US government has the power to authorise a clean-up. It’s a big site. Hundreds of acres. Physically, the whole thing has to be taken away. The lawyers are still arguing about the bill but the lowest estimate is one billion dollars.’
‘One
billion?
’ Molly stared at him. The sum was inconceivable. ‘And Giles owes all that? That’s what he’s got to find?’
‘No, nothing like. But even a tenth of that is still huge. A hundred million …’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a fortune, especially if the syndicate’s exposed to other risks.’
‘And is it?’
‘Yes, I understand that’s why Giles has been suspended. I gather the managing agent thinks he’s been going for broke. Writing silly business. Double or quits.’
‘And is he right?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea. Not that it matters. Lloyd’s is a village. Reputation counts for everything.’
Molly nodded, understanding at last why Giles had been so quiet, so unwilling to share his problems. He was a proud man. Even last week, even until the moment when they took away his job, he must have felt there was a chance of rescuing the situation, of piling up fresh business, of honouring his obligations to the other Names in his wretched syndicate. Knowing the man the way that she did, she was absolutely certain that the syndicate’s ruin would have weighed more heavily with him than the prospect of their own bankruptcy. The man had always been cursed with a conscience. It was one of the many reasons she’d fallen in love with him.
‘So why didn’t he tell me all this himself,’ she said quietly, ‘instead of getting you to do it?’
Patrick looked at her for a long moment.
‘We ought to talk about the consequences,’ he said at last, ‘and then maybe you’ll understand.’
Todd Llewelyn pushed his plate to one side, mopping his lips with the napkin. One of the problems of late middle age was weight gain. In his line of work, he told himself that appearance was all-important but the price of staying in shape was the need to stick to an almost permanent diet, a concept that sat uneasily alongside an invitation to ‘La Bellissima’.
His host, twenty years younger, helped himself to another plateful of spaghetti Marinara. Martin Pegley had been in hisnew job exactly a year now, and hauling his old boss to one of Soho’s best Italian restaurants seemed a fitting way to celebrate. Not only that, but it might, with luck, put an end to the non-stop stream of phone calls.
Llewelyn reached for his glass of Chianti. His lunch-time limit was two glasses. So far he’d barely touched the first.
‘So what do you think?’ he said.
Pegley’s eyes went to the small lined pad beside his plate. He’d listed the programme ideas one by one, in the order that Llewelyn had pitched them. So far, none had raised even a flicker of interest.
‘I quite like the idea of a Hiroshima retrospective,’ he said carefully, ‘but I have to be candid. It’s a bit out of our league.’
‘I’d keep the archive to a minimum,’ Llewelyn said at once, ‘if that’s a worry.’
‘So what would we be looking at? What would we see? Going out there’s not an option. I was in Japan last month. The prices are outrageous.’
‘No question.’ Llewelyn was nodding vigorously. ‘We fly the guys over. On contra deals. Do the interviews here. Use their own stills. Minimum fee. Total buy-out.’
‘What guys?’
‘The survivors.’
‘I thought there weren’t any? I thought that was the story?’
Llewelyn looked at him for a moment, uncertain whether he was being taken seriously. Five years ago, when they were both working in what Llewelyn still called ‘proper television’, Pegley had been his researcher: bright, hard-working, deferential. Now, the younger man headed the programme commissioning arm of the new People’s Channel, a consortium of newspaper and financial interests pledged to change theface of UK broadcasting. Pegley’s budget, according to the
‘One
billion?
’ Molly stared at him. The sum was inconceivable. ‘And Giles owes all that? That’s what he’s got to find?’
‘No, nothing like. But even a tenth of that is still huge. A hundred million …’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a fortune, especially if the syndicate’s exposed to other risks.’
‘And is it?’
‘Yes, I understand that’s why Giles has been suspended. I gather the managing agent thinks he’s been going for broke. Writing silly business. Double or quits.’
‘And is he right?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea. Not that it matters. Lloyd’s is a village. Reputation counts for everything.’
Molly nodded, understanding at last why Giles had been so quiet, so unwilling to share his problems. He was a proud man. Even last week, even until the moment when they took away his job, he must have felt there was a chance of rescuing the situation, of piling up fresh business, of honouring his obligations to the other Names in his wretched syndicate. Knowing the man the way that she did, she was absolutely certain that the syndicate’s ruin would have weighed more heavily with him than the prospect of their own bankruptcy. The man had always been cursed with a conscience. It was one of the many reasons she’d fallen in love with him.
‘So why didn’t he tell me all this himself,’ she said quietly, ‘instead of getting you to do it?’
Patrick looked at her for a long moment.
‘We ought to talk about the consequences,’ he said at last, ‘and then maybe you’ll understand.’
Todd Llewelyn pushed his plate to one side, mopping his lips with the napkin. One of the problems of late middle age was weight gain. In his line of work, he told himself that appearance was all-important but the price of staying in shape was the need to stick to an almost permanent diet, a concept that sat uneasily alongside an invitation to ‘La Bellissima’.
His host, twenty years younger, helped himself to another plateful of spaghetti Marinara. Martin Pegley had been in hisnew job exactly a year now, and hauling his old boss to one of Soho’s best Italian restaurants seemed a fitting way to celebrate. Not only that, but it might, with luck, put an end to the non-stop stream of phone calls.
Llewelyn reached for his glass of Chianti. His lunch-time limit was two glasses. So far he’d barely touched the first.
‘So what do you think?’ he said.
Pegley’s eyes went to the small lined pad beside his plate. He’d listed the programme ideas one by one, in the order that Llewelyn had pitched them. So far, none had raised even a flicker of interest.
‘I quite like the idea of a Hiroshima retrospective,’ he said carefully, ‘but I have to be candid. It’s a bit out of our league.’
‘I’d keep the archive to a minimum,’ Llewelyn said at once, ‘if that’s a worry.’
‘So what would we be looking at? What would we see? Going out there’s not an option. I was in Japan last month. The prices are outrageous.’
‘No question.’ Llewelyn was nodding vigorously. ‘We fly the guys over. On contra deals. Do the interviews here. Use their own stills. Minimum fee. Total buy-out.’
‘What guys?’
‘The survivors.’
‘I thought there weren’t any? I thought that was the story?’
Llewelyn looked at him for a moment, uncertain whether he was being taken seriously. Five years ago, when they were both working in what Llewelyn still called ‘proper television’, Pegley had been his researcher: bright, hard-working, deferential. Now, the younger man headed the programme commissioning arm of the new People’s Channel, a consortium of newspaper and financial interests pledged to change theface of UK broadcasting. Pegley’s budget, according to the
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