recognise the inherent conflict of interest and curb these questionable practices. This prescience guaranteed his was virtually the only company among the large consultancy houses
to avoid lawsuits and a hugely devalued balance sheet. Wallace had displayed the same flair for judgement when he had taken defensive positions avoiding various technology and investment bubbles by
divesting while others continued to rush in.

He worried now, though, that in his latest venture he had been too late in recognising the signs.

Despite his undoubted skill, luck had also played a part in building Wallace’s eleven-figure personal fortune. In the late seventies, he had been approached by a consortium of white-collar
executives who wanted to buy out the failing airline they worked for. Recognising the limitless potential for their intended low-fare, point-to-point strategy, he identified key weaknesses in their
plan, amended it and took a major stake by funding the buyout. The airline was now one of the most successful carriers in the US, its share price having risen year on year for more than two
decades.

After that, he had amended his own business strategy. More and more they entered into partnerships where they took equity in businesses he believed had potential but, either through liquidity
issues or bad management, had faltered. A new entity, Diversified Holdings, was founded to oversee these investments and would eventually come to hold interests in over 300 fields of industry at
last count – cosmetics, food production, alternative energy, pharmaceuticals and countless others. Yet, despite being one of the US economy’s powerhouses, the multinational worked
consciously to reduce its mainstream profile. Wallace’s own name had been deliberately pushed to the background while the company’s partners and subsidiaries were encouraged to develop
their own brands and corporate identities. This strategy had ensured Wallace retained a large degree of anonymity despite the power he wielded.

And it had been this influence that had led him to believe he could succeed in his latest venture. Just another problem in need of a solution, he had told himself.

Quite a few of the companies they held interests in were engaged in one of the most lucrative business of all: war. In addition to the forty or so arms manufacturers, there were some firms
specialising in the provision of military personnel on a contract basis. Until a few years ago, they had held no special significance to him, nothing more than financial items on a consolidated
profit and loss statement. That had changed, however, when he had conceived his strategy. He had realised that one of these firms would provide him with the “in” he needed and he had
started to examine them more closely. One company soon emerged to stand out from the others.

Really, it was the company’s CEO, Andrew Brewer, whose history and contacts marked him out. Wallace had orchestrated several supposedly chance meetings to sound out Brewer, and then,
convinced as he could be of the man’s expertise and discretion, he had gambled. It had been a huge risk, approaching Brewer and outlining his plan. At first it seemed as if he had made a
mistake. Weeks went by with no response and Wallace had worried that he had fallen at the first hurdle. Then Brewer contacted him with his suggestions on how they should proceed.

Which had ultimately resulted in him waiting here.

He heard the lift groan to a halt behind him and the door being opened. When he turned around, Larsen stepped out of the lift and scanned the area.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Wallace said, trying to inject confidence into his voice.

Larsen walked past Wallace and for a second it looked as if he was going to step into mid-air. At the last moment he stopped at the very edge of the structure and sat down on his haunches,
balancing on the balls of his feet hundreds of feet above the ground. The powerful gusts appeared to cause him no alarm. Just the sight of him balancing there was unsettling to Wallace.

“So, we’re cleared for the next stage?” Larsen asked.

“We need to talk.”

Larsen stood up and faced him.

Brewer was the normal conduit between the two of them but at the outset, as a way of ensuring too much control did not lie with the middleman, the two of them had agreed a protocol consisting of
periodic face-to-face meetings. These occurred at significant junctures and up to now had consisted of Wallace simply rubber-stamping the major decisions to that point and giving the green-light to
continue.

He waited for Wallace to explain this departure from the norm.

“I’m worried we’re losing our way, that we’re no longer controlling the situation.”

“The different elements have engaged each other, exactly as we planned?”

“Yes.”

“So, how are we ‘losing our way’?”

“Don’t you think it’s a problem that we’re still planning new operations, with no definite end in sight? I’d never envisaged it going on so long.”

“We can’t be sure yet that the conflict is self-sustaining. Madrigal’s still showing signs of reluctance.”

“We’ve already had more than twenty-five individual missions going back over two years. When will we be able to say ‘enough’?”

Wallace could see the other man was reflecting on where he was going with this.

“We haven’t deviated substantially from the revised projections,” Larsen replied. “This isn’t an exact science; we have to be flexible with the
timescales.”

“Look at how far things have escalated,” Wallace said, abruptly changing tack. “You only have to pick up a newspaper or switch on a television to see the effects of what
we’ve done. Does it really need to be fuelled further?”

“I don’t think we can read too much into how things are being presented in the media,” Larsen replied calmly. “I believe we need to focus on keeping the Alliance and the
Kosovars motivated.”

“And what they’ve done over the last few months isn’t enough proof of commitment for you?”

There was an accusatory hint in the question.

“The objective is to ensure they damage one another irreparably, dragging as many of the other players as possible down with them. So far, despite the damage they’ve incurred, if the
conflict ended now they could still recover.”

Wallace noted that he did not bother to point out the obvious, that if this were to occur everything they had worked for and all the bloodshed would have been in vain.

The older man began pacing, annoyed that Larsen’s arguments were preventing him from building any momentum in the conversation, momentum necessary to say what needed to be said. He had
felt much surer before Larsen had arrived.

“I’m not sure the focus isn’t too narrow,” he said, trying another approach. “The reports Brewer and you have filed recently deal only with what’s happening
in the immediate environment. They’re insufficient basis for a decision on further action.”

“What is it you expect?” Larsen asked, his annoyance obvious now. “We have a long-term goal and a roadmap for achieving it. Nothing’s changed. The reports have always
focused on the one or two missions that are going on at the time. Why are you making this an issue?”

“We need to take stock. We need time to evaluate the broader picture.”

“Are you saying we should stop?” Larsen asked incredulously.

One word now and it would all be over. Just say it, Wallace remonstrated to himself while trying to avoid Larsen’s gaze. He started to form his answer a number of times but each time his
nerve betrayed him.

“Proceed with Cartagena but that’s it for now,” he said at last. “Use the protocol to contact me when it’s done. I’ll have had time to perform a proper review
by then.”

“And the submissions for the subsequent two targets? We need to begin preparations, recruitment, training.”

“Everything bar Cartagena is on hold. That’s it, that’s my decision!”

Knowing Larsen’s history, if Wallace had been in the Dane’s shoes he would have shouted in frustration at this retreat, but Larsen merely nodded and headed back to the lift.

Left alone, Wallace cursed himself for not having the courage to finish what he had started.

T
HREE YEARS EARLIER
.

This is insane, he thought once again.

The middle of the night, sitting in a tiny rental car on the West Side of Chicago. Waiting for someone he had never met before. The only streetlight in the vicinity flickered intermittently,
struggling to illuminate the rain-drenched night. Occasionally, other sounds broke through the din of the rain hitting the car. Sometimes it would be an excited good-natured shout from those still
out at this late hour and willing to brave the downpour, but most of the time there was no hint of good humour. This was the roughest of neighbourhoods and his uneasiness grew with each passing
moment.

He considered leaving. Perhaps the person he was waiting for was not going to show. Maybe he had just been set on a wild-goose chase for most of the day and it was time to cut his losses. But he
could not give up just yet. A small group of people, huddling up against each other to combat the rain, walked by his car and peered in. He was sure he had seen them pass by at least once
before.

A tapping on the glass disturbed him and when he looked up he could see one of the men bent over, gesturing for him to roll the window down. After waiting so long, he didn’t want to leave,
so he complied with the request and immediately caught the strong odour of alcohol. The malicious grins did not bode well. To remain seated looking up seemed too vulnerable and seeing as how it was
probably too late to drive away with them looming so close, he opened the door and got out. The atmosphere was tense but he hoped if he seized the initiative, he could avert any trouble. There were
three of them, each physically intimidating, eyeing him hostilely.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Why you sittin’ there in the car?” one of them sneered. “You cruisin’? You some kinda faggot?”

The others laughed.

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t breaking any laws,” he replied. “So why don’t you just mind your own business?”

Wallace had not been in a fight since high school and part of him felt as if he was outside himself, disconnected from events.