The two men sitting in the third floor office—a large, capacious room, because space wasn't at a premium in these converted warehouses—had been invited. One of them had been invited many times over the past six years.
He was Alexander Buchanan, a suitably sturdy name for an underwriter whose firm, Acorn Buchanan Limited, had a 'box' on the floor of Lloyd's of London and company offices nearFenchurch Street .
Acorn Buchanan's speciality was K & R insurance. Kidnap and Ransom.
The person with him was his client, Henry Quinn-Reece, chief executive and deputy chairman of the Magma Corporation PLC. He looked ill at ease, even though the leather sofa on which he sat was designed for maximum comfort. Perhaps he did not enjoy the scrutiny he was under.
The scrutineers were three, and they were directors of Achilles' Shield. None of these men did or said anything to relax their prospective client. In fact, that was the last thing they wanted: they liked their interviewees to be on edge, and sharper because of it.
The one behind the large leather-topped desk, who was in charge of the meeting, was Gerald Snaith, Shield's managing director, officially titled Controller. He was forty-nine years old, a former major in the SAS, and had trained soldiers, British and foreign, all over the world. His main service action had been inOman , his exploits largely unknown to the public because, after all, that particular conflict-or more accurately, the British Army's participation in it—had never been recognised officially. A short man, and stocky, his hair a slow-greying ginger, Snaith looked every inch a fighting man which, in truth, he still was.
In a straight-backed chair to the side of the Controller's desk sat Charles Mather MBE, a keen-eyed man of sixty-two years (those keen eyes often held a glint of inner amusement as though Mather found it impossible to treat life too seriously all the time, despite the grim nature of the business he was in).
Introduced to clients as Shield's Planner, or sometimes Proposer, staff within the organisation preferred to call him 'The Hatcher'. He was tall, thin, and ramrod, but forced to use a cane for walking because of a severe leg wound received inAden during the latter stages of that 'low intensity' campaign. A jeep in which he was travelling had been blown off the road by a land mine. Only his fortitude and an already exemplary military career had allowed him to return to his beloved army, sporting concealed sears and a rather heroic limp; unfortunately a sniper's bullet had torn tendons in that same leg many years later when he had been GOC and Director of Operations in Ulster, hence the stick and early retirement from the British Army.
The only non-English name among a very English assemblage was that of Dieter Stuhr, a German-born and at one time member of the Bundeskriminalamt, an organisation within the German police force responsible to the Federal Government for the monitoring of terrorists and anarchist groups. Stuhr sat alongside Snaith at the desk. Younger than his two colleagues and four years divorced, his body was not in the same lean condition: a developing paunch was beginning to put lower shirt buttons under strain, and his hairline had receded well beyond the point of no return. He was an earnest, over-anxious man, but supreme at organising movement, finances, time-tables and weaponry for any given operation, no matter what the difficulties, be they dealing with the authorities in other countries (particularly certain police chiefs and high-ranking officials who were not above collusion with kidnappers-and terrorists) or arranging 'minimum risk' life-styles for fee-paying 'targets'. Within the company he was known very properly as the Organiser.
He bore an impressive scar on his face which might well have been a sword-scythed wound, perhaps the symbol of machoism so proudly worn by duellingHeidelberg students before and during Herr Hitler's rapid rise to infamy; but Stuhr was not of that era and the mutilation was nothing so foolishly valiant. It was no more than a deep, curving cut received while falling off his bicycle after free-wheeling down a too-steep hill outside his home town ofSchleiz . A truck driver ahead of him had been naturally cautious about crossing the junction at the bottom of the hill and Stuhr, an eleven-year old schoolboy at the time, had neglected to pull on his brakes until it was too late. The bicycle had gone beneath the truck, while the boy had taken a different route around the tailboard's corner catching his face as he scraped by.
The scar stretched down from his left temple, and curved into his mouth, a hockey-stick motif that made his smile rise up the side of his head. He tried not to smile too much.
Gerald Snaith was speaking: 'You understand that we'd need a complete dossier on your man's background and current lifestyle?' Quinn-Reece nodded. 'We'll supply what we can.'
'And we'd have to know exactly how valuable he is to your corporation.'
'He's indispensable,' the deputy chairman replied instantly.
'Now that is unusual.' Charles Mother scratched the inside of one ankle with his walking stick.
'Invaluable, I can appreciate. But indispensable? I didn't realise such an animal existed in today's world of commerce.' Alexander Buchanan, sitting by his client on the leather sofa, said, 'The size of the insurance cover will indicate to you just how indispensable our “target” is.'
'Would you care to reveal precisely what the figure is at this stage of the proceedings?' The question was put mildly enough, but the underwriter had no doubts that a proper answer was required. He looked directly at Quinn- Reece, who bowed assent.
'Our man is insured for ?50 million.' said Buchanan.
Dieter Stuhr dropped his pen on the floor. Although equally surprised. Snaith and Mother did not so much as glance at each other.
After a short pause, Buchanan added unnecessarily, 'A sizeable amount. I'm sure you'll agree.'
'I dread to think of the premium involved,' Mather remarked.
'Naturally it's proportionate to the sum insured,' said the underwriter. 'And I'm afraid the discount on the premium to Magma, even if you accept the assignment, will be accordingly low. Ten per cent instead of the normal twenty.'
'I imagine, then,' said Mother to Quinn-Reece, 'that we are discussing the safety of your chairman.'
'As a matter of fact, no,' came the reply. 'The person to be insured doesn't actually have a title within the company.'
'We can reasonably assume that he doesn't serve the tea, though,' Mother said dryly. 'I'm sure Mr Buchanan has already informed you that a “target's” name never appears on any document or insurance slip concerning such a policy, even though documents will be lodged in various vaults—we demand total secrecy for security reasons, you see—but can you at least tell us your man's role within the Corporation? We'll come to his name later, if and when there is an agreement between us.' Quinn-Reece shifted in his seat, as if even more uncomfortable. 'I'm afraid I can't tell you that either, not at this stage.
Once a contract is agreed, then Magma will give you all the necessary information—on a “need to know”
basis, of course.'
'We're well used to such discretion,' Snaith assured. 'In fact, we encourage it. But so long as you understand that nothing absolutely nothing—must be withheld from us should we decide to take on the job.'
'I understand perfectly,' the deputy chairman replied, nodding his head gravely.
I wonder if he really does, thought Snaith. That every part of the 'target's' life would be delved into—his wife, family, friends, his habits, recreations. Whether or not he has a mistress. Especially that. A mistress (or mistresses) was always a weak link in any operation of this sort because usually the target himself tried to cover up that particular side of his activities, would even endeavour to elude his own protectors for the occasional tryst with his woman. Shield would also have to know how the target was regarded as a man—stubborn, soft, fit, unfit, loving, harsh, conformist or otherwise, and so on (intelligence was assumed if he was worth insuring in this way). If married and had children, what kind of husband was he, what kind of father? Snaith and his operatives would need to know his precise movements, every hour, every minute of the day and night. Were these movements regularly reported both inside and outside the Corporation? Would the media ever be informed in advance'? He was already aware of the employee's value to Magma—an incredible ?50 million—but what was the nature and value of his function? All these questions, and many more, would have to be answered before Shield could begin to devise a specially-tailored security cover. Even then, no such protective system could ever be foolproof, not where terrorists were concerned. But one question had to be answered at the outset.
Snaith leaned forward on his desk, his fingers interlocking, thumbs turning circles around each other.
'Why now?' he asked. 'Why do you feel this member of your corporation needs protection at this point in time?'
