Ark Storm (5 page)

The other man sucked in a breath. “Shit.”

“Potentially. Not the kind of thing the Boss would like.” He gave the shorter man a contemptuous look. “You and your drinking … Can’t hold your drink, shouldn’t drink. Plain and simple. You shouldn’t drink anyway. Double bad whammy.”

“Does he know?” The shorter man felt a stab of fear and his sweat glands seemed to have suddenly opened. In seconds, rivulets of sweat were soaking his back.

“Not yet. Maybe never. Just a little trickle now. Not sure where it will go.” The Man leaned back on the banquette, long legs stretched out before him. He radiated power and confidence. He almost seemed to be enjoying this.

“Trickles can turn into torrents,” said the sweating man, replaying his words to himself with a nervous laugh. “We know that better than any.”

The Man sat forward, complicit once more.

“We will do when the timetable starts.”

“Oh, it’s started. It’s running. It’s why we need to plug the trickle. And soon. We can put it down to expenses, can’t we?”

The Man gave him a long look, made him sweat a bit longer. He drained his water, got to his feet. “Funds are there. Don’t think the Boss will even notice. I’m on it. Count yourself lucky.” He leaned over, bent in so close he could smell the other man’s sweat.

“Don’t fuck up again,” he said slowly.

“Thank you. Thank you. And I won’t. I promise.”

“Promise your God,” said The Man, lip curling with contempt.

He slipped from the bar, already planning how he would do it. The how and where, the ruse and the trap. Seventeen Mile Drive. Perfect for both. Those seventeen gilded miles, nothing bad could ever happen there, could it? All milk and honey and money, the glittering houses in their manicured gardens, eyes focused inward, never outward on the dark beyond the security windows, oblivious to the lonely wood, the precipitous cliffs, the pounding surf.

11

LAURELESS RANCH, CARMEL VALLEY, MONDAY, EARLY OCTOBER

Just over two weeks later, with all the documentation finally agreed to by her lawyer and Falcon’s, and with a cool ten million dollars sitting in her new corporate bank account and another hundred thousand dollars in her personal account, Gwen drove off for her first day at Falcon Capital.

She still couldn’t quite believe the ten million. She’d gone from almost cashless to rich overnight and it didn’t feel real. It felt like there was a catch somewhere, some hidden cost. She mulled it as she drove, making herself crazy.
Jeez, it’s not a gift horse, stop gouging at its mouth,
she told herself.
It’s a legacy,
she settled on,
her parents’ legacy to her.
That made sense, made her feel better, made it seem real and justifiable.

A few miles short of the turnoff for Laureless, she saw something approaching at high speed in her mirror. Seconds later it zoomed up behind her; a red Ferrari. Gwen blew out a breath as it swerved around her, seemingly inches from her bumper, and with an impatient roar accelerated away.

“Moron,” murmured Gwen.

The Ferrari, hot to the touch, was parked in the car park at Falcon House, flanked by two Porsches, an Aston Martin, and two seriously high-end motorbikes. Venture capital evidently paid seriously well. Gwen grinned at a VW Beetle parked incongruously between the two Porsches. There was also a high-tech road-racer bike. Someone liked to stay fit.

In through the security, into the blasting air con, and then Messenger came striding to meet her. The bone-crushing handshake, she was ready for this time; the probing gaze she returned.

“Dr. Gwen! Good to have you! Welcome to the Lab.” Messenger was in an ebullient mood. “Come. I have an office for you.” He led her through the plant-filled central atrium to a glass-walled office, one in a row of three. The two flanking hers seemed to be empty.

Her office was a good size, well appointed, with a gleaming Apple computer atop a polished wooden desk that still smelled faintly of beeswax.

A ridiculous image of Messenger polishing it while sporting a frilly apron popped into Gwen’s head, making her smile. Messenger was sweeping his arm round her space like a proud homeowner showing off his castle.

“Settle in,” he declared. “Buy those sensors. Buy all that shit,” he added, in what Gwen would come to recognize as one of his oft-used Americanisms that sat ill with the crisp tailoring and European old-world manners.

“We’re all rather keen to avoid getting swept away,” he added, a shaft of seriousness cutting through this new bonhomie.

“You and me both,” said Gwen, dumping her bag and taking a seat behind her desk.

Messenger nodded, one arm braced high on the door jamb, his long body slanting across the doorway like a barrier, head tilted, analyzing her.

“So, what’s with the jeans and the cowboy boots? Dress down Monday?”

Gwen smiled. “Every day’s dress down for me. I don’t do suits.”

“Do you
always
wear jeans?” asked Messenger, bemusement in his eyes.

“I’d rather drink Cloudy Bay than wear Calvin Klein,” replied Gwen.

Messenger laughed. “Well, if I had to make the choice I’d be with you. My wine cellar is a thing of beauty, but, and
please
don’t take this the wrong way, you’d look sensational in a suit.”

Gwen raised one eyebrow. “I’d look like a transvestite!”

Messenger barked out a delighted laugh. Gwen got the impression he held himself in pretty tight, didn’t toy with humor too often. Maybe the business of making a fortune was just too serious. Far as she was concerned, the higher the stakes the more you needed to cut loose.

“Instead you just look like you’ve swaggered in from some old western town to sort us all out. All you need is a pair of six-shooters.”

“Am I the sheriff or the bad guy?” asked Gwen.

The gaze deepened. “Who would you like to be?”

“Oh, I’d be the sheriff I guess. A sheriff with a cause.”

“And what would be the cause?”

“Oh, that one’s easy,” replied Gwen. “Justice.”

“Knock, knock,” said a voice. A muscle-bound man, tanned leather brown, with an entirely bald pate stood behind Messenger.

“Am I interrupting? I can come back.…”

As if remembering himself, Messenger straightened abruptly.

“In you go,” he said stepping aside. He nodded to Gwen and strode from her office. Again Gwen got the impression of control and beneath it something much more interesting struggling to breathe.

“Randy Sieber,” announced the bald man. “Head of Security. I got your pass.”

He handed Gwen a hard, laminated, credit card–sized pass with her name, her photo, and a bar code on it.

“So this gets me in?”

“And out.”

“Whoa, am I locked in?”

“No. There’s a safety button you can push on the inside of the doors. That’ll get you out if the card fails. But you need to use the card, saving an emergency. You also need to input your own special PIN in the keypad on the main door.” He gave her a yellow Post-it with a seven-digit code made up of numbers and letters.

“Memorize that and destroy it.”

Gwen glanced at it, balled it up, and threw it into her trash bin.

Sieber’s eyes opened wide. “You’re meant to memorize it!”

Gwen grinned, recited the code.

“Shit! You’ve got a memory!”

Gwen smiled. Sieber reached down, took the Post-it from the bin, and shredded it systematically.

“Security,” he intoned, with a mock-serious finger wag.

“Why the PIN and the swipe card?” asked Gwen, watching him drop half of the shreds into her bin and pocket the other half.

“Registers the timings, is all.”

“My own personal timings. OK.” So Messenger liked to keep tabs, did he? Gwen filed that away.

“Talking of timings, don’t try to come in too early,” said Sieber. “Not before eight. If you see a red light blinking outside by the key swipe, it means the alarm is running. You have to wait until either Dr. Messenger or I come along and deactivate it.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” said Gwen. “What happens if I forget?”

“If you swipe your card and enter your PIN, you’ll be admitted through the main door but you’ll be stuck there in the air lock between the first and second doors. Held captive,” he added with a grin that bordered on malicious. “Cops’ll get here all fired up. I’ll get here all fired up.” Sieber eyed her, unblinking. “You’ll
upset
people.”

“Well, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to do that,” said Gwen, masking her smile as the sarcasm soared straight over Sieber.

“Card gets you in the gym too,” said Sieber, looking enthusiastic now. “That’s inside the old barn. State of the art.” The security man gave Gwen an appraising look. “Look like you work out.”

“Now and then.”

Sieber nodded his approval. “Cupcake Café’s in the smaller barn. Waitress who doesn’t stop talking and a chef who never says a word if he can help it, but the food’s great and it’s free.”

Gwen smiled. “I’m sold.” She nodded to the stairs. “What goes on up there?”

“My office. All the comms. Nothing
you
need worry about. Think of it as a Chinese wall.”

“Separating me from what?”

“Just keeping Falcon’s material locked up. Our projects are valuable. Intellectual property. It’s—”

“I know what it is. It’s why I’m here,” said Gwen, thinking,
shit, that sounded pompous.
Had corporate life infected her already?

Sieber held up his hands. “Cool. That’s cool. Just telling you.”

He looked like he enjoyed
just telling
. There was something of the overly dominant about his gaze, the thrust of his chin. Gwen shrugged. She didn’t have to like everyone.

“And I’ve got a document here. You need to read it real carefully and sign it. I’ll witness it.”

Gwen took it. C
ONFIDENTIALITY
A
GREEMENT
was highlighted in bold along the top. It was three pages long. Most of it was taken up with the dire legal consequences of repeating to any third party outside of Falcon Capital any facts relevant or pertinent to the business conducted in said Company. It also prohibited discussing individual deals with other Falcon employees unless they had a direct role to play in the deal or investment. That was fine by her. More than fine.

Gwen looked up at Sieber. “Basically, shut up or else?”

He barked out a laugh. “Hole in one!”

“No, please do
not
shut up,” cut in a friendly voice. “I need to hear all about Oracle.” A smiling, ferociously tanned woman stood before her, almost Gwen’s height thanks to vertiginous heels and a towering bun perched on her head from which a bleached lemon frizz seemed intent on escape. The woman stuck out a skinny hand. The red-tipped nails stuck into Gwen’s palm as they shook.

“Mel Barbieri. Head of PR.”

“There
is
only you,” remarked Sieber. “So you’re head of yourself.”

“Profound,” retorted Barbieri. “Now scoot off and do something all secretive and leave us to talk.”

“Gwen Boudain,” said Gwen. “But I’m a tad confused,” she added. “Randy Sieber wants my silence and confidentiality, and you want me to talk.”

“Trick is,” said Barbieri, “knowing when to talk and when to shut up.”

“Thing is,” said Gwen, “I don’t like publicity. Fact is, I hate it. I want my work here kept under wraps, totally.”

“But that’s crazy!” exclaimed Barbieri. “’Scuse my saying and all that, and you’ve just joined us, but I gotta tell it as I see. Why would you bury yourself under a bushel? We need to build a profile so that if and when we sell out, you’ve already got yourself a brand name.”

“First,” said Gwen, “let’s not get premature. No one said anything about selling out, OK? Not on the table as far as I’m concerned and I’m the majority shareholder here. Second, and please don’t take this personally, while I can see the need for PR in certain cases, it adds nothing to my work, to the perfection of my model. It can only be a distraction.”

Gwen expected the other woman to defend her turf vocally, but instead, disconcertingly, Barbieri just looked at her speculatively.

I’ve overdone it, thought Gwen, overplayed my hand. “Look,” she said, placatingly. “I used to have to do publicity, surf publicity, modeling in a bikini and all that shit?”

Barbieri tilted her head, looked interested.

“I’m a serious academic now,” said Gwen, trying the feminist angle. “I don’t want to go down that road again.”

Barbieri shook her head, but there was just a hint of understanding in her eyes.

“All righty. I can see your point, sorta. But no one’s asking you to pose in a bikini here.…”

“Call it burnout,” said Gwen. “And let me move on, would you?”

“Sure,” said Barbieri. “You’re the talent. You call the shots.”

“Thanks,” said Gwen, pasting on a smile. “Well, I’d better get to it.”

Barbieri nodded, walked slowly from Gwen’s office.

Gwen watched her go. Close, she thought, too close. She’d have to work hard to keep Barbieri in line, and stay, where she wanted to be, in the shadows.

12

THE LAB, CARMEL VALLEY

Some time later, not straightaway—she knew how to be discreet—Mel Barbieri checked her reflection in the compact mirror she kept in the desk drawer, tried in vain to tuck the escaped tendrils into her bun, gave up with a humph, and headed to Messenger’s office.

She stood outside chatting with Mandy, waiting to be noticed. No one interrupted the boss when his door was closed. Messenger might not have appeared to be working—he sat, long legs braced on his shredder, staring out of his window—but Mel knew that was what he did for a good few hours every day. He sat and he thought. She could only assume it was about work, cooking up another brilliant trade or investment, but for all she knew, he could have been brooding about the family he no longer saw.

After five minutes, he swung round on his swivel chair, frowned at Mel as if trying to place her, then beckoned her in. It looked like he was coming back from a long way off.