I hadn’t considered an on-screen interview, but didn’t want to admit that. ‘Both, if possible,’ I said, covering my bases.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, shifting in his seat. ‘Go for it whenever.’

  I hadn’t expected to meet anyone from GreenSword so soon, and I’d been imagining a stiff, older, reluctant guy in a suit. Macmillan’s casual American openness disconcerted me. I drew breath but before I could begin to speak the engines roared and the plane surged forward. As we shot down the runway, Macmillan took a pair of wireless headphones from his shirt pocket and slipped them into his ears. I didn’t know whether he was listening to something or just using them to cancel out the engine noise. It seemed safest to wait until he took them out again before talking to him.

  I glanced across the aisle as the plane climbed. Sure enough, Xander was chatting to Armfield like they were old friends. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but whatever it was it made Armfield laugh. Beside them, Caleb sat folded in on himself, staring at his fingers. Macmillan kept his headphones in until the breakfast trolley came around, when he took them out to order a cup of mint tea. He turned down the offer of a bacon roll, saying, ‘Thanks, but no. The vegan option, please.’

  It seemed a way in. As the trolley inched away, I asked him how long he’d been vegan.

  ‘Six and a half years.’ He smiled at me, nodding at the hot roll in my hand. ‘And yeah, I do miss meat.’

  ‘How long have you worked for GreenSword?’

  ‘We set up formally last December,’ he replied. ‘But the idea has been kicking about for a few years.’

  ‘What did you do before that?’

  ‘This and that. Accountancy first, then an MBA at Harvard, some hedge fund work in New York. GreenSword is our opportunity to exert a positive influence.’

  ‘Sustainable energy,’ I said.

  ‘For starters.’

  ‘What exactly are you looking to invest in though? And why in the Nordic region?’

  ‘Norway leads the world in hydroelectrics. And Finland has always been ahead of the curve on nuclear. They’re looking to build more.’

  ‘Nuclear power is classed as sustainable?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, sipping his tea. ‘If it’s done right, it is.’

  I hadn’t realised Amelia was listening, but she said, ‘Fukushima and Chernobyl. Safe as …’

  Macmillan nodded. ‘They were catastrophic outliers. Nuclear is still our surest, cleanest route out of gas and oil until we’ve developed enough offshore – wind and tidal – alternatives. There’s a plan to build the world’s biggest wind farm way up in the Barents Sea. We’re meeting some guys to discuss that this week too.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve chartered the Polar Flow?’ I asked.

  ‘Partly,’ he said. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence just then, but he didn’t spill his tea. ‘I’m looking forward to that bit of the trip,’ he went on, sounding more like a tourist than a businessman. ‘We’ll get to see some ice, hopefully – the stuff we’re fighting to preserve. I’ve not been to the Arctic before. You guys?’

  I shook my head and Amelia said, ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it’s going to be epic. I can’t wait.’ A smile played on his lips as he added, ‘From what I gather, you guys are going to have your work cut out for you. Jonny’s set you up a pretty challenging expedition.’

  ‘We’ll cope,’ I said, and changed tack. ‘What do you need Mr Armfield’s help for, exactly?’

  Macmillan shrugged. ‘Deal-making around power, generated by any means, is a rough-and-tumble world. Noses get put out of joint. By all accounts, Jonny’s a safe pair of hands.’

  ‘So, can we film one of your meetings?’ Amelia asked, straightforward as a brick dropped into a pond. ‘To get a sense of how these negotiations are done?’

  Macmillan kept his gaze fixed on the wispy clouds we were whipping through. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I thought you guys were going more for the nature angle, but I can try and get you a look at the boardroom nitty-gritty if you like, though I warn you it’s pretty boring.’

  With that he yawned, slotted the AirPods back into his ears, leaned back against the headrest. ‘Whatever works best for you guys though, just say,’ he said before shutting his eyes.

  I exchanged a look with Amelia. Everything about this guy, from his Californian surfer look to his ‘whatever’ attitude, was unexpected. Unnervingly so: our conversation, and his positive response to Amelia’s blunt request in particular, had felt too easy, like pushing against an open door.

  Or was I just being stupidly suspicious? If Armfield was for real, and I took him at face value, why wouldn’t Macmillan be relaxed and open with me? His company had agreed to fund our film. That was proof they supported what On the Brink was about.

  Despite all that, I couldn’t shift a nagging doubt: something wasn’t quite stacking up.

  13.

  Things moved fast after we landed in Helsinki. We shot through passport control to find our bags somehow already on the baggage reclaim carousel. A white Mercedes people-carrier with blued-out windows rolled up as we exited the terminal building. Armfield raised a finger and it drifted to a stop beside us. Everything he did – even loading the bags through the big rear doors – was economical and deliberate.

  Somehow, in the short time it had taken us to get from the plane to the car, Macmillan had already told Armfield he’d said we could sit in on one of his meetings. Once we were in the car Armfield, up front next to the driver, raised his phone to his ear and spoke into it with clipped precision. ‘Lukas, Jonny, push the Rovaniemi connection to twenty-two hundred hours and cascade the itinerary accordingly.’

  Amelia, seated between Xander and me, said, ‘Rovaniemi is up north; it’s the gateway to Lapland.’

  Armfield, having ended the call, twisted around in his seat and explained. ‘Lukas is our in-country fixer for your trip. He’s arranging transport and handling logistics. We’ve worked together before. It’s always best to bypass tourist operators if possible: Lukas can be more responsive and adaptive. He’s put together your overland trek.’

  ‘Which starts from Rovaniemi?’ asked Amelia.

  ‘Thereabouts. We had planned for you to hit the ground running today, but Finn tells me you’ve convinced him to let you sit in on a meeting. Our twelve o’clock will give you a flavour of what a negotiation looks like.’

  I checked my phone. Twelve o’clock wasn’t far away.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t have all four of you in the room,’ Armfield went on. ‘The consortium have agreed to two max. Which of you will it be? I’ll text names ahead so they can prepare non-disclosure agreements for you.’

  It went without saying that I’d be one of the two, but who should I take in with me? Amelia was the obvious choice. She’d have the best chance of filleting the facts out of whatever we heard. But Xander can read a room better than anyone I know – he’d identify who had the upper hand and see through people bluffing. Also, he’s best with a camera.

  ‘Can we film in the meeting?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, but they’ll want the right to approve anything you plan to include in the final cut.’

  I figured they’d demand that, but it didn’t matter. We could show Amelia whatever we shot, and let her pull out any important information we’d missed. I told Armfield to put my name and Xander’s on the non-disclosure agreements. Finn Macmillan looked up from his iPad, nodded and said, ‘Excellent choice’ absently, as if approving of what I’d ordered for dinner.

  ‘Caleb and Amelia, you can stay in the vehicle or do a bit of sightseeing,’ said Armfield. ‘Up to you. Just tell Karla here and she’ll sort you out.’

  The driver, Karla, a pale woman with short, white-blonde hair, had been threading the people-carrier into the grand heart of Helsinki. Big gothic edifices loomed around us. Xander, head down beside me, was inspecting his digital SLR/movie camera. He screwed it onto a pocket-sized tripod.

  Amelia said, ‘Who’s this consortium, then?’

  ‘It’s made up of various industry players,’ Macmillan murmured.

  Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t suppose it has a name, does it?’

  Macmillan turned in his seat, smiled and said, ‘Valkoinen Karhu Energia.’

  ‘Come again?’ said Xander.

  ‘She asked.’

  ‘Something Energy,’ said Amelia.

  ‘Valkoinen Karhu,’ Macmillan repeated, seeming to be enjoying the words.

  There was a pause. I could almost hear the cogs in Amelia’s brain whirring. Eventually she said, ‘Karhu make running shoes. Their logo is a bear on a mountain, if I remember right. So: Bear Mountain Energy?’

  ‘Wow,’ said Macmillan. ‘Impressively close. In fact, it’s White Bear Energy. That’s the consortium’s translated name.’

  We came to a halt beside a solid-looking old building. The top two-thirds of it was painted dark yellow, while at street level its walls were grey stone. A tram rattled past us as Xander and I stepped down from the Mercedes. Amelia, I saw, was already on her phone, no doubt digging up whatever she could find out about White Bear Energy. Caleb, meanwhile, was staring at his fingers. He looked so diminished.

  ‘See you in a bit,’ I said, patting him on the arm.

  ‘Sure.’ He sighed.

  I wanted to include him somehow, but couldn’t think how to do it. A bigger challenge lay in front of me, through the doors of an anonymous city building miles from home. I had to focus on that. ‘Let’s go, Xander,’ I said.

  14.

  Armfield was already leading the way into reception. I looked around as I followed him. There was no plaque beside the door and no company logo behind the reception desk. Two women in dark suits stood impassively behind it. They had similar hair: dark blonde and drawn up in a bun. Armfield dipped his head as he approached and said something I didn’t quite catch, though I’m pretty sure it ended with the word ‘karhu’. He barely slowed down for the reply, just ushered Macmillan between a pair of brushed-steel security bollards and across the marble floor towards the lifts.

  Macmillan, I noticed, was whistling to himself while we waited for the doors to open. He looked like he was out for a country stroll, not about to attend an important meeting. Armfield, still scanning left and right, hit the seven button once we’d all stepped inside, and the lift duly spat us out on the seventh floor, into another reception area, where we were greeted by a tall bald man in a grey suit and open-necked white shirt. He wore glasses without rims. He blinked at us as he looked us up and down. If Macmillan was unnervingly cool, this guy’s ‘welcome’ was outright cold.

  ‘Hey, Timo,’ said Macmillan, offering him a thumbs-up instead of shaking hands. Timo didn’t look comfortable returning the gesture. Macmillan introduced Armfield as his advisor. Then, nodding at Xander and me with a smile, he said, ‘Great of you to accommodate our mini media team. Don’t mind them, they’re just along for the ride.’

  I liked the ‘our’ and ‘team’, but was less keen on the ‘mini’ bit.

  Timo was carrying a tablet. He offered it to Xander, but Armfield intervened. After taking a look at the screen he handed it to me, saying, ‘Digital signatures for the non-disclosure agreement, please.’

  I knew that I should read the document before I signed it, but the certainty in Armfield’s voice seemed to make that unnecessary. Nevertheless, I paused. Immediately he said, ‘Take your time, but the NDA is fine. It’s just a promise not to share anything without first having it approved. The rest is plain-vanilla boilerplate stuff.’ His tone was reassuring, kindly even, but his words still made me feel out of my depth and pedantic. I had no clue what ‘plain-vanilla boilerplate’ meant. Flustered, I scrawled my name in the relevant box with my fingertip and passed the tablet to Xander. Needless to say, he looked unbothered as he followed suit.

  With that, Timo led the way along an uplit, carpeted corridor lined with pale wooden doors, each of which had a window in it. I glimpsed tables and chairs but no people, not until we paused outside the last door on the right. It was ajar. Through the gap I heard voices. Timo pushed on in, and we followed.

  This room was bigger than those we’d passed, spacious enough to accommodate a sizeable meeting table ringed by about twenty chairs. Half of these were occupied. Everybody stood up as Timo presented Macmillan. He was clearly the star of the show. That made sense: he had the money and these guys, with their potential investment projects, wanted it.

  Armfield steered Xander and me into a corner, where somebody had set a couple of tall stools. A few of the suits glanced our way but they’d obviously collectively decided to ignore us. If Macmillan wanted us there, they had to put up with us.

  The smell of coffee rose from a long sideboard beside us. On top of it were cafetières, teapots, cups and saucers, glasses, bottled water, soft drinks, platters of fancy sandwiches, even bowls of boiled sweets. I was hungry, but noticed that, apart from a few full coffee cups on the table, nobody appeared to have touched any of these provisions. In a space at the end of the sideboard nearest us Xander quietly set up his little tripod, checked the viewfinder’s wide-angled take on the room, and set the camera to record before people had even re-taken their seats.

  Armfield was the last to sit down. He did so once he’d circled the room. Somewhere along the way he’d picked up a pad and pencil, and he handed these to me before slipping into his seat next to Macmillan.

  The meeting began. Everyone introduced themselves formally. I was grateful for the pad. It gave me something to do: I drew a map of the table on it and jotted down the names as best I could. Everyone spoke English, apart from one guy with salt-and-pepper hair who had an assistant to translate for him. This translator looked younger than some of the kids in my year at school; he was scrawny and wore a black polo-neck beneath his suit jacket.

  While the formalities were going on Macmillan rocked back in his chair, a knee pushing against the table, his hands behind his shaggy head. From where I was sitting, I had a good view of him side-on. He looked like he was barely listening. But after everyone had justified their place at the table, one of the only two women in the room began a presentation, and Macmillan’s demeanour changed. His features, in profile, sharpened subtly.

  The woman looked a little nervous; her long fingers wouldn’t stay still. First she gave an overview of the Finnish energy sector, illustrated with a presentation projected onto one of the room’s walls. She used lots of maps. I’m a fan of maps: I love their detail. For some reason, I find it easy to remember information I’ve seen on a map. These ones were beautiful, grey and white and blue, mostly detailing northern Finland, the Norwegian and Russian coastlines up by the Barents Sea, the archipelago of Svalbard, the Arctic ice pack and so on. The woman talked about exciting opportunities, rattling off costs and potential profits.

  It seemed to me that Macmillan knew it all anyway: at one point he interrupted to correct a figure she’d quoted for the projected output of a new nuclear facility. The woman’s hands paused, steepled, as she looked at her laptop, then sprang apart as she conceded he was right. She pressed on. He watched her closely, nodding now and then but taking no notes of his own, listening like an examiner rather than someone being taught.

  Timo moved the meeting on to discuss wind farms, and a man with a puffy, unhealthy-looking face talked about kilowatts for a while. More than once I found I’d turned to look at the sandwiches. Armfield had been right; the meeting was pretty boring. He himself barely contributed. He sat a little back from the table, listening and watching, and only leaned forward when the translator slid a pair of folders across the table with the pompous announcement that they ‘constitute our investment opportunity bible, for your perusal’.

  ‘Thanks, we’ll check them over,’ Armfield said.

  Next up was a man who blinked a lot. The puffy man introduced him as ‘our granular details guy’. What did that mean? He seemed to talk in equations. The biggest was three lines long and combined carbon dioxide emissions with government subsidies, the price of construction materials, time, taxation rates and kilowatts per hour. I couldn’t make head or tail of it but that didn’t matter: we could show Amelia the film later. In school, equations make me glaze over. I was ashamed to find myself yawning. We’d had an early start. My rumbling stomach did a better job of keeping me awake than blinking equations man.

  Xander fiddled with the camera once or twice. I could tell that he was as bored as I was. All I could work out was that these guys wanted to impress Macmillan and that as they were pitching to him, he was both focused and sceptical. The minute Timo said, ‘Well, I think that wraps things up for now. Do you have any questions?’ Macmillan pushed himself back from the table with his knee and morphed from unimpressed examiner to relaxed surfer, nodding and grinning his thanks, fist-bumping those within reach and paying no attention to Timo’s concluding words about ‘blue-sky green-wave opportunities’, or ‘overcoming stumbling blocks and laying down stepping stones going forward’.

  Armfield stood up from the table, gathered the folders, and positioned himself to chaperone Macmillan – and us – from the room. Macmillan paused to choose a sandwich as he went. Was that a sign – accepting hospitality to show approval? Either way, I desperately wanted to join him and take one for myself, but something held me back. I hadn’t the right somehow.

  Hungry, tired and none the wiser, I trailed after Xander, Timo and Macmillan. Armfield brought up the rear as we headed back down the corridor and into the waiting lift. Timo’s glasses flashed at us as he nodded goodbye. None of us spoke as the lift descended. Macmillan chomped on his sandwich, a faraway look in his eye. In seconds we were back on the pavement. I was just about to thank Macmillan – and Armfield – for letting us attend the meeting, but the people-carrier arrived and Armfield ushered us into it. Climbing into the front passenger seat, Macmillan smiled at us. ‘Fun times, eh? Hope you got what you needed, boys. Welcome to my world!’