Oblivion: two

The Institute of Directors is a stylishly elaborate Regency-era building at 116 Pall Mall, roughly halfway between Trafalgar Square and St James's Palace. The Palace of St James is the most senior palace in the UK and is where the Queen grants audience to foreign ambassadors and other dignitaries. It is used on ceremonial occasions and has a its own guard of honour. It is like a smaller, more discreet, and older version of Buckingham Palace, being built by order of King Henry VIII. I have never been inside the palace though I had walked past it enough times.

Read: Oblivion part one

I knew the Institute well, having been there dozens of times to meet business contacts, interviewees and generally to be wined and dined. I have to say their kitchen is well appointed, as is the wine cellar. In those days journalists were expected to eat and drink with their contacts, to entertain and be entertained. It was a business convention. As I entered the building, I headed straight for the reception desk, where they directed me to the State Room on the upper floor.

Before I climbed the broad central staircase I stopped to admire the bust of Napoleon Bonaparte, as I often did. Mounted on a plinth by the stairs, he was like an old friend. I presume the sculpture was a trophy of war, from the days when the building housed the United Service Club (Army and Naval officers). The legacy of artworks was retained under the guardianship of the IoD. Huge paintings of past battles adorned most of the walls. I took in all the military history as I climbed those stairs, nodding to a couple of business acquaintances I passed as they were on their way down.

"Good morning Mr Endecott," he said, as I entered the room. "Your tea will be ready in just a minute. Please help yourself."

"Good morning..." I replied, expecting him to introduce himself. He did not. It was apparent that I did not need to be introduced, since he already knew my name.

The room was too big for a head to head meeting and I had to cross an acre of Axminster to reach the table that was set out with two chairs. His was facing out into the room so that I had to approach under what felt like an intense scrutiny. That may have been just my imagination. He did not appear to be looking at me at all. His gaze appeared to be somewhere into the middle distance.

He wore a midnight blue suit, impeccably tailored, with a white collared shirt and blue-silver patterned tie of no particular distinction. There was a gold chain that appeared to be attached to something in one of his waistcoat pockets, presumably a fob watch. He wore no rings or other jewellery that I could see. He appeared to wear no discernible expression either.

"Please, your tea. It will be ready now." he said, gesturing to a long table at the side, where a pot of tea was standing with a single cup beside it. There was no milk jug, no sugar, which was unusual. I took neither but, whoever had brought the tea, could not have known that. It was yet one more detail that had me wondering. I stepped over to the side table and poured a cup, noting the characteristic aroma of Darjeeling. Again, how could he have known? Looking up at him, about to ask if he would like any, he immediately shook his head.

"No, thank you."

There was in any case only the one cup. Setting it down on the little table between our chairs, and settling myself down, I look enquiringly at him. He hadn't offered his hand to shake in greeting and I somehow felt that he would not accept mine.

"I am afraid I still don't know your name," I said.

"No," he agreed, not adding anything to help the conversation. I waited expectantly. It seemed to take an age before he offered: "You may call me Simon." It was as if he had chosen the name at that moment. I was almost grateful that I, at last, had a name. Even if it was made up.

"Thank you," I said. "And please call me Charles."

"Charles," he repeated, giving away no clue as to whether he liked the name or not. He seemed to be pondering that question as we sat there in silence. I took a sip of tea, thinking that this was possibly the perfect cup of tea, unlike so many I am offered. I am not a tea snob but I enjoy the flavour of tea, so like it to be made in a way that makes the most of the characteristics of individual varieties such as Darjeeling, which is one of my go-to choices."

"You wonder why you have been asked here," he said. It was a simple statement of fact without an interrogative.

“Who wouldn’t?”

He moved his mouth in a way that might, if one was generous, be thought to be a smile. I could detect no humour or warmth in it. The expression was no more than a whisper away from a grimace.

"You see it is rather difficult to explain... or, rather, you may find it hard to understand."

It didn't seem that he was about to try to help me to understand.

"Would it help if you started by explaining exactly who you are and which company or organisation you represent?"

"I don't represent anyone or anything and I am as you find me."

"Then why did you want to see me?"

"You were asked here because you were identified as the person most able to help. You have certain… abilities, certain attributes and you are of a certain character."

I was used to flattery. People wanting me to cover their business or product launch or just wanting the prestige of an interview published in the Financial Times often thought that this would help. It never did and I always squirmed when some inexperienced public relations girl or boy used this tactic. Simon's comment, however, didn't seem like it was intended to curry favour. It was said as if it were a bald statement of fact. This worried me more than the false flattery would have done.

"How do you mean?"

"Of all the people who could have been chosen, Charles, you of all were found to be most objective in your reporting, completely disinterested in any involvement, in any gain, other than to do your job in a thorough and professional manner. You operate without fear, without favour, and without any discernible agenda. Not even your employer's editorial policy seems to have an undue effect on the integrity of your reporting. I understand that you have also won a degree of international recognition."

It was true that I had won awards, including the prestigious Frederick Sieger Award for Investigative Journalism and the International Bureau of Journalists' award for outstanding print journalism. I hated any form of bribery or corruption, whether state intuitions or commercial enterprises. Too many governments and multinational corporations numbered organised criminal gangs among their stakeholders. The unravelling of corrupt practices was something my work had focussed on when routine duties allowed. It was also true that I took pride in my objective approach to any assignment I worked on, but his statement was above and beyond any accolade I had ever been given.

"... I trust I don't embarrass you by mentioning this," he said, when I did not make a reply.

"What you say is true," I eventually replied." But I still don't know what it is you want from me.

"There is a message..."

"A message?"

"Yes, a message. A message that is of great importance."

"And who is this message for."

"It is for you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, it is a message to the world, a message for the whole of humanity."

I guffawed at that, I was starting to get irritated by the evasive manner of this Simon, or whoever he was.

"You're not the Christmas Fairy are you?... Oh, wait... No... Don't tell me you are one of these crackpots claiming to be the second coming of the Messiah?"

Again, that almost smile, that near grimace, a bare twitch in the fixed expression.

"No... if anything... the opposite."

"Surely not the Antichrist?" The conversation was becoming increasingly surreal."

"No, I mean that I make no claim about myself. I am not important."

"So what exactly are you then?"

"I am nothing."

"Now look, Simon, or whoever you are, this conversation is getting us nowhere and I have a busy day ahead. I am a business reporter and you have told me nothing that suggests that you have anything to tell me that I would be able to write about."

"Then may I ask you a question?"

"Oh yes, why don't you?"

"Would you consider taking on an assignment?"

Oh, I thought, a recruitment bid. He’s a head hunter.

"I already have a job, a job that I value and consider fulfilling, thank you."

"You would find the assignment more than valuable and fulfilling and you would of course be paid accordingly."

"Okay then, how much would you pay?" I still wasn't in the least bit interested but I thought a discussion about money, about numbers, would at least bring the discussion back down to Earth.

"You would be paid any sum of money, or any other reward, you require."

"Oh, really? Any sum of money or other kind of reward?"

At this point I was starting to feel exasperated, almost angry. No, I was angry. I was angry at being played the fool and being taken for a ride."

"Yes," was all he said in reply. His face retained that deadpan, almost bored expression, and his gaze still seemed to me to be fixed into the middle distance, although he was looking directly at me."

"Okay, then, make it ten million dollars."

"Ten million dollars..." I don't know why I said dollars rather than pounds but I guess it made sense in the context of the currency I then chose. "In gold bars, in advance... and I'd like a uniformed butler to attend my apartment at 6.15 each weekday morning to serve a tea of my choice."

Even that did not phase him. He did not bat an eyelid, still the same neutral expression. He remined me of Terrence Stamp playing a cameo role of the Devil in the movie The Company of Wolves. Stamp's diabolical persona turns up in a medieval forest in a Rolls Royce, driven by a young woman in a white suit. I had a feeling that such a scenario might feel normal, compared with this meeting at the Institute of Directors.

He said nothing. He simply pulled out a small envelope and offered it to me. Without further comment I opened it. The envelope contained a metal key and a plain white card with an eight-digit number printed on it. It was headed:

Thomas Grotings Private Bank safety deposit service.

Somehow I just knew what would be in that box.

O ~ o ~

Will our hero's suspicions be confirmed. More importantly, what will he do if it does?

Find out what happens in Oblivion three. Watch this space!