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  Everything in Gyro’s office sent a message. Fluorescent lighting, pine shelves and tubular metal chairs upholstered in Smartie-pack colours matched the rest of the building. But together with the large desk (clear except for a state-of-the-art widescreen laptop), they expressed the first message: the new dean was a hard-working business executive, frugal but willing to make investments in new technology. This message was for the school’s corporate clients: heads of ‘talent’ or ‘learning’ and other human-resource professionals in large businesses who spent seven-figure budgets on education. The second message – that this was the boss’s office – was carried by the spacious acreage of ankle-deep carpet and the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the lake.

  A third message was conveyed by four layers of shelving running the length of the longest wall, and by the coat-stand near the door. The shelves bore books and journals and the coat-stand bore the crimson robes of Gyro’s Harvard doctorate from 25 years ago. Most of the books and some of the journals had been read, as many as half by Gyro himself.

  The third message did not fool the college’s full-time academics (the church of reason was also the church of scepticism) but they did not need to be fooled. The message of the shelves and the gown was that the business-minded dean was flattering them rather than treating them with contempt. As scholars they well understood that to be the head of a business school is to try to unify two religions: rationality and money. No wonder the system’s highest intellectual flowering was man as rational wealth-seeker, homo economicus.

  The opposite wall gave pride of place to photographs – two triumphs on the football field at Jersey City; three platinum sales achievements at a global management consultancy (‘Building The Future’ awards in 1993, 1995 and 1996); two publishers’ awards for books, and a White House dinner with George W Bush. The largest photograph was only 15 months old – Dean Gyro with Wilson Pinnacle Junior, the 72-year-old founder’s son and CEO of Virtual Savings and Trust, at the groundbreaking ceremony for Hampton’s new tower. The fourth message was for donors: Gyro’s a good guy, a winner and a money magnet.

  ‘Well, Frank, this is a surprise and no mistake.’ The cadaverous reflections of Gyro, Frank and Ben moved in the window. Gyro turned towards Frank, his quizzical expression disappearing. ‘This young man isn’t just a solution, he’s a brainwave. And I thought you only brought me problems.’

  Frank coughed. ‘Questions, perhaps.’

  Gyro turned his smile on Ben. ‘Frank supplies the conscience of the school and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Just occasionally, though, I have to remind him that the supply of ethics is also subject to the law of demand.’

  Frank’s brainwave was that for the next two weeks Ben should slide effortlessly from having been Bakhtin’s right-hand man to becoming Gyro’s. The role of dean’s assistant had been vacated abruptly a few days earlier, just as preparations for the tower opening were reaching fever pitch.

  ‘What do you say?’ Gyro placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder. ‘The base salary you were on as a daily rate, plus accommodation and expenses? We’ll work it out. I’m sure Alex paid you eye-wateringly well, but with luck a two-week dose won’t bankrupt the school. In ten days – no, less – this place is going to be swarming with the very top names in global business. Including –’ he jabbed at the photograph on the wall ‘– him. The tower opening is the culmination of Wilson Pinnacle Junior putting thirty million dollars into the college.’

  ‘Thirty million!’

  ‘Exactly. Hampton has never played in that league before, but as of June twenty-first, we do. On June twenty-first one hundred years ago, Pinnacle Senior founded the Virtual Savings Corporation of Delaware. That became Virtual Savings and Trust – which is huge. The Pinnacle Leadership Tower will be dedicated to him. Wilson has invited all his closest enemies and friends, billionaires the lot of them. And they are coming. Do this job for two weeks and you’ll get to meet them all.’ Gyro pressed his point. ‘When I was your age I would have killed to get introductions like that.’

  ‘Billionaires are pains in the arse,’ Ben said.

  ‘That’s an essential fact. VIP handling 101. But how do you know? Because you’ve already been Alex’s right-hand guy. You’ve done the job already. You’ll eat them up like candy. For two weeks, that’s it. Get the tower open, and help me tickle their fat tummies so they all give Hampton a little something.’

  ‘Be the arse for them to be pains in, you mean,’ Ben summarised. What the hell? One thing was clear: he did not need to consult his own diary for the next two weeks. Doing the Bakhtin job had rendered his private diary permanently blank.

  ‘A Hampton arse, Ben. A master of the universe in the making, talent-spotted right here at Hampton.’

  ‘What happened to the previous guy?’ Ben imagined that Gyro could blow up a temper if he chose.

  ‘Family circumstances,’ said Gyro. ‘Sudden and sad. Regardless of which, Richard couldn’t hack it. Couldn’t multi-task.’ Gyro’s brow furrowed. ‘The elevator announcements were getting him down. Or the lift, if you prefer. Are you planning on getting beaten by lift announcements?’

  Ben shook his head, perplexed but persuaded. Gyro went for the closing handclasp. ‘If you haven’t got your passport, Greg can go and get it: you need to grab some sleep. Frank will show you where. You’ll be getting your briefing from me. Tomorrow. Early.’

  ---

  Working for Bakhtin meant Ben never went anywhere without his passport, but he was surprised to need it again so soon after being fired. At reception Frank helped him collect emergency toiletries and a keycard for one of the vacant student rooms. Frank also lent Ben a couple of bits of clothing. By the time he had taken Ben to the residential block it had gone eleven.

  After refurbishment, the student rooms were smart but they were still pastel cubicles for human laboratory animals. The swivel chair was now height-adjustable, the fluorescent tubes had been replaced with energy-efficient lighting and the window no longer opened. Air-conditioning, electronic doorlocks, ethernet cable and the power showers were all new: products of some of Pinnacle’s thirty million, presumably.

  Ben was agitated. In less than three hours he had gone from rising star to redundant, and the shock was wearing off. Connie Yung floated into his mind; at least she had clarity about Bakhtin. She might even have been right. He needed time to think about his situation. Then again, maybe he didn’t; maybe he could just move on?

  The room was hot, and he remembered that his passport was still in the Audi’s glove compartment. However, the air-conditioning only kept running if the keycard stayed in its wall slot. Ben’s wing seemed deserted, so he left his keycard in its slot and used the wastebasket to prop his room door ajar. A telephone directory did the same for the door into the car park.

  Patchy clouds were moving in the sky, propelled by a night breeze. The breeze rippled the lake and was starting to cool the valley. The Audi was in a car park surrounded on three sides by the student residential block. In half a dozen windows lights or computer screens glimmered behind curtains, but otherwise the block was dark. Ben stuffed his passport and phone charger into his pocket and wandered over to the giant structure on the opposite side of the road. Since the tower was going to be his focus for the next two weeks, he wanted a closer look.

  His eyes adjusted to the dark. The flying saucer that he had seen previously was perched on top of a four-storey square scaffolding tower. Assuming that the flying saucer was some kind of observation platform, Ben guessed that it might have a capacity for perhaps 150 people – but what could so many people want to look at?

  Red lights ran around the scaffolding at ground and fourth-floor levels, as well as on the flying saucer itself, which was covered in tarpaulins and rope. The scaffolding supported wooden boards painted with the valley landscape on the ground, first and second floors and a sky scene for the upper floors – a kind of camouflage. There
was no artist’s impression of the tower itself.

  At ground level a notice listed a sizeable army of architects, engineers and specialist consultants, some of whom were based in Los Angeles and Tokyo. The logo of Virtual Savings and Trust was everywhere, a giant V-tick in orange and gold.

  As the clouds gave way to larger and larger patches of moonlight, the tower’s design seemed to Ben a seductive tease. Presumably the ‘flying saucer’ was accessed via a central support column behind the scaffolding, but how? Ben knew the tower had a lot of glass – the chair he had delivered had been designed to match it – but how many millions could anyone want to spend on a glass toadstool? Still, a speck of Pinnacle’s thirty mil was now going to end up in Ben’s back pocket. There couldn’t be any harm in that.

  ---

  When Ben got back to his room he found the boy-band member beside his desk. Ben had left the door open, but thought the document case with his speech notes had been zipped up: now it was unzipped. The directions that Greg passed on were for Ben to turn up, with passport, at the dean’s house at 7.30am sharp. Greg would drive them to Heathrow where they would both catch a flight to Hong Kong.

  ‘I’m going with the dean to Hong Kong?’ Ben repeated (yes). He asked when the cafeteria started breakfast (6.30am) and when he would be back (no idea). Greg dispensed answers with the warm personal touch of a motel ice-maker. He seemed to enjoy Ben’s discomfort.

  Ben tried a different tack. He held out his hand. ‘We’ll be working together for two weeks, so why don’t we say hello? Ben Stillman.’

  Greg didn’t move. ‘Is it not Dr Jones you’ll be working with, Mr Stillman? Since your being here seems to be his doing.’

  ‘He taught on my MBA, yes. But then so did lots of other people.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Greg shrugged, and melted fractionally; for a moment he seemed to want to help. ‘Check out what happened to the bloke before you. And watch out for the tower opening. Security and all that. Lots of VIPs. Possible terrorist target.’

  Was that half-a-dozen warnings or one? Ben said, ‘You’re joking. Hampton, a terrorist target?’ But the driver had gone. In its high-rolling, jet-setting confusion Hampton was turning out to be bizarrely like the Bakhtin world that he had just exited.

  By now the room was agreeably cool. Frank had lent him a shirt and some socks but hadn’t offered underpants (Ben hadn’t asked), so that was one item on the shopping list for tomorrow. The power shower and emergency toiletries did their jobs. With the reassuring glow of his phone on charge and his passport beside his bed, Ben felt the illusion of being in charge of his life start to return. He was happy about that.

  So why had he been let go? For the past 10 months he had been Alex Bakhtin’s chief of staff. He had shared Alex’s outer office and every secret of the business with Tahmina, Alex’s personal assistant. No one whom Alex regarded as merely adequate or mediocre would be dreamt of for such a role. He had landed it, a big promotion, because of a stunning track record as a business performer. Had he failed to make the grade in the new job? No. Six weeks ago Alex had awarded him an ahead-of-plan bonus.

  More than that, in the cut-and-thrust of all his roles in Bakhtin’s world, Ben had done some growing up. He had learned what real achievement was, and he had really achieved. In their telephone conversation three hours ago, he had put the question to Alex directly. For goodness’ sake, Alex chewed up underperformers and spat them out often enough; Ben generally swept up the wreckage. If Ben had been underperforming, Alex would not only have said it, he would have growled it, shouted it, yelled it. Yet according to Alex, Ben had been performing flawlessly.

  Put it down to personal chemistry? Was Ben too unlike Alex, or too much like him in some way? But he had done so many sensitive and personal things for his boss, such as tonight’s speech in memory of Alex’s late wife.

  So Ben was left with nothing more than the unsatisfying mixture of reasons that he had offered Frank: a combination of cost-saving and market savvy, with the added twist that a business leader whose public credo was selfless leadership might see a necessity in chopping off his own right hand at a time when he was calling for sacrifices from others. It was the only logical answer, but it didn’t feel to Ben like the answer. He felt as if he was lying on crisply ironed sheets holding a Rubik’s cube, which was not the recommended recipe for sleep.

  Ben turned out the light and pondered the stars by which he had navigated his career so far. Hampton had been the first star. Before Hampton, Ben had not aimed high; indeed he had not aimed at all. Through high school and a mediocre first degree he had floated on tides, happily and amiably, a creature of rockpools governed by the wind and the moon rather than by the stars.

  But even a crab in a rockpool, gazing familiarly at the moon, might one night look to the fiery, distant and compelling stars beyond and wonder whether it had a future among them. Since the stars are so many, might there be one a little closer than the others, a bit more accessible, a bit less daunting, to which it might not be indescribably silly to hitch one’s fate? An Alpha Centauri, so to speak; or in Ben’s case, a Hampton MBA. And so he had persuaded his employers to cut him loose for a day a week and he had self-funded to join a madrassa.

  TUESDAY 12 JUNE & WEDNESDAY 13 JUNE

  Grapefruit, crayfish and chilli omelette is a brave combination, and the Sea Horse was the bravest attempt so far to bring fine dining to the Alderley shopping centre. But its chances were not good. Despite being by the entrance and having ‘outdoors indoors’ space (tables under umbrellas inside an atrium), none of the last three food establishments on the site had lasted more than 12 months. Alderley, the nearest town to Hampton, simply wasn’t big enough. By contrast, McDonalds was always packed with people, most of whom supposedly never ate there.

  ‘Bakhtin is bad news.’ Connie had skipped the Sea Horse’s curated omelette selection and stuck with pain au chocolat. ‘I wish the college hadn’t taken his money.’

  ‘I wish we hadn’t taken his money,’ corrected Dorothy Lines. ‘Don’t forget you’re a governor now.’ The deputy dean was secretary to the board of governors. In theory the board governed everything the college did.

  Dorothy had booked Connie for an induction breakfast as soon as her appointment had been confirmed. ‘What did he do?’ she asked. ‘The usual crummy big-ego things, I suppose.’

  ‘More than that. Do you remember the food-packaging scare about eighteen months ago?’

  ‘Of course. I went round to my mother’s to make sure she took stuff back to the supermarket. Six months later they said it was a false alarm – which was just as well. I’d forgotten she had an old freezer in the garage.’

  ‘Bakhtin pushed our business off the road. I was the head of HR and had to make four hundred and twenty people redundant. Friends and myself included. It pushed several people over the edge, including one who committed suicide. It was then that I abandoned the private sector and started applying to the NHS, charities, that sort of thing.’

  ‘A suicide – that’s shocking!’

  ‘No, it’s what happens when you kick the jobs out from under a rural area. What was shocking was the way Bakhtin did it. We were the competition to one of his packaging businesses. Someone fed the press a scare story about a chemical we used to make plastic food wrap.’

  ‘I remember.’ The deputy dean frowned.

  ‘The business died in Month Two. It was always going to take six months to get the all-clear – there’s no quick way to prove something doesn’t cause something else. We stopped production and tried to switch for a few months to the same chemical that Bakhtin used. But funnily enough he’d bought up the entire production of it just a few weeks before.’ Remembering it made Connie feel bitter.

  Lines left her poached egg on wholegrain alone. ‘He locked the exit doors and lit a match.’

  ‘Is that what business schools – sorry we – teach?’

  ‘Ab
solutely not. Not in a million years. That’s pure Bakhtin.’

  ---

  Ben recalled a line that really was pure Alex Bakhtin: ‘I travel in the back of a plane, no exceptions. It usually arrives within a minute or two of the front.’ Alex omitted the punch line, which was that his back seat was normally a settee in a specially kitted Dassault Falcon 2000.

  The ‘selfless’ leader’s logic was faultless: private jets allowed confidential meetings and telephone calls. While in first and business class there might be fewer neighbours, there was also more chance that they could be interested in what you were discussing. When staff travelled without him, they flew economy.

  So while private jets had become home turf to Ben, the first-class lounge at Heathrow Terminal 5 was a strange magic carpet. By nine o’clock in the morning he had already passed on the two offers of vintage champagne that Gyro had knocked back. He was still struggling with the idea of flying first class to Hong Kong, only to return as soon as the plane had refuelled. This nonsense was the product of Gyro’s capacious business mind.

  Ben was needed back at Hampton to trouble-shoot the tower opening while Gyro schmoozed Chinese big-wigs. Since Ben’s predecessor was hors de combat, the only chance for Ben to get up to speed was to be closeted with Gyro on a 14-hour flight.

  The two of them had set off from Hampton at 7.30am. Ben granted that Greg’s handling of the Lexus was top notch even if he had only scored him three out of ten for smiling. Still, Greg had spared him any more auguries of disaster. Once Gyro had caught up with the news on the TV in the back of Greg’s seat, Ben had peppered him with questions on the challenges that would make or break his next 10 days. He had spent an hour scribbling answers in a notebook.