quite often those negotiating the release. The IRA were different. Oh, they had all those faults, and others not mentioned, but they could be cool and calculating—and sometimes more cruel because of it. There was no trust in them, and no trusting in them. They were a conscienceless and dangerous entity.
Which was why Halloran was so often chosen to deal with them.
But this current assignment with Magma puzzled him. Not as to why he had been chosen to handle it—he worked best alone, when he didn't have to rely on others-but more specifically, why the Corporation had allowed only one protector working on the inside. For the incredible amount of money for which the target's life had been insured, he should have had a small army around him, even though he had four bodyguards of his own. Could keeping secret his function for Magma be that important?
Apparently SO.
They were in yet another lift, the access to which had been in a small ante-chamber next door to the chairman's office, and were rising towards the twenty-second floor. Quinn-Reece was no longer with them, having excused himself to attend another meeting elsewhere.
'Two floor buttons only,' remarked Mather, looking at the panel set by the doors.
'This is a private lift and only travels between the eighteenth and twenty-second,' Sir Victor explained. 'A limited number of employees are allowed to use it.'
'And the twenty-third and fourth?'
'Living quarters and machinery rooms, the latter being at the very top.' What price a sky-high penthouse in the heart of the City? Halloran silently mused. And whose penthouse? The chairman's? Maybe the target's, if he really was that important to the Corporation. There were a lot of questions still hanging in the air.
The lift walls were a glossy black, the occupants' reflected figures like shadowy ghosts around them. The overhead light was subdued, and it would have been easy to imagine they were travelling below the earth's surface rather than up towards the clouds.
Movement stopped, a subtle sensation, and the doors parted. The corridor beyond was as gloomy as the lift's interior.
A heavy-set man stood opposite, close to the wall, as if he had been awaiting their arrival. His arms were folded across a broad chest and they dropped to his sides in a token gesture of attention when he saw the chairman.
'He's ready for us?' asked Sir Victor, stepping from the lift first with no deference to Cora's gender or courtesy towards his guests.
The man nodded. 'He's waiting.' Just a hint of civility in his voice, his accent American.
From his thick-set stature and how uncomfortable he appeared in his business suit, it was easy for Mather and Halloran to surmise that this man was one of the bodyguards. His hair was long, incongruously (considering the staid suit) tied into a tail behind. Sullen eyes set in a pudgy face flicked over the visitors. At first, Halloran had thought the man's cheeks were unusually ruddy, but when he moved closer he realised that a patchwork of thin, livid scars emblazoned both sides of his face. Without further words the bodyguard led the way along the corridor, keeping at least six feet ahead of the entourage. The walls on either side were bare and dark and Halloran brushed fingers against one side.
feeling a coarse material: the covering was black hessian. It was unusually cold in that corridor, yet the gloom was beginning to feel stifling.
A turn to the right, a large double-door facing them. Its surface, like the lift walls, was glossy black, and for one startling moment Halloran had the impression of apparitions approaching them. As the bodyguard leaned forward, extending both hands to grip the separate doorhandles, his spectral reflection leaned closer as if to snatch him. Both sides of the double-door were pushed open, the bodyguard standing aside to allow the party through.
The room was huge and almost blindingly white.
'Welcome to limbo,' a voice said.
6 FELIX KLINE
The man who had spoken wasn't what Mather or Halloran expected at all.
He didn't look worth ?50 million. He didn't seem like someone whom a multi-national, first-league corporation could possibly be dependent upon. He looked nothing like a genius, and nothing like a wizard.
He was something of a disappointment.
At first their eyes had been stung by the unexpected dazzle, the abrupt contrast between gloom and astonishing brightness. But as they blinked away the irritation, they were gradually able to take in their new surroundings. There were no windows, and there was no furniture apart from a low, moderate-sized dais in the centre of the luminously white floor. If there were other exits around the room, they could not be discerned against the white walls, at least not until their eyes had become accustomed to the glare.
Even the high ceiling was of white light. The whole effect was of vast and empty space which served to make the figure sitting on the edge of the dais seem even more insignificant.
He was wearing jeans and a blue sweatshirt chopped off at the elbows, his legs stretched out before him, ankles crossed, his hands behind him and flat against the small platform's surface. He grinned at the group standing in the doorway.
'The sudden change wipes your mind clean, doesn't it?' he said. Then he laughed, a peculiar high-pitched giggle. 'That's the idea, y'see. A blank mind, a clean slate; a white sheet, waiting to be filled with images. I can make everything black if you prefer?' He looked at them with eager expectancy.
'Not just now, Felix,' said Sir Victor quickly. 'Not if you don't mind. I want to introduce you to Mr Mather and Mr Halloran from Achilles' Shield, the company I discussed with you.' The man addressed as Felix stood and ambled over to them, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. He was well below average height, about five-three, his shoulders slightly rounded so that he appeared to stoop. His age could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five. His curly hair was dark and unkempt, his complexion swarthy, almost yellowish. And his eyes, above a hooked nose, were large and pitchy, as deep and shiny as oil pools.
Let me guess,' he said, grinning again, and looking over their heads.
There was something odd about his eyes and Halloran couldn't quite figure out what.
He stepped before them, lowered his gaze. 'You,' he said, stabbing a finger at Mather. 'You're Mather.
You're the Organiser -no, no, the Planner, that's what you're called, right? Am I right? Course I'm right.
Damn right. And you . . .' He faced Halloran.
His grin dropped away for an instant.
The grin was back, but humour was lacking. 'And you are Halloran,' he said more slowly, less excitedly.
'The Muscle. No, no, not just that. A bit more than that. Shit, you're a cold bastard.' Halloran returned his stare and realised what was bothering him about the smaller man's eyes. The pupils were unusually enlarged. With all the dazzling brightness around them, they should have been almost pin-points. Smack?
Could be. He seemed hyped up.
'This is Felix Kline,' Sir Victor interposed. 'The person you've been engaged to protect.' If Mather was surprised he didn't show it. 'I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr Kline.'
'That you are,' agreed Kline. 'How about you, Halloran? You pleased to meet me?'
'You might grow on me,' replied Halloran.
The girl stepped in quickly. 'There are lots of arrangements to make, Felix. These gentlemen will have to know your day-to-day movements, your plans in advance, how best their people can cover you twenty-four hours a day.'
'People?' snapped Kline. 'We agreed only one. Halloran's it.'
'He'll need back-up,' said Mather, beginning to get annoyed with this volatile young man. 'He can't keep his eyes on you every minute of the day and night. There has to be outside protection.' Kline was still watching Halloran. 'All right. You take care of that, Cora—you know my movements better than I do.
Give the details to Mather, he's the brains. I want to be alone with Halloran for a while. If he's going to be my constant companion we'd better get to know each other a little. What d'you say, Halloran? D'you have a first
