New Pompeii (4 page)

“Why not?”

“If this guy is as important as you think, he isn’t going to leave as part of a scrum.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Because it’s going to be chaos up there in a few minutes, Nick. Absolute chaos.”

A thin line of smoke was coiling up from Ronnie’s cigarette. Nick looked up. They were standing beneath a small white box with a blinking red light.

“You ever see how long it takes people to evacuate an old building?”

N
ICK STOOD IN
the forecourt, the sirens finally fading behind him. He felt sick. He also felt ashamed. He’d run like hell as soon as the fire alarm had sounded. His brain had certainly called on him to try to warn the boy – but its instruction had been quickly overridden by the need to get out of the museum. And there was likely nothing he could have done anyway. He’d have arrived just that bit too late. But more than in time to implicate himself.

Shit. It didn’t matter what logic told him, he should have done something.

The other guests were congregating in the forecourt outside the building – their voices merging into a single drone – but it was time for him to leave. He stumbled towards the museum’s gates.

He barely registered a pressure on his shoulder, until the smell of overcooked onions enveloped him. Ronnie was at his side again. He was talking at speed, a new cigarette thrusting back and forth in his mouth, but Nick couldn’t understand the words. The cigarette fell from Ronnie’s lips and on to the ground.

“So, did you enjoy that, gentlemen?”

The voice wasn’t Ronnie’s. It was hard, and had come from behind them. A couple of black shapes closed in from ahead, cutting off their route. Coldness washed over Nick’s face. He turned.

A tall man was standing there. He wore a dark suit, his hair buzz-cut just a fraction too close to his skull. The overall look spelt out “NovusPart security”. But not quite. Although the guy was physically big, his clothes weren’t off-the-peg. The suit was tailored around his thick frame. And he was also about thirty years older than the two men closing the net around them.

“You’re Nick Houghton, right?”

The man beckoned but Nick didn’t move.

“And you are?”

“A friend of Ronnie’s.”

Nick turned. Ronnie was already shrugging an open-mouthed denial, but his eyes were wide, his pupils dilating.

Shit.

“And you’re a friend of Ronnie’s too. Right, Nick?”

Nick found himself nodding as he looked around. The other visitors had all disappeared back inside. Aside from the odd member of staff at the museum doors, they were quite alone.

“We’d like to invite you to dinner tomorrow night.” The man adjusted his footing. He was taller than either Nick or Ronnie, and the movement emphasised the point. However, his tone indicated he wasn’t a simple thug. He was at the very least articulate.

“I’m not interested, thanks…”

The man reached forward with a card. “Eight o’clock?”

“And if we don’t go?”

“Our security team has already arrested four people tonight. Let’s not make it six, shall we?”

K
IRSTEN BLINKED, THEN
shivered. Ice-cold water lapped against her chin. She was back in the bathtub. The police officers were gone. And once more, she was quite alone.

Tap – tap – tap.

I’m going to kill you, bitch!

Kirsten moved her head slightly, turning towards the door. It was open. Wide open. She could see out into the corridor and across it to her room. Had she run a fresh bath? Got back into the tub in some dumb trance?

No. Impossible. Well, at least, very unlikely. She thought back to the police officers. They’d been talking about her disappearance. She could remember it quite clearly. Until it had all been replaced by an incandescent haze. Soft at first, before the whiteness had rushed at her. Until she’d woken. Once more in the bathtub. Once more in the water.

She sat up and pulled herself out in one smooth movement. She stood for a moment or two, water dripping on to the floor. Again, there was no robe. No towel. She took the few short steps into the corridor.

“Hello?”

There was no answer, but at least her words now sounded normal. No longer stretched or distorted. She took a few more steps. She couldn’t hear anything. Suddenly she was at the door to her room. She reached out – and her hand slipped straight through the door handle. It just glided through, with only a tingle and shimmer indicating the difference between air and metal. And then she knew she hadn’t been dreaming.

She was very much dead.

P
ULLING AT HIS
collar, Nick began to regret his choice of suit. The jacket hung loosely from his shoulders. Reflected in the restaurant windows, it gave the impression he was too thin for his height. But the more expensive suit at home in his wardrobe hadn’t helped him win a research post. Perhaps an unthreatening look might be enough to gain him some leniency.

He checked the card again. The name of the establishment was written in a highly stylised flowing font, and hard to read. But he was pretty sure he was at the right place, if only because the address and phone number were printed underneath in a more down-to-earth font.

He hadn’t heard of it before. He didn’t spend much time in this part of London. However, he quickly realised he’d not been invited to some cheap pasta house. Although the windows were steamed up by heat and conversation, the interior looked like a portal back to the 1930s. Fine dining from a very different era.

Nick glanced at his watch, and then back along the street. There was no sign of anyone he knew. Although he had a good view of the inside, he couldn’t see Ronnie. Or the man from the British Museum. He looked at his watch again. He’d arrived early, but not by much. He’d just have to wait.

He sighed. He seemed to have spent most of the last day waiting and worrying. Of course, Ronnie had been a lot more relaxed. As soon as they’d reached the nearest underground station, he’d been talking as if they’d won some sort of victory. His logic was simple, yet seemed a little naïve: since NovusPart had let them leave, they must have been unable to prove they’d been connected to the plot. But that was assuming NovusPart couldn’t just make them “disappear” anyway. And the irony of being worried that Ronnie’s conspiracy theory was correct provided Nick with little comfort.

Inside his jacket, his mobile buzzed. He skimmed through the text message. Ronnie wasn’t coming. Nick typed a response:
Too scared of that NovusPart guy?

Nick stole another glance through the restaurant windows. He didn’t recognise anyone inside but, then again, he couldn’t see all of the tables.

His phone buzzed:
Too scared of your father?

Nick put the phone back in his pocket. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, but Ronnie usually reserved that particular jibe for when he wanted him to do something he shouldn’t. Just like at university. He let a few more seconds pass before glancing at his watch again. Ten to eight. Time to find out what this was all about. Swallowing, he pushed open the restaurant door.

The place was nearly full. A few diners glanced over and allowed themselves a moment of judgement. They no doubt expected to see him ejected pretty quickly and, sure enough, it didn’t take the
maître d’
long to notice his arrival. The man advanced as if trying to shoo a stray cat from his garden.

“Do you have a
reservation
?”

“I’m meeting someone,” Nick replied, keeping his voice low. “My name is Nick Houghton…?”

At the mention of his name, the
maître d’
blinked in surprise, and then adopted a fixed, professional smile. “Of course; we are expecting you.”

Nodding, Nick allowed himself to be led past the other diners and seated at a table near the back of the restaurant, close to the kitchen doors. The position gave him a clear view of the main dining area – but also meant he had to face the crowd. The
maître d’
hovered by his side. It took a moment to realise there were some papers and a pen set out on the table in front of him. Nick glanced at them, and recognised the lengthy, complex constructions of legalese.

“What’s this?”

“If you would sign, initial and date the non-disclosure agreement, sir?”

Non-disclosure agreement? Nick flicked through the documentation. From the contract’s title and opening paragraphs, he guessed he wasn’t to discuss the content of the meeting with anyone. After a moment’s hesitation, he scribbled his name at the appropriate points and was left to sit on his own.

His mobile phone buzzed.

Another message from Ronnie. One word:
Bastard
. Frowning, confused, he deleted it and turned his attention back to the table. It was set for two others. They appeared a couple of minutes later. The tall, well-built man from the British Museum, and the CEO of Novus Particles, Harold McMahon.

Nick stumbled to his feet, but remained completely mute. Harold McMahon. The man was in his fifties, and fat. His hair was black, but clearly dyed. Overall, he looked a long way short of the Machiavellian character portrayed by the press. Still, here he was: sitting down at the table. He didn’t acknowledge Nick’s presence. In contrast, the tall man extended his hand, and gave Nick a warm smile.

“My name is Mark Whelan, Chief Operating Officer at NovusPart. And this is Harold McMahon, our Chief Executive Officer.”

For a long moment, Nick remained frozen. Finally though, he shook Whelan’s hand and sat down. Both McMahon and Whelan sat with their backs to the rest of the diners. The seating arrangement effectively made them anonymous, except that a few feet away stood a couple of security guards. Both of whom were armed.

Nick stared at McMahon, struggling to find something to say which wouldn’t sound stupid. Fortunately, the arrival of the waiting staff covered his silence.

“We took the liberty of ordering in advance,” explained Whelan, indicating the tiny portions of salmon being set in front of them. “News of Mr McMahon’s whereabouts usually travels fast and, as you found out last night, there are certain groups with whom we’re quite unpopular.”

Nick continued to flounder. “I don’t get what this is all about.”

“It’s about the fact that five of your friends tried to pull some sort of stunt last night,” said Whelan. “But you somehow didn’t fit with the rest of the group. In fact, we could only find a connection between you and one of them, Ronald Saunders.”

Some sort of stunt
. So they didn’t know what Ronnie’s pals had been plotting. Something hadn’t gone to plan. “Okay,” he said, feeling some of the tension leaving him. “And the non-disclosure agreement?”

“We don’t expect you to tell anyone about the details of this meeting.”

“Don’t worry,” said Nick. His mind focused on his father. “I won’t.”

“Good, so let’s get straight to the point. We have an opening at our company for a researcher. And then you landed in our laps last night. We’ve seen your CV. You seem to have all the right skills, if not the qualifications.”

Nick was about to pick at some of the salmon, but quickly stopped. Was he hearing right? “You’re offering me a job?”

“That’s correct.”

“After what happened last night?”

Whelan nodded. “Especially after what happened last night.”

Nick looked at McMahon. The CEO of NovusPart still hadn’t contributed anything to the conversation. He seemed uninterested. Sullen. “And you need a historian?”

McMahon rolled some salmon in his cheek, and glanced towards his operations chief. “Not me.
Him
.”

Whelan smiled, perhaps a little embarrassed. Nick’s assessment at the British Museum had been correct. The guy’s physical size clearly hid an active brain. “I’ve already assembled a very good team for our new project. However, we have a last-minute vacancy we’re looking to fill. Initially on a six-week trial period, with a view to a permanent position.”

Nick nodded. “And the others on your team?”

“Most are young men like yourself… but you’ll have heard of Eric Samson?”

Nick blinked, surprised. “
Professor
Eric Samson?”

“Yes.”

“But he was very vocal… I mean, he wrote a series of articles…” Nick felt his words disappear as he sensed he’d said the wrong thing. McMahon, however, just grunted and continued to eat.

“After Flight 391, Professor Samson wrote a series of articles and papers attacking NovusPart,” said Whelan. He didn’t sound concerned. “Just like your father did… before his disgrace.”

Nick flinched. Disgrace. A much more damning assessment than “mistakes”. “My father isn’t one of your biggest fans.”

“I know,” replied Whelan. “He thinks it’s immoral that a private corporation has access to our technology.”

McMahon stirred. “Tough. We developed it.”

“Quite,” continued Whelan. “But we know all this because we do a lot of due diligence, Mr Houghton. And we’re looking to build a very small, select team.”

Nick nodded slowly, trying to buy himself time. Samson was one of those historians who liked to dip in and out of a wide range of periods. But his major interest was alternative history, the TV-friendly stuff. The questions of what might have been:
what if Hitler had died during the Great War; what if the Princes in the Tower had been rescued; what if the Soviets had won the space race?
So it made sense that NovusPart would be interested in him. But still. “Samson works for you?”