Sepulchre (3 page)

'You'll need ID tags,' he told them and punched more keys on a machine concealed from view beneath the counter. When his hand appeared once more it was holding two yellow strips with Mather and Halloran's names typed individually in capitals on each. He slipped them into plastic clips and passed them over.

'Attach these to your lapels, please. You need to go up to the eighteenth. You can take the scenic route to twelve, then transfer to an interior lift for the rest of the way. Or if you prefer, you can take the interior express straight up to the eighteenth.' He pointed at the lifts beyond the reception circle.

'I rather fancy the scenic route,' said Mather brightly. 'What d'you say, Liam?'

Halloran smiled as he clipped on his name tag. 'Fine by me.'

They crossed the busy floor to one of the capsule elevators, Mather chattering like a child looking forward to a funfair ride. They saw one of the lifts discharging its load and headed towards it, Mather quickly pressing the 12 button once they were inside so that they would be alone.

The older man's mood became serious, although he peered through the thick glass, looking for familiar landmarks as the lift rose above the streets.

'What went wrong, Liam?' he asked.

Halloran, too, watched the shrinking streets, the broadening view. 'My guess is that our client died at the time of kidnap or soon after. We already knew from his company's medical report he had a weak heart. He'd suffered a minor heart attack two years before.'

'But you didn't know he was dead before you went in with the money.'

Halloran shook his head. The Thames was coming into view, its surface silver in the bright sunshine. To the west was St Paul's, to the east, the Tower of London; other landmarks, grey in the distance, were beginning to appear. 'I had the notion. They would never let me speak to him on the phone, told me I had to take their word for it that he was in good shape. There was little choice.'

Thugs.' said Mather. 'Murdering IRA thugs.'

'They consider themselves to be at war.'

'Kidnap and murder? Indiscriminate bombings?

'There's never been a normal one.'

The older man glanced at Halloran. 'I know you too well to imagine you have any truck with the IRA.'

Halloran watched a dragonfly helicopter inching its way along the river, keeping strictly to its assigned route where an air accident could cause the least damage, heading for the Battersea heliport.

'I read your report,' Mather said to break the silence. 'Why the Heckler and Koch? An Ingram is more compact, easier to conceal.'

'Our own man had to examine the client - I needed accuracy so that he wouldn't get hit. And I didn't know how many I'd be up against, so I had to have the choice of switching to automatic. It was a pity for them their victim wasn't a well man - their organisation could have been a lot richer.'

'And a pity his company didn't call us in earlier as more than just negotiators. He might not have been abducted in the first place under our protection.' Mather shook his head with regret. Then: 'At least publicity was avoided.'

Halloran smiled grimly. The last thing Achilles' Shield wanted was attention from the media, always preferring to remain anonymous, not only in name but in role also. Too many Members of Parliament were fighting to introduce a Bill banning K & R organisations such as Shield, condemning them as an inducement to kidnap rather than a deterrent. He had removed their client's corpse from the scene of the shooting, leaving it by the roadside in another county to be discovered by others. Because of that, the two incidents hadn't been connected - at least, not by the public. The authorities on both sides of the border who had cooperated with Shield before on similar K & R operations, had turned a blind eye (although the Garda naturally hadn't been happy about the killings on their territory).

'Here we are,' Mather said as the elevator glided to a smooth halt. The doors sighed open and the two men stepped out.

They found themselves in another reception area, although this was far less impressive than that on ground-level, and much quieter. Through the windows to their right they could see a wide, open terrace, white tables and chairs placed all around, the building itself recessed here to provide a spectacular viewing platform over the southern half of London. It was empty of observers at the moment, the sun too feeble to take the chill from the breeze at that altitude.

A few people sat inside, though, waiting in the beige loungers, while Magma staff wandered through, some carrying documents, others collecting the visitors and leading them off to second-stage lifts or into corridors branching from the lobby.

The desk on this level was set into the wall and stationed by only two blue-uniformed men. A girl was standing by the counter talking to one of them. On seeing Mather and Halloran emerge from the lift she broke off conversation and hurried over.

'Mr Charles Mather?' she asked, smiling engagingly.

The older man raised a hand. 'And this is Mr Halloran,' he said indicating.

'I'm Cora Redmile. Sir Victor sent me down to fetch you.' She shook hands with both men.

She was slender, dark-haired, her eyes a muddy brown flecked with green. Mid or late-twenties, Halloran guessed. Her smile was mischievous as she looked at him.

'I hope you enjoyed the journey up,' she said. 'Some visitors are quite unsettled by the time they reach the twelfth.'

Halloran only smiled back, and for a moment, uncertainty flashed in her eyes.

'Absolutely splendid, m'dear,' Mather answered. 'Marvellously clear day for spying the landscape. You should make people buy tickets.'

The girl gave a short laugh. 'Compliments of Magma. If you come with me I'll take you to the eighteenth. Mr Quinn-Reece is waiting with Sir Victor.'

'Up to the eyrie. Splendid.'

Still smiling, the girl turned away and they followed her to the row of interior lifts.

Inside and on their way, Mather said: 'You'd be Sir Victor's personal secretary, I take it.'

'No, not Sir Victor's,' she replied, and made no further comment.

'Ah,' murmured Mather, as if satisfied.

Halloran leaned back against the wall, feeling the slight headiness of blood pressured by high speed. He caught the girl looking at him and she quickly averted her gaze.

'My goodness,' said Mather. 'We're fairly shifting, aren't we?'

'I can slow us down if you prefer,' Cora told him, anxiously reaching for a button on the console.

'Not at all. I'm rather enjoying the experience.'

She smiled at Mather's glee, her hand dropping back to her side. Once again, her gaze strayed to Halloran. In his dark tweed jacket, with its leather elbow patches, his check shirt and loose-knitted tie, he should have resembled a country squire; only he didn't. Far from it. And there was something about his eyes . . . lie looked like a man who could be cruel. Yet there was a quiet gentleness about him too. Cora was puzzled. And interested.

-How many security men does the building have?'

Halloran's question took her by surprise. There was a softness to his voice also, the slightest trace of an accent. West Country? No, Irish. With a name like Halloran it had to be.

'Oh, I think Sir Victor has all those details ready for you,' she answered quickly, realising she had been lost for a moment.

He looked at her steadily. 'You know why we're here?'

Now she wasn't sure if there was an accent at all. 'Yes. I'll be assisting you.'

Mather raised his eyebrows at Halloran.

A small ping as the elevator came to a halt. The doors drew back like stage curtains to reveal a sumptuous lobby, its thick carpet a deep mauve, hessian walls, the palest green. Ceiling lights were recessed so that soft glows puddled the corridors leading off from the open area. Strategically placed lamps and spotlights compensated for the lack of natural light. A wide chrome and glass desk faced the elevators and the girl sitting behind it rose as soon as their feet sank into the lush carpet.

'Good morning. Sir Victor is ready to see you. May I arrange some tea or coffee?'

'Tea would be very nice,' said Mather.

'Any preference?'

'I'll leave that to you, m'dear, though I'm partial to Earl Grey.'

'Earl Grey it is.' She raised her eyebrows at Halloran, who said, 'Coffee, black, no preference.'

'If you'll follow me,' said Cora, and led them into the corridor beyond the hi-tech desk.

There were no doors, but display cases were set into the walls on either side, each depicting the Corporation's worldwide industrial and mining activities, either photographically or as models: a vast borate minerals open-pit mine, Mojave Desert; a hydrofluoric acid plant, UK; a pyrite mine, Spain; gold, silver, and emerald mines, Zimbabwe; open-pit copper, South Africa; oil and gas wells, UK and global. And more: tin, uranium, diamonds, coal, low-grade ores, all manner of base and precious metals, some, like molybdenum (a silver-white metal), that the two men had never even heard of. Towards the end of the corridor was an encased back-lit map, bright red circles indicating areas of exploration and research around the world; there were a lot of red circles.

It was something of a relief when they arrived in a wide area flooded by daylight, both men feeling that they had just emerged from an educational passage in a geological museum. If visitors to Magma's chairman were meant to feel over-awed, perhaps even intimidated by the time they reached his office, then the ruse was effective.

'Nothing like flaunting it,' Mather quietly remarked to Halloran.

'The Magma Corporation is very proud of its many interests,' said Cora with no hint of reprimand in her tone.

'So it seems.' Mather smiled sweetly at her.

Broader corridors stretched left and right, glass-walled rooms with vertical blinds, most of these open, on either side. Sounds buzzed from them: muted conversations, ringing telephones, clattering typewriters. But Cora crossed the open space before them, going to a wide double-door which looked so solid that Halloran wondered if she had the strength to push it open.

It opened with ease. She stood back to allow them through.

Now they were in an office shared by two secretaries; one could have modelled for Vogue, while the other, with her heavyframed spectacles and wire-frizzed hair, might have looked well on the cover of Science Today. Both were busily involved with word processors; they barely glanced up.

Another large door directly ahead. Cora went to it, tapped once, entered. A brief announcement, then she turned and beckoned Mather and Halloran through.

4 THE NEED FOR SECRECY

The chairman's office was high-ceilinged, the wall at the far end mostly tinted glass; it looked disconcertingly easy to step off the edge into open space. The chairman's oak desk was almost as wide as the room and the only traditional piece of furniture present. The rest comprised black leather and chrome, with dark ash units around the walls. The chairman himself was as imposing as the rest of the Magma building.

Sir Victor Penlock was tall and slim, with silver and grey hair in plenty, and no sign of relaxed stomach muscles. He wore a grey, double-breasted suit, the material of which had a subtle sheen. His face was sharp, light blue eyes keen. His grip was firm when he greeted them.

First Mather, then Halloran, shaking their hands, studying their faces. He spent a second longer studying Halloran's. 'I understand you haven't yet met Quinn-Reece,' he said to him.

The deputy chairman came forward. 'I'm told you'll be particularly suited for protection cover of this kind. You prefer working on a one-to-one-basis.'

'We'll see,' Halloran replied, disliking the clamminess of Quinn-Reece's hand.

'I beg your pardon?'

'We'll see if I'm suited after I've spoken to the target. We don't appear to know much about him.'

'My apologies for that,' cut in Sir Victor. 'But there are reasons.' He indicated chairs. 'Please, won't you sit down, then perhaps we can put you fully in the picture.'

The chairman took his place behind the desk and the others found themselves seats around the room. Cora, Halloran noticed, sat in a chair by the wall as though she were an observer of the meeting rather than a partaker.

'By the time most new visitors to Magma reach my office,' Sir Victor began, 'they've become aware of the Corporation's numerous activities throughout the world, so it should be unnecessary for me to give you a detailed lecture on our size and strength. Suffice it to say that we're recognised as a major force as far as mining, industrial and energy interests are concerned. No doubt you've taken note of the various companies that form our Group, and the reason they have their own identity is because for the past twenty years we've practised a decentralised system of management which encourages the profitable development of individual companies inside their own industries and locations. Between them, they either produce, process and fabricate most prime metals - anything from aluminium to zinc - as well as manufacture industrial, construction and engineering products and chemicals; or they may supply raw materials for energy, principally coal, oil, gas and uranium.'

He paused. 'I said I wasn't going to lecture, didn't I? No matter - I am leading up to an important point. So, you have an idea of what Magma and its companies are all about. We employ over eighty thousand people throughout the world, twenty thousand of those in the UK.'

There was a light tap on the door and a woman in a pale blue uniform shirt and dark blue skirt brought in a tray of tea and coffee. Sir Victor waited for the beverages to be distributed and the door to close again before continuing.

'As a corporation involved in enormous investments both here and abroad, we have two considerable problems. One is that large fluctuations in currency exchange rates give us immense difficulty in predicting the economic environment in which long-term investment decisions will come to maturity.'

Halloran caught Mather's eyes glazing over and hid his grin behind the coffee cup. Sir Victor's diction was crisp and clear, yet nothing could prevent the words themselves entering the brain as a drone.