The elevator doors were opening. "We'd better join the others," said Halloran. "I assume we keep this to ourselves."
Mather limped alongside him, the group ahead beginning to enter the elevator. "No need to cause undue anxiety as far as our client is concerned. We may have to issue some kind of public statement once the press gets hold of the story, but even then there's no reason why Dieter's death should be linked with the Magma contract."
Halloran signaled the two Shield bodyguards to wait in the parking lot and stepped ahead of Monk and the Arabs before they could follow their employer into the elevator. "Take the other one," he ordered, and before they could protest, Kline nodded his head in a gesture of assent.
Mather endeavored to promote conversation during the swift journey to the eighteenth floor, but the psychic refused to be drawn from his brooding silence, and Cora's replies were perfunctory although polite.
Sir Victor Penlock himself was waiting to greet them when the elevator doors opened again. He wore a navy-blue double-breasted blazer over a fawn turtleneck pullover, sharply pressed beige slacks adding to the casual elegance. Halloran realized that Magma's security guard in the booth by the entrance to the parking lot must have reported Kline's arrival. It seemed unusual, though, that the chairman of such a vast corporation should be waiting so anxiously for one of his own employees.
"Sorry to have dragged you back to town, Felix," Sir Victor apologized, "but as I explained over the phone, the situation is serious."
Apparently a day for bad tidings, mused Halloran as Kline swept by Sir Victor with barely a glance. The tall chairman nodded toward the two Shield men before walking after the psychic. "Henry is waiting for us in my office," they heard him tell Kline as they, too, followed behind along the mauve-carpeted corridor. As they passed the display cabinets set in the walls on either side, Halloran rubbed a hand across his stubbled chin and wondered what the fuss was about. Kline had not been forthcoming on the drive up to London, and Cora appeared to know no more than he himself. Judging by the gravity of Sir Victor's tone and by the fact that the matter could not be fully discussed over the telephone, the cause for concern was not only serious but extremely confidential, too. The corridor widened into the broad hallways and whereas previously he had heard normal office hubbub from the offices to his left and right, now there was only silence. The big double-door opposite was already open, and the chairman ushered them through. Once inside, however, he asked Mather and Halloran to wait in the outer office.
Then Kline spoke up. "No. Halloran can listen in on this. But not Cora." Without another word he disappeared into Sir Victor's office.
The chairman raised his eyebrows at the girl, then indicated that Halloran should follow him. He went after Kline.
"Seems you're to be privileged," Mather remarked lightly. "Well, Miss Redmile, shall we see if we can brew up some tea for ourselves? Perhaps you'll remain on guard here, Mr., er, Palusinski?"
The Pole sat at one of the two secretaries' desks. "I will keep good watch," he assured them, and frowned, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles as he regarded the computer screen on the desk top. "Such knowledge inside this tiny window," he said distractedly.
Before Halloran went through to the main office, he caught Cora's surprised expression; she was obviously bewildered by her employer's blunt dismissal. He closed the door behind him, curious himself about Kline's motive.
Quinn-Reece glanced up briefly from the papers neatly spread on a low table in front of him but gave no sign of welcome. Kline was standing with his back to the room, staring out of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, the rain outside stippling the glass. Sir Victor vaguely waved toward a chair, and Halloran lowered himself into it. Kline then did something quite unexpected: he whirled around, walked across to the chairman's broad, oak desk and took the seat behind it. He looked directly at Quinn-Reece and asked, "How is it possible?"
The deputy chairman cleared his throat before answering. "Obviously we have a leak within the corporation."
Sir Victor sat in a chair close to his own desk and tugged at the crease in his trouser leg. "But who? How could such information be divulged so quickly unless its source was from a very high level?"
Halloran shifted in his seat, puzzled by the conversation.
"That isn't necessarily so," said Quinn-Reece. "Someone in the field team could be selling us out."
"You mean that every single time that Consolidated Ores has negotiated exploration rights before us one of our agents in that particular area has gone over to them?" Kline spoke as though the notion were not feasible.
"It's hardly likely, is it?" Sir Victor agreed. "The betrayal must be from these offices."
Halloran interrupted. "Does what you're discussing have any bearing on my company's assignment for Magma?" As Kline himself had insisted that he "listen in," it was a reasonable assumption to make.
Quinn-Reece's reply was brusque. "This matter doesn't concern Achilles' Shield in any way. As a matter of fact, I don't understand why your presence is required in this room."
"I invited him," Kline said quietly. He was staring at the deputy chairman, his dark eyes unblinking, and Quinn-Reece appeared uncomfortable under his gaze. "Halloran has been hired to protect me, and this morning I feel in particular need of that protection. Strange how betrayal can leave you feeling so vulnerable."
"You can't seriously imagine that Consolidated would be behind an attempted kidnapping?" the astonished Sir Victor protested. "They may be formidable business rivals, and admittedly we've fought some fierce battles with them in the past, but it's always been purely on a competitive business basis. I can't honestly believe that they would resort to any kind of physical violence."
"Someone has," Kline snapped back.
"It might help if I know what's happened," Halloran suggested.
"What's happened, my friend," said Kline, "is that over recent months, practically every new source of mineral deposits I've discovered has been laid claim to by Consolidated Ores before our field agents have had a chance to make tests. It doesn't take an Einstein to figure out someone from within our own organization is tipping them off."
"If that's the case and they're getting their information anyway, why bother to kidnap you?" Halloran commented.
"Wouldn't that in effect be killing the golden goose? Besides, industrial espionage may be illegal, but it's nowhere as serious as abduction."
"That's a fair argument, Felix," put in Sir Victor. "Why should any rival company take that risk when it doesn't appear to be necessary?"
"Because sooner or later the informer will be exposed." Kline's reply was calm, his demeanor having changed yet again, his normal (normal? Halloran had to wonder at the term) excitability subdued.
"But what good would kidnapping you do?" queried Quinn-Reece.
"Maybe the idea's to eliminate me permanently."
Sir Victor and his deputy chairman exchanged astonished glances.
"I think that would be too extreme, particularly if Consolidated really is involved. I know the chairman personally, and although he's something of a scoundrel, I cannot believe he'd sanction murder. No, no, Felix, that really is beyond the bounds of reason."
"Then why do I feel so threatened?" Kline coolly retorted.
"Uh, perhaps, Felix, perhaps you're overwrought," Sir Victor suggested cautiously. "After all, so much reliance on your psychic ability must eventually take its toll. You know, you haven't had a proper break for quite some time now."
Kline smiled. And Halloran's eyes narrowed. Despite everything that had happened over the past few days, he hadn't realized until that moment that there was so much danger in the man.
"Yes," the psychic admitted, "I do feel in need of some rest. A few more days at Neath, maybe. And then some traveling. Yes, it's time I ventured abroad again." His smile withered. "But that doesn't resolve our current crisis."
"How often has this other company managed to beat you to these new locations?" asked Hallora
n, genuinely interested in Magma's problem.
Quinn-Reece provided the answer. "Three times in a period of five months."
Halloran raised his eyebrows. "That doesn't seem an awful lot."
"I can assure you," Sir Victor said, "that in a world of diminishing natural resources, it is."
"Couldn't it be coincidence?"
"We were prepared to accept that on the first two occasions," replied the chairman. "But Felix indicated to us only last Thursday that an as yet untapped source of copper could be found in a certain region of Papua New Guinea. By the time our agent had arranged to see the appropriate authority dealing with land-exploration rights, negotiations were already well under way with Consolidated Ores. These matters are usually dealt with on a first-come, first-served basis—provided contracts are favorable to the country of origin, naturally. But no, Mr. Halloran, this time we're certain that confidential information is being disclosed outside almost as soon as we ourselves learn of new deposits."
"Could be they use a psychic of their own."
Sir Victor received the suggestion gravely. "There is no other person on this earth who can match the sensory ability of Felix Kline." It was a statement not meant to be argued with, and Halloran saw no point in doing so.
"How many Magma personnel knew of this recent find?" he asked.
"Not many," replied Quinn-Reece, leaning forward and shuffling the papers before him. "Myself, the chairman, and of course Felix and Miss Redmile. At the other end, only the agent whom I contacted. The news hasn't even been announced to our board of directors, and only one or two of our executives have become involved since, although we now know that wasn't until after Consolidated made their move."
"Don't forget me," said Halloran. "It was mentioned to me on the first day I visited Magma."
Sir Victor turned inquiringly to Kline, who nodded. "As you've only been associated with the Corporation for less than a week, I think we can sensibly discount you as a mole," the chairman reasoned.
"Well, your range of suspects is mercifully limited," said Halloran. "But before you point a finger at anyone, I suggest you investigate these offices for electronic listening devices and make sure your phones aren't being tapped. You ought to check that your computer codes haven't been cracked also. Shield can make a thorough sweep, if you like."
"Antibugging searches are carried out every week by our own security," Quinn-Reece assured him.
"In an irregular pattern? I'd hate to hear, for instance, that you search the offices every Monday morning at nine o'clock."
"Our security people aren't that naive, Mr. Halloran."
"Let's hope they aren't disloyal, either. And your computer codes?"
"We've no reason to suspect they've been broken."
"Might be an idea to find out if there have been any recorded but unauthorized admissions over the past few months."
"That wouldn't have any bearing on our immediate problem," Sir Victor remarked.
"No, but locating a hacker might help direct those accusing fingers." Halloran stared across the room at Kline, who seemed almost dwarfish behind the broad desk, the high, rain-spattered window at his back increasing the effect. "Aside from that," he said, "you're the psychic: don't you have an idea who's giving away company secrets?"
Kline returned the Shield man's stare. "Oh yeah, Halloran," he said, "I'm sure I know who's the traitor in our midst." He looked at each person in the room, and his face was expressionless when he spoke.
"It's Cora," he told them.
28
HALLORAN
"If I may say so, m'dear, you don't look at all well."
Cora had taken Shield's Planner to one of Magma's smaller conference rooms on the eighteenth floor, a place used for private meetings with business associates rather than full-scale executive gatherings or board meetings. Cora had disappeared for a few minutes, returning with tea for them both. Rather than sit at the long table, they had relaxed in easy chairs that were spaced around the walls of the room. As Cora sipped her tea, Mather noticed a slight tremble in her grip.
"I sincerely hope this kidnapping business isn't upsetting you too much," he said soothingly. "We have you well guarded, you know. And I promise you, Liam is the best operative we have in this kind of situation. He has an uncanny instinct for striking before being struck." He caught her sudden glance at him with the mention of Halloran's name. Ah, he thought, our man is having an effect on her.
"I suppose it's made us all nervous," Cora said.
But you look as though you haven't slept properly for several weeks, Mather thought to himself. "Yes, I can appreciate that. Perhaps the blackguards will be flushed out soon and then we can all get some rest. Our job isn't only physically to protect the target; we spend a great deal of time searching out those who are the threat." He deliberately refrained from saying "or assassins," unwilling to worry the girl any more than was necessary. "We've been working on that since we agreed to the assignment."
"But without any success."
"True, but it's early days. We'll find out who's causing these problems soon enough, never fear." He placed the empty teacup in the saucer by his feet.
"Would you like some more?" she asked.
"No, thank you, one's enough. Of course, these villains might well have cried off after their unsuccessful attempt the other day. Nothing like a show of strength to make such thugs turn tail and run." He smiled, doing his best to reassure her.
Cora merely stared blankly into her teacup. Her question was tentative. "Liam would kill anyone he considered to be a danger, wouldn't he?"
Mather was slightly taken aback. "Why, yes, if that was the only way. However, he isn't a murderer, Miss Redmile. He'll only take what measures are necessary to retrieve a situation. I can assure you that Achilles' Shield is a law-abiding organization which doesn't employ reckless hit men. All right, it must be confessed, we sometimes bend the rules here and there, but our operatives are trained to control a situation rather than be pressured by it."
"He . . ." Cora looked up and Mather saw the anxiety there. " . . . he frightens me."
Mather's short laugh was meant to be encouraging. "There's nothing you need fear from Liam," he told her.
"What makes such a person deal in violence? He can be so gentle, and yet . . ."
Oh dear, mused Mather, it's gone deeper than I'd imagined. "Liam is essentially employed to deter violence," he said.
"You know it's there inside him, a terrible coldness. Sometimes, when he smiles, you can see it in his eyes. I could easily believe he has no conscience."
"Perhaps you've mistaken that coldness for an immunity against . . . well, it's difficult to put a word on it, but you might consider it as an immunity against . . . forgiveness. Liam is unremitting, relentless even, when he, or others in his charge, are threatened. I don't believe he's a man who would ever seek vengeance, but nor is he one to turn the other cheek."
Mather tapped his cane against the shoe on his outstretched foot. "Let me tell you something of his background, then perhaps you'll understand him a little more."
She appeared apprehensive, as though uncertain that she really wanted to know too much about the man.
"Liam's father, Pat Halloran, was a captain in the British Army, who met Siobhan, his future wife, while on leave in
Southern Ireland—apparently he was a keen walker and angler, so what better place to spend his free time? He was also of Irish descent himself, so felt a natural affinity to the country. He returned some months later, proposed to the girl, was promptly accepted, and both came back to London where they were married. Within a year, Liam was born."
Mather reached down and retrieved his cup from the floor. "Perhaps I will have more tea, m'dear." He watched her as she walked to the table and refilled his cup. She's confused about Halloran, he thought, and could hardly be blamed for that. Even to Mather, who knew him better than most, Halloran was still something of an enigma. But it was Felix Kline and his strange cohorts
that the Planner had misgivings about, doubts which he could not explain rationally; the girl could be an ally to his operative, an insider who could give warning of any odd business going on that might affect Halloran's course of action. The Planner had voiced his growing unease concerning the Magma assignment to Gerald Snaith that very morning, after the discovery of Dieter Stuhr's mutilated corpse. Naturally, the Controller of Achilles' Shield, a pragmatic individual to say the least, had demanded evidence of any link between the two matters, which Mather could not provide.
He thanked Cora when she handed him the fresh tea, and waited for her to sit before proceeding.
"His father's army career involved a fair bit of traveling that did not, unfortunately, require any long-term overseas duty whereby the family could stay with him. He took them when he could, but more often than not, Siobhan and the boy were left at home. Eventually it was decided that they might be better off living with Liam's grandfather back in Ireland."
The girl had remembered that Mather favored Earl Grey, and he sipped gratefully before continuing. "I mention these early details, Miss Redmile, because I believe they, for good or bad, helped shape the man."
He received no response.
"The captain spent as much time as possible with his wife and son, but their marriage had created a rift between Siobhan and other members of her family. You see she had cousins who had links—strong links, as it turned out—with the IRA, and they suspected that her husband was no more than a British plant, put there to seek out information on rebel activities in the area. It was sheer nonsense, of course, but fanatics can rarely be bound by commonsense. And who knows? Perhaps over the years, Captain Halloran did innocently hear of certain nefarious goings-on that he felt duty-bound to report to Ins superiors. Whatever, suspicion alone was enough for the terrorists.
"Liam, just eight years old, had gone fishing with his father, who had been home on leave for only a few days while serving in that bloody, if discreet, war in South Arabia. God knows, the man needed the rest."