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  It was a gentle rebuke, but a rebuke nonetheless. Lassiter was old school; his compliments were backhanded and his criticisms were constructive. He knew the difference between perspicacity and merely being rude. For a businessman who had been on the road for the past forty years, he was immaculately groomed. His hair was sleek and white, his tan subtle, his suit quietly extravagant.

  He’s heard something about me, thought Court, shifting carefully on his chromium chair, which was too low. The central column of the table prevented him from stretching out his long legs.

  “Have you got where you wanted to be?”

  Court did not trust himself to tell the truth. From here he could see out through the curvilinear glass of the restaurant. In front of the hotel, trucks drove back and forth along the spotlit spit of land that projected into the blackness of the Persian Gulf. The Indian workers toiled around the clock in shifts, building ever further out into the sea.

  They had kept the conversation light while they ate. Families, schools, colleagues, holidays, topics suitable for food. The serious part required a clear table and strong drinks.

  There was only one other drinker at the bar, a nylon-haired brunette with long legs, a tiny waist and perfectly circular breasts, like a character from a video game. The décolletage of her tight black dress was cut to the aureoles of her nipples. Lassiter assumed she kept herself more carefully covered beyond the confines of the hotel. They were in the Middle East, after all. Seamed stockings, high heels, a brassiere that must have presented an engineering challenge, she was about twenty-three years old and blatantly selling herself. He wondered what the young Arabic barman thought of her.

  Court caught him thoughtfully studying the call-girl’s legs. “How long have you known me, Sean?” he asked, buying time.

  “Long enough to see where you’re going.” Lassiter smiled. He’d had his teeth bleached. They shone peppermint white in the black light from the bar, and made him look like a game-show host. He noticed Court following his eyes to the girl. “It’s just an honest question.”

  In truth, Lassiter had been disappointed by his apprentice. Court needed the approval of others, and as a consequence, his ambitions were displayed for all to see. He never took advice, so why was he here? Somewhere deep inside Lassiter an alarm bell rang.

  Court knew he could not be completely honest, because there was too much at stake. “I think I’ve been pretty successful,” he answered carefully. “There’s still a way to go. That’s why I value your advice.”

  Lassiter looked almost relieved. Perhaps he didn’t want to have an argument with his former pupil. “Your division is doing very nicely, Oliver. You’re about to expand it, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel a little nervous. From what I hear, my directors will back you, but in these uncertain times you’ll need to detail your long-term plans. Just don’t be too eager. The English don’t trust people who are anxious to please. It puts them off. They want negotiations to be tricky enough for their colleagues to see how hard they work.”

  “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t look up to you,” said Court, catching the waitress’s eye and sewing the air with his right hand, the universal sign for check, please. “You’ve always been my—

  “Don’t say mentor, Oliver, it makes me feel positively ancient.”

  “I was going to say friend. I feel I can tell you anything and I’ll always get a straight answer.”

  “So long as it works both ways.”

  “You don’t have to ask that. I was still just a property agent when you gave me a job. Now I run the whole of the US division. I’d appreciate it if you could cast an eye over my proposals, just to get your feedback.” Despite the difference in their ages, they were now almost evenly matched in terms of their careers within the company. Lassiter still gave the hotel chain class and respectability. Many considered Court to be an upstart, but he had made North America profitable again by building flashy boutique hotels aimed at kids with money.

  Lassiter smiled at his glass, twisting it. “It would be my pleasure, you know that.” Court was offering to show him his plans ahead of the directors’ meeting? He’d want something in return, but what, and how badly?

  Lassiter looked around at the empty bar, the midnight-blue carpet, the silver walls, the glittering star-points of light in the ceiling. He wondered if this was what Heaven looked like, without a bill at the end of the evening.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” Court rose from his chair and went to say something to the girl. After the exchange, she followed him back to join the table. “This is my friend Sean Lassiter,” he said, introducing her.

  “Hi, I’m Vienna.” She tossed her hair back in a movement designed to help her avoid bothering with eye contact. She was American, he supposed, or had been taught English by one. “Look at this place. The Jews and Arabs agree so completely on soft furnishings, you’d think they could work everything else out from that.” She had as much confidence as either of them, but Court knew that if they ignored her, she would drop out of the conversation. She was a professional. She had brought her own drink with her.

  “Mr Lassiter here owns the hotel.”

  That wiped the smile from her face. “Is that true?” she asked, lowering her glass. Court could tell she was racking her brains to recall the name.

  “Well, I’m the managing director of the consortium that owns it,” said Lassiter, managing to make the role sound unimportant.

  “He’s being modest,” said Court, “he owns the entire chain.”

  If Vienna was impressed, she was too smart to show it. Her deal was with the maitre d’. She only cared about her direct contacts. “Is it owned by the Americans?”

  “No, it’s mainly Indian and Russian money.”

  “They charge non-guests an entrance fee just to look around the lobby of this hotel,” she said, “but I guess you know that.”

  “I don’t suppose that affects you.” It seemed that, having made the effort to talk to the girl, Lassiter was happier talking to Court. “You’re not staying at the Burj Al Arab, Oliver?”

  “Even I can’t justify that kind of expense. Besides, loyalty dictates that I stay here. I suppose you’ve got a suite.”

  “Penthouse sea-facing corner, but not the royal suite,” said Lassiter. “That’s reserved for heads of state.”

  “I heard quite a few of the rooms are empty.” The Middle East was part of Lassiter’s domain.

  “It’s not just here. There’s been a lot of over-construction. Look out of the window along the coastline. Everyone’s been affected by the bad publicity lately, those stories of raw sewage being pumped into the sea, but it doesn’t stop them from building.”

  “You’re not worried enough to reduce the cost of a room yet,” Court added. “So, do we get to see your view?”

  He wants to bring the girl, Lassiter thought in some surprise, how will this work out? “Sure, if you want.”

  Court paid without checking the total and stood up, placing his hand in the valley of Vienna’s back. This small gesture was enough to seal the deal. She showed no reaction as she rose and left with them, the light from the neon bar-sign casting a crimson stripe across her neck that appeared to sever it.

  “At these prices I thought you’d have your own elevator,” Court needled gently.

  “Only the royal apartment has that. For security purposes.” Lassiter stabbed at the illuminated gold lift-button. “We need to invent something better than first class. The whole concept of privilege has become debased.”

  “I read somewhere that you need to earn six million per annum to live like a millionaire these days,” said Vienna.

  Court watched his boss against the dark golden glass of the elevator. Lassiter had started to put on the kind of weight he would never be able to shift. His new suit was already becoming too tight. He was in his mid-sixties but showed no desire to stop working or even slow down. Sharks drown if they stop swimming, Court
thought. The only way he’ll stop is if he dies. I’m surprised Elizabeth still puts up with it.

  He wondered if Lassiter went around telling people how he’d given Court a start in the hotel business. Mentors had a habit of doing that.

  “Welcome to my world,” said Lassiter without any obvious hint of irony as he held open the door for Vienna. The suite displayed all the accoutrements of wealth without any of the concomitant taste. A curved bar was lined with gold-leaf piping that rose to enclose a range of vintage whisky bottles presented on sheets of underlit crimson glass, like items of baroque jewellery.

  “Want to try the whisky?”

  “I’m staying with vodka.”

  Vienna watched until her own drink had been poured, then went to the bathroom.

  “She’s very beautiful,” Lassiter conceded.

  “She doesn’t have to be here if she doesn’t want to,” said Court. “She’s with your hotel, which presumably means she has quality control.”

  Lassiter walked to the glass wall and looked down to the beach. Spotlights picked out the tall wavering palms that had been transported fully grown and impatiently planted into the unfinished esplanade. The crystal blackness reflected every glittering pinpoint in the apartment, creating a second starscape above the sea. There was no natural sound audible in the suite, only the faint but steady hiss of cold ionized air pumped up through the ventilation system, and the settling chink of perfectly cubed ice on glass.

  “Allow me,” said Court, pouring a heavy measure of Scotch. “It’s a nice view. Although I don’t like to look at the sea. I’d prefer to be surrounded by buildings. City boy at heart.”

  Lassiter accepted the proffered drink and downed it in one. He had been drinking hard all evening. The New Business Model Seminar was so stultifying that everyone had been pushing their upper alcohol limits for the past three days, and there was still another day to go.

  “Did you learn anything at all today?” Lassiter asked. “Spare me all those speakers from the Far East with their strangled English and aching politeness. Did you actually get anything out of it?”

  “No, but I didn’t expect to.”

  They studied the view. Lassiter pressed his chilled tumbler against his forehead. “Look at it. There’s no one out there and nothing to see. You could be in Monte Carlo, Geneva or Madrid. That’s the beauty of our European hotels, Oliver. Whichever one you use, there you are, home and safe again. Sometimes I wake up and have no idea where I am. And it doesn’t matter.”

  “How’s the seminar working out for you?”

  “I’ll go home four days nearer to my death with a sun-reddened face and a portfolio full of brochures my PA will eventually tip into the bin.”

  “It’s not like you to be a cynic,” Court observed. “I remember when you first saw potential in me, the things you taught me, all that practical advice and optimism for the future.”

  “I’m afraid my hopes atrophied somewhat when our so-called first-world society decided to hand over the reins of financial responsibility to a bunch of cowboy bankers.” He drained his glass, the ice clinking against his white teeth. “I’m old enough to remember when selling was a challenge. These days I feel like a nurse spoon-feeding paralysed patients. Christ, I want to start smoking again, but these rooms are alarmed. Pour me another, will you?”

  Court headed back to the bar. He picked up a matchbook, crested and labelled “Royal Persian Hotel, Dubai” and slipped it into his pocket. “How come there are no cameras in the corridors?” he wondered aloud.

  “The Arabs are like the Swiss when it comes to issues of privacy. The rich need to treat each other in an adult manner because there are so many dirty secrets to keep tucked away.”

  Court was not familiar with this reflective side of Lassiter. The man who had elevated as many careers as he had destroyed was going soft. Men became vulnerable to strange fancies when they felt their sexual powers waning.

  “The most powerful religious leaders emerge from desert states, have you noticed?” Lassiter mused. “Whereas political leaders nurture their theories in cities. One thinks of Pol Pot’s agrarian revolution being discussed in smoky Parisian cafes. In my darkest nightmares I imagined a new business model, one where morals and decent behaviour are considered detrimental, where only grabbing the next million in the next hour commands any respect at all. And at some point - I’m not sure when - my nightmare became real. This is what we do, Oliver, and we all collude in the process. The definition of a conspiracy is the combination of any number of people in surreptitious agreement to commit a secret, unlawful, evil and wrongful act. Think about what we do and ask yourself if you really want to join the next level.”

  He’s lost it, thought Oliver. The great Sean Lassiter is stepping out of the ring to watch sunsets and talk hippy-dippy shit. This is too good to be true.

  “You’ve made your money, Sean. If you feel like this, why don’t you just sell up?”

  Lassiter regarded him from beneath hooded eyelids. “There’s no one I trust enough. You want to know if that includes you. I groomed you, I knew what would happen. Give someone the benefit of your experience for long enough, and it stands to reason they’ll eventually try to buy the company out from under you. I never held your success against you, Oliver.”

  “That’s because your own success always remained greater. It’s easy to be magnanimous when you’re at the top. What if I really wanted to buy the company now?”

  There it is, thought Lassiter, the real purpose of dinner. “I wondered when you would finally ask.”

  “You don’t think I’d look after the staff.”

  “My people? I replace them like batteries.” Lassiter looked towards the bathroom door. The girl seemed to be taking a long time.

  “Then why not sell to me?” Court walked over to the balcony and unlocked the doors, rolling them silently back. The cool night air was a relief after the chemically conditioned atmosphere. “Hey, we can smoke out here. Doors and windows you can open forty floors up, they’d never allow this at home.” He laughed, patting his pockets.

  With one last glance back at the bathroom, Lassiter joined him on the balcony. He leaned over the edge and looked down. “You’re right, there’s hardly a light on in the entire building. We should be renegotiating the prices of the suites. Europe holds too many festivals and seminars at this time of the year. Half the salesmen in America leave home in March and don’t get back until their house-plants are dead.”

  “Your profits are down, and I’ve heard the next quarter will be even worse.”

  “Maybe we did expand Europe too quickly. When a wolf is sick, the others decide what to do; whether you live or die depends on how important you are to the pack. You think we’re going lame, one of the pack lagging behind?” He sighed wearily. “Are you going to bite me on the leg and drag me into the bushes? Why not... it’s what I would have done.”

  The only sign of life came from the headlights of the gravel trucks swerving past each other in the distance, like tin toys on a track. Their thin bright beams shone into total blackness. Back along the coastline, a line of steel towers glowed through the sea-mist like a phantom stockade.

  Court realized that to get an answer he would have to give one. “You asked me what do I want?” he repeated. “I want to reach the top of my profession.”

  “That’s not a desire, it’s an instinct, like releasing air from a diving tank.” Given the amount he had drunk, Lassiter surprised himself with the analogy. It was true; his career was as lonely and claustrophobic as being under the sea.

  “All right. Then I desire respect.”

  Lassiter turned to study him. “Surely you have that already. Don’t you?” From the way he said it, Lassiter made it clear that Court had yet to earn it from his teacher.

  “I suppose so. In that case, I don’t know. That’s the answer to your question; I really don’t know.”

  “Fair enough. I suppose that’s more h
onest than saying you want our hotels to be the finest in the world. You’re still only in your thirties—”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “You have time on your side. Now I suppose you want an answer to your question.” Lassiter lit the proffered cigar and drew hard on it. “I can’t sell you the company, Oliver.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would be too obvious.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s what you want. I can always tell what you’re going to do next. You’re positively metronomic in your habits. I can see inside your head, which means that from a business point of view I can always out-think you. And if I can, others will. That’s not good.”