‘You’re right.’ She raised her hands in submission. He wasn’t right, and never would be in her book, but she didn’t have the energy to argue with him, and it was pointless anyway. She wouldn’t win. She was just a piece on the chessboard, and right now she had the feeling she was the most expendable of pawns.
‘Are we fucked then?’ Dawson asked quietly.
‘Well that all depends,’ Simpson said. ‘Do you want to save your leader, or this government?’
‘The government.’ McDonnell didn’t hesitate. ‘We can’t let Merchant get in. The man’s a lunatic. If he has power, then this country will really be wrecked.’
‘Then we need to create a viable take-over in-house. Something we can control.’
‘What do you mean?’
Simpson smiled. ‘Of all your Cabinet do you trust Dawson the most?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then he’s who we’ll use to destroy you.’
D
espite what the telephone receptionist had said, The Bank was the business that never slept. The sleek building on the Thames was the hub of all The Bank’s worldwide activities, the nominated head office, although The Bank no doubt owned equally impressive buildings in other cities. Once it had been the MI6 building; now, in Cass’ eyes at least, it was a front for something far more threatening: the Network, with their X accounts and the Redemption file. This was where his brother had worked, lured there by a good job and benefits in a world where both were increasingly hard to come by; before long he’d become inextricably entangled in his own section of the Network’s web. And now he and his wife and the child he’d believed to be their son were dead.
Cass passed the external security guards and through the newly installed metal detectors just inside the sliding doors without incident. He wasn’t carrying a gun – even if he’d been licensed, he wouldn’t have brought one; that kind of weapon was unlikely to do him any good here. His heels clicked on the marble.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ The woman sat behind a long glass desk of black and silver, the colours of the company. She smiled over at him. This wasn’t the same woman he’d spoken to half an hour before. Although undeniably a
beauty, she was in her mid-fifties, older and doubtless infinitely wiser than the young woman who’d answered his call. Her voice has been smooth and professional, but lacked the harder edge of this woman.
Cass didn’t answer her, but stopped in the middle of the vast foyer, ten feet or more from where she sat, tilted up his head and spread his arms wide. Slowly he turned in a circle. From within the large black glass boxroom behind the reception desk – it doubled as a security centre and modern art – two men in dark suits emerged. They stood either side of the woman, watching him cautiously. Cass ignored them as the lights of the embedded security cameras above his head flickered quietly.
A phone buzzed and the woman with the wise eyes answered it. After a moment, she carefully replaced it.
‘Mr Jones?’
Cass stopped his circling and looked at her. ‘You can go up now. I believe you know the way.’ She didn’t smile, but Cass favoured her with a grin.
‘Thank you.’
The clear security gates clicked and opened for him and he headed towards the lift. There were obviously people in the building still working, but the communal areas were eerily quiet. The doors of the lift slid shut behind him. Cass didn’t press any buttons; he’d not be operating this lift. After a moment the central panel between the two banks of numbers lit up green at the edges and the machine purred into life, just as Cass had expected. This ride was taking him to a floor which didn’t exist, and to a man who didn’t feature in any of The Bank’s employment records – the man who had introduced his mother to his father with a smile, and who hadn’t left his family alone since, even now, when they were nearly all gone. He was here to meet Mr Castor Bright.
The lift slowed and pinged its arrival. Cass’s heart thumped and his mouth dried. Nothing had changed. The cherry-red floor still shone in the wash of light from the standing lamps positioned at various points of the room. The opulent Eastern rug still stretched lazily out towards the chesterfields and armchairs in the living area of the vast open-plan space. As he stepped out, Cass’s eyes automatically followed the wide spiral staircase that rose alongside the wall of antique books to his right to the second floor beyond. It was from there that the mysterious Mr Bright had emerged last time Cass visited this place. Tonight, it was empty.
‘Would you like a drink?’
This time the silver-haired man was sitting in a wingback chair, one leg casually crossed over the other, the pressed seams of his tailored suit trousers still perfect.
‘No, thanks. I won’t be here long.’
‘You never are.’ Mr Bright’s sharp eyes twinkled. He hadn’t changed – but then, he hadn’t changed over several decades; why would six months make a difference?
‘You’ve been keeping busy, Cassius.’ Mr Bright put down his own drink, and with a well-manicured hand gestured at the
Telegraph
on the table beside him. Cass looked at the headline. MURDER DISGUISED AS TEEN SUICIDE.
‘I thought you’d be more of a tabloid man,’ Cass said, keeping his tone cool and nonchalant. Mr Bright chilled him to the bone, but there was no way he intended showing it.
‘I always did like your sense of humour.’ Mr Bright smiled. ‘It’s important to keep it. I’ve always tried to keep mine.’ He looked back down at the paper. ‘Suicides. Such a terrible business. Sometimes I think the dead should just be allowed to rest, don’t you?’
‘Most of the time I find the dead can’t.’ Cass glanced across to the far side of the room, where two office doors sat on either side of an unlit modern fire. Both still had bronze name plaques attached, and although he was too far away to read them, he could clearly make out the shapes of the names: Mr Bright on one and Mr Solomon on the other.
‘And if you’re so keen, perhaps you should lay him to rest then. We both saw the crazy fucker die, after all.’
For a brief second, the twinkle in Mr Bright’s eyes hardened to diamond and then he smiled again: all perfect white teeth.
‘I haven’t been here for a while. Trust me, finding someone to fill that office is on my “To Do” list.’ He spread his hands in an elaborate shrug. ‘But I’ve been busy. There’s always so much to do.’
The words were just games, and Cass was getting tired of them. The less time spent around Mr Bright the better, as far as he was concerned.
‘I presume you’re responsible for the ADT wanting me to help find this Porter woman?’
‘It would be pointless of me to deny it.’
‘What does Interventionist mean?’
There was the slightest widening of pupils and a surge of bright gold that obliterated the colour in the sparkling eyes.
It was over in a flash, and while Cass was glad he’d got a reaction, he tried to hide that he’d seen it. Whatever
the glow
was, Castor Bright could control his – maybe that was because he had so fucking much of it. He’d half-answered Cass’s question in that instant, though; whatever the word meant, it was something to do with the Network, just as he’d thought.
‘I want you to find the girl David Fletcher’s looking for.’ Mr Bright got to his feet in one elegant movement. ‘I need
to know who’s behind this business. It really shouldn’t be too taxing; I just need you to inform me of anything you find that you think’ – he smiled again, one eyelid dropping in a quick wink – ‘might interest me.’
‘Why do you need me? Are you losing your touch?’
‘It would be very foolish of anyone to think that.’ He strolled over to the window, then turned to face Cass. ‘I trust you, Cassius Jones, despite yourself, and for reasons you don’t yet understand. The others have never thought of you as important. I, on the other hand, have always liked to hedge my bets and play the numbers.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Cass growled. Being around Mr Bright always ended up making his skin burn with anger and frustration and disbelief. He wanted to get back into the grimy real world, where people lived and died, and no one else gave much of a shit about it.
‘I need someone on the outside who knows a little bit about the inside. Someone who’s not a fool – someone who is part of everything – and that, of course, would be you, Cassius Jones. It always has been.’
‘Then you’re the fucking fool. I’m not going to help you – I’d rather cut my own right hand off.’
Mr Bright laughed, ice tinkling in a glass of warm spirit. ‘Let’s hope I don’t hold you to that.’ He sighed. ‘Of course you’ll help me. I wouldn’t have involved you if I wasn’t sure of that.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because—,’ and Mr Bright smiled cheerfully, ‘—you won’t find Luke without me.’
Cass’s blood chilled and the world shattered a little at the edges. ‘What?’
‘This hunt you’ve started: it’s pointless.’ The smile
stretched and Mr Bright’s white teeth glinted. It was a shark’s smile.
Cass had heard the expression before; fuck, he’d used it himself, but he’d never
felt
it like he did in that moment.
‘If you do this for me,’ Mr Bright continued, ‘then I’ll tell you who gave Luke up.’
‘You have him, don’t you?’ The words were grit in his mouth.
‘Does this place look child-friendly?’ Mr Bright gestured around him. ‘But help find the girl and I’ll tell you what happened that night.’
‘Maybe I’ll find out myself.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Mr Bright’s voice dropped. ‘You don’t even know if he’s alive or dead. Only I can tell you that.’
‘You bastard.’ Cass’s lungs tightened. He didn’t want to breathe the same air as Mr Bright.
‘I’ve been called many, many things over many, many years.’ Mr Bright kept smiling. ‘One day you’ll understand that all of this has been in your best interest, despite some of the unfortunate incidents along the way.’
‘
Unfortunate incidents?
’ Cass’s blood was so far past boiling it felt like ice. ‘My brother is fucking dead.’
‘To be fair,’ Mr Bright said, then paused to sip his drink before continuing, ‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘You’re a cunt.’ The world shimmered as Cass spat the word out, and his vision sharpened. Heat fled from his eyes.
‘It’s good to see the real you is still in there, Cassius. Look at that Glow.’
There is no glow
. His eyes burned.
‘I won’t help you.’
‘Yes, you will.’ The sentence was sharp and hard. ‘Because I know where Luke is.’
For a moment, gold filled the room, bathing everything
it touched in its light. Cass wasn’t sure where his ended and Mr Bright’s began. He didn’t know where
he
ended and Mr Bright began. With a gasp, he swallowed the colour back down again. His skin cooled. The lamps faded, as if aware they could never compete with that unnatural light and so no longer saw the point in making any attempt to dispel the gloom.
When the world had settled back to normality, Mr Bright pulled a card from his pocket and handed it over. It was thick and textured and expensive, and on it was embossed a mobile number. There was no other information.
‘Let me know about anything that comes up that I might wish to hear of. And trace that number if you want, but your time would probably be better spent on other things. It won’t give you any information on me.’
‘I’m not interested in you.’
‘Of course you are.’
Cass turned and headed towards the lift. ‘I wouldn’t
bank
on it.’
Tinkling laughter followed him. ‘Very droll.’
‘I don’t trust you,’ Cass said as the lift doors opened. ‘What if you’re lying?’
‘I never make offers I haven’t thought through, Cass Jones. And I haven’t lied to you. And to be fair, you really don’t have any choice, do you?’
‘There’s always a choice, Castor Bright,’ Cass said. ‘We just don’t always like the options.’
Mr Bright was still smiling when the doors closed, separating them. With trembling hands Cass quickly stored the number on the card into his phone and saved it as ‘A’ for anonymous – he didn’t want to key Mr Bright’s name into his phone; that would be almost as if they were friends, and
he felt Judas enough for what he knew he was going to do without adding that to it.
He screwed up the card and let it drop to the floor, not wanting to touch what Mr Bright had given him for any longer than necessary. There was no point in tracing the number; Cass had believed him when he’d said it wouldn’t lead anywhere. But if Mr Bright thought Cass was going to give up his own chase for Luke, then he was very, very wrong. He had the leads; he was damned well going to follow them. Until he had something of his own to go on, he’d play Mr Bright’s game. He didn’t give a shit about Network business anyway.
The bright foyer was still empty as he strode through. He didn’t acknowledge the woman behind the desk, just kept walking until he was safely back out in the night. He didn’t look back, and he certainly didn’t look up. Brian Freeman’s advice from so long ago had no place here.
He waited until he was around the corner and out of sight of the building’s security cameras before pulling out his phone. Of course Mr Bright knew he would be calling Fletcher, but the idea of the man watching him from a window as he did it grated on him. He felt dirty enough as it was.
Fletcher answered on the second ring.
‘I’m in,’ Cass said.
‘What made you change your mind?’
‘My sense of social responsibility.’ He hung up. And then sighed. Ahead of him, the old tramp perched on the low street sign, his legs crossed in a poor imitation of Mr Bright’s elegance. The lower foot tapped on the pavement, a gentle drum beat, and he grinned as he played. The tune was light and cheerful as if this were early May, and the tramp would be spending a night in a five-star hotel after dinner at the Savoy. It was old-school music from a bygone era of top
hats and tails. Cass wondered if life had been simpler then. He doubted it. Most people probably just had to walk more and work harder.
‘Evening, officer.’ The tramp’s voice was still gravel and earth. ‘You taking your place in the game?’