Money Run (2 page)

Keighley nodded. “Go ahead.”

“What does AU stand for?”

Keighley laughed. “It doesn't. It's the chemical symbol for gold.”

Duh, thought Ash. I should have remembered that from school.

“Pretty soon Mr. Buckland decided to start a bricks-and-mortar bank,” Keighley was saying. “HBS National. It cost more to run than AU, so it couldn't offer as high an interest rate, and a string of high-profile robberies of other banks forced us to increase security expenditure soon after it was formed. But it held out, and now flourishes in conjunction with AU.”

Ash nodded. Her AU account was attached to her HBS National account, so she knew all about that too. But she hadn't wanted to interrupt Keighley again.

“And now Hammond Buckland Solutions is one of the world's biggest and most successful multinational corporations,” Keighley concluded. “It has more than one million employees worldwide and an estimated worth of $4 billion.”

“How much money does Mr. Buckland have?” Ash asked.

Keighley sighed. “Why did I know you were going to ask that?”

“You get that question a lot?”

“Kids always ask.” He shrugged. “I don't know his net worth any more than he knows yours – it's private information. But
Business Review Weekly
estimated his personal fortune at $2.2 billion last year. Good enough?”

Ash smiled. “Excellent speech. Thank you.”

“And here we are.”

They were facing two large doors, panelled with what looked like oak. The handles were gold plated, but the doors didn't look glamorous – they had a sparse, vault-like simplicity.

There were two security guards, one on either side of the door. Their uniforms were a sharp grey, with a yellow square on the right shoulder of each – the HBS logo. Their faces were as expressionless as those of the Buckingham Palace guards.

Keighley glanced at his watch. “We've still got a couple of minutes to spare,” he said. “Take a seat.”

Ash sank into one of the giant black couches lining the walls. A clock on the wall read 4.28 p.m. Keighley sat behind a desk, identical to the one she'd seen him at before. He turned to the computer and brought up a half-finished game of Minesweeper – Ash wondered if it was the same game he'd been playing on the other screen.

She slipped her phone out of her pocket and hit SEND. The phone silently dialled Benjamin's modem, and connected. She switched the keypad to LOCK and pocketed the phone. Now Benjamin would be able to hear everything Hammond Buckland said when she was in his office.

The phone on Keighley's desk rang; two beeps and a chirp. Keighley poked it.

“Send Miss Arthur in,” the speakerphone said. The voice was flat and distracted. Ashley recognized it from an interview she'd watched on TV – it was Buckland.

Keighley minimized Minesweeper and tapped out a combination on the keyboard. The huge doors emitted a muffled clank.

Keighley nodded to her. “Whenever you're ready.”

Ash stood up, and smoothed her blouse down at the front. She tilted her head from side to side, cracking her neck, like a tennis player preparing to serve. She walked to the doors, took a deep breath, and pushed.

I hate government jobs, Michael Peachey thought.

He was waiting outside HBS in the white Ford sedan that had been provided for him. Through the tinted windows he watched pedestrians bustling back and forth, other drivers drumming their fingers on their steering wheels. A window washer finished wiping the first pane of the top floor, lowered his platform a level, and started on the one below. The HBS logo shone high above, a surrogate sun for the overcast day.

He checked his pocket watch. Ten past four. Damn government, he thought.

When a gang hired him, a tattooed thug would give him a cash advance in a darkened back alley. That was fine. When it was a corporation, he would usually get a call on a secure line, or an encrypted email. That was okay. But when the government wanted his services, it got so complicated. They demanded disguises, intermediaries, false names, code words, foreign accounts. They wanted control over everything.

They had forbidden Peachey to enter the building before 4.15.

Peachey was wearing a dark grey suit. Not expensive, not cheap. His hair was cropped short, and had a touch of wax. His five o'clock shadow was only visible close up. His tinted glasses were small. He looked average in every way. Anyone who noticed him would forget him before he left their field of vision.

He was supposed to wait for the girl to arrive before going in. She was Buckland's last official appointment of the day, so if she didn't turn up, Buckland might actually leave his office before Peachey could reach him. He had told the government agent that this wouldn't be an issue. He was good at improvising. But she had insisted. “We will accept no departure from the plan,” she said. “Deviation will incur penalties.”

When Peachey had met the agent, he wasn't supposed to know who she was. But he did. Her white gold watch had the letters TW engraved on the face. There were nineteen government employees in this state with those initials. Only eight of those were women, only three of those were high up enough to be assigned to him, and only one of those had Korean ancestry.

All of this was on the public record. Thanks to the Freedom of Information Act, the government wasn't allowed to conceal the identities of its employees. Peachey could have walked right in to the federal police building and asked for a list.

Her name was Tania Walker, and until recently she'd been an operative for Terrorism Risk Assessment. She'd left active duty in TRA to become a “consultant”. Peachey knew what that meant. She was in charge of off-the-books jobs, operations that the government couldn't afford to be linked to.

Jobs like this one.

Peachey had watched the girl talk on her phone for more than five minutes before going in. This was already a deviation from the plan. She was supposed to walk right in and keep Buckland there.

Maybe she would get caught in the crossfire later. He smiled at the thought.

When the glass doors slid shut behind her, Peachey climbed out of the Futura. For once, he didn't bother wiping his fingerprints off the interior surfaces. One of the benefits of working for the government, he thought, is that they short-circuit any investigation afterwards. Sometimes they even find a scapegoat. They protect you from the police. They have to, in order to protect themselves.

He strolled in through the glass doors. Like he worked there. Like he
belonged
there. That was his gift. He could blend in anywhere.

He had no bag to put through the X-ray machine. The metal detector didn't pick up the gun in the holster under his arm. It was a Glock 7, German made, high-density ceramic rather than metal. Expensive and undetectable. The explosive residue sniffer didn't pick it up either – it had never been fired. The holster was a complex tangle of leather and plastic, customized to the gun and his ribs so there was no visible bulge under his suit. Good for a quick draw, too, although the straps made reholstering it a little clumsy.

When he was inside the lobby, the silver-nailed receptionist greeted him and accepted his cover story with a minimum of fuss. Yes, Mr. Buckland was expecting him. Yes, he could go straight on up. Peachey kept his hands mobile: smoothing his lapels, silently clicking his fingers, roaming slowly across the desk. This was a habit of his, designed to draw her gaze away from his face. The receptionist printed out his name tag and told him that Buckland's office was on the twenty-fifth floor. He thanked her and headed for the lifts.

My name is Michael Peachey, he narrated in his head. I'm a hit man.

Peachey stepped into the lift and pushed the button. Keeping his head low and his arms by his sides, he gave the mirror his best sociopathic stare. Lips slightly parted, showing teeth. Head bowed, eyes steely.

Perfect. Exactly how an assassin should look. Peachey continued talking to his imaginary audience as the doors slid closed.

I put the same three shots into every victim. Torso left, torso right, head. In the decade I've been doing that, I've never missed. There's an index of the world's top fifty assassins, judged on experience, success rate and skill with their chosen weapon. Known as The List, it's on a server in a basement in Beijing, but you can access it from anywhere in the world if you have the contacts, the money and a password. Last time I checked, I was number three. Number two was Jeremy Quay, number one was Alex de Totth – and I happen to know that Quay is dead.

Someday Peachey planned to write an autobiography. He had enough money to buy a new identity and vanish – it wouldn't be hard, given that few people knew his name and even fewer knew his face. He'd move to another country, and send the book to a publisher. They'd print it, because it would be well-researched, his writing rich with details. Plus he wouldn't ask for royalties. How could he, without compromising his new identity? But then someone would buy the film rights, and he'd show up at the audition. Just a no-name actor from somewhere in South America. And he'd get the part, because who could play Michael Peachey better than Michael Peachey?

This dream was unlikely to come true, of course. Most days it all just felt like idle fantasy. But today it seemed close. He had a good feeling about this job.

I know Quay's dead because I killed him, he recited. It wasn't out of rivalry – it was just business. Someone hired him to kill a very rich woman. She found out, hired me, and I killed Quay before he could get to her.

Shame. He was a nice guy, for a contract killer.

As for de Totth, well, she took a big job about six months ago. No word from her since, and I figure the government tried to hire her to kill Buckland before contacting me. They have access to The List, and they can afford the best.

This is a risky business. You don't hear from someone in six months, chances are you're never going to again. Given that the government didn't hire her for this job, I suspect I'm now the number one.

Peachey hummed along with the soundtrack to this part of his imagined movie – a crunching, echoing beat, and a growling synth to build up tension.

A few other people entered the lift on the eighth floor. A young man, chatting on his mobile phone. A dark-suited woman, tapping immaculate nails against the wall. A middle-aged guy wearing huge glasses.

The numbers on the screen scrolled up. The biggest set represented the floor this lift was on, but there were smaller numbers on either side, telling him which floors the other lifts were on. He wondered why anyone would need to know.

The doors slid open, and he stepped out onto Buckland's floor. There was a curly-haired guy sitting behind another reception desk.

“Hi,” the guy said. “I'm Adam. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ford.”

“Call me Joseph,” Peachey said. “I'm here to negotiate the sale of Syndicate Studios. Is Mr. Buckland—”

“Yes, your secretary called ahead,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Buckland is looking forward to meeting with you to discuss the matter. He's otherwise engaged just now, but has you booked in for five o'clock. So if you'd like to follow me…”

Just like Walker said it would be, Peachey thought. He followed the receptionist down a wood-panelled corridor speckled with obnoxiously bright paintings. It smelled of carpet cleaner. They passed an emergency stairwell, a few conference rooms and a bathroom. Peachey took particular notice of the stairwell. This was a long corridor – after killing Buckland he probably wouldn't want to run all the way to the other end and wait for a lift. Taking the fire stairs seemed like a much better idea, particularly as they should be deserted.

He grinned. Actually, maybe he should set off the fire alarm, making the stairs horribly crowded. He could blend in, disappear, and have a coffee across the road as he watched the HBS employees line up outside, pleasantly surprised by the forced early finish. He'd taken to staying nearby for a coffee after his assignments were complete, partly because he was a caffeine addict, but mostly because the coffee shop next door was the last place the police ever searched for a murderer.

“Been working here long?” Peachey asked. Mundane conversation might distract the receptionist enough to leave no lasting memory of his appearance.

“Why does everyone ask me that?”

“You're cheerful. Corporate life hasn't crushed your spirit.”

The receptionist laughed. Peachey read his name tag: KEIGHLEY.

“Well, give it time,” Keighley said. “But I have to say, it's been fairly easy so far. Main reception downstairs finds out who's who, security up here deals with anyone who doesn't do what they're told. Nothing left for me to do but show up on time, look respectable, and lead people from one end of this corridor to the other.” He grinned. “And, of course, act cheerful. Here we are.”

Peachey stared past the two security guards to the huge oak doors. They more or less ruled out killing Keighley and the guards before being admitted. He'd never be able to break them down, and he lacked the tools to pick the lock. He'd have to preserve his cover for a little longer.

Keighley went behind his desk and pulled what looked like a price-tag scanner out from under his desk, and tapped a few keys on the computer. He approached Peachey. “Hold still for a second.”

Peachey tried to look relaxed as Keighley reached towards him with the scanner and pointed it at the name tag. He didn't like being this close to people who weren't clients or targets. But he told himself that Keighley was staring at the name tag, not his face – and that he'd probably have to kill him on the way out anyhow.

The gun made a faint hiss, and Keighley took it away.

“What was that about?” Peachey asked.

“I just activated the barcode in your tag. If security ever approaches you, just hold out the tag so they can scan it. The tag tells them your name, your business here, and which floor you're not allowed above, and the barcode proves it's legit.” Keighley smiled. “The floor numbers are the same as the security levels, and you're allowed to be on any floor up to your level. You're a temporary level 25, obviously.”

Peachey doubted this would be useful to him; in a few minutes he planned to be well past handing his tag to guards to scan. But he smiled. “So I'm not allowed to go to the roof, then?”

“Not a lot to see up there,” Keighley said. “A big cube, and about a million cigarette butts. Take a seat.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Mr. Buckland will see you in a few minutes.”

Peachey removed his pocket watch from his breast pocket. He'd never been able to own wristwatches, because he had thick wrists and very narrow hands. Watches fell right off, unless he tightened them so much that he lost circulation. The pocket watch was annoyingly distinctive, but he told himself that his appearance was so bland that witnesses would remember the watch rather than him.

He settled in to wait.

Buckland's office was less like an office than the foyer of a resort. Chilled daylight poured through wall-sized double-glazed windows. A few convincing ferns stroked the air by the air vents. An apparently original Giger hung on the wall, a carefully measured stain of darkness amongst the polished hardwood panels – a marked contrast to the cheery prints outside. There were shelves of bottles and glasses and a bench with a sink. Maybe Buckland invited people here for parties as well as meetings. An empty scuba suit stood in the corner. Ashley's eyes widened as she turned – there was a large spa to the side, with cornflower-blue water lapping at the pale tiles around the edge.

Despite this, the room had a lived-in feeling. A long overcoat hung from a hook behind the door. A briefcase leaned against the wall. There was a dish on a side table with a wallet and keys sitting in it.

“I spend as much time here as at home,” Buckland said from behind his desk. “Why confine my luxuries to night-time?” He stood up and offered his hand. “Good to meet you, Miss Arthur.”

“Call me Ash,” she said as she approached. She'd seen him on TV a few times over the past three or four years, on a couple of magazine covers, and on ads for his various companies and products. He looked smaller in real life, the way most famous people do. Something about their epic fortunes, Ash thought, their massive influence, their huge reputations and tremendous houses makes you feel like they should tower over you, like you should be in their shadow. But when you meet them in the flesh, they're people-sized. Buckland's outstretched, latte-coloured fingers were only a little longer than hers. His golden-brown eyes were level with hers, and he was only stooping a little.

“Congratulations on an exquisite essay,” Buckland said.

Ash grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

“I didn't expect to read an entry that matched my own thoughts on the issues so precisely. Was that your aim, or just a fluke?” He sat down again. “You've already won, so you can be honest.”

“Coincidence, sir,” Ash said. “I'd been researching the issue before the competition was announced, so I thought I'd go with my strengths.”