Ecstasy Lake by Alastair Sarre Page B

‘You’re not going to get your hands dirty.’
    Goldsworthy held out his hands to show how clean they were. ‘I can’t afford to, Tasso, you know that. My company gets caught bugging someone’s office and I’m out of business that day.’
    â€˜If you can get us the gear, we’ll figure something out.’
    Goldsworthy left soon after. Tasso looked at me. ‘How do you feel about planting a bug?’
    I laughed. ‘Goldsworthy won’t touch it, but it’s okay for us, with only a few billion dollars at stake.’
    â€˜It’s because we have a few billion at stake that we need to take the risk. And you know me. I’m a gambler. I’m betting you won’t get caught. Besides, there’s nothing official tying you to me, not yet. I can hang you out to dry.’
    â€˜You would too, you bastard.’
    â€˜But you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Just say so. There are other people I can use. It’s just that I trust you more than anyone else.’
    We chatted for a while about how it might be done and I said I had an idea.
    â€˜It might cost you, though,’ I said. ‘Got any spare cash lying around?’
    Tasso opened a cupboard fixed to the wall to reveal an electronic safe. He tapped in a few numbers and opened it. He took out an A4-sized envelope and threw it on the coffee table.
    â€˜Take what you need.’ I looked inside the envelope. It contained several bundles of hundred-dollar notes. ‘Each of those bundles holds fifty notes.’
    â€˜I won’t be able to account for this,’ I said.
    â€˜You don’t need to; it’s my personal money. I don’t need to know what you do with it, either. Just get the job done.’
    I took two of the bundles, put them in an envelope, and put the envelope in the front pocket of my jeans. Then I made a phone call.
    Goldsworthy returned in the afternoon with a large black duffel bag full of gear. He shut the door of my office, pulled out another jammer and turned it on, and dumped the contents of the bag on the floor. He explained each item—how it worked and how to set it up. After he left I put everything back in the duffel bag and took it with me when I left for the night.
    Shovel had lost hair since I’d last seen him, when he’d helped me burgle a place. But what hair he had was still blond and curly, and he still had a barely discernible beard and a gold earring in his left ear. We met in the same beer garden at the Edinburgh Hotel. It was one of those long amber evenings when the lucid light of a low sun and the lusty buzz of alcohol combine to give the world momentary clarity and meaning. Groups of friends or work colleagues seated at tables, drinking their drinks, laughing and talking, in love with the light and maybe, while the light lasted, with each other.
    â€˜You in fucken trouble again?’ said Shovel, after we found a table and perched ourselves on high stools. He was wearing reflective sunglasses that I supposed were a tool of the trade.
    â€˜No, but I have a business proposition for you. Assuming you’re still in the same industry.’
    â€˜Yeah, I’m still in the same fucken industry, if you want to call it that. Just as well, mate. Most of the blokes I know are getting laid off or only working part-time these days. Either that or they’re working up in the fucken mines. I’m about the only bloke I know who’s still in full-time employment. Fucken globalisation, that’s the problem.’
    â€˜Sure.’
    â€˜We’re all getting swept away on the big fucken global tide, mate.’ He swept his arms in an enactment of the global tide.
    â€˜You think?’
    â€˜Yeah, I think. Look at Holdens. Gone to fucken Thailand or somewhere, and three thousand blokes looking for work.’ He was talking about a car manufacturer that had recently announced it was closing its factory in the