J.G. Ballard - Super-Cannes

'Probably. I'm something of a proselytizer. The middle classes have run the world since the French Revolution, but they're now the new proletariat. It's time for another elite to set the agenda.'

'How did David take all this?'

'I think he agreed. By the way, he visited me professionally.'

'What was his problem? Too much sympathy for the poor and orphaned?'

'I can't disclose that.' Penrose smoothed his silk tie. 'He was a generous man, likeable in a boyish way. But… very repressed.'

'Sexually?'

'A little. I wanted David to be more robust, to strike out more fearlessly.'

'Where?' I gestured at the lake and the sun-filled atria of the office buildings. 'I don't see a rainforest waiting for its Dr Livingstone. He shot ten people. Three of them in the back as they ran away from him.'

'I know. Zander told me about the bullets. That's why I dropped by. I can see you're unsettled.' Penrose chewed on a thumbnail, pensively sniffing the eroded crescent. 'David could be very naive, as he showed with his Lewis Carroll society. He didn't realize that the French see the Alice books as a realistic picture of English life. Eden-Olympia failed David Greenwood, and we paid a heavy price. At least there were only ten deaths.'

'Only?'

'There's a rumour that he planned to kill more than ten people.'

Penrose stared over my head into some private space, and rose heavily from the table. 'I must go. I'll tell Jane you're idling away here.'

'She won't mind. Work is all she thinks about.'

'Paul? That's close to self-pity.' Penrose raised a reproving finger. 'She's running a new computer model, tracing the spread of nasal viruses across Eden-Olympia. She has a hunch that if people moved their chairs a further eighteen inches apart they'd stop the infectious vectors in their tracks.'

'I thought people here were too far apart as it is.'

'Only in some ways. If the dance floor is less crowded you can really do your stuff.' Penrose pumped his arms in an energetic twist that knocked his chair to the floor. He stood behind me, large hands on my shoulders, as if reluctant to leave. 'The dance floor's empty, Paul. Make the most of it. If you want to, pick your tune…'

I listened to the fading burble of his exhaust, and then returned to my scrutiny of the lake. In front of me lay Penrose's debris, the swamped saucer, soaked tissues and coffee-stained sugar sachets. A passer-by would assume that he had been spoonfeeding a child.

A spoon of a notional kind had been pushed towards me, but what titbit lay inside it? I guessed that Penrose was using me to explore the Greenwood murders, to act as his proxy in an investigation he declined to share. Rather too casually, he had thrown in the 'rumour' that there had been other intended victims.

I took the appointments list from my wallet and spread it across the table. I scanned the names, with my scribbled comments identifying their posts at Eden-Olympia. Asterisks marked those who had died.

Alain Delage. CFO, Eden-Olympia holding company.

* Michel Charbonneau. Chairman, Eden-Olympia holding company.

* Robert Fontaine. Chief executive, E-O administration.

* Olga Carlotti. Manager of personnel recruitment, E-O.

* Guy Bachelet. Chief of security, E-O.

* Georges Vadim. General manager, TV Centre, E-O.

* Dominique Serrou. Physician.

* Professor Berthoud. Chief Pharmacist.

Walter Beckman. Chairman, Beckman Securities. Relocated New York City.

Henry Ogilvy. Insurance broker. Ex-Lloyd's syndicate partner. Relocated Florida.

Shohei Narita. President, investment bank. Former Greenwood neighbour.

F.D.?

Pascal Zander.

Wilder Penrose.

Seven of the first eight had been killed by Greenwood, only forty-eight hours after he began to schedule their appointments.

Two of the victims were fellow physicians at the clinic, and Jane had pointed out that doctors arranged to see their colleagues informally. Penrose, moreover, sat in the next office.

Alain Delage headed the list. I remembered that Simone had mentioned their trip to Lausanne. Had they stayed at Eden-Olympia, she told me, they would have witnessed the violent tragedy of the final shoot-out.

But perhaps more closely than she guessed. As I stared at the list I realized that I was looking at a schedule of appointments, but of a special kind. What I had taken from Jane's computer was a selection of targets.

A hit list?

'Monsieur Delage! Could you wait? Alain…!'

I had left the Jaguar a hundred yards from the administration building, in the only free parking space I could find. As I limped between the lines of cars I shouted to the dark-suited figure who emerged from the revolving doors. Except at a distance, exchanging good mornings outside our garages, we had never spoken. Not recognizing my raised voice, Delage lowered his head and stepped behind a male aide. The chauffeur held open the door of his limousine, gloved fist raised warningly at me.

'Alain… I'm glad I caught you.' I stepped past the aide, who was handing a black valise through the open window. He barred my way, but I pushed him aside. The chauffeur's hands gripped my shoulders from behind, and he tried to wrestle me to the ground. I propped myself against the car, held his lapels and threw him against the boot. Then a far stronger pair of arms seized me around the waist, pinning my elbows to my chest. I could feel a security guard's hot breath on my neck. He swung me off balance, kicked my heels away and bundled me to the hard asphalt.

Delage looked down from the window, moustache bristling and pallid eyes alarmed behind his rimless spectacles. Then he recognized the dishevelled Englishman, cheeks grazed with gravel, trying breathlessly to call to him.

'Mr Sinclair? It's you?'

'Alain…' I forced the guard's hand from my chest and drew the appointments list from my pocket. 'Read this… you may be in danger.'

'Paul? Can you breathe? I wasn't expecting us to meet in quite this way.'

Delage stood by the car, blinking at me with concern as he dusted the grit from my jacket. I rested on the passenger seat, leaning against the open door with my feet on the ground.

'I'm fine. Give me a moment.' I tested my knee, relieved that the pins still held. 'Sorry to ambush you like that. There may be a threat to your life.'

'Let's think about your life, Paul. I can call the clinic. Jane will come with the medical team.'

'Don't bother her.' I saluted the security man, still watching me warily, radio at the ready. The chauffeur was limping across the drive to retrieve his peaked cap, which the aide had located under a nearby car. 'I'm glad security is up to scratch. He was quick off the mark.'

'Naturally.' Delage seemed glad. 'After all that happened last May. If you want to kill someone at Eden-Olympia it's best to make an appointment. Now, you spoke of danger?'

'Right…' I opened the crushed printout. 'I took this from a computer in Greenwood 's office. Jane came across it by chance. She doesn't know that I have it.'

'I understand. Go on, Paul.'

'It's a list of names, drawn up by Greenwood two days before the murders. Seven of the people listed he shot dead.'

'Tragic, for them and the families. Every day I thank God we were away.'

'Your name is top of the list.'

Delage took the sheet from me and stared hard at the list with his accountant's eye. He ducked his head in an oddly uneasy way, as if he had just overheard some unpleasant corridor gossip about himself.

'I'm here, yes. Why, I can't imagine.' He folded the sheet, punctiliously using the original creases. 'You have a copy of this?'

'Keep it. It's only a guess, but it may be a target list. If Greenwood had collaborators you could still be in danger.'