The Legacy (2 page)

Chapter 3

Lucy Masters walked out of the main entrance of the International Relations Department and headed into town. Now coming to the end of her postgraduate studies, she'd just submitted the final draft of her PhD dissertation. She realised that she needed to think seriously about what she was going to do next. She hoped that her hard work would pay off and she'd get the doctorate without the need to revisit much of the work she'd already done. A bit of re-drafting would be fine but if those assessing her work felt that there was nothing original in what she was saying, then she might have to spend most of next year doing the further research necessary to strengthen her arguments. But she hoped this wouldn't be the case; her supervisors had been very positive about her performance and even her tutor, a notoriously grumpy man called Dr John Walker, had been upbeat when she'd seen him earlier in the week. Three weeks until the results were formally published on the Palace Green notice board and then she'd know for sure. A PhD from Durham University would open a lot of doors, not just in the City but also in the Foreign Office or DFID, the Department for International Development. She liked what she'd seen of the people in DFID having spent a fair amount of time with them whilst doing research for her thesis. There were one or two whose motives she sometimes doubted, but the majority had come across as hard working, professional and committed to trying to make the world a better place. She felt that she could do a lot worse than work with people whose values she shared.

At 5ft 10in Lucy was taller than most of her friends. She was also striking to look at with piercing blue eyes, long strawberry blonde hair and a body toned from years of hard physical exercise. She ran almost every day and whilst she enjoyed rowing - one of the reasons she'd chosen Durham in the first place - her real passion was climbing. She spent most of her holidays in the mountains somewhere, mainly on expeditions. During term time, she spent her weekends either in the Lake District or up in Scotland tackling some of the more challenging routes that Skye's Cuillin Ridge has to offer. Easily the best female climber at Durham, she was also better than all but two of the men. Her expedition work was earning her a widening reputation as a hard working team member who could lead the most difficult of routes with confidence. Some men found this difficult, particularly as she had a habit of telling them to ‘man up and get on with it' whenever their nerves started to get the better of them. But she worked hard to maintain her edge. After her morning run of four to six miles through the Durham countryside, she would always end up in the gym, pushing herself through a rigorous routine of press ups, sit-ups, dips and heaves that even the fittest of the University rugby team would have struggled to complete.

As she headed into town, she thought of what to do next. Her father had sent her a text asking whether she had decided what she was going to do after she'd got the PhD. She hadn't replied. She knew that she really needed to get on with finding a job and starting a career but, until she knew whether she would have to re-do parts of her thesis, she didn't see much point in making any firm plans. For the moment, she'd saved enough money to spend the next few months climbing in Nepal and this was her immediate focus. A mini-expedition, the plan was to spend a few days in Kathmandu sorting out their equipment before travelling west to Pokhara and then trekking up into the Annapurna basin to climb the two highest peaks. Thereafter, she intended to spend another week in Kathmandu in order to enjoy the Dashain celebrations. Her best friend and fellow PhD student, Isobel Johnson, was going with her.

Lucy saw Isobel as she entered the cafe. ‘Hey loser,' she called out as she approached Isobel's table.

‘Hi, where've you been? I've been waiting for hours,' Isobel replied.

‘No you haven't, I saw you just come in ahead of me.' The two girls laughed. Whenever they met they spent the first few minutes giving each other a hard time, normally about the other's latest male admirer. They had been best friends since the age of twelve when they had found themselves in the same dormitory on their first day at boarding school in York. At the time, both of their fathers had been serving abroad in the Army and they soon discovered that they had a lot in common. Both were only children, with the absence of siblings strengthening their friendship. They were athletic, bright and keen on outdoor sports, though Isobel preferred skiing to climbing. Slightly shorter than Lucy, Isobel nevertheless turned heads wherever she went. Her thick blonde hair was cut into a fashionable bob and her full lips and wide brown eyes always seemed to be smiling. She was attractive, intelligent and fun, with a mischievous streak that frequently got her into trouble.

‘I've been thinking about Nepal,' Isobel said as her friend sat down and ordered a cappuccino. ‘I think we should spend longer in the west after we've cracked the Annapurna peaks rather than head back to Kathmandu. Either that or we should trek out east as far as Everest Base Camp and spend a week or so there chilling with the climbing “fraternity”.' She said the last word with heavy irony, using her hands to sign the parenthesis. She was always disparaging about groups of climbers, considering them to be amongst the least hygienic and the scruffiest of people. This was one reason she preferred skiing: the people were so much more fashionable and they generally had more money with which to enjoy themselves! ‘What do you think of my plan?' Isobel asked.

It would be fun thought Lucy. As she hadn't yet decided what she was going to do next and as there were no pressing deadlines to meet, she agreed.

Chapter 4

At seven-thirty, Highworth left the office and started walking towards the Embankment. He was deep in thought. As the day had progressed the price of Tokifora's shares had continued to go up. Having started the day at 113 pence per share, they had reached 150 by the time the market closed. He was set to make an absolute killing but, whilst this pleased him, he was already thinking about his next venture and the dossier his team had given to him that afternoon. They'd spent two months doing the detailed research that Highworth always insisted on before committing significant sums. He thought about what was in the dossier. Bubble.com was an information technology company that had grown exponentially over the last few years. Current city rumours had it that the social networking capability it was developing would rival Facebook and Twitter. The research suggested that the company would need another six months or so of development and testing before the application could be rolled out but, when it was, his information suggested that it would be hugely popular. Highworth thought about this. He had faith in the research. He'd learnt long ago that time spent learning everything there was to know about a company was seldom wasted. As a result, he'd assembled a research team that few rivals could match. They were very well paid as individuals and they had a significant budget with which to obtain information. He'd also been watching the share price slowly increase over the last year. He knew that this was partly because of the success of Bubble.com's recently introduced web browser but also because city rumours about the social networking capability - known as Mymate - were starting to gain traction. But he also knew that software projects were notoriously difficult to bring into service. No matter how thoroughly tested an application might be prior to going on sale, there were always bugs. Usually, these were relatively easy to fix but if there were too many of them, people quickly lost confidence, particularly if the media started to pan the application. Once public support had been lost, it was notoriously difficult and expensive to re-position the application, even if all the bugs were eventually eliminated. From Highworth's perspective, Bubble.com's share price was entirely dependent on how much confidence the city had in the company's ability to bring the application to the market place without any significant flaws - and this is where Highworth had spotted a real opportunity.

The Chief Executive Officer (CEO) of Bubble.com was a flam-boyant character called Peter Fairweather. Loud, arrogant and a prodigious self-publicist, Fairweather was the current darling of the dot com world. He spent huge amounts of money financing expeditions designed to catch the public's imagination and ensure that he ended up in a suitably heroic pose on the front pages of the newspapers. Thirty-two years old, tall, blond, articulate and outspoken, the television stations loved him and none were in any doubt that it was his personal energy that drove Bubble.com forward. But Highworth knew differently. His research team had identified that the real brains behind the company's success was a quiet, unassuming but brilliant software engineer called Colin Pearson. Though Pearson owned forty percent of the company and was therefore already a wealthy man, he shunned the limelight. He had no social life to speak of and preferred to spend his time working on Mymate with his team of programmers and designers. Provided Pearson remained at the centre of the project, Highworth was in absolutely no doubt that Mymate would be spectacularly successful.

Highworth walked past Charing Cross Station and turned down into Villiers Street. He liked this part of London and he was particularly fond of Gordon's Wine Bar. It claimed to be the oldest in London having been established in 1890 and it had a particular atmosphere. Going down into the cellars, he found a quiet table in the candlelit gloom and ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses from a passing waitress. Although it was reasonably busy, she returned a few minutes later with the wine. She poured a small amount into a glass and stepped back from the table. Highworth looked up at her. ‘I'm sure it'll be fine,' he said, smiling.

The waitress returned his smile and half filled his glass. She appreciated the fact that he hadn't made a show of tasting the wine. It amused her that so many people pretended to know what they were looking for when she poured them a taster from a newly opened bottle. She'd never seen him before but he looked to be above that sort of charade. Highworth took a sip of the wine and nodded his thanks to the waitress. She smiled again and left the table. He watched her walk back towards the bar and noticed Richards ducking his head as he entered the cellars. He poured the second glass of wine and handed it to Richards as he sat down opposite him. ‘How are you?' asked Highworth.

‘I'm fine,' replied Richards ‘but keen to know what's happening that you needed to meet so quickly.'

Highworth wasted no more time on pleasantries. ‘There's a company called Bubble.com that I'm interested in,' he said. ‘The CEO is a man called Peter Fairweather. I need him to have a fatal accident within the next week or so.'

Richards thought for a few minutes. ‘I've seen him on TV. Nice looking chap. Very full of himself. Does lots of publicity seeking stunts. Likes the ladies.'

‘That's him,' said Highworth, used to Richards' habit of summarising people in a few short sentences.

Richards sipped his wine and looked at Highworth. He didn't care why Highworth wanted Fairweather dead and he wasn't remotely worried about the prospect of arranging for someone to be killed. He was thinking more about the complexity of the job and therefore how much it would cost. Having someone like Fairweather killed wouldn't be as expensive as knocking off a politician but it would still take time and effort, particularly if it needed to look like an accident. ‘How badly does it need to be an accident?' asked Richards.

‘Very badly,' replied Highworth. ‘There can't be any suspicion otherwise it won't have the effect I want.'

Richards finished his wine. ‘OK, I'll make a few calls and confirm the price but I would say that we're looking at eighty to a hundred and twenty thousand given the timeframe, less if you can wait,' said Richards.

‘I can't. It needs to be before the end of the month,' replied Highworth.

Richards smiled as he got to his feet. ‘I'll be in touch,' he said as he turned and left the bar.

Highworth watched him go thinking, as he always did, that you can't judge a man by his appearance. Richards looked ordinary. His suit was a middle of the range, off-the-peg number from a high street retailer. His shoes, tie and shirt were nondescript and even his face seemed to blend in with the surroundings. He looked middle aged, comfortable and harmless. If you met him for the first time and were asked to guess his occupation, you would probably say that he was an accountant or a sales manager for a multinational. But Highworth was in no doubt that he was the most dangerous man he had ever met. Not only was he a conduit into the murky world of contract killing, but he was also a very hard man himself. During one of their similar meetings a year ago, two local toughs, irritated by Highworth's cut glass accent and obvious wealth, had deliberately pushed him over as he walked back from the bar with two glasses of wine. Highworth went sprawling, crashing into a table and spilling his wine over the occupants. As he looked round to see who'd pushed him, he saw Richards move in quickly and smash one of the men's heads onto the bar so hard that the man collapsed with blood pouring from an open wound. The other man threw a massive punch but Richards rolled back on the balls of his feet, easily avoiding the blow. He then stepped quickly inside the man's arm, turning as he did so to land a powerful elbow strike into the bigger man's neck. The man hit the ground like a felled tree, struggling to breathe through a crushed trachea that only surgery would repair. Richards then walked calmly over to Highworth, helped him to his feet and quietly suggested that they try a different bar in a more upmarket part of town.

Chapter 5

The assassin was now back in his flat in Edinburgh's New Town. He liked the city and had been particularly pleased when he'd been able to buy the flat a few years ago. It had taken him months to find something suitable and this flat ticked all the boxes. It was in the centre of the city and was on the fourth floor of an old Georgian town house overlooking George Street. It had been sensitively renovated before he bought it, retaining many of the period features that he admired. It had high ceilings, large sash windows and polished wooden floors. It was furnished sparsely with rugs from his travels and a few antique chairs and tables that he hoped would appreciate in value. Original paintings from some of Edinburgh's exceptional galleries adorned the walls, giving the flat an elegant feel. A casual visitor would note the mountain theme linking the pictures. A more knowledgeable eye would admire the two paintings by Alfred de Breanski Senior and the three by Richard Ansell. All five were painted in the late eighteen hundreds and, though not hugely valuable, each would fetch between ten to thirty thousand pounds at auction.

The assassin sat at an old partners' desk drinking black coffee and checking e-mails on his laptop. His eyes were drawn to one that he knew was from Richards. Though it looked like yet more spam offering Viagra at a reduced rate, the inclusion of the numbers four, six and nineteen in the e-mail's title told him that he needed to read on. The e-mail having been sent on the seventh of the month, he read every seventh word in the main body of the message. The instructions were clear: ‘Stay at home. Urgent we meet. Will find you on Thu.' The assassin didn't reply. Richards would assume the message had been received and would track him down on Thursday. They had done this so many times before that both trusted the other implicitly.

He finished his coffee, put on an old t-shirt and cotton shorts, laced up his trainers and left the flat. Ten minutes later he was running along the path that follows the Water of Leith on its journey from the centre of town to the sea. He was deep in thought. Leaving Spain had been easier than he'd expected. The police were slow to react when the shooting was eventually reported and, although they had gone through the motions of taking statements and looking for evidence, their heart wasn't in it. Velasquez was well known in the area and had been implicated in a number of police killings in Madrid. The tit for tat killing of a drug dealer with links to unsolved police murders was not something the police were going to get excited about. But this wasn't why the assassin was thinking so deeply. Richards was a cautious man who usually gave several weeks notice of any meeting. The urgency of this most recent request was therefore unusual and the assassin's pulse quickened at the prospect of a new job. ‘If it pays sufficiently well,' he thought to himself as he ran, ‘it could well be one of my last.'