Алистер Маклин - Prime Target

‘Well, first of all,’ Conway said, ‘let me give you the details of what we offer, and what we expect in exchange from our clients.’

Total anonymity was guaranteed, he said, and Mike would have liked to laugh. Back at UNACO they had the names of every depositor at every one of Luckham’s branches. Security was also guaranteed, first by the unequalled rigidity and fire-resistance of the storage medium, secondly by the intricate locking system, and third, by a series of laseroptic alarms linked to automatic door locks and to alarms in three police stations. There was also extensive insurance cover.

‘What we need from you, Mr Lewis, is a bank’s guarantee that you are good for the seven-hundred dollars monthly rental. We also need three good business references, and your permission to check that you have no criminal record or criminal affiliations – you appreciate this last is a formality which is insisted upon by our insurers.’

‘Well, fine, but there’s a snag in there,’ Mike said, and he saw Conway’s eyes harden a fraction. ‘I need your protection now, I mean right now, this very day. Early this evening I have to fly to Asia on business, and I must know these–’ he patted the briefcase, ‘are completely safe in my absence.’

Conway cleared his throat delicately. ‘It would take exceptional measures to secure a box for you today, sir.’

‘But is it possible?’

‘I can’t say I would hold out much hope.’

‘Can I short-circuit this?’ Mike said. ‘I believe you have a regularly adjusted and updated record of safe bets, isn’t that so? A confidential list, two hundred men and women in commerce who can be trusted no matter what. Am I right?’

This was shaky. Depending on how Conway stood on confidentiality, he might deny the existence of the list.

‘Well, now.’ Conway cleared his throat again. ‘The list you refer to is intended to be a record of guarantors and referees whose opinion of others we would accept without question. Are you saying that you wish to cite someone on the list as a character referee?’

‘Yes, I do. But I also want to point out that I’m on the list myself. Or so I believe.’

‘Frankly, Mr Lewis, I don’t see how you could know such a thing.’

‘Please accept that no one deliberately told me,’ Mike said. ‘In business, at the level of sensitivity where I operate, important secrets occasionally become transparent by sheer accident.’

Conway got to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me for a few minutes, Mr Lewis…’ He turned to go, then turned back. ‘Could you give me the name of the other person, the one you wish to cite as referee?’

‘Kenneth Ross.’

Conway noted the name and went away. Mike waited, imagining what was happening. Conway would go to a secure computer. He would open the special database of 200 names, initiate a search, and lo, under the name of Brett Lewis, there would be a picture of Mike. Attached to it would be a glittering business pedigree; appropriate electronic signatures would appear on a short status profile declaring him to be a man of solid-gold probity.

The search of Kenneth Ross’s name would bring up a picture of Alan Flint, a character actor whose talent for faces was in regular demand at UNACO. The fictitious Ross, like Lewis, would have a shining business lineage, hybridized from several genuine histories. The work had still been underway as Mike left the UN Secretariat building.

When Mr Conway called the number on the secret file to check Brett Lewis’s credentials – a formality, but Mike would bet he’d do it anyway – the Kenneth Ross who would come on the line would be C.W. Whitlock himself, ready and able to spin a line that would charm the keys off a jailer.

Conway was back in five minutes. His respectful manner now had a much clearer streak of deference.

‘Mr Lewis,’ he breathed, ‘I’m sorry to have kept you. I am happy to tell you that Luckham would be glad to offer you whatever facilities they can, whenever you need them.’

Ten minutes later Mike was alone in a small humidified vault with the ten-by-ten battery of deed boxes. He had been rented number 8, after scribbling his signature on a commitment to rent it for a minimum period of one month. His privacy in the chamber, Conway had assured him, was total. Mike believed that.

As soon as the door was shut he took a pen torch from his pocket and walked along the rows of boxes, shining the torch obliquely on each escutcheon plate, making the engraved numbers stand out.

Emily Selby’s number was on box 29. He slid the box from its nest, put it on the table and unlocked it. He raised the lid slowly, as if something was coiled in there, ready to jump.

He had come with no preconception, but there was less in the box than he had expected. Furthermore, it looked like the kind of stuff that would be found in a shoebox on the top shelf of a closet, not in a high-security deed box. There were old holiday snapshots of Emily and her husband, an early picture of her father and mother with their names engraved on the gilt frame, several small books of children’s stories with the name Emily Lustig written in a childish hand on the flyleaf of each; there were birth and marriage documents, one or two defunct insurance policies, and a sealed white envelope. Mike opened it.

Inside was a photograph of ten people, men and women, sitting in two solemn-faced rows, stiff-backed, under a banner embroidered with the initials JZ, and underneath the initials the legend Gründed 1994. The only other item in the envelope was a cheap notebook with one scribbled entry: 17a Scharweber Strasse, Berlin.

Mike removed most of the articles, apart from the framed picture and the children’s books, and put them in his briefcase. The notebook and the group photograph he put in his inside jacket pocket. There was nothing like being thorough, but he knew the only significant items were the picture and the address in the notebook.

He locked Emily’s box and slid it back into its nest. He took down his own box, opened it, and put in a bundle of newspapers. He had brought the papers for padding, so the briefcase would look the same going out as it did coming in – not that anyone here would suspect a man like Brett Lewis of doing anything underhanded.

As he left the depository Mr Conway appeared from behind his glass panel and walked with him to the elevator.

‘I hope we continue to be of service to you, Mr Lewis.’

Mike smiled and nodded.

‘I think I can safely say,’ Conway beamed, ‘your property could not be safer anywhere.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ Mike said as the doors opened. ‘Good day, Mr Conway.’

As the elevator plummeted, he reflected that one place safer than Luckham’s he could think of, straight away, was his locker back at UNACO. Nobody, so far as he knew, would ever dare open it without authorization, and the contents, if trivial, were still completely private.

Philpott had left messages for Sabrina, Mike and C.W. to gather for a meeting at three o’clock. By 2.55 they were all in the UNACO briefing room. C.W. and Mike sat opposite each other. Again Sabrina had taken the seat adjacent to Philpott’s, but this time on the opposite side of the table. Philpott leaned by the window, leafing through computer printouts. As Sabrina sat down he looked at the clock.

‘So let’s begin.’ He came and sat at the table. ‘This case is taking on an air of urgency, of which more in a few minutes. First we’ll update. Sabrina, tell us what you’ve gleaned on Emily Selby.’

Sabrina summarized what she had learned from talking to Emily’s three former colleagues, especially Dilys Craig.

‘The death on July 20th, 1993, of Emily’s husband and her father, who were her only family, affected her severely. She had cause to believe that the two men died in suspicious circumstances.’