way through the jostling crowd, and he realized that this was his driver.
âConor Molloy? Charley Rowley! Weâre going to be working together. Fucking awful traffic this morning â thought I was going to miss you!â
âThe flight came in a little early, I guess. Pilot said we had a strong tailwind,â Conor replied, taking an instant liking to the manâs cheery nature.
They shook hands. Although Charley Rowley was also only in his thirties, from the way he was puffing and perspiring he seemed badly out of shape. Ignoring Conorâs protest, he wrestled the baggage cart away from him and began pushing it across the concourse.
The American hurried along in pursuit, holding his shoulder bag, containing his laptop computer, which he had not let out of his sight on the journey. âIt was good of you to come â you neednât have worried â I could have taken a cab.â
âThe Directors wouldnât hear of it! BS is very big on the personal touch. Youâve heard the slogan âThe Worldâs Most Caring Companyâ? Well, that applies to its staff as well as its customers.â
Conor detected the note of cynicism. âYeah, well, itâs still good of you to give up a Saturday morning.â
Rowley sniffed and said with a grin, âYah, I think so too!â
As he accompanied Rowley through the exit and into the car park, Conor was careful not to say too much. No one was to be trusted.
No one
. He had waited twenty-five years for this opportunity, had worked himself into the ground to get the qualifications, and finally pulled off what he had once thought to be an impossible goal. He was aware that his motherâs fears for his safety were wholly justifiable, and he did not underestimate the intelligence, the resources and the sheer power of what he was up against. He knew that with just one slip he could lose his chance for ever â and very probably his life.
âShit!â Conor looked around his apartment with a broad grin. âThis is all mine?â
Charley Rowley nodded.
Conor walked across the living-room floor and stared out of the window. He could see right across Hyde Park to the hazy silhouettes of South Kensington beyond. The morning sun glinted like foil on the dewy grass; he saw a jogger, and a woman walking a string of assorted dogs. Traffic poured down the Bayswater Road beneath him. It made a different sound from the traffic in Washington; there it was the tramp of rolling tyres, here it was the grinding roar of trucks, and the diesel rattle of idling taxis.
âGreat view!â He stifled a yawn and wished he hadnât drunk so much on the plane, nor smoked so much. Nerves. His nerves had got to him on the flight. Now his brain was muzzy and a sharp band of pain ran down the centre of his forehead. He felt unwashed and grungy, and was aware of the smell of his body through his crumpled shirt; his trousers had rumpled and his feet felt sweaty from spending the night inside his insulated boots. But in spite of that he was on a high right now, adrenaline running.
He fancied strong coffee and a cigarette, but decided to be careful about the cigarette; Charles Rowley might not smoke and he didnât want to start off giving a bad impression. At least that was one compensation about living alone: he no longer had to worry about someone elseâs health fascism.
Since splitting up with his live-in girlfriend eighteen months back, heâd been enjoying the luxury of not having to sneak out into the street whenever he fancied a smoke, or write down the units of alcohol he drank in a daily log. He looked forward to the possibility of a sexual fling with someone in England, but not an emotional relationship. He was going to need all his wits about him in the coming months, and wanted minimum distractions.
âThat view gets even better in mid-summer,â Rowley said, âwhen the crumpet lies out there
âConor Molloy? Charley Rowley! Weâre going to be working together. Fucking awful traffic this morning â thought I was going to miss you!â
âThe flight came in a little early, I guess. Pilot said we had a strong tailwind,â Conor replied, taking an instant liking to the manâs cheery nature.
They shook hands. Although Charley Rowley was also only in his thirties, from the way he was puffing and perspiring he seemed badly out of shape. Ignoring Conorâs protest, he wrestled the baggage cart away from him and began pushing it across the concourse.
The American hurried along in pursuit, holding his shoulder bag, containing his laptop computer, which he had not let out of his sight on the journey. âIt was good of you to come â you neednât have worried â I could have taken a cab.â
âThe Directors wouldnât hear of it! BS is very big on the personal touch. Youâve heard the slogan âThe Worldâs Most Caring Companyâ? Well, that applies to its staff as well as its customers.â
Conor detected the note of cynicism. âYeah, well, itâs still good of you to give up a Saturday morning.â
Rowley sniffed and said with a grin, âYah, I think so too!â
As he accompanied Rowley through the exit and into the car park, Conor was careful not to say too much. No one was to be trusted.
No one
. He had waited twenty-five years for this opportunity, had worked himself into the ground to get the qualifications, and finally pulled off what he had once thought to be an impossible goal. He was aware that his motherâs fears for his safety were wholly justifiable, and he did not underestimate the intelligence, the resources and the sheer power of what he was up against. He knew that with just one slip he could lose his chance for ever â and very probably his life.
âShit!â Conor looked around his apartment with a broad grin. âThis is all mine?â
Charley Rowley nodded.
Conor walked across the living-room floor and stared out of the window. He could see right across Hyde Park to the hazy silhouettes of South Kensington beyond. The morning sun glinted like foil on the dewy grass; he saw a jogger, and a woman walking a string of assorted dogs. Traffic poured down the Bayswater Road beneath him. It made a different sound from the traffic in Washington; there it was the tramp of rolling tyres, here it was the grinding roar of trucks, and the diesel rattle of idling taxis.
âGreat view!â He stifled a yawn and wished he hadnât drunk so much on the plane, nor smoked so much. Nerves. His nerves had got to him on the flight. Now his brain was muzzy and a sharp band of pain ran down the centre of his forehead. He felt unwashed and grungy, and was aware of the smell of his body through his crumpled shirt; his trousers had rumpled and his feet felt sweaty from spending the night inside his insulated boots. But in spite of that he was on a high right now, adrenaline running.
He fancied strong coffee and a cigarette, but decided to be careful about the cigarette; Charles Rowley might not smoke and he didnât want to start off giving a bad impression. At least that was one compensation about living alone: he no longer had to worry about someone elseâs health fascism.
Since splitting up with his live-in girlfriend eighteen months back, heâd been enjoying the luxury of not having to sneak out into the street whenever he fancied a smoke, or write down the units of alcohol he drank in a daily log. He looked forward to the possibility of a sexual fling with someone in England, but not an emotional relationship. He was going to need all his wits about him in the coming months, and wanted minimum distractions.
âThat view gets even better in mid-summer,â Rowley said, âwhen the crumpet lies out there
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