Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  ‘Like Kendrick,’ Irene whispered sotto-voice, closing the door. She quickly squeezed into a pair of tight jeans and a white blouse, furiously brushed her hair and tied it back, checked her face in the mirror and groaned. The damp red hair contrasted badly with the blue shadows under her eyes. She looked exactly like a loser who had spent most of the night drinking.

  Peter was sitting in the same seat when she returned with the coffee. He continued the conversation as if she had never been away. ‘If those are your true feelings, then there is absolutely no reason for me to be here. But I do not believe that they are.’ His eyes again strayed to the television set. ‘I am sure that I would be sick, bitter and extremely angry, if I had gone to half the trouble that you did. Sit down.’

  Irene obeyed.

  ‘I’ll ask you that question once more. Are you disappointed?’

  The scalding coffee shocked Irene into speaking the truth. ‘Let’s see. I was on the verge of being offered probably the best job in the world, being trained to take charge of one of the biggest corporate businesses anywhere, with a virtually unlimited salary and unparalleled power. But I lost. And you ask me if I am disappointed.’ She swallowed another mouthful of coffee, not caring that her voice was rising as quickly as her temper. ‘Of course I am disappointed! What sort of damn fool question is that to ask? Do you want me to spell it out? I put everything I had into winning that show, and I lost. I failed, and I hate failure. So now, Peter Madrid, once you have finished your coffee, could you please stop gloating and leave my apartment? I have a life to rebuild and you are wasting my time.’

  Peter shook his head. ‘It seems that I am not.’ He sipped delicately at his cup. ‘Nice coffee; decaf? How would you like to rebuild your life within the Manning Corporation?’

  Irene shook her head. ‘Working for Kendrick? I would not even consider it. Either I’m at the top, or I’m out completely.’

  ‘Good.’ Peter nodded. ‘That is the answer that Ms Manning hoped you would give. There is a limousine waiting on the street outside. It will leave at ten o’ clock, either with you or without you.’ He stood up and handed her the empty coffee cup. ‘Ms Manning does not send limousines for losers.’ He looked pointedly at the broken television set. ‘Nor does she give people a second chance.’

  Irene frowned. ‘Is that an ultimatum?’

  ‘It is a fact of life,’ Peter said. He glanced at the clock that hung on the wall, its green digital figures counting away the seconds of the day. ‘I will see myself out.’

  For a minute Irene pondered what she should do. Would she be better to swallow her pride and enter the limousine, placing herself in the hands of the woman who had so publicly rejected her, or strike out alone from nothing? The clock clicked again as another figure slid into place. Irene looked up and flinched. 09:50. She had five minutes in which to decide, and then five minutes to reach the street. 09:51. There really was no decision to make; she knew that she would enter the limousine.

  Rapidly changing into a neat dark business suit and low sling back shoes, Irene tore a hunk of bread from a slightly stale loaf and threw open the door just as the figures changed to 09:57.

  ‘Irene? Who were you talking with? Where are you going?’ Patrick appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, his body unclothed and his eyes still half closed.

  ‘No time to explain,’ Irene told him. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘But my coffee?’

  ‘You know where the kitchen is.’ Irene crossed the corridor and madly pressed the button to summon the elevator.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Patrick padded after her.

  The elevator seemed to take forever as it dropped the eight floors to street level, stopping once to let an elderly Jewish couple on, and again to allow them to leave. The foyer was quiet and the uniformed commissionaire smiled as he came toward her.

  ‘Miss Armstrong! I saw you on the television last night. You looked good.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘I really think that you should have won, though.’

  ‘Thank you, Mark,’ Irene spared him the briefest of smiles, ‘but I’m afraid that I am in a hurry.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mark opened the heavy glass doors and saluted as Irene bustled past. ‘You businesswomen! Always rushing away to some meeting or other!’

  The street was busy, with yellow cabs blaring their horns and commercial vehicles thundering past. Long and dark green, the limousine was parked exactly in front of the door, with a uniformed driver at the wheel. Even as Irene approached, the driver started its engine, the soft purr spurring her forward.

  ‘Wait!’ She heard the crack in her voice as she pulled open the door.

  The driver turned around. ‘Miss Irene Armstrong?’ He was about forty, broad faced but not fat, with narrow eyes.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Please put your seat belt on, Miss Armstrong.’

  ‘Irene!’ Avoiding a despairing clutch by the commissionaire, a naked Patrick lunged toward the limousine. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Irene held the door open for a moment. ‘Go and put some clothes on, Patrick, and I’ll let you know as soon as I find out myself. Go on now.’

  ‘It’s ten o’clock, Miss Armstrong,’ the chauffeur said. ‘I must leave.’

  ‘Drive,’ Irene agreed. ‘He’ll keep.’

  ‘Wait!’ Patrick pressed against the window, but the driver eased into the traffic and rolled smoothly away. Unlike any other vehicle in which Irene had travelled, the limousine seemed to be able to split traffic like Moses parting the Red Sea. Signals altered to green at its approach, even the yellow cabs gave way and the road through the city was clearer than she had ever known.

  Irene tapped on the glass partition that separated her from the driver. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘LaGuardia,’ the driver said, quietly, turning into Grand Central Parkway East. ‘Sit back and enjoy the ride, Miss Armstrong. We should arrive in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘LaGuardia?’ Irene sat up straight. ‘I thought you were taking me to meet Ms Manning.’

  ‘I am following my instructions,’ the driver said enigmatically.

  It was an eight-mile journey, but the driver barely halted until he steered into a reserved slot in the parking garage for the Central Terminal. A man in the pressed grey trousers and green blazer of the Manning Corporation was waiting for their arrival, and gently ushered Irene through Terminal Building A, past the security guards and onto the tarmac.

  ‘Onto the aircraft, ma’am,’ he said, indicating the Cessna Citation Bravo that purred a few yards away. The tail carried the familiar Manning logo.

  ‘Where am I going?’ Irene asked, but the blazered man proved as politely unforthcoming as the chauffeur.

  ‘I am following instructions, Miss Armstrong,’ he said quietly, ‘but I would not worry, Ms Manning takes care of her own.’

  Irene had dreamed of being inside an executive jet, but the reality exceeded her expectations. The interior was the expected green-and-gold, but where the aircraft had originally been fitted for seven passengers in club class, the Manning Corporation had reduced the number of seats to four, ensuring more space for the lap-top computers and an even more relaxing flight.

  ‘Please take a seat, Miss Armstrong, and fasten your seat belt.’ The green blazered man had accompanied Irene on board. ‘We will be airborne directly.’

  ‘You don’t allow me much time for contemplation, do you?’ Irene did as she was ordered, only now aware that her headache was returning and she was beginning to feel the first pangs of hunger. Save for one mouthful of bread, she had not eaten since before the show yesterday evening, and the effects of the morning’s coffee were beginning to wear off.

  ‘Ms Manning likes efficiency,’ the blazered man told her.

  The Cessna taxied very briefly, and then took off in what seemed a nearly vertical climb that had Irene swallowing hard. A look out of the window showed her the vast spread of New York visibly diminishing
beneath her, with the tall buildings of Manhattan already assuming Lilliputian proportions and the Hudson River a streak of blue.

  After a few minutes the intercom hummed and a calm voice sounded. ‘We are now flying at 7,620 metres and heading in a westerly direction. There is a gentle headwind but not enough to impede our speed or progress. We are approaching our cruising speed of 400 knots, or about 465 miles an hour, so sit back and enjoy the flight, Miss Armstrong. The steward will attend to any requests,’

  There was fresh orange juice and a light meal of newly baked bread and cheese, followed by strong coffee, but Irene’s repeated demands for further information from the blazered man were met only with a polite smile.

  ‘I am only the steward, Miss Armstrong. I do what I am told.’

  ‘Well, let me speak with the pilot then.’

  The steward shook his head regretfully. ‘I am truly sorry, Miss Armstrong, but Ms Manning’s safety protocols are very strict. The cockpit is fully secured and separate from us. We cannot approach the pilot when we are airborne.’

  America seemed to crawl below them as the Cessna powered westward and Irene drank a never-ending succession of cups of coffee. She forced herself to sit quietly, either staring at the clouds that wafted below them or perusing the magazines that had been provided.

  Leafing through the in-house magazine for the Manning Corporation, Irene refreshed herself with the sheer scale of the company. She read how Ms Manning had pushed herself through college and had begun in electronics in a very small scale. By sheer hard work and brilliance, she had steered her own company to be one of the main players in America, and then had branched out into other fields. Now the Manning Corporation was involved in real estate and hospitality, clothing and drink, transport and pharmaceuticals, as well as the original electronics.

  Irene shook her head. The corporation was so vast it was astonishing that one woman could keep her finger on everything. Ms Manning truly was an impressive woman.

  After the first couple of hours Irene had given up attempting to judge where they were and tried to sleep, but her active mind forced her awake, to think about the forthcoming interview. It was early afternoon before the Cessna touched down, and the steward was smiling as he approached.

  ‘We have reached our destination, Miss Armstrong. On behalf of Ms Manning, I would like to thank you for your patience and hope that you have had a pleasant flight.’

  Irene stretched her legs and straightened her back as she stepped outside. However luxurious the cabin had been, the headroom had been less than generous to a woman of her height. She looked around, shivering in a wind that hissed straight from the Arctic. The aerodrome seemed to consist of a single long strip of tarmac beside a building of compact concrete, from whose squat tower rose a mass of complex communications equipment. A bleak, green-and-grey plain stretched to low hills that struggled above the distant horizon. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Our destination,’ the steward repeated. ‘Within the continental United States, but I am afraid that I am not at liberty to divulge any more than that.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Irene demanded, but the steward merely smiled and ushered her toward another vehicle. The Ford Expedition King Ranch waited with its engine throbbing and the expected Manning logo shining on its doors.

  ‘The driver will take you further. It may be a bit wild out here, Miss Armstrong, but Ms Manning will ensure that you can rough it in comfort.’

  Irene sighed, hoping that whatever Ms Manning wanted, it had better be worth all this trouble. She slid inside the air-conditioned interior and did not trouble the driver with questions. Stretching out on the comfortable leather seat, Irene nursed her head that still retained the memory of a hangover and wondered where she would be today if she had won The Neophyte competition. Probably already hard at work in some Manning Corporation office, she told herself.

  The driver negotiated the rough track that led north and west toward the hills, saying nothing, but on one occasion pointing to a herd of buffalo that moved slowly to their right. Irene looked without curiosity; wildlife did not interest her as much as her future career.

  Twice Irene saw smaller four-by-four vehicles driving alongside them but at a discreet distance, and once a Ford pickup crossed their track, with the unmistakable form of armed men sitting in the rear. Her driver drove straight on, unheeding, into a vast space beneath a sky that extended into infinity.

  After an hour, Irene realised that they were heading toward a high, white building. Perched on a smooth knoll, castellated round towers protruded above tall, windowless walls of whitewashed stone. Irene shook her head; this building belonged to Europe, or at least Hollywood, rather than the reality of the United States. She half expected to see the Sheriff of Nottingham ride out on a prancing charger.

  ‘What the hell is that place?’

  The driver did not turn around. He stopped a hundred yards from the arched doorway that seemed the only entrance and spoke a few words into a radio. After a few minutes the iron-studded door opened, and he manoeuvred through the entrance and into another world.

  Surrounded on three sides by a high white wall, the courtyard was filled with the patter of the fountain that acted as centrepiece to a formal garden. While bronze mermaids disported with dolphins around an oval pool of clear water, shaded bowers sheltered carved wooden seats, and winding paths joined at an inner doorway that led into the main castle. Three towers soared to the empty sky, dominating yet not threatening any occupants of the courtyard garden.

  Irene stared around her, she had been wrong; this place was no Nottingham, rather it came from some Persian pleasure palace.

  Halting the King Ranch in one of the seven parking bays, the driver opened the door for Irene. She eased herself out, wondering what surprise next awaited her. Her period of uncertainty was brief.

  ‘Five minutes early, I see.’ Dressed in hip-hugging blue jeans and a check shirt, Ms Manning had pulled the peak of her green baseball cap low over her eyes. She looked relaxed, but had not lost her aura of easy authority as she held out her hand. ‘Come in, Irene. Welcome to Mannadu. Perhaps not Xanadu, but we do our best.’

  Irene hesitated only a second before accepting the hand, and was immediately aware of Ms Manning’s close scrutiny.

  ‘Well done, Irene. It must have been hard to come here after yesterday’s rejection.’

  Irene forced a smile. ‘Why have you brought me?’

  ‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’

  Feeling like the fly accepting the invitation of a very predatory spider, Irene followed.

  Chapter Three

  Mannadu and New York, October

  The inner doorway opened into a great hallway with an echoing marble floor and tall Ionic pillars that descended from a domed ceiling. It should have looked formal, but instead was relaxingly cool, with a smaller version of the outer fountain playing in the centre. An arched doorway led to a smaller hall, from where half a dozen exits invited investigation. Ms Manning chose the most central, leading Irene into an oval room with polished oak panelled walls and an ornately corniced ceiling.

  Irene breathed deeply of the scent of fresh coffee.

  ‘You’ll be hungry,’ Ms Manning gestured to one of the two chairs that were arranged around a circular table. The green-and-gold rims of the plates seemed to peep furtively from under a pile of food. ‘Eat.’

  There was a half-inch thick steak that could only have originated in Iowa, potatoes that melted in Irene’s mouth, enough coffee to float a small fleet and bread so fresh it must have come straight from the oven.

  ‘Good.’ Ms Manning joined her, matching her bite for bite and swallow for swallow. ‘I like to see a woman with an appetite. I’ve no time for those half people who live on grass and water. Food is for eating, and exercise removes the excess. Don’t you agree?’

  Until that moment, Irene had never considered the question. She looked up, suddenly aware that she was alone in the company of one of the richest p
eople in the world, the same woman who had callously discarded her the previous evening. She patted her lips with a napkin of crisp linen and repeated, ‘why have you brought me here?’

  ‘To speak with you,’ Ms Manning told her. ‘Are you tired?’

  Irene shook her head.

  ‘Good. Walk with me then.’ Ms Manning was upright on the last word and strode from the room, with Irene following like a small dog.

  ‘You would have been surprised at my invitation, after my decision of last night.’ Ms Manning allowed Irene to walk at her side as they strode along a long corridor, their feet sinking into a deep pile carpet. Wall lights gleamed on polished oak, with doors inset at regular intervals.

  ‘I was,’ Irene agreed. ‘I had expected to be on the streets today.’

  ‘You may yet be,’ Ms Manning warned, ‘but only if you fail me.’

  Irene hesitated. ‘I thought that I had already done that. You chose Kendrick.’

  ‘He was a worthy winner,’ Ms Manning’s voice contained neither sympathy nor understanding. ‘But remember on what terms.’ When she looked upward into Irene’s face and raised her eyebrows, Irene involuntarily flinched. Ms Manning always used that expression as a rebuke to point out something that should have been obvious. She continued before Irene had time to think. ‘How did you feel when I announced that choice?’

  Irene’s answer was spontaneous. ‘Sick. I thought that your decision sucked.’

  Ms Manning stopped and looked upward again. ‘Point one: I appreciate your honesty. Point two: when dealing with business matters; you will drop the teenage slang. This is the Manning Corporation and we work and speak in a professional manner. Point three: that is precisely the reaction that I hoped you would have. If you had shown a lack of concern, I would have terminated this meeting immediately. Follow.’ Pushing open an arched door, Ms Manning watched as Irene stepped forward.

  Irene stopped in astonishment. They had entered a room of gleaming marble, with an oval swimming pool stretching before them. Sculptures from classical antiquity guarded the edge of the pool, with Achilles admiring Poseidon’s trident while Hercules flaunted his muscles to a bow wielding Apollo.