Berg stepped into the room. His office. Four eyes were on him in an instant. Two bloodshot ones that belonged to a face that could only be described as having been carved from rock – hard, mottled, pointed. The man’s head was sunken into his shoulders. In his seat, he didn’t look tall, but he certainly looked like the kind of brute anyone would do well to avoid. The other man… a stark contrast. His green eyes sparkled. His face was fresh, even if it was lined with age – late forties? – further given away by his silver hair. As he stood, Berg saw that he was tall and lean and smartly dressed.
‘God morgen, mine herrer,’ Berg said as pleasantly and relaxed as he could as he shut the door, then moved over to the tall man and shook his hand.
The man spoke a greeting in return which Berg couldn’t decipher a single word of. He had no need to understand such a vulgar tongue as Russian.
He moved to his desk and was halfway to sitting down…
A knock on the door. It opened a few inches. ‘Do you need me at all?’ Marius said, poking his head through the gap.
‘No. You get on with your day,’ Berg said.
Marius had no way of knowing the pretext behind the Russians being here – did he? – yet the edge of suspicion in his tone, in his features, was poorly conceived. Would the Russians themselves realize?
Although more clued in than his employee, Berg had never met these two men before, even if he did know why they were in his office. Kind of.
‘Please close the door,’ Berg said to Marius.
Marius said nothing more but did as instructed.
Berg returned his gaze to his unwelcome guests. The tall man was seated once more.
‘Can we continue in English?’ the tall man asked. Despite the sparkle in his bright eyes, his stare was intense and uncomfortable.
‘My English is better than my Russian,’ Berg said.
A forced-looking smile from the tall man. ‘My name is—’
‘I don’t need to know your name.’
The tall man closed his mouth and the relaxed look on his face faltered. Berg’s stomach churned horribly but he tried his best to remain confident on the outside.
‘My name is Valeri Sychev,’ the tall man said. ‘This is my partner, Andrey.’
No second name for him, apparently.
‘We work for Mr Jesper.’
‘I figured that. How is the rare creature?’
Sychev’s face twisted. Perhaps Berg’s choice of English hadn’t been interpreted correctly. Or perhaps it had.
‘What I mean is, Mr Jesper is a man I hear a lot of, but I have never met him. Did you know that?’
Sychev nodded. Andrey glared. Had he even blinked yet?
‘He only meets people who need to see him,’ Sychev said.
Andrey muttered something in Russian with a snide grin on his pockmarked face.
‘What was that?’ Berg said, holding the brute’s eye. Quite why he felt the need to challenge, he wasn’t sure. Other than he was certain that to show weakness to these men was the absolute worst thing he could do.
‘Please, gentlemen,’ Sychev said, ‘let us not begin something.’
‘Why are you here?’ Berg said. ‘I have a very busy day ahead of me.’
‘I can imagine,’ Sychev said. ‘You’ve been working very hard recently, I hear.’
Berg held his tongue now. A knowing smile slowly crept up the sides of Sychev’s mouth.
‘A very late night for you, last night?’
No. Sychev couldn’t know about that. How?
‘I think we are more alike than you might know,’ Sychev added.
‘I find that hard to believe. Please, can you explain why you are here? Like I said, I’m very busy.’
‘We’re here to talk business.’
‘My business? What do you know about turbines?’
Sychev laughed, as though the question was a dumb one. ‘Not as much as you, my friend. But that’s why you’re in charge of your company. I’m a businessman, not a scientist.’
Berg said nothing to that.
‘But turbines?’ Sychev said with a shrug. ‘I do like machines. I like to think how men invent them. It’s fascinating. To understand how a machine works, to think of all the thousands of pieces that fit together for success. It’s like thinking about how a person’s mind works.’
Berg wasn’t so sure he saw the link.
‘You could tell me some more about what you do here if you like?’ Sychev said.
A strange proposition. Given what he’d just said, did he really care? Particularly given the whole pretext of him being here.
Berg kept his mouth shut.
‘You started this business yourself?’
Berg nodded.
‘A long time ago?’
‘Nearly twenty years.’
‘You were young.’
‘Younger than I am now.’
‘How could you even afford to do that at such an age? It would be one thing to start something small from nothing. A shop. An internet business, I suppose that’s not too hard? But making turbines. How much is each one?’
‘We make more than one type. For many different applications.’
‘But probably millions.’
‘Dollars? Kroner?’ Berg shrugged again. ‘Yes, it could be millions.’
Probably easier just to state that than to try to explain all the ins and outs.
‘A young man in his twenties, you must have had money from somewhere?’
Berg assumed given the direction of the conversation, that Sychev knew exactly how the business had started.
‘Nice to have a father with deep pockets,’ Sychev said. ‘Am I right?’
‘Did you really come all this way to talk about my father?’
‘Not exactly. He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘He’s been dead for fifteen years.’
‘So he never got to see this business rise?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘But it was his seed which allowed it to sprout from the earth.’
‘A nice way of putting it.’
Sychev smiled again, as though pleased with his own eloquence. Or wisdom. Perhaps both.
‘A seed to make this business sprout from the earth,’ Sychev said. ‘But you’re still nothing more than a stem with a single flower.’
‘I am?’ Berg said with a raised eyebrow. What nonsense was this?
‘You need something else to turn your little flower into a blossoming tree.’
Berg rolled his eyes. ‘A tree. How about a fucking forest? A thousand trees.’
Sychev said nothing to that.
‘Okay, I think I’m done with the stupid comparisons now,’ Berg said.
Sychev squirmed, obviously offended, but what did he want? A damn poetry award?
‘We visited your friend recently,’ Sychev said.
‘My friend?’
‘Erik Rosen.’
Berg clamped his teeth. His eyes flicked from Sychev to the windows behind him, checking to the warehouse beyond as though worried someone out there was watching and listening.
‘Erik Rosen is not my friend.’
‘No? Acquaintance, then? But you heard what happened to him?’
‘I heard there was a problem at his factory.’
Sychev laughed now. Hearty, deliberately over the top. A caricature of whatever kind of bad guy he was trying to be.
‘Yes. Quite a big problem for him,’ Sychev said. ‘I can tell you, we’re a long way to resolving those problems for him now. It’s always good to overcome hurdles that are put before us.’
Berg had suspected the Russians were likely behind the sabotage at Rosen Tech. But why? It didn’t make sense to him. Blackmail? Or had Rosen simply angered them, or tried to go against them?
‘I’ll ask the same question to you, Mr Berg, as I asked to Mr Rosen.’
But then Sychev didn’t ask a question at all. Simply stared at Berg as though waiting for an answer.
‘A question?’ Berg prompted eventually.
‘Wouldn’t you like to be rich? Really rich?’
The question rumbled in Berg’s mind. For a moment he imagined the men sitting before him had sprouted horns. Their skin deep red. Fire leaping up from the floor. Demons, sent from the devil himself, asking him to sell his soul.
Wasn’t that the best comparison for this meeting?
Except Berg didn’t have a soul to sell. Not after what he’d already done.
‘Mr Berg?’
‘However you try to word it, you’re not here to help me,’ Berg said.
‘But of course we are. We like your business. You’ve done so well to raise it to where it is. But you must see there are limits to what you can do. With us, there are no limits.’
‘Is that right?’
‘It is. I’ve already done my research, and I have here, in my satchel, tender documents that will explain to you exactly how we can start. Legitimate contracts, there for the taking, from your very own government. And others too, across Europe, Central Asia. Thousands of turbines. Green energy. It’s what everyone wants. And this is just a starter. This isn’t just Norway, every country is doing the same.’
‘I know all this. Why me?’
‘There are many reasons why. Most are not important. What’s important is that you could see Berg Industries reach levels you couldn’t even have dreamed about before. Hundreds of millions of dollars for this work alone. Billions of your kroner.’ He said the last sentence with a mocking laugh, as though the currency was unworthy of him.
Sychev brought the satchel to his lap, but he didn’t open it. One hand rested on the clasp.
The room fell silent. The four eyes remained on Berg. ‘Would you like me to go further?’ Sychev asked. He tapped the clasp with his fingers.
Pandora’s box. That was what that satchel represented.
‘Get out,’ Berg said.
Sychev looked genuinely puzzled. Andrey grinned as though this was his favored outcome. The thought of what that meant made Berg’s insides curdle even more.
‘I said, get out,’ Berg said, his voice raised, the words hissing through clenched teeth.
He rose to his feet. Fists on the table.
‘Get out! And don’t ever come back here.’
The two Russians glanced at each other. Then Sychev stood. ‘I won’t take offense,’ Sychev said. ‘Andrey… Well, you’d have to ask him. But I appreciate maybe I moved too fast for you. Perhaps some time to think?’
Andrey was on his feet now too. Yes, he was short. But what he lacked in height he certainly made up for in brawn. Still, in that moment, Berg no longer felt intimidated. He was seething. If these men knew the lengths he’d go to in order to protect his business, his life, they’d surely show him more respect.
Perhaps he’d have to show them.
Sychev picked his thick coat from the back of his chair and slipped it over his shoulders.
‘It was a pleasure to meet you in person,’ Sychev said.
‘Just go,’ Berg said. ‘I don’t want to see either of you here again.’
Sychev had a hand on the doorknob. He twisted his neck to face Berg.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Berg, but I’m afraid that simply won’t be an option.’
Sychev opened the door and stepped out. Andrey followed him. Berg stayed where he was. The Russians could make their own way out. He wasn’t sure he could move, his brain was so consumed with grim thoughts of what the hell he’d just done.