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  "I see." Snaith's expression was grim. "Well, we've dealt with prima donnas before. And his personal bodyguards? What's your opinion of their worth?"

  "I was only introduced to one. He wasn't very effective."

  Nobody in the room asked him how he'd reached that conclusion; they accepted his word.

  Mather consulted a notebook. "I have the names of the other three here. Let me see now, yes—Janusz Palusinski, his driver, then Asil Khayed and Youssef Daoud. They're described as personal attendants, which I suppose could imply anything."

  "Good Lord," exclaimed Snaith. "Arabs?"

  "Jordanians."

  "And the first? Czech? Polish?"

  "Janusz Palusinski—Polish."

  "And the one you met, Liam?"

  "Monk. He didn't say much."

  "Theodore Albert Monk," Mather supplied from his notebook. "According to the Magma files, he's American."

  "That's some mixed bag," commented Snaith.

  "Apparently Felix Kline picked them up on his travels. They've all been with him for years."

  "The driver might need some training," suggested Halloran.

  "That's being taken care of," Snaith told him. "Kline's PA, Miss, uh—Redmile, rang me earlier this afternoon to arrange it. Dieter?"

  "I've got him booked in for tomorrow. We'll lease Magma one of our own specials—for Palusinski to train in and to use afterward. Kline's own vehicle doesn't have enough protection facilities; body and windows are bulletproof, but that's about it. I'll want to keep Palusinski for at least two days, Liam, to make sure he really knows what he's doing when he leaves us, so it looks like you're Kline's chauffeur until then."

  Halloran nodded.

  Snaith spoke: "Miss Redmile also confirms that her employer agrees to the list of conditions regarding his own actions in the forthcoming weeks. I understand you had lunch with her today?" He was looking directly at Halloran. "Apart from their business relationship, what is she to Kline? Is she his mistress?"

  Halloran took time to consider the question. Finally, he said, "She could be."

  "She's that type?"

  "What type?"

  "The type who beds her boss."

  "I wouldn't know."

  "But she's a looker."

  Halloran nodded.

  "Let's assume that's the case, then."

  Mather noticed the brief flare of anger in Halloran's eyes and was puzzled by it. Liam usually held his emotions totally in check. "I don't see that it's entirely relevant, Gerald," Mather put in. "After all, Kline isn't married, and there's no mention of other girlfriends—or boyfriends, for that matter-in the dossier from Magma."

  "She could be a weak spot," Snaith replied. "He might put himself at risk if he knows she's in danger. There could be other possibilities, also. Has she been checked out?"

  "I have her file right here," said Stuhr. "Charles brought it back from Magma earlier today, so I've only managed to glance through it. She sounds pretty solid to me. Raised in Hampshire, an only child, father a university lecturer, mother a local general practitioner, both now deceased. Attended private school until eighteen, bright—seven Os and three As— but never went on to university. Rents an apartment in Pimlico, has a substantial sum of money in her bank account —what's left of the proceeds from the sale of her parents' home, plus a little of her own savings. Magma is her first and only job apart from a bit of summertime temping when she was still a student; she worked her way up in the organization, and I think she is wonderful." He took a black-and-white photograph from the file and held it up for the others to see.

  Snaith didn't smile. "Dig deeper over the next few days. Find out who she socializes with, boyfriends, lovers, her politics, religion—you know the kind of thing. She's close to the target, so we can't take chances."

  Snaith paused, ran fingers through his short ginger-gray hair.

  "Now," he said, looking around at all of them. "Our friend Mr. Kline. Just what the hell do we know about him?"

  "Hardly anything," answered Stuhr. "It took me all of half a minute to read through his file."

  "Hmm, that's what I was afraid of. This bloody secrecy can be taken too far."

  "Oh, I don't think Magma is to blame," said Mather. "When I spoke with the chairman this moming it became very apparent that the corporation doesn't actually know too much about Felix Kline's background. I got the impression that so long as the man continues to make them money, they're not particularly bothered."

  "Would somebody please tell me just what it is he does for Magma?" complained Stuhr.

  "Sorry, Dieter," said Snaith, "that isn't necessary for you to know. Their terms, I'm afraid, so don't sulk. What does his file tell us?"

  Stuhr made a snorting noise, but didn't argue. "Like I said —there isn't much. He was born in Israel, arrived in England eleven years ago, began working for the Magma Corporation almost immediately—"

  "A Jew with two Arab companions?" interrupted Snaith.

  "They're not all bitter enemies. He moved into the penthouse suite of the Magma building when it was completed about five years ago. He also has a country home in Surrey, by a lake, two thousand acres of pastures and woodland. I need hardly say that's a huge amount of land to own in the Home Counties. He's obviously a very wealthy man. Unmarried, doesn't drive, doesn't smoke, drinks a little, no mention of drugs—but there wouldn't be—doesn't gamble. That's about it."

  "What?" said Snaith incredulously. "There must be more."

  Stuhr reached for a file lying beneath Cora Redmile's. He opened it and indicated the single sheet of paper inside. "I told you there wasn't much to read."

  "It must give his birth date, where he was educated, his employment before Magma. Isn't there anything about his social activities? It's essential that we at least have some idea of what those are."

  "He doesn't appear to have any if this document is anything to go by."

  "Charles?" Snaith appealed.

  Mather waved a hand. "That's the situation, I'm afraid. Even in conversation the chairman gave nothing away. Naturally I probed, but got nowhere. As I said, they seem to know little about the man themselves, and I think that's of Kline's choosing; perhaps part of his own terms of employment was his complete privacy on all personal matters. If he'd already demonstrated how good his abilities were, I don't suppose the board objected too much."

  "All right. I'm not happy, but let's accept the situation for what it is." Then Snaith asked hopefully, "I suppose his salary isn't in there somewhere?"

  Stuhr grinned and shook his head. "Not even a hint."

  "We could find out from other sources, but let's not waste our time. In fact, there's a lot more information we could uncover if we took the trouble, but we'll take the assignment at face value. Our contract will be signed later today—we're moving fast on this one. Liam, you'll be Kline's constant companion as of eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Dieter, I want a report from you on terrorist and kidnap activities during the last year. Obviously anything relevant to Magma or its subsidiary companies is what we're after."

  Stuhr made a note. After the meeting he would spend some time at the data-processing machine, using a special access code to link up with another company that specialized in maintaining and updating the activities and whereabouts of known worldwide terrorist groups on computer.

  "I'll do some checks on Magma's rivals, also," the German said, "see if there are any areas where competition has become overfierce."

  "Good. We're looking for enemies, business or otherwise. But if Kline is as neurotic as Liam says, this whole affair could well be a waste of time and effort. The man might be suffering from a severe case of paranoia." The Controller managed a grim smile. "Still, that's his and Magma's problem—Achilles' Shield gets paid either way. What do you have for us, Charles?"

  Mather stopped rubbing at his knee. "It's all fairly straightforward. For the time being we'll allocate four operatives to work with Liam, our inside man. Two to a team, working six-hour shifts
around the clock. We'll also keep a backup here on alert. Any preference as to whom you want, Liam?"

  Halloran shook his head.

  "Very well. As requested by Magma, our teams will keep at a distance. They'll maintain a constant patrol around the Surrey estate's boundaries—as usual, we'll inform the local police to save them from getting into a tizz."

  "Will our people be armed?" inquired Stuhr.

  There was a pause. Snaith preferred his operatives to be "kitted" against "severe hostility," but it was illegal for private bodyguards to carry weapons in England (a law that was constantly abused, particularly by foreign visitors to the country).

  The Controller came to a decision. "Liam will take with him to the estate whatever hardware he feels is necessary. I'm reluctant to sanction anything that will harm our special relationship with the police and Home Office, so our patrols will be unarmed for the time being. However, should there be any definite moves against our client, then the situation will be reconsidered. Although we'll have to rely on Liam and Kline's own bodyguards to take care of internal surveillance, we'll need a detailed report on the security system of this place . . ."

  Stuhr made another note.

  " . . . and the Magma building itself. The latter worries me considerably. Too many people in and out all day. However, we can plant an extra couple of our men in the lobbies of the ground and twelfth floors; naturally Magma's own security people will have to know they're there. We'll have a surveillance team outside at night, front and back, when Kline's in residence."

  "The building worries me, too," said Halloran, and all eyes turned toward him. "It's a glass and metal fortress, but it's vulnerable."

  "Then let's hope nobody tries to get at the target before we're operational," commented Mather. "Now that would be amusing."

  Snaith didn't find that prospect amusing at all. Not one bit.

  9

  ENTICEMENT

  Ah, good, at last he is approaching the boy.

  The boy is nervous but he speaks with bravado. He is pale, the boy, and looks unwashed; no doubt the rumpled plastic bag he carries contains all his worldly goods. He is perhaps sixteen, perhaps seventeen. The English believe that is too young to be without family, without a home; would that they knew of the orphans who freely roam the streets and marketplaces of Damascus, boys who wander alone, others who prowl in packs, stealing, begging, and joining lost causes because they will supply them with guns. Pah! The self-important British know nothing of such things.

  The boy is smiling. An unsure, nervous smile. He is lost in this huge railway station with its throngs of blank-eyed strangers. He would be even more lost in the city itself should he step outside. Now he assumes he has found a friend. If only he realized. Hah, yes, if only the boy understood.

  Ajel, be quick, Youssef, do not linger on this plain of shuffling travelers and vagrants. Policemen patrol, they search for runaways such as this one.

  Now he is hesitant. The boy is uncertain. Perhaps it is the dark skin he does not trust. The English nurture such intolerances, instill them in their young.

  Talk smoothly, Youssef, my friend. He looks around, the movement casual, nothing more than a glance at arrival and departure times, a constantly changing pattern high on the station wall: but Youssef really looks to see if he and the boy are being observed. You are not, my friend; I, Asil, have already looked for you. I am the only one who is interested. Besides, a man talking to a shab is familiar to these surroundings. Nobody really cares. Life is too personal.

  He places a reassuring hand on the runaway's shoulder and the boy does not flinch away. Perhaps money is mentioned. Ah, I see the boy nods. He has all the boldness and the stupidity of the unworldly.

  My friend turns away and the boy follows. They walk side by side. Not close, not like lovers, but like associates in sin. I see it in your eyes, Youssef, the gleam that shines from your dark soul, even though outwardly you are calm. And the boy swaggers; but this is a self-conscious posturing, an arrogant affectation.

  I must quickly go to the car. I must be ready in the darkness of the backseat. The boy will hardly feel the needle's sting; he will only sense my presence when it is too late.

  Then, for him, sleep. A long, deep sleep.

  And when he wakes—our pleasure and the master's sustenance.

  Hurry, Youssef, ajel. I suspect that same gleam is now in my own eyes. My body is already aching.

  10

  INTRUDER

  Monk was surprised. Nobody was due this time of night. Leastwise, nobody'd told him.

  The elevator was humming though. Faint, but it was on its way up. Sounded like the one from the chairman's suite. No way could it be Felix's elevator, the one that slid all the way down to the basement. Nobody else had the code for that. Even the chick, Cora, had to wait till it was sent down for her.

  Monk was momentarily distracted by Cora's image. The image was naked from the waist down.

  Sound's stopped. It'd traveled no more'n four stories. Yeah, from Sir Vic's den. Who the hell—?

  Monk heard the doors open.

  But no one stepped out.

  The bodyguard laid down his magazine and rose from the chair at the end of the corridor. He released the restraining hoop on his shoulder holster but stayed where he was, awaiting developments.

  No mood for fuckups tonight, he told himself. It'd been a bad day already. He'd been shown for a jackass that morning, a clumsy meatloaf, and he was in no mind for surprises tonight, even if some jerk had made a mistake in coming up to the twenty-second. Just step outside, lessee the color of your teeth.

  Still no one. But the doors weren't closing, and that wasn't right.

  Monk crept down the corridor, one hand on the butt of his pistol, a big lumbering man who nevertheless approached the elevator silently, soft carpeting helping his stealth. The corridor was gloomy-dark—the way Felix liked it—and mellow light from the opening ahead stained the floor and opposite wall.

  The door should've closed by now. Unless someone had a finger on the open button.

  Monk drew out the Smith & Wesson.

  He paused, the opening only two feet away. There were no shadows in the glow that spread from it.

  He braced himself, readied to spring forward and sideways, gun arm pointed into the lift. But he thought better of that tactic. Monk wasn't stupid. His bulk was too good a target.

  So he got down on his hands and knees and crawled forward, gun barrel almost alongside his nose, elbows digging into the deep pile. No one expected to see a face appear below knee level.

  He was at the very corner, easing his massive head past the shiny metal ridge, the interior of the elevator coming into view. His gun hand was no more than a few inches ahead of him.

  Nobody there. It looked like there was nobody there after—

  A hand grabbed his hair and yanked him forward onto his belly. A leg straddled him and crushed his gun into the carpet. Iron fingers still dug into his hair, making the roots scream. Something slammed hard into his neck, and his thoughts became unsettled dreams.

  Janusz Palusinski sat at the kitchen's breakfast bar slapping butter on bread with a carving knife whose blade was at least nine inches long. Beside his plate was a tumbler half full of vodka.

  He checked his wristwatch, parts of tattooed numbers showing at the edge of the broad strap, then sawed off chunks of roast beef, the red meat rare almost to the point of being raw. As he cut he wondered if Felix— mój pan, he mentally and with more than a degree of cynicism added—would scream in his sleep tonight. A terrifying sound that stilled the blood of anyone who heard it. What did the man dream of? What fears possessed him when he slept? How close to total madness had he come? But no. Janusz must not even have a negative thought about his master. Felix would know, he would sense.

  Felix, Felix, Felix.

  Just the name could cause an ache inside Palusinski's bald head.

  The Pole wiped the back of his fist across his forehead, the knife he held
catching light from overhead in a sudden flare. Normally the kitchen lights, like all the others in the penthouse, would be kept low by dimmer switches, but at present Felix was sleeping, he wouldn't know. Yet sometimes he did . . . Sometimes he would accuse them all of things that he should never have been aware of, and they would cringe, they would cower, they would be craven before him. Still Felix— O lord, master, and oppressor—would make them suffer, sometimes the punishment cruel, other times involving a mere few hours of discomfort. Palusinski often felt that the two Arabs enjoyed that part of their servitude. Monk's brain was too curdled to care either way, blazen that he was.

  But Janusz was different, he assured himself. Janusz was aware of certain things . . . The others were fools. No, the Arabs were not fools. They believed . . .

  Palusinski gulped neat vodka, then unscrewed the mustard-jar lid. He dug in the tip of the carving knife, sunk it four inches, then spread the dollop it came out with across the cut meat. He slammed another thick slice of bread, also lavishly buttered, on top, pressing down with the flat of his hand so that yellow goo oozed from the sides.

  Twenty minutes before the gorilla was to be relieved, he told himself as he raised the overflowing sandwich and barged his mouth into it. Monk—a good name for an animal such as he. Hours of sitting watching an empty corridor was a fitting task for such an idiota. But for Janusz it meant five hours of misery to look forward to. A torment. Another torture imposed by Felix. Even pain was better than boredom.

  What was it that had made Felix so nervous? The man was mad, there could be no doubting that. But a genius also! No doubting that, either. Gówno! No doubt at all. But why afraid now, mój szef? You, who lives in shadows, who distrusts the light unless it is for your purpose. What fresh fear haunts you now, mężczyzna of many dreads?

  Palusinski chomped on meat and bread, lips glistening from the surplus of butter. He stilled his jaw to gulp vodka, seasoning the mushed food in his mouth with fire. His eyes were small behind the wire-framed spectacles he wore, their lids never fully raised, like blinds half-drawn in a room where secrets were kept. They were focused upon the rim of the open mustard jar, everything else a soft periphery; yet his eyes were not seeing that rim with its sliver of reflected light, for his thoughts were inward, perhaps examining those very secrets within that room of his mind. He sat, slowly munching, as if mesmerized.