‘You look surprised,’ Ms Manning said.
‘A little,’ Irene tried to hide her astonishment.
‘Why?’ Ms Manning stepped toward the nearest sculpture, a white marble David with the face of an angel and the body of an athlete. She touched its gleaming arm. ‘It is no secret that I am a connoisseur of the arts; the Manning Corporation contributes millions of dollars to museums throughout the United States, so why should I not have my own collection?’ She smiled and stepped away. ‘These are originals, created by the finest contemporary sculptors in the world. I like to admire them as I swim. Join me.’ It was as much a command as any business order, but Irene could not hide her surprise when Ms Manning peeled off her clothes and stepped naked into the pool. ‘Come on, Irene, or do you have something to hide from me?’
The question was mocking, but Ms Manning’s eyes were acute.
‘I think you know all there is to know about me,’ Irene told her. Very aware of the intensity of that gaze, she fumbled over her buttons, determined to show no emotion as she kicked off the last skimpy vestige of her underclothing. She looked straight into Ms Manning’s face, smiled brightly and descended seven steps into water that lapped warmly around her waist.
‘Well done,’ Ms Manning approved. ‘That took as much courage as appearing before the cameras. And more trust. Good. Another point though; I know a lot about you, but not everything. Not yet. There is one important factor left that I will find out today. Now follow me, but don’t drink the water.’
Diving beneath the surface, Ms Manning propelled herself forward to the opposite end of the pool, with Irene keeping pace with her. They surfaced together, with their hair plastered onto their heads and faces streaming. ‘Do you like my sculptures?’
Irene again surveyed the array of marble figures. ‘Very nice,’ she approved. ‘You have a fine collection of naked men.’
‘And so obedient,’ Ms Manning’s grin was suddenly child like. ‘Just like men should be, don’t you think?’
Irene laughed and was about to agree when she saw the raised eyebrow. ‘Perhaps all men should be obedient,’ she said, thinking rapidly, ‘when they are your employees.’
‘Exactly,’ the eyebrow fell. Ms Manning dipped below the surface again and powered back along the pool. She surfaced in a small explosion of water and shook the excess from her hair. ‘And when he is not an employee? What sort of man would you seek in a partner, Irene? What sort of man is Patrick McKim?’
Irene had anticipated the question. She wondered if Ms Manning had chosen Kendrick because he was married to a supportive wife, while she had enjoyed a succession of partners of whom Patrick was only the latest. ‘Rough and ready, a bit wayward with no dress sense, but I like him and he is loyal.’
‘How loyal, Irene?’ The stare was as intense as Irene had ever seen it. ‘Would he be loyal enough to remain at your side if you climbed higher than he could ever dream? And how much do you like him? Do you like him enough to drag him with you? Or would you discard him and fly alone? It’s a tough life at the top, Irene, and sometimes there is no place for a partner.’
‘Kendrick has a wife,’ Irene responded, ‘but you chose him.’
‘That’s better!’ Ms Manning nodded. She stood up straight so her small breasts just broke the surface of the water. Irene knew that she was forty-three years old, yet she had the body of somebody fifteen years younger, with clear skin and fine muscular definition. Her midriff was free of excess fat, while her hips flared elegantly from a trim waist. ‘Tell me what you really think, Irene, not what you believe I want to hear.’ She stepped closer, leaning back with her eyes firmly on Irene’s face. ‘You’re on the streets anyway, so you’ve nothing to lose. We’re alone here, Irene, woman to woman with no witnesses and nothing at all between us.’ Her smile was as mischievous as any teenager’s but as unrelenting as time, ‘literally.’
Irene allowed her frustration to take control. ‘I think that you chose wrong, Ms Manning. You chose the man who had started with every advantage, the man who was cushioned by wealth, rather than choosing me, who had to fight for everything.’
Ms Manning held up a hand. ‘So fight, Irene. Have you given up so easily? As I have already said, remember on what terms I accepted Kendrick?’
‘You said that I was on the streets and he was the neophyte for a provisional period of one year.’ Irene glared into Ms Manning’s eyes, no longer conscious of their social standing or their nakedness, determined only to put her anger across.
‘Exactly.’ Ms Manning nodded calmly. ‘He has one year to foul up, and you have one year in which to prove yourself.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Irene’s anger dissipated immediately. ‘Do you mean that I still have a chance to become your neophyte?’
‘Why do you think I brought you here?’ Ms Manning raised her eyebrows again. ‘Kendrick was the obvious choice on the show. He has all the attributes that society expects from a successful corporate businessman. He has the education, the background, and the commercial experience. He has an attractive wife and a smart suit. He had to win on the day, but Irene, remember that I also lacked Kendrick’s advantages. I had no elevator to reach the top. I had to claw my way up, as do you; it takes a long ladder to stretch from a trailer to the topmost tower of Mannadu!’
Ms Manning’s eyes drifted from Irene’s face to the sculptured male bodies standing in magnificent compliance around the pool. ‘Kendrick will make an excellent employee, but I want a leader, not a follower. Kendrick is a man who obeys the rules, but I have had to make my own rules, and so will my replacement.’
Ducking beneath the water for the third time, Ms Manning swam back to the far side, with Irene following, her mind racing with new ideas.
They surfaced together, with Ms Manning looking quizzically at Irene. ‘Now that I have you thinking, Irene, you can come with me. This way.’
The changing room opened from the side of the pool, with gentle towels, warm air and surprisingly inexpensive plastic combs. There was silk underwear to slide on beneath crisp cotton jeans and tee shirts, while soft-soled slippers fitted Irene’s feet. ‘That water was disinfected,’ Ms Manning said quietly, ‘and these clothes are sterile. You will note that they are natural white, with no artificial colouring. You will only wear them once, and then they will be discarded.’
‘Why?’ Irene luxuriated in the sensation of silk against her body. Her mind was buzzing with the possibility that she could still be Ms Manning’s neophyte.
‘You’ll see. Follow.’ Although Ms Manning’s grin contained pure mischief, there was an uncharacteristic shadow of doubt in her eyes as she scanned Irene. As if coming to a difficult decision, she nodded, pressed a hidden button and a section of the wall eased open. Ms Manning stepped through the door into a long, high ceilinged room. The floor was of polished wood, while hidden lighting cast a subdued, nearly natural glow on a row of paintings that stretched some fifty metres to the opposite wall.
‘The temperature is automatically adjusted and controlled,’ Ms Manning spoke reverently, as if in religious awe, ‘so that no possible damage can come to the exhibits.’ She touched her white top. ‘Now you understand the antiseptic bath and the sterile clothing? We are as clean as possible and this is a germ-free environment. Look…’ Ms Manning’s voice rose slightly as she pointed to the first work of art, an impressionist depiction of a curved wooden bridge, its reflection caught in limpid waters overhung by the branches of a tree. ‘That is Claude Monet’s Garden. It’s one of his later works.’
As she obviously waited for a reaction, Irene shook her head. ‘Is it genuine?’
‘Of course,’ there was pride in Ms Manning’s smile. ‘Everything is genuine.’ She swept her hand in an arc that indicated every picture that hung on the wall.
‘It’s magnificent,’ Irene said.
‘It is,’ Ms Manning agreed happily. ‘And so are the others.’ Again the hand gestured toward her collection.’ Salvador Dali, Vincent Van Gogh, Pi
casso, Andy Warhol, Fransisco de Goya, Paul Cézanne, and the British ones, John Constable, William Turner, Alexander Nasmyth, Henry Raeburn, Horatio McCulloch.’
Ms Manning repeated each name with veneration, pronouncing every syllable as she pointed to a painting. She walked slowly along the walls of the gallery, pausing before selected pictures as she highlighted the style and history of the artist.
‘You see, Irene, I do not believe that business is only about personal financial security. It is not only about providing employment for tens of thousands and ensuring the prosperity of the nation. It is certainly not about power and the trappings of wealth. This is the real joy of success; the ability to preserve the artistic treasures of the world.’
As a child, Irene had visited the North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh but she had been too young to appreciate the experience, and had been glad to escape to less cultural environments. Maturity, however, had brought appreciation and Ms Manning’s enthusiasm was contagious. She stared at each work of genius, actively enjoying the tour.
‘Because I am not attached to any man, Irene, there have been many rumours about me. I am sure that you are aware of them.’ Ms Manning paused at another door, her grey eyes steady. Irene felt the sudden surge of her heart, wondering if Ms Manning was about to proposition her, and how best to react. The naked swim suddenly became more sinister. Perhaps acceptance was the price of ultimate success in The Neophyte competition.
Ms Manning’s smile was reassuring. ‘The rumours are false. I am like everybody else in my emotional needs, but rather than find them with another person, I find them in art; great art, the best in the world.’
Irene felt herself relax. ‘It’s awesome,’ she said softly. She looked back at the gallery, allowing her eyes to scan backward, unconsciously assessing the value of each masterpiece that hung on the wall. ‘What is this room worth?’
‘It could not be bought,’ Ms Manning said, ‘but its real value is not in dollars, but in art. Follow.’
The door was of plain wood, varnished to a soft sheen, and led to another room of spectacular sculptures. Three Assyrian warriors strode across a stone plateau, their beards plaited and swords displayed. Behind them stretched a screen of brilliant mosaic. ‘These pieces all come from Asia,’ Ms Manning said. ‘Do you recall the fall of Baghdad, when the museums were looted? And the destruction wrought by the Taliban in Afghanistan? I had my people working there to salvage what I could, and this is the best of the results.’ Her smile was a little wistful. ‘You may think it wrong to keep looted art, but it is safer here than anywhere else.’
Irene met the smile, aware that Ms Manning was challenging her, possibly in an attempt to shock, or probing for a conscience.
‘You see, Miss Armstrong, we live in a disrupted world and nobody knows how long it will last.’ Ms Manning’s voice had altered, and Irene knew that she was speaking about something close to her heart. ‘Our world is crumbling; we live faster and more disrupted lives, families are splintering and the hegemony of western civilisation is threatened. These are facts, not opinions.’
Irene nodded. Nobody could deny that the present frantic pace of the world could not continue.
‘The barbarians are at the gates of Rome,’ Ms Manning was no longer smiling. ‘Al-Qaeda is only one threat; China is rapidly replacing the United States as the world’s superpower, India may be next, and who knows what new thing will come out of Africa?’
Irene listened, aware that Ms Manning was revealing another side of her character. This was not the hard-nosed businesswoman talking, but a concerned, even a scared woman. ‘And when this world ends, Miss Armstrong, what will we have to show for millennia of civilisation?’
Realising that the question was rhetoric, Irene waited for an answer. ‘Art. We will have art, but only if we collect it now and preserve it somewhere safe. Somewhere like this.’ She smiled again in a lightning change of mood that Irene found immediately suspect.
‘Follow.’ Ms Manning pushed open another door.
There were more rooms of sculpture, one for each continent, and chambers of silverware and jewellery, ancient parchments and mediaeval books, carved stones from Europe and treasures from Mayans and Aztecs, Maori figurines from New Zealand and magnificent jade artefacts from China, multi-armed Hindu gods from India and intricate gold work from West Africa.
‘This is amazing,’ Irene repeated as she walked from treasure to treasure, from priceless Indian silk to pottery that had been looted from the Summer Palace of the Chinese Emperor, from a hand painted Bible that the monks of Iona had hidden from the Vikings to a Persian chess set and a jewelled horse from Mongolia.
‘It is,’ Ms Manning agreed. ‘And you could be the heir of all of this, if you successfully complete the final task.’
They stood before the throne of a Chinese Emperor, under the shadow of a pot-bellied Buddha. Soft lights highlighted Ms Manning’s cheekbones and accentuated the clarity of her eyes.
‘Heir?’ Irene played for time, allowing the atmosphere of this secret museum to percolate through her. ‘As neophyte?’
‘As my successor; my sole successor.’
The connotations were obvious. ‘So I must dump Patrick.’
‘Do you think he is a fitting partner for you? Do you think that he would appreciate these artefacts, care for them and secure them for the benefit of future generations? Do you honestly think that Patrick McKim is the most fitting person to entrust with some of the finest treasures that humanity has produced?’
Irene did not have to think hard. She knew that Patrick had many good qualities, but art appreciation was not among them. ‘Perhaps not.’
‘Then he is not the man for you. Or you are not the woman to replace me.’ It was a direct challenge. Ms Manning’s eyebrows rose again.
‘Suck an elf!’ Irene looked around her. She was being offered the world, but the price was high. She had to decide what was more important, a continuing relationship with Patrick, or to become one of the richest women in existence. She shrugged; there really was no contest. ‘So it’s goodbye to Patrick then.’
‘Good choice,’ Ms Manning said.
‘And the final task?’
Ms Manning made another of her sweeping gestures, encompassing the entire collection. ‘Your final task is something that Kendrick could not do by keeping to the rules.’ She held her eyes. ‘I have told you my fears for this world, and how I am attempting to save what I can before it is too late.’
Irene nodded. ‘You have,’ she agreed.
‘Well then, I want you to add something unique to Mannadu. I want you to bring something priceless and irreplaceable. And something that is not already held in the United States.’
During the last few months, Irene had learned to expect the unexpected, but this final assignment stunned her. ‘But how?’ Irene failed to hide her consternation. ‘I cannot afford even a decent print, yet alone a piece of original sculpture.’
‘Use your imagination,’ Ms Manning told her. ‘Remember I said that Kendrick, who lives by the rules, could not complete this task. I’m sure that you realise that I did not purchase most of this material over the counter.’
‘You mean I must steal something?’ Irene could not keep the shock from her voice.
‘I also said that a business leader must create her own rules. Use any method you think best, and I will allow you a budget of one million dollars and a time limit of one year. From today.’
‘Jesus.’ Irene shook her head. If Ms Manning was investing a million dollars, she must be expecting a return worth considerably more. She had never suspected that Ms Manning would countenance any criminal activity, yet alone encourage major theft; Irene’s estimation of her host altered rapidly. Once she adapted to the initial surprise, she realised that she actually admired Ms Manning all the more. ‘And if I succeed?’
‘If you succeed, you will replace Kendrick, permanently. If you fail, you must take the consequences of your own actions. You and I will hav
e no more contact, and the Manning Corporation will never employ you, in any capacity. You may be in jail, or you may be on the streets.’
‘On the streets,’ Irene echoed, and looked around the room.
The green Buddha stared down at her, implacable and unemotional.
* * *
‘Can’t we just keep the million and run? Patrick asked.
Irene shook her head emphatically, denying her own temptation. ‘Not ever, baby. I want that position more than anything on earth.’ She had not mentioned the minor detail that he would not be with her.
They sat side by side on the couch in the lounge, with their legs and shoulders comfortably touching and the Book of World Art Treasures at their feet. ‘It’s a bit of a conundrum,’ Irene said, ‘much more difficult than any of the other tasks that she set.’ She stood up and walked to the kitchen.
‘It is exactly what Ms Manning intends it to be, it is the final and defining obstacle between you and your dreams.’ Patrick lifted the remote control and flicked on the new television that dominated one corner of the room. ‘You have to steal some great art treasure that will add to the collection of one of the richest people in America. Sounds like quite a challenge, Irene.’
‘The million dollars might help,’ Irene made two mugs of coffee and returned to Patrick’s side. ‘But I don’t know anything about art theft. You have some shady friends; ask them where I start.’
Patrick sipped the coffee. ‘I have no shady friends,’ he denied, ‘I only have friends who are sometimes forced to do shady things.’ He gave her the charming grin that highlighted his eyes, and she snuggled closer.
‘My apologies. So ask your oh-so-respectable friends where I should start.’
‘No need. I will answer for them.’ Patrick pulled her even closer. ‘We start by selecting something to steal,’ he decided. ‘Then we work out how to do it.’
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