Julia nodded in relief. “I promise, Greg. Whatever it takes. Event Horizon has a clinic in Austria, they can do anything there.”
Greg didn’t share her glibness about that, but at least she was genuinely intent on making amends. “Fine. I’ll snatch her back tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. I don’t want to leave her on the Mirriam a minute longer than necessary, I’d develop nightmares. I’ll bring her to Event Horizon’s finance division offices. Your people can take her from there.”
“I’ll come.”
“No, Julia.”
“Yes. The finance division is just as secure as Wilholm. And I want to see her. After all, I’m the one who put her there, and I’ve had a taste of what she’s been through.”
He nearly started to say no again, but there wasn’t a logical argument against her going. Besides, he could see Julia wasn’t going to be moved. Philip Evans wasn’t the only one she could wrap around her little finger. “All right, but you get Walshaw to make the travel arrangements, and turn up around midnight prepared for a long wait.”
“Do you want the company security hardliners to help you?”
“No. I’m not familiar with their capabilities. I do know all about the people I’m going to be using.”
“What people? Tekmercs?” she asked with frank curiosity.
“Tell you sometime.”
She gave him a timid smile. “That’s a date.”
Greg turned the jammer off, and Julia opened her door. “Julia.”
She froze with her legs out of the car.
“Don’t try so hard, girl. You’re not exactly a frump, you know.”
Her smile widened, becoming coquettish. “And Adrian isn’t just a lump of muscle, either. He’s very bright, and kind. And I like him a lot.”
“Then I’m happy for you. See you later.”
He didn’t rate a wave this time; she simply stood watching him drive off, looking small and sad. He folded the rear-view mirror’s image up and tucked it away in a corner of his mind. The last thing he needed now was any more guilt rattling round inside his skull.
CHAPTER 30
Greg drove into Peterborough under a sky which the sun had transformed into a bitter saffron hemisphere raked with the occasional static pillar of cloud. He turned up the windscreen’s opacity, muting its eye-smarting intensity. There was a taut thread of pain running through his cortex, the neurohormones’ legacy.
It wasn’t helped by wondering how he was going to square what he was doing with his promise to Eleanor. And then there was tonight’s snatch looming large. Another unforeseen. Events were ganging up on him, dictating his actions.
The conspiracy was unnerving, tenaciously eroding any sensation of control over his life. He was a squaddie back in Turkey, utterly dependent on the wisdom of hidden enigmatic generals and the throw of God’s dice. Never again, he’d sworn. Easy to say.
He blended the Duo into the arterial flux of traffic flowing through Peterborough’s outlying suburbs; a dawn to dusk convoy hauling the city’s lifeblood of goods from the industrial sectors to the port and the railway marshalling yard.
Hendaly Street was the same as all the rest in New Eastfield, a long straight gorge of white buildings with grand arched entrances, wide balconies, dark windows, and ranks of flags fluttering on high. Pagoda trees thrust up out of the pavements in the centre of brick tubs; people sat on the benches round them, pensioners soaking up the sun, youngsters with VR bands plugged into gamer decks. Eleanor would enjoy living here.
He had to stamp hard on the brake as the red light came on ahead of the Duo. Its meaning had almost been lost down the years. Working traffic lights, by God!
The frontage of the Castlewood condominium was eighty metres long, standing back from the other buildings along the street, and screened with a discreet row of tall caucasian elms.
The entrance was below ground level, served by a private loop of road with card-activated barriers at each end.
Greg parked a hundred metres further down the street and showed his card to the meter, punching in for six hours.
“Six hours?” a voice queried. “I wish I had an expense account like that.”
Greg turned, and smiled. “Victor. You’re looking good.”
Victor Tyo’s babyfaced good looks smiled back. “Riding high, thanks to you. I was promoted up to captain after our Zanthus excursion, got assigned to the command division down by the estuary. I guess Walshaw must approve of me.”
“You’re my contact today?”
“Yes. Again. I was at the office when the call came in.” He tipped a nod at the Castlewood. “We’ve had it under observation for twenty-five minutes now.”
“We?”
“The rest of my squad. They’re covering all possible exits. We wouldn’t want our man to filter out without us knowing. I’ve already checked with the concierge, Ellis is at home right now. A human concierge, by the way, this place is definitely for premier-rankers. I couldn’t afford to rent the broom cupboard in there.”
Walshaw hadn’t actually mentioned anything about a squad, but Greg could appreciate his reasoning. Ellis wasn’t the end of the line, but he was near. His confidence rose a fraction. Backup wouldn’t come amiss, not if they were as on the ball as young Victor.
Will this be a long operation?” he was asking. “Some of the observation positions are improvised, temporary.”
“It shouldn’t take more than an hour, two at the outside.”
“Fine. Did you fall down some stairs?”
Greg’s hand went to the stiff white mould over his nose. “Not exactly. A run-in with a friend of Mr Ellis.”
“I see. Do you want a weapon before we go in?”
“Are you carrying?”
“Yes. A Lucas laser pistol.”
“That ought to be enough. You keep it.” Greg began to walk towards the Castlewood’s nearest barrier.
“Fine.” Victor showed a card to the gate beside the barrier. “Concierge’s pass,” he explained.
Greg lifted an appreciative eyebrow. And only a twenty-minute head start. Morgan Walshaw ought to start worrying for his job. “Will it open the apartment doors as well?”
Victor did his best not to appear smug. “Of course.”
The Castlewood was built in a U-shape. The two wings had a conservatory-style glass roof slung between them, curving down to form a transparent wall at the open end. The glass was tinted amber, cooling the sunlight which shone down on a bowling green, tennis courts, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and a separate diving pool. Four tiers of balconies made a giant amphitheatre of the enclosure. Their long strips of silvered sliding doors staring down on the athletically inclined with blank impersonality.
Charles Ellis owned a penthouse apartment on the fourth storey, at the tip of the east wing. One of the most expensive in the condominium. Victor stood outside the door, glancing at Greg for permission.
He held his hand up for the young security captain to wait, and probed with his espersense. There was only one mind inside, a muddled knot of everyday worries and conflicts. Not expecting trouble.
“He’s alone,” Greg said. “To the right as we go in.” He pointed through the wall.
“Fine,” Victor acknowledged respectfully. He showed the concierge card to the lock. There was a soft click.
The apartment was five large rooms laid out in parallel, with a hall running along the back of them. Surprisingly, the decor was old-fashioned throughout. Uninspiring, sober prints and dingy Victorian furnishings, all black wood and thick legs draped in cream-coloured lace. The internal doors were heavy varnished hardwood, with brass hinges and handles, opening into rooms with dark dressers and tables. Chairs were gilt-edged, upholstered in plain shiny powder-blue fabric, marble-top tables with bronze legs.
The lounge where they found Charles Ellis had six glass-fronted teak wall cabinets exhibiting hundreds of beautifully detailed porcelain figurines. There was a profusion of styles, with animals predominating; whoever owned them was obviously a dedicated collector. Rich, too, though Greg was no real judge, but money had its own special tell-tale radiance. And it haunted those shelves. He could feel the love and craftsmanship which had been expended in the fashioning of each exquisite piece.