Powerstone - Malcolm Archibald - E-Book

Powerstone E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

0,0
2,99 €

oder
-100%
Sammeln Sie Punkte in unserem Gutscheinprogramm und kaufen Sie E-Books und Hörbücher mit bis zu 100% Rabatt.
Mehr erfahren.
Beschreibung

When New Yorker Irene Armstrong loses in the final of a television reality show to become top business woman Rhondda Manning's successor she believes her dreams of success are over. The very next day she is given a second chance by Ms Manning if she can acquire something unique for the business woman's secret collection of artistic treasures. To meet this challenge Irene sets out to steal the Scottish crown jewels which are kept in Edinburgh Castle, Scotland under the guard of all the official security and, unknown to Irene, also protected by an ancient secret society. With funding provided by Ms Manning, Irene and her partner Patrick set about assembling a team with varied skills and the adventure set in New York, Edinburgh and the Scottish Highlands begins……

Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:

EPUB
Bewertungen
0,0
0
0
0
0
0
Mehr Informationen
Mehr Informationen
Legimi prüft nicht, ob Rezensionen von Nutzern stammen, die den betreffenden Titel tatsächlich gekauft oder gelesen/gehört haben. Wir entfernen aber gefälschte Rezensionen.



POWERSTONE

Stealing the Scottish Crown Jewels

Malcolm Archibald

For Cathy

© Malcolm Archibald 2011

The author asserts the moral right to be identified

as the author of the work in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of

Fledgling Press Ltd,

7 Lennox St.,Edinburgh,EH4 1QB

Published by Fledgling Press 2011

www.fledglingpress.co.uk

ISBN: 9781905916399

First Published in paperback by Fledgling Press Ltd 2008.

Cover by Fledgling Press

With the exception of historically recognisable people, all the main

characters in this book are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to real

people, living or dead is coincidental. Some places are real, others in

the imagination of the author.

Any errors are those of the author.

PRELUDE

‘Johnnie Armstrong was one of the greatest warriorsScotlandever produced,’ John Armstrong said earnestly. ‘He kept the border betweenScotlandandEnglandsafe and he was so powerful that nobody ever crossed him. They say that he had fifty men ready to ride at any time, day or night.’

Irene Armstrong listened to her father through the hammer of theNorth Carolinarain on their trailer roof. She had heard this tale so many times that she knew it off by heart, but enjoyed the feeling of family closeness and the sense of belonging to a long line of ancestors.

‘Then the King came to call. He was James Stuart, King James V ofScotlandand he envied the power that Johnnie Armstrong had. One day he rode down from his capital atEdinburghto the Borderland and called Johnnie to him.’

Irene nodded, clinging to every word as she imagined the scene. She thought of the knights in their splendid armour, the Scottish king with his prancing horses and men at arms, and Johnnie Armstrong, bold and brave, coming to see his king.

‘Of course, Johnnie had no idea that James was jealous. He rode happily to see the king whose border he had guarded for so long. When King James saw him, so proud and confident and well dressed, he turned to his men and growled: “what wants yon knave that a king should have.”’

John Armstrong bent over his daughter. ‘That means that our ancestor was as brave and bold and handsome as any king.’

‘Yes, father,’ Irene said dutifully.

‘And then King James ordered that Johnnie should be taken away and hanged.’ John Armstrong always paused after that, and Irene always cuddled closer to him for mutual support.

‘Johnnie was astonished. He assured the king that he was a loyal man and that he had never robbed inScotlandbut kept the border safe from English raids.

“Hang him,” said the king.

‘Johnnie offered his services and his men. He even offered to ride deep intoEnglandand capture any Englishman, of any rank and bring him to King James as a sign of his loyalty.

“Hang him,” said the king.

‘Eventually, Johnnie realised that he must die, so he faced the king bravely and gave his last words.

“I have asked grace at a graceless face, but there is nane for my men and me” he said, and added that if he had known the king’s intentions he would have lived free on the Border, for no king could have caught him unless by treachery.

John Armstrong held his daughter tight for a long minute. ‘So you see, Irene, our family were rich once, but we were betrayed by a tyrant king.’

‘I hate that King James!’ Irene shouted, breaking free.

‘I have no doubt you do,’ John Armstrong told her seriously, ‘but hatred does not pay the bills. You must go to school and work hard and get yourself a better life than I ever gave you. You must strive to be as bold and brave and strong as Johnnie Armstrong was. Now,’ he looked closely at his daughter. ‘Do you promise me that?’

Irene smiled into his tired, defeated eyes. ‘I promise, daddy,’ she said. ‘But I still hate James Stuart.’

Chapter One

New York, October

‘Here we go, then.’

Irene tried to ease her tension with a deep breath and glanced sideways at her competitor. She was glad that he appeared equally nervous, shuffling his feet as he winked at her. The waiting period was always the worst and Irene felt her gaze drawn to the largest of the three empty chairs on the opposite side of the table. Standing between its neighbours, the seat and arms were of green leather, while the headrest was elaborately carved with the logo of the Manning Corporation.

She allowed her eyes to drop, aware that the television cameras were running and might even now be concentrating on her face, searching for arrogance or weakness or any other emotion that would raise the viewer ratings. The lights burned above, prickling the top of Irene’s head.

‘Not long now,’ she whispered.

Kendrick nodded. ‘Good luck.’

Irene took the hand that he offered. It was large and soft, with surprising strength. ‘You too.’

A cameraman murmured in the background and somebody softly laughed. There was a hum of machinery and a faint cough from the invisible audience behind the screen. Paper rustled irritatingly. Both contestants stiffened as footsteps sounded to their left, but nobody appeared and they tried to relax, false smiles forcing away their nerves.

The table curved gently away from them, with the three empty chairs on the concave side seeming to symbolise an inner circle of acceptance. If she was successful tonight, Irene told herself, she would be a member of that inner circle. Drawing strength from the thought, she smoothed a hand over the highly polished mahogany. ‘This is Ms Manning’s own property,’ she said, ‘brought in especially for the show.’

Kendrick nodded. ‘It once belonged to John Witherspoon,’ he said softly. ‘He is meant to have drafted the Declaration of Independence on it. Imagine that. The Declaration could have sat on this very piece of wood.’ He was silent for a minute, and then grinned across to her. ‘I wonder if we will ever meet again.’

‘I hope so,’ Irene said softly. ‘You’d be a good employee.’ She smiled toward him, allowing her eyes to crinkle.

Kendrick’s bass chuckle was nearly as familiar as his grin. ‘So would you,’ he parried easily, ‘as long as you remain under control.’

‘Do you think Ms Manning is keeping us here to increase the tension?’ Irene glanced at her watch. The minute hand seemed to have been hovering between eleven and twelve for at least a half hour.

‘Undoubtedly. Watching us suffer makes for good viewing.’

Spotlights flared blindingly as a drum began to beat a staccato rhythm. Irene stiffened into attention. ‘Here we go,’ she whispered again as a door opened and three people walked in. Irene and Kendrick immediately stood as a gesture of respect. The men on the left and right exuded power and responsibility with their immaculate Giorgio Armani suits and their bulging leather briefcases, but they were inconsequential compared to the woman that walked between them.

The top of Rhondda Manning’s head barely reached the shoulder of either man, but there was no doubting who was in charge. Every step she took snapped the grey skirt against her legs, while her simple jacket clung to a gym-trim figure. Even although Irene had studied every possible detail of Rhondda Manning’s life, she still found it difficult to believe that this small woman, who dressed with such simple style and spoke so quietly, could have built up one of the largest corporate empires in the world.

When the elder of the men pulled back the central seat, Ms Manning sat with a single fluid movement. She smiled across to both candidates as music sounded softly in the background and a camera rolled into position. Completely unscented by perfume, she looked across at Irene; her eyes grey and direct and startlingly clear.

Irene swallowed the sudden nervous lump that had risen in her throat. She could feel the heat generated by Kendrick’s body, but was unable to detach her eyes from those of Ms Manning.

‘Welcome to the last episode of The Neophyte,’ Ms Manning said. Despite her wealth and success, her accent still contained the slow syllables of the Mid West. ‘Within the next thirty minutes, you will both be walking out of this show for the last time. Thirty minutes to decide your destiny. Thirty minutes.’ She allowed the words to hang as a promise and a threat as she looked at each in turn. Irene kept her expression neutral as she felt those grey eyes probing inside her.

Ms Manning continued, speaking slowly. ‘By that time I will have made my decision. I will have chosen one of you to be groomed as my successor, and the other will be on the streets.’

Irene contained the nervous shudder. Her memory still held the words ‘on the streets, on the streets,’ that the audience was encouraged to chant every time one of the candidates was rejected. Then would followed the Walk of Pain, when the loser had to discard their Manning Corporation green jacket and pass through the audience as they left the studio. Nobody was permitted to leave by the back door, for the millions of television viewers loved to view the loser’s anguish.

After enduring so much to reach the final, Irene could not bear the thought of undergoing that ritual humiliation. She must win.

‘First we will review your progress,’ the younger of the two men said. Laying his brief case on the table, he clicked it open and slid out a thick file of notes. ‘Kendrick Dontell,’ he smoothed out the syllables. ‘You are a graduate ofHarvardBusinessSchooland have worked in the New York Stock Exchange for three years. You have performed admirably in each task that you have been set, working honestly and diligently to overcome every difficulty.’ He looked up, unexpectedly friendly. ‘Harvard, eh? You will have stood underneath the Johnston Gate then?’

‘Many times, sir,’ Kendrick confirmed. The Johnston Gate, with its red brick columns and ironwork archway, was the first gate ever erected at Harvard and had been a popular meeting place for his class. He smiled as the man nodded.

‘I have too, Kendrick. That’s where I met my wife.’

Kendrick’s smile broadened. ‘So did I,’ he said.

Irene glanced at Ms Manning, uncomfortable at this display of college bonding in which she could not participate.

Ms Manning may have caught her unease. ‘Carry on, Peter,’ she ordered, softly. ‘The clock is ticking. Twenty eight minutes.’

Twenty-eight minutes; the words resonated through Irene’s mind. In twenty-eight minutes she would know her future.

‘You have been asked to perform a number of tasks, Kendrick, each one escalating in difficulty,’ Peter continued.

‘You managed a small shop, coped with a kindergarten school, which you found easy given your two children,’ again the men exchanged empathetic smiles, ‘promoted a newly published book, organised a visit to the Manning Corporation from a foreign diplomat and finally created a new security system for the Manning Museum here in New York City.’

Irene hated the smug look that crept over Kendrick’s face as he nodded to acknowledge each success.

‘Indeed, you only have to successfully complete only one last task, Kendrick, and you will have proved yourself the perfect neophyte.’ Peter closed the file and glanced toward Ms Manning.

‘And now you, Irene.’ Ms Manning nodded encouragement across the table. She raised an eyebrow to the older man on her right. ‘Proceed, Charles.’

‘Irene Armstrong, you have also proved yourself,’ Charles spoke with an attractiveTennesseedrawl. ‘After a difficult childhood, you financed yourself intoNorth CarolinaStateUniversity, from where you successfully graduated. You entered the business world, rising to become head of department in aNew Yorkfinancial house. Since entering for The Neophyte you have taken charge of a busy travel agency, created a new web site for the Manning Corporation’s Youth Programme, welcomed a French trade delegation to Houston’s Manning Shopping Mall and tested the fire and security system in the Boston Manning Hotel.’

Far more aware of Ms Manning’s scrutiny than of the cameras, Irene kept her face expressionless, acknowledging the applause with a nod.

‘And you also have to prove yourself in our final task, Irene, before you can take your place as Ms Manning’s neophyte,’ Charles paused for a significant moment, ‘or take a walk on the streets.’

‘On the streets,’ somebody from the unseen audience shouted, and others joined in, chanting the three-word mantra that would signify failure to one of the two remaining candidates.

Ms Manning waited until the noise faded before she spoke in her habitual low, soft voice, clearly enunciating each syllable. ‘The last task we set was slightly different. It was also the most controversial of them all.’ She raised the tension with a long pause. Unlike each previous episode of the show, no details of the hopeful neophyte’s assignment had been released and everybody present waited to hear what would be said next.

‘The task seemed quite simple,’ Ms Manning said, ‘you were to find out all that you could about your opponent, and tell me why that person should not be given the position as neophyte.’

There was a gasp from the audience as Irene and Kendrick looked at each other. Kendrick raised his eyebrows, but the smugness was back. Irene knew that Ms Manning had been fostering competition, setting the contenders against each other in a mini duplication of corporate life. Now she felt the hammering of her heart as she wondered what skeletons Kendrick had discovered. She saw Peter and Charles each produce a file from their respective brief case and hand it to Ms Manning. Both files were identical, with the white Manning Corporation logo embossed on a dark green background, except that one was thicker than the other.

To the brief rolling of a drum, Ms Manning opened the thinner file, lifted a printed sheet of paper from the top and scanned it briefly. ‘This is a summary of Irene’s investigation into Kendrick,’ she explained. ‘But before I begin, is there anything in your past that you wish to keep hidden, Kendrick?’ The smile was deceitfully benign.

‘Absolutely nothing,’ Kendrick said. He glanced at Irene. ‘Anybody is free to investigate my life.’

Ms Manning nodded. ‘Let us see, Kendrick.’ She scanned the summary with one flick of her eyes. ‘Straight A grades at school, top of your year at Harvard and a prime performer at the Stock Exchange.’

That smug look was back on Kendrick’s face as he nodded. Irene began to hate him anew, for the Ivy League Club was strong in the corporate world. Despite spending an entire two weeks probing Kendrick’s life, she had found nothing untoward. She had hired a private investigator, had Kendrick followed, questioned his work colleagues and fellow students all the way back to infancy, with no success. The man seemed impenetrable, a veritable saint.

‘You married Selia three years ago, Kendrick, and have two children, a boy named John and a girl named Ruth.’ Ms Manning put down the paper and closed the file. ‘You have never transgressed the laws of the United States in any particular, with not even a parking fine against you, and your teachers, lecturers, family and neighbours all acclaim you with great praise.’ She smiled, ‘Kendrick, you are a pillar of the community.’

Kendrick ducked his head modestly as Ms Manning lifted the second, thicker, file and turned her attention to Irene.

‘A mixed bag at school, Irene, and a slight blemish when you took some unofficial time off, which is not surprising given your impoverished family background. You recovered commendably well, and attendedNorth CarolinaStateUniversity, which you financed by working long hours at Wal-Mart, among other places.’

Irene nodded. She felt the colour rise to her cheeks as there was a slight stir in the audience. She knew that it was part of the American Dream for a poor girl to work her way to success, but also knew that the United States could be as elite-conscious as any other nation in the world. She hoped that Kendrick had not been over efficient in checking all her previous work places.

‘After an initial rocky period, you hit a run of top grades, and have worked in a number of positions since, usually rising to the top of whatever tree you chose to climb. Latterly you were head of department in a leading financial business. You are single, but have a partner named Patrick McKim. He is a fascinating man, but not the subject of this competition.’ Miss Manning let the words hang as she shuffled the papers a little before she selected a single yellow sheet.

Irene leaned forward. She could nearly feel the triumph radiating from the man sitting next to her.

‘Kendrick has unearthed some interesting facts about you, Irene. For instance, there was a job inRaleighwhen you accumulated a number of parking fines.’ Miss Manning raised both eyebrows as she stared into the camera, playing to the audience. ‘And there was the night you seem to have spent in a police cell?’

Irene could hear the audible sigh from the audience as they sensed her chances slipping away. Kendrick shifted in his seat, not sure whether to be proud of his investigative success or embarrassed at this public denouncement of his rival. He looked across to her, as if to apologise. Aware that Ms Manning appreciated a fighter, Irene hit back.

‘I was certainly in a police cell, Ms Manning, but only for shelter. I was returning home from the University and had run out of money. The police offered to help.’

Ms Manning allowed her eyebrows to drop. ‘So I understand.’ She replaced the yellow sheet of paper and closed the file. ‘So now I have to make a decision. Now I have to choose one neophyte and order the unsuccessful candidate to go on the streets.’

The audience had been waiting expectantly for those words. ‘On the streets!’ they echoed, chanting in choreographed enjoyment.

Kendrick straightened in his seat. His glance at Irene might have included sympathy.

Ms Manning continued. ‘I have watched you both over the last few months, I have viewed hundreds of hours of video tape, read your files and interviewed you personally, but now I must pronounce the final decision.’ When she leaned back, Ms Manning’s immaculately styled hair barely touched the carved logo on the headrest. She looked from one candidate to the other, pressed the tips of her fingers together and smiled.

‘It’s a big decision, choosing a successor. Who do I want? What do I want?’ She sighed. ‘I want somebody who is expert at business, so my Corporation does not go down the pan.

Somebody who will fight for what he,’ Ms Manning’s eyes focussed on Kendrick, and then slid across to Irene, ‘or she, believes. I want somebody who can identify a failing but potentially successful company, buy it and turn it around. I want somebody honest and incredibly hard working. I want a fighter.’ She shook her head solemnly, ‘I want somebody similar to me.’

The audience cheered, as Ms Manning had certainly intended. Irene felt herself smiling and knew that Kendrick was doing exactly the same. Ms Manning had that effect on people.

She had the power of manipulation.

Ms Manning sat up straight and nodded into the nearest camera. There was a hush as the great screens rolled slowly back so that the appearance of a boardroom altered into the television studio that it in fact was. Now only a few yards of space and coils of television cable separated the contestants from the audience. Irene was suddenly conscious that hundreds of pairs of eyes were fixed on her back. The cameras had been intrusive but impersonal, machines rather than people, but now she fancied that she could hear the breathing of each individual among the crowd, she could nearly smell the cologne and after shave with which they had doused themselves.

‘I have come to a decision.’ Ms Manning leaned back in her chair, allowing her head to rest just beneath the Manning logo. Even then, Irene could admire the perfect set of her hair and the manicured nails that lay in line with the arm rests. The overhead lights gleamed on the ruby that was central to the single ring encircling her forefinger. There was a matching ruby on the antique necklace around her neck.

Irene could not look at Kendrick, although she was very aware of his suddenly shallow breathing. The audience had receded to unimportance.

‘Within the next two minutes,’ Miss Manning addressed the contestants, ‘one of you will be my neophyte and the other will be on the streets.’ This time the audience did not chant the programme slogan. ‘How do you feel, Kendrick?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before Kendrick replied. ‘I feel good,’ he said. ‘I feel real good.’

Ms Manning nodded. ‘And you, Irene?’

‘Confident,’ Irene lied. She nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. I will be your neophyte.’

The hush deepened as Ms Manning stood, as she always did before imparting momentous decisions. Three cameras focussed on her, while one concentrated on each of the contestants.

‘This contest has been close,’ Ms Manning’s accent became more pronounced as she came to the climax of the programme. ‘And I am left with two excellent candidates. One has sailed through life on the crest of a wave of constant success; the other has struggled through adversity to achieve her present position. Both are examples of the American Dream, and the two are hard to separate.’

Irene heard the drums begin their insistent roll as Ms Manning stepped back, preparatory to sweeping her hand round in her trademark gesture that would destroy the dreams of one contestant and recreate the life of the other. The person Ms Manning selected would be virtually guaranteed wealth, power and success; the person she rejected would have to accept very public failure. Ms Manning was the human oxymoron between two extremes; her pronouncement was incontestable.

‘So I have come to a provisional decision. In business it is sometimes better to hedge one’s bets, to allow things to take their own course until muddied waters clear.’ Her arm swung in a complete half circle until her forefinger pointed directly at Kendrick. The ruby gleamed like blood. ‘In this instance I have decided that Kendrick shall be my neophyte, for an interim period of one year. If he makes a success of things in that time, which I have no doubt that he will, then he shall retain the position.’

The arm retracted then thrust out toward Irene. ‘In the meantime, Irene, you must go on the streets!’

The finger dominated Irene’s conscious vision. She could see the immaculate nail with the arc of the cuticle, and each individual crease around the knuckles. For one moment her entire life centred on that single digit, and then the audience began the chant that had become a catchphrase throughoutAmerica.

‘On the streets! On the streets!’

Irene sat in disbelief, swamped by the baying. She could feel Kendrick standing beside her, could sense the triumph in his smile as he accepted the congratulations of Ms Manning and her senior managers before he turned to her, hand extended.

‘On the streets! On the streets!’

Tears prickled in her eyes as Irene faced Ms Manning. She shook her head. She had planned and striven and had dedicated her entire life to winning this competition. Now she was a failure; the world would remember her not as the contestant who had nearly succeeded, but as the woman who had failed in front of millions.

‘You fought well, Irene,’ Kendrick’s soft voice caressed her and his deep brown eyes held only sympathy. ‘Shake now; show the world that you can lose as graciously as you win.’ When she hesitated, he leaned closer, whispering ‘if you don’t, you’ll regret it later.’

Recognising good advice, Irene blinked back the tears and took Kendrick’s hand. She would have loved to squeeze hard, to make him wince, but there was a worldwide audience watching. ‘Congratulations, Kendrick,’ she said as brightly as she could. ‘You will be a worthy neophyte. You will be just fine.’

‘Well said!’ Ms Manning had been watching closely, but now transferred her entire attention to Kendrick.

Irene suddenly realised that she was already pushed out of the picture. Technicians hustled past her as they wheeled cameras toward the successful neophyte. Two men guided her into a cluttered dressing room as Kendrick took his place on the table beside Ms Manning. She felt swift hands remove the green jacket from her shoulders, heard whispered words of sympathy as a camera focussed on her face. She forced a smile, as if indifferent that her chance of replacing one of the richest women in the world had just been replaced by a life branded by failure.

‘You have to make the walk now,’ a denim-clad technician whispered, and encouraged her with a gentle shove between the shoulder blades.

The audience continued to chant ‘on the streets’ as Irene followed the marked route, but she ignored the anonymity of faces, knowing that although some pitied her, most were gleeful, enjoying her discomfiture. The voices merged into a single bawl of derision, individual personalities into a crowd that cried failure, but she blinked away the burning tears and held her head high. Only when a doorman ushered her out of the studio did the noise abate. The corridor seemed to stretch into a bleak distance.

‘You did great to get so far,’ the doorman said, soothingly. He was middle aged and bald, with pouched eyes.

Irene shook her head. ‘I failed,’ she said.

‘You’ll be back,’ the doorman said, adding earnest words of sympathy that were lost on her. Kendrick was the lion of the hour but she was only an also-ran, somebody to be moved quickly out of the vision of a society that worshipped only success.

Away from the cameras, Irene allowed the emotion to take control as she surveyed her aborted dreams. With one sentence Ms Manning had changed her life-plan from triumph to survival, from riches to unemployment. She was indeed on the streets. She felt the prickle of a tear that she was too late to prevent from coursing slowly down her cheek. God, but she hoped there were no cameras waiting for her outside. All she needed was for the world to remember her as the failed contestant with panda eyes and smudged mascara.

Keeping one hand on her arm, the doorman guided her along the corridor in which various people hurried, some giving her curious glances and others completely disregarding her. After weeks in the public eye, to be ignored was the deepest pain of all.

The studio was only one of a dozen within the huge communications building, but eventually Irene stumbled out into48th Streetand the bitter rain of aNew Yorkfall. There was a limousine waiting to take her home and a film crew asking more questions. She lifted her face, allowing the rain to take the blame for any inadequacies of her make up.

‘How do you feel?’

‘It sucks, I mean, truly sucks! I should have won!’

The camera moved closer, but the soundman shook his head, ‘sorry, Irene, I did not get that. Could you repeat it, please?’ He looked eager, aware that he had lost something sensational, but sense had returned to Irene.

‘I said all congratulations to Kendrick. He is a worthy winner and I am sure he will do well.’ She forced another smile, aware that her jaws were aching, reiterated her praise of Kendrick and said that she was proud to have come so far. She felt sick as the lights reflected on the wet streets of the city.

The questions continued.

‘What will you do with your life?’

‘Where will you go now?’

‘Did you find the show a positive experience?’

Irene shook her head. ‘Failure can never be a positive experience,’ she said as the truth broke through her professional façade. ‘And what will I do with my life? Does it matter? Anything else will be second best to this opportunity!’

The reporter drew back, alarmed at the venom in Irene’s face.

‘Let me out,’ Irene demanded. ‘I’ll walk from here. Let me out!’

‘But the interview?’

‘Your interview sucks!’ Thrusting open the door, she pushed past the camera crew, straightened her back and strode around the nearest corner. She did not know in which direction she was walking, only that she had to escape from the media. Only in constant movement could she find solace, and there was no better city in which to hide.

Chapter Two

New Yorkand Mannadu, October

The bottles crowded the window ledge, each one an empty reminder of disgrace. Two had contained champagne, bought for celebration but drunk in disappointment. One had heldKentuckybourbon, its black label peeling now, and the remainder proclaimed themselves to be the king of beers. Lying amidst the tangled covers of her bed, Irene squinted through the array of curved glass at the distorted shape of the window. It was daylight outside, although she could not determine the time. She raised her head a little, swore at the pain that such effort caused and carefully sank back down on the pillow. Beside her, Patrick snored softly.

Failure. The word throbbed inside her head, reinforcing the thump of her hangover. Failure. She clenched her fists until her nails dug small semi-circular grooves in the palm of each hand. She had gambled everything on becoming Ms Manning’s neophyte, but now she must start again. She had thrown up her job to concentrate on the competition, so she was back on the streets in reality, seeking employment, seeking a new life, hiding from humiliation.

Leaving Patrick lying diagonally across the bed with one arm thrown over the pillow and the other folded beneath him, Irene pushed herself upright. She slid off the mattress, winced and sat down, holding her head to compress the pain into manageable proportions. Only when she convinced herself that there was no alternative did she stagger to the bathroom, stripping off the silk pyjama shirt that was her only covering.

Setting the power shower to cold, Irene stepped into the cubicle, squealing as the fierce jets of water hammered at her. After a few minutes she was unable to bear any more and increased the temperature before she began to apply shower gel. Sinking into a corner, she allowed the water to rinse away the lather, and remained there until her headache began to dissolve and the churning in her stomach settled down.

Removing two painkillers from her emergency cupboard, Irene thrust them into her mouth and chewed, hating the taste. Losers did not deserve the luxury of a glass of water in which to dissolve them. Her stomach protested at this new assault, so she sat down quickly until the sensation eased.

So she had failed to win a game show. Irene shrugged as a new recklessness slithered over her. Well, she had done the very best that she could, but her early life had betrayed her, while Kendrick’s money and influence had eased his path. Returning to the shower, she shampooed her hair vigorously and stepped under the nozzle. Streams of soapy water ran down her body, surging around her feet to drain away as if in imitation of her hopes. She had failed, but she would not give up on life. Who was she?

‘I am Irene Armstrong,’ she reminded herself. ‘I am Irene Armstrong.’ She spoke louder so her name echoed between the transparent plastic walls of the cubicle. ‘I am Irene Armstrong, and there is nothing I can not do.’ The phrase came from her childhood, a simple slogan that had helped her through some very bad times.

Steam from the shower filled the room as she cleaned a space on the mirror and brushed her teeth, allowing the toothpaste to foam and drop in frothy globules onto the sink. ‘Damn you Kendrick, for beating me, and you, Ms Rhondda Manning, for choosing a lesser contender. I’ll be back,’ she deepened her voice and repeated the words in imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s famous catch phrase. ‘I’ll be back!’

Vigorously towelling her hair, Irene returned to the bedroom. Patrick lay exactly as she had left him, face down on the bed and mouth slightly open. Grinning, she flicked off the covers and allowed herself the pleasure of admiring his muscular back, with the small scar just beneath his left shoulder blade and the indentation of his spine that ran into his smoothly curving bottom. Her smile altered to a sudden frown when she focussed on the tattoo on his right buttock. Linda had been a previous girlfriend, in a different life, but Irene always resented that he had chosen somebody else before her. During their vigorous lovemaking she always raked her nails across that name, hoping to eradicate the written memory, and now she delivered a stinging slap to the same target. When he jerked forward she laughed, stepped back and slapped again, harder. She felt immense pleasure at Patrick’s yelp.

‘Up you get, lazy! I’ve got a life to rebuild and you’re going to help.’

He rolled over onto his back and looked up, one hand clutching at the assaulted area. ‘What the hell was that for?’

It was his eyes that had first attracted Irene, a brilliant blue that seemed to hold all the mysteries of the universe, but now they were shaded through over-indulgence in alcohol. He blinked, obviously suffering the same agonies that Irene had so recently endured.

‘Just because it was asking for it. You’ve got two minutes,’ Irene told him, with no sympathy at all. ‘Then I’ll take drastic measures.’ She smiled sweetly, tied the towel around her head and walked to the kitchen to put on the coffee. A glance in the mirror reassured her that Patrick was watching the emphasised swing of her hips.

The knock at the door seemed to shake the entire house. ‘Get that, Patrick, I’ve got nothing on.’ Irene waited for a minute, as the knock sounded again, louder and more urgent than before. She looked into the bedroom, frowned as she saw Patrick once again recumbent amidst the sheets, and dragged on his dressing gown. It was many times too large, with sleeves that flapped loosely over her hands.

‘Who is it?’ Irene peered through the security glass and saw a tall man who she instantly recognised.

‘Peter Madrid.’ The man held up a card with his photograph on it and the unmistakable logo of the Manning Corporation. ‘I wish to speak with you, if it is convenient.’

‘Peter Madrid!’ Irene stepped back, instinctively putting up a hand to the towel that covered her hair. Moving swiftly, she kicked shut the bedroom door to conceal both the unmade bed and its naked occupant, fastened the cord of the dressing gown tighter and unfastened the security chain. ‘What can I do for you?’ She eased open the front door, biting back her bitterness. This man had watched her answer a hundred questions over the last few weeks; he had overseen her on four different tasks and had reported on her suitability as a neophyte to Ms Manning. At that minute, Irene had no desire to ever speak to him, or anybody else from the Manning Corporation, ever again.

Peter stepped in, his suit as immaculate as ever but his eyes swivelling around the tiny apartment. ‘Ms Manning sends her apologies for disturbing you,’ he said quietly, ‘and hopes that you have recovered from any disappointment that you may have experienced yesterday.’

Irene recommenced the assault on her hair with the towel as the twin sensations of defeat and failure returned. ‘Yesterday is past,’ she said, shrugging in an attempt to dismiss the heartbreak as unimportant. ‘It was fun while it lasted.’ She produced a bright smile. ‘Come in to the living room and I’ll make coffee.’

‘You’re not disappointed then?’ Peter lowered himself into one of the two cream coloured armchairs and raised an inquisitive eye. He glanced at the framed poster that showed crossed Armalite rifles in front of an Irish flag and the word Noraid, before switching his attention to the broken television in the corner of the room. Irene followed the direction of his eyes. She had watched the videotape that Patrick had made of The Neophyte, until the sight of Kendrick’s triumphant face had proved too much and she had thrown the remote control at the screen. It was too late now to hide the evidence.

‘Disappointed?’ Irene pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘No. It was only a game show. If you wait for a minute I’ll get the coffee. How do you like it?’

‘Black and strong,’ Peter told her.

‘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’sten 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 theRed 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 intoGrand 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 ofNew Yorkvisibly diminishing beneath her, with the tall buildings ofManhattanalready assuming Lilliputian proportions and theHudson Rivera streak of blue.

After a few minutes the intercom hummed and a calm voice sounded. ‘We are now flying at7,620 metresand 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 about465 milesan 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.’

Americaseemed 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 inAmerica, 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.