Vorpal Blade (5 page)

In front of the limo a police patrol car was edging its way
forward. In front of it uniformed policemen were waving
people out of the way, holding up traffic to give the limo
a clear run. It disappeared round one of the corners at the
base of the Cone.

'You're sure that was Straub?' Tweed asked.

'It was,' Newman assured him. 'I've also seen him on TV and caught a good glimpse of Mastermind in my glasses.'

'I take it that was sarcasm,' Paula suggested.

'It most certainly was. Chap has the personality of a
peacock. Wouldn't trust him an inch. Something not so nice behind the perpetual smile when cameramen are
about.'

As the traffic got moving Newman manoeuvred his
Mercedes, pulled up by the kerb in front of the ACTIL
building. Paula and Tweed jumped out as a uniformed
doorman ran to Newman, asked him to drive a few yards
further on.

'That woman across the road, watching this building,'
Paula said. 'She's so small and still. In her sixties, I'd say,
and the pale green coat and dark green fur hat suit her.'

'We get every type visiting London,' Tweed replied
impatiently, then he turned round and gazed up. 'Oh,
my God. It's a giant.'

He was staring at the endless pink wall which rose above
him like the side of a mountain, a round mountain. At
its distant summit wisps of cloud drifted, floated away to
reveal its huge cone-shaped top, bronze-coloured. He had
never seen anything like it, even in New York.

'Stunning, isn't it,' Paula replied.

Newman had handed the keys to the doorman, asked
him to park the car until they got back. Tweed and Paula
mounted the wide stone steps to an outsize revolving door.
Paula nudged Tweed to go first. The door revolved slowly,
then stopped when Paula went forward to step in. Beyond her Tweed's glass-walled compartment continued moving
and he stepped into the vast reception hall. Paula waved
her hands in a gesture of surprise. A voice spoke from
somewhere.

'You may enter now, madam.'

The door revolved again and she stepped inside. Behind her Newman, who had caught on to the trick, stood with his arms folded. He looked up at the speakphone grille above the door.

'Don't forget me. I've got the money.'

'You may now enter, sir,' the voice replied as Paula
waited inside the hall.

Newman waved at the camera beamed at him above the
speakphone. 'Thanks a lot, old boy . . .'

Inside he gaped at the spaciousness of the reception hall,
its walls solid marble, the floor also marble. Tweed and
Paula were walking over to the huge reception desk behind
which an attractive red-headed girl smiled. Before she
could speak a tall muscular man wearing an Armani suit
appeared out of nowhere. He snapped at the receptionist.

'I'll deal with this, Clara.'

Below his brown hair he had a face hewn out of stone.
In his thirties, he was clean-shaven with a long sharp
nose, hostile eyes, a thin-lipped mouth, a prominent chin.
Paula doubted whether he even knew how to smile. His
expression said:
Don't mess with me.

'Mr Tweed?' he demanded. His rough accent was
Midlands.

Tweed nodded, completely unintimidated.

'And you're Miss Grey.' He turned. 'Easy to recognize
you. Robert Newman, foreign correspondent. I've read
some of your articles in the past. They're dangerous.'

'They're meant to be . . .'

'And you have a gun under your left armpit. Leave that
with the receptionist.'

'As the Americans would say,' Newman replied amiably,
'I can see you're packing a piece yourself.'

'I'm Broden. Chief of Security.'

Newman went over to Clara, who had been listening
gleefully. It was the first time she had heard Broden talked
down. As Newman took out his Smith & Wesson, removed the bullets, she ushered him behind her desk where she had
opened a metal drawer, one of many, using a master key and a second one. He placed his weaponry inside, closed
the drawer, she turned both keys, handed him his own.

'We are waiting,' Broden called out.

'With a system like this Mr Arbogast should allow five
minutes extra on his appointments,' Newman told him.

'He does. This lift. Used only by the Chairman.'

'Park your stomach outside,' Broden told them without
a trace of humour before he closed the doors. 'The lift moves up like a rocket.'

Paula grabbed hold of one of the gold railings lining
three sides of the luxurious lift. It did indeed shoot up
like a rocket. Paula watched the numbers alongside one
of the doors. A hundred and five floors. Lordy. The
numbers flicked past so quickly it reached 105 before she realized it.

Their destination was beyond a door facing the lift, a
door which Broden unlocked, using the same computer card he had inserted in the hall to open the doors. They
entered a large room occupied by four men behind desks,
working IBM Selectric typewriters. No word processors,
no sign of the Internet. At the far end Broden opened a heavy oak door, stood to one side.

'That will be all, Broden. You may leave now,' a strange
throaty voice rumbled.

Newman glanced at the security chief. Was it possible
his expression was even icier? Not wanted on the voyage.

Paula almost gasped as she entered. The room, with
circular walls and windows, floor to ceiling, was more like
a drawing room. A deep grey wall-to-wall carpet across which were scattered plush armchairs and couches. In the
spaces between windows hung gilt-framed landscapes. At
the far end was a massive Regency desk and behind that, seated in a comfortable-looking carver chair, was a man.

He was tall and plump with a very ugly head, the face
plump: in his sixties, she guessed, but it was the face which
she gazed at. Ice-blue eyes were half-hidden by pouches
of flesh, his short nose was wide and below it thick lips
twisted sideways. Below them he had a massive jowl and
his expensive suit was rumpled. His right eye twitched several times as he stood slowly, waved a fat hand with short stubby fingers.

'Welcome to my humble abode. Certain members of my
family will join us. One is the key member of my staff who
may one day take my place. Do sit down.' He padded
round his desk to shake hands. Paula was surprised at how
tall Roman Arbogast was. His shoulders were very broad
and she was aware of a sense of power. No arrogance but
an aura of immense determination.

He remained standing when they had seated themselves,
close to them, bulky arms folded. His head was twisted
slightly to one side as he looked down.

'Now, Mr Tweed, you are one of the few people I
respect. You are a very dangerous man. I pay you a compliment. Why have you come to see me?'

'Adam Holgate was a member of my staff before he
came here. I owe him my interest in finding out who
killed him with such savagery. When I know why I shall
know who.'

'What would everyone like to drink?' Arbogast swivelled
his head to include all his guests in the invitation.

'Nothing for me, thank you,' said Paula.

'The brilliant lady who is a natural detective. Who makes
the police look like the fools they are.'

'What do you base that on?' she asked quickly.

'On information received. Any success I may have had
in this world of idiots is based on my ability to know what
is - or has been - happening, happened.'

His voice, although quiet and throaty, carried a long
way. Still standing, he switched his attention as Tweed
spoke.

'What exactly was Holgate's job here?'

'Security. I didn't like him but Broden thought he was good. He was also nosy, very inquisitive.'

'In what way?' Paula asked with a smile.

'He searched through files which were nothing to do with
his duties. He would hover outside open doors to listen to conversations which did not concern him. He may have
found out too much. A reason why he was executed.'

'Executed?' Paula was shocked.

The door into the spacious room opened and two women walked in, one behind the other. Newman stared at the first
woman - he couldn't help it.

'This is Marienetta,' Arbogast announced. 'My niece.'

She walked in with long elegant strides. She was in her early thirties, Paula thought as she studied the stunning
beauty. Tall and slim, Marienetta had golden hair trimmed
to just below her ears, an exceptionally well-shaped bone
structure, a nose which expressed driving power, strange
lips, the upper one thin, the lower full, the mouth wide. But it was the eyes which hypnotized Paula. Greenish, the irises
were clear of the lids, which gave them an extraordinary
penetration.

The slightly stern look disappeared into a warm smile
as she advanced on Paula, slim hand held out. She held on to Paula's hand for longer than usual.

'Your grip suggests a strong character, Miss Grey. I have
heard a lot about you. I was hoping we would meet and I
am not disappointed.'

'I'm Bob Newman.' Like Tweed he was standing up.

'The foreign correspondent. Pushy, aren't you? Mr
Tweed,' she went on, again holding out her hand. 'I
am happy to meet such a distinguished man.' Her tone
was sincere. 'You are one of those rare people who hide
a strong intellect behind a passive manner. I sense inside
you a volcano of energy.'

'I'm still here, in case everyone has forgotten,' a voice spoke up irritably.

'My daughter, Sophie,' introduced Arbogast.

Sophie was also tall and slim but her hair was dark,
thick, her nose snub and her forehead high. Her grey
eyes were cold, the features sharp, almost aggressive.
Paula had the immediate impression she had always come
as number two compared with the niece. Not because
Marienetta dominated her but the niece's appearance and
personality would always cast a shadow over the daughter.
She gave Sophie a friendly smile as Arbogast introduced
his guests.

'I saw you the moment you came into the room.' Paula assured Sophie. 'Come and sit next to me.'

'Makes a change to be invited,' Sophie commented as
she sat down.

'We are all going to be friends, Sophie,' Marienetta said
with a smile.