One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (40 page)

Vale sighed. ‘It’s been positioned pretty much bang in the centre of the installation. The explosion will smash through the sub‐
levels and cripple the platform from the middle. The whole place will begin to fold in on itself. But that’s only the start. The blast will hit the resort’s electricity generator. That’ll go up with another big bang, taking out whatever happens to be left of the eastern sub‐
levels and ripping through the hotel structures above. The destruction of the generator will ignite its oil supply, and that will burn all the way back to the reservoirs in two of the platform legs. Then, if they haven’t gone up already, the resulting conflagration will explode the two hundred bottles of cooking gas stored on the west side of sub‐
level three.’

‘And is there a
down
side to this?’ Matt asked.

‘Actually, yes, as a matter of fact, and it’s that this bomb was not designed for remote‐
detonation: it’s on a timer and the timer has been started. No surrender, no negotiation, no ransom is going to stop it. Unlikely as it sounds, it would be my contention that our unwelcome guests tonight don’t actually know it exists. Why else would they be wasting their time chasing around this place, trying to pin down hostages, when they could simply tell them to cooperate or the place goes sky‐
high?’

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Gavin, before being cut off by Simone’s prediction that that would be his epitaph.

Matt understood, but that was because he’d been listening to the radio all night.

‘Dawson,’ he said.

Vale nodded.

‘Who?’ asked Davie.

‘They’ve been fucked over by their own man,’ Matt stated. ‘Somebody called Dawson was one of their heidbummers. He took off earlier in a motor‐
boat – not according to plan, going by the reactions. We thought he’d just bailed out because the hijack had turned into
Carry On Shooting
. But Mr McGregor here says the bad guys’ getaway dinghies have all been sunk, and the guard they posted down on the jetty has been shot dead. It sounds like this Dawson character’s marooned everybody here with his surprise party‐
popper, and as a bomb’s not the kind o’ thing you’d just happen to have on you, we can assume levellin’ this place was his objective all along.’

‘Absolutely,’ Vale agreed. ‘He’s also done his homework extremely well, too – unless you believe it to be a coincidence that the bomb has been placed in the precise spot where it would trigger maximum damage to the rig. This is not a hijacking, this is a demolition.’

‘But why?’ Gavin whined, even more appalled now that he knew his
true
beloved was the real target. ‘Who would want to demolish this place?’

‘Anyone in their right mind,’ Matt muttered.

‘Is there anythin’ you’re not tellin’ us, Gavin?’ Davie enquired. ‘You’ve not been the subject of some grand‐
scale protection racket, have you?’

‘No,’ Gavin insisted.

‘Well, I hope you’re insured. Even if it’s your weans that are gaunny be cashin’ the cheque.’

‘He is insured,’ Simone stated, her tone suddenly very deliberate. ‘Or rather, this place is.’

Gavin nodded. ‘Against everything. The premiums are colossal. Fire, storm, earthquake, tidal waves, anything.’

‘Including war,’ Simone added, retaining the flat, analytic register. ‘The resort is covered against destruction through military conflict or terrorist action.’

‘Why?’ asked Matt. ‘Was it gaunny be a Club 18–30 joint?’

‘Oh ha‐
ha,’ Gavin snapped. ‘It’s because we’re locating off west Africa. A potentially volatile part of the world.’

‘No,’ Simone countered. ‘It’s because Delta insisted on it. That’s why Tim was brought in: the insurers wouldn’t underwrite unless you installed a state‐
of‐
the‐
art security set‐
up. And when did Delta insist upon it, Gavin?’

‘Two or three months back. But what’s that got to do with it? There’s a bomb ticking on this place, for God’s sake.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I’ve just worked out who planted it. Or who ordered it, anyway. Remind me, Mr Vale, when exactly were you brought in?’

‘I’ve been on the project since May.’

‘And what happened at the end of April, Gavin?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well I do. Delta announced their annual figures, that’s what. And with them up to their arse in debt from building this monstrosity, their stock nose‐
dived and the market smelled blood in the water. May was when the rumours of a hostile take‐
over started. The only way to fight that off was to come back after the next quarter waving massive bookings for this place, so that the stock would recover. But Delta weren’t confident of that happening, so they took out a little insurance. You never knew it, but I’d say you probably had until about the end of July to come up with good news. Instead all you had for them were more delays and bigger bills.’

‘B-but … that’s insane. Jack Mills is a friend. He was the only one who truly understood my vision.’

‘Jack Mills is a scum fuck, Gavin, and I’ve just understood
his
vision: this is an insurance fraud, plain and simple. Except they couldn’t just torch the place. With the resort gobbling up money and showing no sign of making it back, the insurers wouldn’t believe something so convenient didn’t happen deliberately. But no‐
one’s going to suggest it was an inside job if the place blows up while the man behind the whole project is onboard, hosting his school reunion party, surrounded by his wife and dozens of friends. We’re supposed to die for added plausibility.’

‘But what about the hijackers?’

‘Unwitting accomplices in the scam,’ Matt ventured, hoping that if he could speed up the whodunnit discussion, they might more quickly proceed to the howarewegettingoutofit one. ‘It went by me at the time because I’d other things on my mind, but one of them described the party guests as being “venture capitalists”. My guess is this guy Dawson is workin’ for Delta. He hires a bunch of semi‐
competent, expendable eejits and convinces them this is a party for serious movers and shakers here tonight. They go in, thinkin’ they’re there to demand money, and they play their role to the full: takin’ hostages, wavin’ guns, the full song‐
anddance number. Then Dawson exits stage‐
right an’ the place goes up, takin’ everyone with it except maybe a couple of survivors, who live to tell a hazy tale of hijackers an’ extortion. The disaster investigators find a few machine guns an dead guys in ski‐
masks among the rubble, and conclude that it was a shake‐
down that went wrong. Delta gets their cheque. Ploy explained. Can we get back to that bomb now?’

‘How long before detonation?’ Gavin asked dejectedly. The feeling of abject loss was beginning to dull that of terror. Previously, Gavin had been in fear for his life. Now he knew that if he survived, his life wouldn’t be worth living anyway. Vale had laid it down unequivocally, never a man to unnecessarily alarm or exaggerate: this bomb was going off, end of story. The Floating Island Paradise Resort was about to be destroyed.

Even if Gavin didn’t, his dream would die tonight, snuffed out by the man who had helped him nurture it: a brutal, bloody, late‐
term abortion. And even if he survived, he’d be left with nothing. Now that Mills’ crooked intentions had been uncovered, there would be no insurance settlement, no compensatory cheque winging Gavin’s way to allow him to start over again. Pursuing Mills or Delta would be so futile as to be absurd. This Dawson swine had already disappeared, and even if he was captured, proving a conspiracy would be impossible, especially via the American legal system.

Vale looked at his watch. ‘Sixty‐
eight minutes and fourteen seconds,’ he announced.

‘Well, surely this changes everything,’ Catherine reflected. ‘The hijackers have been stitched up – we’re all in the same predicament now. Surely we can come to a deal with them?’

Airhead. This was why the shiny, smiley, presentational side of business was Catherine’s natural habitat, rather than the hard‐
nosed, back‐
biting reality. What, did she think they could all close their eyes and give the baddies ten to get away later, in exchange for them helping everyone safely back to dry land? Probably. She was already under the impression that her new hero, the allegedly reformed Neanderthal, was capable of saving them all with a single headbutt.

‘Unless they relish the prospect of a long spell in jail, it is in the hijackers’ best interests that we all die here tonight,’ Vale explained, far more tactfully than Gavin could have managed. ‘If we tell them about the bomb, they will cease trying to recapture their errant hostages, and dedicate their energies to two things: getting themselves off this place, and ensuring that everyone else is still onboard when it blows up. Our energies should be dedicated to one thing: contacting the authorities on the mainland, which will of course be tricky, as the hijackers have taken out all our means of communication.’

‘Taken out, but not destroyed,’ Matt Black corrected.

The so‐
called comedian was no doubt disappointed that there wasn’t a mirror nearby, to admire his own coolness as he posed around with that machine gun, talking like he was the only one who knew what was going on.

‘How do you know?’ Vale asked.

‘Connor sent extra guards to somethin’ he referred to as “the comms pen” as soon as he discovered Jackson had swapped jerseys. I’m assumin’ that’s communications.’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Vale. ‘All the transmitting hardware is in a pen on top of the Majestic.’

‘He must have been afraid Jackson would try to restore the link, so that means the link
is
restorable.’

‘How many guards?’ asked the Neanderthal.

‘Two.’

‘Well, we’ve got seven people, three Uzis an’ a shotgun,’ Murdoch reasoned, such base arithmetic of brutality the only equation his faculties could process.

‘It’s not as simple as that,’ cautioned Vale. ‘The pen’s on the roof, with only one stairway and one door leading to it. If you approached quietly enough, the element of surprise might buy you half a second as you come through the door, but you’d have to take out both guards in that time. And even
that
is only if both guards are on the roof. If one’s at the foot of the stairs and one’s at the top – which is how
I
would deploy – you might get the first, but the second one would have time, warning, cover and a clear shot. It could be suicide.’

‘Are there any alternatives?’ Simone asked.

Vale said nothing.

The Neanderthal shrugged. ‘Well, the way I see it, if I’m gaunny die anyway, there’s nothin’ to lose. Somebody gimme a gun.’

‘No,’ Catherine protested, physically intervening to prevent Murdoch reaching for Simone’s weapon. ‘There must be something else we can do.’

In that moment, Gavin realised that this was no longer the laundry depot, no longer the Laguna, no longer even the Floating Island Paradise Resort: this was Room 101. This was his personal hell.

Like it wasn’t enough that the vision he had strived so long and so hard to realise was about to be obliterated, and like it wasn’t enough that he’d probably be sitting front‐
row when it happened, he had also, in the meantime, to suffer an intolerable humiliation, which, to turn the knife one more sadistically ironic degree, was entirely of his own making. He had gathered the ex‐
pupils of St Michael’s together in order to exorcise the ghosts of his schooldays, but had instead seen all of those ghosts once more rendered flesh.

Once more, he was the anonymous supporting player while others – the
same
bloody others – took centre‐
stage. There was Davie Murdoch, then the notorious hard‐
man, now also the selfless and courageous hero, the guy everyone wants on their side. Catherine, then the unattainable beauty, was once again miles distant. She’d been offhand all through the party, and now she was acting like Gavin didn’t exist. All her admiration was reserved for Murdoch, the pair of them opening their hearts to one another as Gavin lay silently in a skip full of dirty bedsheets, feeling like he was a kid eavesdropping on his big sister and her boyfriend while they talked grown‐
up talk.

His wife had shown up with Matt Black, both of them blood‐
spattered and carrying weapons. They’d been in the thick of it, sharing God‐
knows‐
what experiences together, from foreplay to gunplay, while Gavin’s role had been restricted to trying not to wet himself.

Across at the Carlton, this white knight Jackson would inevitably have chosen deputies to bear the spare arms they accrued, and Gavin didn’t have to be there to picture the scene. First choice would be Charlie O’Neill, muscular and composed, ever the natural fucking leader. And no doubt Ally McQuade would be the one keeping everyone’s spirits up with jokes and smart‐
arse remarks.

If somehow they all got through this thing, those were the ones whose roles would be remembered. School all over again: the same faces, the same characters, the same names. Davie Murdoch, Catherine O’Rourke, Matt Black, Charlie O’Neill, Ally McQuade. If Gavin was remembered at all, it would be as the idiot who put them all in that spot in the first place; or, if Catherine squealed, the wimp who turned into a quivering jelly in that bedroom before Davie Murdoch took charge and rescued them all.

His dream was going to die, his wife was going to leave him, his lover had betrayed him and he was once more an anonymous nonentity. There was therefore only one way he could redeem himself, one way he could turn things around. It would take balls of granite and a resoluteness far beyond anything he had known before, but in such moments is destiny forged.

It was time to grow up. Time to prove to himself what kind of man Gavin Hutchison could be.

‘There
is
an alternative,’ he announced. Immediately, he had the floor, all eyes intently upon him, all mouths silent.

‘However gullible they’ve been, these men still couldn’t have come here tonight expecting to walk away with cash. If they thought we were all financiers, they must have been planning to perform their extortion electronically. The reason the communication links are restorable must be so that money transfers can be arranged.’