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'Attractive,' he observed.
Marshall made no immediate reply but remained gazing down at the photograph.
Eventually he spoke. 'You're sure she's the only obstacle?'
'Yes,' Schnee replied. 'If it wasn't for her, Nano Systems would be as a ripe
plum, waiting to fall into your outstretched hand.'
Marshall ignored Schnee's purple prose. 'Are you 200 per cent certain that you
cannot be linked back to me?'
'There is absolutely no link whatsoever, Mr Tate. I guarantee it.'
Marshall picked up a phone and punched the memory button that polled Harrison
Calinco's Indium number - for use only in emergencies. Provided the American's
handset was switched on, the call would find him anywhere in the world, even
on a transatlantic flight. The routing took several seconds and then the phone
was ringing.
'Hi, Marshall,' said the American breezily as soon as he answered. 'How're you
doing over there?'
'If I've woken you in the middle of the night somewhere, I apologize,' said
Marshall. God, how he hated Harrison Calinco's easy drawl. It was loaded with
authority.
Harrison Calinco chuckled across ten thousand kilometres. 'It's a hot
afternoon in Vegas, and we're having a long, cool drink with a long, cool
brunette. What do we owe the pleasure of this call to, Marshall?'
'Penalty clauses.'
Maybe the pause was due to the number of satellite links processing the call.
Whatever the reason, the reply was a guarded, 'Yeah? What about them,
Marshall?'
'I'm in the process of drawing up my own contract with a supplier of goods. I
want to insert some tough penalty clauses like those that you favour. I need
the name of a good bailiff in case I have to implement them.'
After another long pause, the American chuckled again. 'You know something,
Marshall? You've got one helluva lot of balls.'
'So I've been told.'
'Trouble is, it makes them an easy target for crushing . . . okay, maybe we
can help. Someone we don't use. You want a UK firm?'
'I don't care who they are. So long as they're good bailiffs.' 'Okay,
Marshall. We'll think about it, maybe we can come up with something. Is your
private fax machine on line?'
'It's always on line.'
'Maybe we'll be in touch, maybe not. I'm going back to my drink and brunette.
Be seeing you.' The channel went dead.
The cryptic conversation puzzled Schnee. He was supposed to be in possession
of every fact and figure on the Bacchus project. He knew who Harrison Calinco
was but none of the mass of documentation in his Nanopad contained references
to penalty clauses.
The fax machine buzzed to indicate that it was answering an incoming call. A
sheet of paper dropped into the collection tray. Marshall grabbed it. There
was no header on the fax: no date and time, no page identifier or telephone
number, nothing to identify who had sent it. But for a UK mobile telephone
neatly hand-written in the centre, it was a blank sheet of paper.
Marshall studied the number and the photograph of Beverley. Christ, the years
had been kind to her. Those crazy little ringlets, anchored down by a
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headband; her full breasts thrusting against her T-shirt. Little had changed.
Even her contorted expression had echoes of the way she looked during moments
of teenage sexual ecstasy. He was about to call the number when he had a
better idea.
'Schnee.'
'Mr Tate?'
'I want a rundown on Beverley Laine's movements, a typical week. I want the
times she leaves for work, the times she leaves for home, the routes she uses
- that sort of thing. The guy who took this picture probably has all the
information.'
'I'll call him first thing in the morning,' Schnee promised.
'You'll go and see him now,' said Marshall curtly. 'We're paying him enough.'
Schnee had had a long day but he knew better than to argue. He glanced back at
the table before he left the office and saw
that Marshall was still staring intently at the photograph of Beverley Laine.
54
Marshall's timing was excellent. After all, he was accustomed to directing
action scenes. The difference was that this time there was no camera and the
acting was down to him. Luckily there was a gap in the traffic that enabled
him to drop his road map and accelerate his Ferrari out of the lay-by the
moment Beverley Laine's BMW nosed out of the turning ahead. That lovely,
unchanged face that he remembered so well was actually looking straight at
him. He flashed his headlights and touched the brakes.
The ruse worked. Beverley thought he was giving way to her. She pulled out
onto the main road. Marshall's foot went to the throttle pedal and the two
cars crunched wings. There was a tinkle of glass and plastic debris dropping
onto the road. He saw Beverley mouth an expletive as she pulled off the road.
Marshall released the padded restraints that had tightened then-grip on his
body despite the low speed of the collision and reversed back into the lay-by.
He waited. Let her come to him.
She jumped out of her car, examined the damage, and marched purposefully
towards Marshall's Ferrari. There was a grace and suppleness in her movements
that heightened Marshall's sense of anticipation of what was to follow,
provided everything went according to plan. He saw no reason why not; women
were malleable toys. He lowered his window.
'All right,' said Beverley aggressively. 'You had right of way, but you
flashed me as you pulled out of the lay-by, so I turned.'
'I most certainly did not flash you,' Marshall replied. His low sitting
position gave him an excellent view of her hips and thighs. 'I went to blow my
horn but you swung across in front of me.'
'You flashed your headlights!' Beverley protested angrily. 'You were parked in
that lay-by so it wouldn't have hurt you to have waited a few more seconds,
for God's sake!'
'I may have accidentally flashed the headlights when I went to
sound the horn,' Marshall admitted. 'But it's you who should've waited. You
turned in front of me.'
'But you flashed your headlights, twice!'
Marshall opened his door and got out. He smiled and saw the confusion in
Beverley's eyes. She had recognized him. Well, that was only to be expected,
he had appeared on television often enough. 'Perhaps you were dazzled by the
sun?' he inquired politely. 'It was certainly shining off your windscreen.'
'Matt Tate ..." Beverley muttered weakly. 'Jesus Christ, I don't believe it.'
Marshall pushed back his lank blond hair and adopted a suitable puzzled
expression. 'I'm sorry ... Er ... miss is it? But you have me at a decided
disadvantage.'
Her reply was a shocked whisper: 'Beverley Laine. Remember me, Matt?'
55
Marshall mapped out his affair with Beverley with the precision of one of his
carefully-crafted shooting scripts. First there was the question of
restricting access to the set.
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'She knows your fat face,' Marshall told Schnee. 'Therefore you stay away from
the flat at weekends and you don't come near the place unless I say. You don't
phone me or anything. If you need to get in touch, you drop me a fax and you
don't sign it and don't put anything on it about the Bacchus project. You
understand?'
Schnee agreed that he understood.
Marshall's careful planning paid off. The scenes with Beverley went off better
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