*
Twenty minutes later, among the detritus on the floor, Payne found what he was looking for. It was a seamless cube measuring an inch square which he knew was virtually indestructible. He steadied his fingers. Hopefully, still inside that cube an item that represented years of planning and the culmination of a lifelong dream. His scheme, complex and far-reaching, had resulted in many deaths and much suffering, but that was nothing to what he had in mind.
In the privacy of the lab, Payne pulled a tiny key attached to a titanium chain around his neck from beneath his collar. The cube hummed as he inserted it and the lid of the cube seemed to dissolve, revealing a padded interior. Payne smiled as a half-carat diamond gleamed back at him.
‘The most expensive diamond in the world,’ he breathed, closing the cube and slipping it into his pocket.
It wasn’t until later when he checked his flexi-pad for messages that he found his technician’s final words. If Payne had read that earlier, he wouldn’t have been concerned for the man’s life at all, his death being quite convenient. He would also have to deal with the guard—he hated witnesses.
*
Payne sighed, reached into his safe and took the ring, admiring it briefly before slipping it onto his wedding finger. He wasn’t married, not any more. Years ago, his wife, outliving her usefulness, had stepped from the roof of their Paris apartment into oblivion, leaving him with the onerous task of re-investing her substantial assets. Eyebrows had been raised but, of course, he was in London at the time and the poor girl was full of barbiturates and did have a drinking problem.
Right now he was both pleased and moderately concerned. There were some encouraging and quite unexpected developments in Corsfield’s writing schedule that would require his closer supervision, but Cross, his normally dutiful and predictable employee, had become the main cause of disruption to the carefully measured tempo of his plans. His maverick behavior in hoisting the girl ghostwriter unexpectedly onto a plane to Sydney and then failing to respond to his messages was manageable though inconvenient. It simply meant that if he wanted to maintain control, he had to move faster than he’d intended—a challenge he enjoyed. He laughed. The message he’d sent Sarah Marsden an hour ago would give Ethan conniving Cross a run for money and himself time to work out what his clever young protégé was playing at.
As Payne closed the safe and was swinging the Louis XV mirror back into place, his phone rang.
‘Yes,’ he said, staring at his reflection.
‘Your car is ready for Andrews, sir.’
‘Fit only for a king,’ he said, taking one last look in the mirror.
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘I know,’ he replied, smiling to himself, ‘I’m on my way down.’
20.
When things go pear-shaped
As Mark Payne settled into the Bentley’s plush interior, Terry Quirk took a deep gulp of cheap vodka, emptying the glass in one hit. He squinted at the remains in the bottle, wondering vaguely if it would be sufficient to put him to sleep. A load of sleeping tablets recently filched from his ailing mother’s bedside table might just do the trick.
‘Fucking bastards!’
He was washed up. Fired from a job he’d held down for twelve years and little chance he’d find another. His problem wasn’t the porn he’d been caught watching—they all downloaded it after all. It was the pure and simple fact that, however hard he tried, he couldn’t fucking lie. His mates could bullshit their way out of the shit and he couldn’t.
Quirk snorted, wiping a thin trickle of spittle from his unshaven chin and gazed around the filthy kitchen. He wanted to be a liar—just like all his mates. They could lie through their teeth, especially to their wives. Screw themselves silly in a back alley, go home and never break under interrogation. They’d stopped inviting him back to their homes because they knew he’d fuck it up for them. As soon as one of the ladies asked him directly …blab blab blab. If he even thought about lying, his mouth would fill with saliva and he’d begin to choke. Once, it had almost been the death of him.
‘Fucking prick!’
It was that creep Albi’s fault—Dad’s mate. When his father was still alive, Albi was always there horsing around. He liked to get really physical, Albi did.
‘Nothing like a good wrestle,’ he’d say, with his sweaty hand groping through Terry’s shorts.
Quirk reached out for the vodka bottle, grasping it on the third attempt.
If his geeky mate was still alive, he’d still have his job. He knew how to trick the filters and surf the porn sites without being monitored.
He raised the bottle in a toast.
‘Died happy though, didn’t ya.’
Not like Albi. Cancer caught the dirty bastard and Quirk was happy to see him rot away.
It was weird. The geek wanted to kill himself—had it planned from way back. What he say? Sometimes you’ve got to go backwards to take life forward. What was that all about?
He didn’t dare say anything to anyone. Anyway, the geek made him promise not to mention any of it—especially his after-hours work in the lab. He knew Quirk would be unable to lie once the questions began.
He shuddered when he remembered the dark cupboard, stifling in the late summer heat. It was one of Albi’s games again, and the young Terry was hiding. The door had opened briefly, wafting in some cool air, before closing with him and Albi together.
The grip on his neck was massive. His head was forced down until his face collided with hard rubbery flesh, smelling meaty and hot.
Albi’s voice was harsh.
‘You know what to do.’
Terry struggled. He was ten-years-old and didn’t know much at all.
The pressure on his neck increased.
‘Suck on it.’
Quirk shuddered, remembering the choking mess filling his mouth. Gagging, he was forced to swallow.
‘Mention this to anyone,’ Albi said, shoving him away, ‘and I’ll tell them you’re lying and that it was your idea.’
Quirk looked at the pile of pills next to the empty vodka bottle. They’ll do nicely.
21.
Write for her life
As Sarah stepped onto Sydney International’s travelator taking her to passport control, and two people stepped from a private cabin of her recently vacated aircraft into a waiting limousine, Zachary Corsfield opened his eyes and groaned as he remembered where he was.
He’d been dreaming of the dishwasher back in the Point Piper home. It would now be a charred and molten lump of nothing but, in his dream, he’d opened it to find its contents totally messed up. Before drinking had got in the way, he’d always taken pride in stacking the washer just so, much to Kristen’s amusement. Discovering it badly loaded in his dream had disproportionately upset him. Staring at his surroundings now, he would cheerfully have allowed any idiot to play with his precious washer if he could go back a couple of years and start again.
He stretched as much as his chained ankles and wrists would allow. At least without his stupendous daily intake of whiskey he was feeling healthier. The first week had been hell and he couldn’t make up his mind what to do if he ever survived his current situation—stay sober, or get drunk and remain that way until he died. Either way, he wasn’t going to go through the hell of drying out again. Anyway, in his heart he thought his chances of having the choice were slim.
He was doing what was requested and writing the book, although the term writing was a very loose definition in this case. Sparks of the old Corsfield appeared but they were too few and far to be substantial. The plot was thin, and the characters clichéd. He couldn’t come up with a sub-plot to save his life, perhaps literally. The whole effort was garbage and should have been deleted at birth, but he didn’t care. He was writing like a demon with every word on his flexi-pad being saved externally—by that scarfaced prick probably.
He hated and loathed that hideous man more than anything, especially after he’d been shown the flexi-vid. Unt
il then Zack was convinced he had the upper hand. What could they do to him? He couldn’t write, they knew it through their damn spying. They could threaten to kill him—something he laughed at, telling the bastards to get on with it. That surprised them. They really thought they had him. What did they think he was doing with the lighter fluid—playing? Threats of torture made him laugh more. ‘Bring the pain on,’ he told them, and he meant it.
The flexi-vid was obviously a pin cam of some sort. He’d watched scarface’s progress through the hospital, the cop and then Kristen as she fought the prick off—shit, she had guts. It didn’t look much like a set-up—something to impress him how easily scareface could kill her—more like the real thing. When the cop had gone down, he’d held his breath, but the vid ended. He couldn’t take the risk. He had to do what they asked even if the result weren’t publishable. That was their problem—so he’d like to believe.
Zack maneuvered his chains and himself uncomfortably into position at the desk they’d supplied and set to work. Mindlessly he trashed out words, thinking on another level. He was now convinced of Kristen’s wild theory about his books. His present situation endorsed that. Why else would anyone go to such lengths to have him produce some less than literate words? Nothing he was writing had any legs, and was hardly a vehicle for arousing anger and frustration in anyone but himself. He tried to remember his two blockbusters and wondered if he could somehow discover the magic buttons and sabotage the process. He looked at the page he was writing and laughed. It was so bad it wouldn’t sell anyway. Cheered, he bent to his task—just write the fucking thing Zack.
The Boy
The boy had grown strong. Having long lost the ungainliness of his twenties, his movements had become smooth, graceful, and confident. In his work, he leapt among the corporate stars, enjoying wide international power, and unswerving loyalty from his people. His business acumen was respected, if not awed, but his life, though interesting, still felt unfulfilled. With time running out, he had to take more risks.
‘What do you want to do?’ Kralinsky asked him at their weekly pizza catch-up. It was a routine they both continued to enjoy unless one or both were out of town, or more likely the country these days.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ the boy replied, ‘that there are people who would really appreciate some very big early retirement money, plus the offer of new work with a highly commendable company like yours if they want it.’
‘In return for what?’ his friend asked.
‘In return for me destroying their reputations, having them fired, and turning them into pariahs—just for a while.’
‘That bad, eh? Do you reckon it’s necessary?’ Kralinsky asked.
‘It’s got to make a splash in a very underhand sort of way,’ the boy said, ‘unless I start firing some big guns, I’ll stay at an impasse here.’
‘What’s making you change gear now? You’re doing some amazing stuff every day and getting away with it. Why take more chances than you have to?’
‘Normally I’d agree, but recently there’s been a shift and things are moving far more quickly. Something’s up and I haven’t been able to get my finger on it. Tom feels it too. He says that certain parts of the old high-rise have been closed, but he knows they haven’t been shut down. We’re missing something and it’s happening right under our noses.’
‘I can put a team onto the building,’ Kralinsky said, unashamedly swiping the last slice of pizza. He thought the boy was too deep in thought to notice.
‘Best not to just yet. Hey, I saw that greedy guts,’ he said, smiling as he slid the rest of the salad towards his friend, ‘you know the rules.’
Kralinsky produced a mock grimace and took the salad. Since Grand Cayman he’d spiraled down through nine sizes as his weight, aided by regular exercise and a better diet, had gradually and permanently decreased. He enjoyed shopping for new clothes and he was more than pleased with the way the results had boosted his self-esteem. Their pizza nights may be a planned deviation from the rules but they were meant to be tempered with healthy eating.
Kralinsky nodded in agreement as the boy checked the building specs on his flexi-pad.
‘They’re behind the eight ball compared to the sophisticated surveillance we have, but they’ve put a suspiciously large wad of money into development just recently—another reason we should pick up the pace now. But we don’t want them to even suspect that anyone has their eyes on that building or it’ll be shut and gone.’
‘What do you need?’ Kralinsky asked, wiping his fingers.
‘Something very, very unpleasant, but I’ve got to speak to four strategic people and get their approval first.’
*
Late the following night, the boy crossed the street outside an impressive Manhattan building, pausing briefly outside to key his smartcom. Inside, the security officer, engrossed in his vid, didn’t notice his surveillance monitors momentarily flicker through a list of names before settling on that of Patrick O’Keefe. As the boy walked through the door, the officer sat up, glancing at the screen with a smile of welcome already forming on his face.
‘Evening Mr O’Keefe,’ he said in a measured tone. It wasn’t one of his regulars. In the old days he could exchange the odd joke with some of them. They all seemed a bunch of stress cases now, snapping and snarling their way into the building. The guard relaxed slightly. This one appeared to be chilling fine.
He watched his monitors as O’Keefe walked through the body scanners, biometric matching and then the sonic pulse detectors, designed to reveal any unauthorized electronic components he might be carrying. He was clean and with a cheery wave disappeared into an elevator as the guard resumed his vid.
The boy checked his smartcom, making sure a small flashing icon was still visible, letting him know that Kralinsky was on top of it. Before he’d entered the building, a narrow beam had arced across the city fixing onto an innocuous fire point on the skyscraper’s roof. Apart from entry security which the boy himself had to auto-hack on his way in, Kralinsky now had control of the internal security systems.
O’Keefe’s office opened as the boy reached it and his computer terminal hummed into life as the passwords, iris matching and fingerprint accesses were satisfied that it was O’Keefe at his desk. The boy began to key a series of code sequences. Not far away Kralinsky was doing the same, keeping just ahead of the boy and clearing the security issues. They both sat back as 40,000 images downloaded onto two hard drives in other parts of the building.
The boy glanced at his watch as the downloads finished. It was just after ten and they were ahead of schedule. He logged onto two email accounts and placed a timed delivery from them, reporting a programming fault and requesting technical assistance. This would be automatically generated in one week.
Working in tandem, he and Kralinsky reversed through the security shields, gradually backing out from the depths of the system and erasing most their electronic footprints. It was critical that careful forensics should be able reveal the shadow that had passed through the complex security systems but, as to his identity, that would have to remain a matter of pure speculation.
The guard was ready, alerted by O’Keefe leaving his office. This time, as the man approached the bio-ID system, he saw the monitor scroll rapidly through a list of names. This time he saw it settle on the name Ethan Cross.
‘Goodnight, Mr Cross,’ he said automatically, before realizing that something was wrong. He shook his head. He’d called the man O’Keefe on his way in, he could swear it. He’d only had five or six visitors since then and his memory for names had never let him down before.
The man didn’t acknowledge his call. Neither did he stop as he passed back through the entry security systems. The guard reached for the emergency door lock, glancing at his monitor again. What he saw was puzzling but very relieving. The name Patrick O’Keefe was sitting squarely on the screen and all the security systems were in the green. He quickly withdrew his hand from the lock before he made
a complete idiot of himself.
‘Goodnight, Mr O’Keefe,’ he called, receiving a friendly smile in return.
The boy crosses the street into Orchard intending to walk into EastVillage and meet Kralinsky for a late dinner. Not too late. He has a presentation to give in the morning. It’s a sensible and viable business proposal he knows he will lose because he’s arranged for his peers to vigorously oppose him. He will take a drubbing over it and, in turn will retaliate viciously. Everything is in place. Large sums of money transferring to his co-conspirator’s accounts as he walked—the sort of money that would guarantee a wealthy retirement. What he and Kralinsky now needed to finalize were the details of a carefully orchestrated phony merger they’d been working on to cement his reputation as the Beast. Ethan Cross paused to watch a young father and his four-year-old son stand hand-in-hand outside the window of a large appliance store. It took him back.
22.
The inside story
Ben and Sam, without the constraints of passport control or customs, were at Sarah’s central Sydney hotel well before her. There was a problem. Intending to gain access and do their business Ben’s surveillance techs had done a long-range sweep of Sarah’s room, only to find electronic feedback. It appeared that a range of sophisticated listening devices were already installed.
‘We can’t do anything about them?’ Sam asked.
Ben shook his head.
‘According to the techs, they’re embedded. It’s a suite permanently reserved by Argon. It’s a bit weird though. The techs tell me that the systems have been activated, that’s how we detected them. Normally, to avoid detection, they’d be switched off until surveillance starts. We’ve got a heads-up, or we’re being taken for suckers, I’m not sure which.’
‘What do you want to do?’ Sam asked.
‘Let’s go with the flow here. We’ve really got nothing to lose at this point. If our opposition knows we’re onto them, they don’t seem too concerned. The last thing we need to do is spook them into dropping out of sight.’
The Last Book. A Thriller Page 17
