Читать книгу The Manhattan Puzzle - Laurence O’Bryan - Страница 20

Isabel heard heels tapping across a floor. Then another voice came on the line. A woman’s voice. A voice she didn’t recognise.

‘Sorry, Mrs Ryan, Sean isn’t here. George asked me to tell you.’

Her balloon popped.

Anger threatened like a sudden storm.

‘But George said he was there two seconds ago. He went to get him.’

There was a long pause.

‘Sorry, Mrs Ryan, George was mistaken.’ She sounded like a doorman telling some loser she couldn’t get in to their club.

‘Please, can you check again? Sean is supposed to be in a meeting there now.’

There was a pause. This one was longer than the last. Isabel wanted to shout at the woman.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ryan, I have to go. Your husband is not here.’

‘Can I speak to George?’ She wasn’t going to get any sense out of this woman.

She replied instantly. ‘Sorry, Mrs Ryan, George is out for lunch. Was there anything else?’

‘But I just spoke to him!’

‘He’s gone out now.’

The conversation was coming to a quick halt. But there was one other thing she had to find out.

‘Was Sean in at all today?’

‘I don’t know, Mrs Ryan.’ She sounded irritated.

‘Okay.’ Isabel cut the call.

The activity light on Sean’s laptop was going mad. The Wi-Fi light was blinking. They had night-time only updates set on their machines. There shouldn’t be any Wi-Fi access going on that wasn’t user initiated.

She checked what processes were active. There was one taking up 90 per cent of CPU time. She killed the process. What the hell was going on? They had the best antivirus software in the world.

She checked to see what data streams had been active. It took her a while. The result caused a chill to pass through her. Someone had, in the last few minutes, taken a copy of a document from a folder called TAKEOVER.

She opened the document. It was a three-page executive summary of technical and data protection issues relevant to the Institute’s facial recognition project, to be resolved in the event of a takeover of BXH by a non-EU or -US entity.

She felt like a spy, thought about closing the document, but there was the possibility that it had something to do with Sean’s disappearance.

The second page was a list of EU and US data protection regulations that would need to be complied with in the event of a takeover. The third page contained a list of the bank’s officers who were to be tasked with ensuring compliance with these laws.

The final paragraph made an icy chill move up her spine. ‘There are significant data protection risks to the proposed merger. The identification and tracking of criminals, suspects, politicians, law enforcement and government officials will be greatly enhanced with widespread identity-validated facial recognition. Laws created to prevent privacy breeches can be circumvented, as previously described (BHZC124566/8.odm). There are significant state security implications to the project in its current form.’

She looked at the date of the document. It had last been saved the previous morning before Sean had gone to work. She checked his email sent box. He’d emailed it to a long list of BXH staff, minutes after it had been saved. The next thing he’d done was to come down and have breakfast with her.

She tried to remember what he’d been like. He’d seemed distracted, that was for sure. She looked at her watch. It was twelve fifteen. The second hand was moving fast, as if it was trying to tell her something.

Had George really seen Sean at BXH? Why hadn’t he told her Sean wasn’t there himself? Was Sean dealing with whatever had made him make that warning? She balled her fist, pushed it against her lips. It was a nervous habit she used to do in uni. She moved her hand away. She wasn’t going back to those days.

She should go to the bank, ask to see him. She closed her eyes. There was something depressingly familiar about all this. Rose had told her about one of the BXH wives who had arrived at the bank’s offices one day the previous summer and had demanded to know if her husband was in the building, after being told by an assistant that he wasn’t there.

Apparently he’d stood her up.

The security manager at BXH’s reception had relented under the woman’s you’ll-have-to-arrest-me-if-you-want-me-to-leave glare and had told her that her husband was in the building and that he would personally find him. Isabel had been shocked at the story at the time, and glad that Sean wasn’t the type of person who just disappeared.

And now she was going to the bank on a similar mission.

She opened her eyes. Okay, let’s get it over with. At least she could get there quickly. Sean always bragged about how it only took twenty minutes on the underground from Sloane Square to get into work.

She ran down the stairs. She could be there and back by two thirty, maybe earlier, if she went straight away.

She knew exactly where his office was in the BXH building too. She’d been to a reception that the bank had given six months earlier. Sean had pointed down a wide, fawn-carpeted corridor to the door behind which he worked. The atmosphere had been hushed in the whole building, as if they had giant machines sucking away noise in every corner. Should she text him, she wondered, as she picked up her leather shoulder bag, tell him she was coming?

No.

She smiled. He hadn’t bothered finding a phone to let her know what had happened to him. He deserved her turning up at his office unannounced.

No doubt he’d have some merger-related excuse; the project was collapsing or whatever. And maybe she would forgive him, eventually, but he was going to find out how pissed off she was, right down to the soles of his shiny black Loake shoes.

Sabrina simply smiled at her when she’d told her where she was going.

Outside, the wind was even icier. She glanced at Rose’s house as she passed. It looked dead, except for a light on upstairs. Had she taken Alek to the movie? She didn’t have time to find out.

At Canary Wharf station the metallic grey escalators were crowded. The steel and glass canopy above seemed to be holding up the gunmetal clouds as she came up to street level.

She could sense people getting ready for the weekend, for their Friday night out. No matter how many offices were gutted by redundancies, there was always an appetite for a good time in London. If anything, she’d heard it had increased in the past year, as people threw caution to the four winds.

This was BXH’s world.

As she crossed the road on Bank Street, past the gleaming towers of fund managers and little-known banks, she shivered as the ice-sharpened wind cut into every exposed piece of skin. What does this say about our marriage if I have to go to his office to find him?

As she came up to the BXH building she noticed the airplane-wing shape of a black Mercedes S-Class standing at the curb. A trickle of white smoke was slipping from its exhaust.

Paul Vaughann had an S-Class. As she passed the vehicle she gave it a quick glance.

There was someone in the back. Her snow-blonde hair was hard to miss. It was Vaughann’s wife, Suzanne. She was staring at her.

She didn’t nod, or shown any sign of recognition. Was she surprised? No. They’d met only once. That time she’d had the demeanour of an ice sculpture too.

She was probably waiting for her husband to come out of the BXH building. With the bonuses he’d notched up in the last few years there wouldn’t be any change in their lifestyle, whatever happened about the merger.

She felt underdressed as she entered the marble and glass canyon-walled reception area of BXH, but she didn’t care.

The place had been designed to look like the home of money. Intimidated was how you felt in other, lesser institutions. Here the feeling was of total awe. There was a hush in the air, broken only by the click of heels, a big shiny gold logo filled the far wall, and the smell of money, of leather and sweet marble polish, was hard to ignore.

She waited in line, like a supplicant, at one of the queues in front of the reception desk. There was a group of five, mainly Chinese, businesspeople in front of her.

They were muttering among themselves. They looked sleekly prosperous in their well-cut suits and shiny hair. The security guards on each side of the reception desk overseeing the glass turnstiles, which were the real access points to the building, looked like heavyweight boxers.

Behind the reception desk there were four model-type receptionists, all wearing black uniforms and with TV-advert hair. They must have spent half their spare time keeping themselves glossy.

It was her turn.

The girl behind the desk smiled, her pencil-line eyebrows raised, as if she too was surprised to see Isabel standing there in her fashionably torn jeans and slightly distressed suede jacket, but she was far too polite to say.

‘Can you ask my husband, Sean Ryan, to come down, please?’

Isabel returned the girl’s smile with equal insincerity. She had emphasised the word husband. She knew that for many of these receptionists the pinnacle of achievement would be for them to marry one of the bankers who slipped past their desks every day with few sideways glances.

‘Certainly, Mrs Ryan. Please wait over there.’ The receptionist pointed at a cluster of black leather sofas to her right. They weren’t in the best position in the foyer, the Chinese were occupying that, but it wasn’t the plumber’s entrance either.

She went to her allotted place, anxiety burrowing through her gut, as if it was trying to break out.

‘Please be here,’ she whispered to herself.

She watched the elevators. If Sean were to appear, a worried smile on his face, she’d be tempted to hug him, but she might just hit him instead. Hard too. He deserved it. Every time one of the elevator doors opened her nerves jangled. And every time it wasn’t Sean, her heart contracted as if an angry hand was squeezing it. She saw a few faces she knew from the reception they’d been to, announcing Sean’s project was going live. None of them gave her a second glance.

Then the buzzer the receptionist had given her, a thick credit-card-shaped thing, was making a noise in her hand.

She stood. A woman she didn’t know was talking to the receptionist.

She was waving at her. Isabel hurried towards her.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ryan, your husband isn’t here. We’ve checked.’ Her smile was sweet, like a goodbye kiss.