Alchemist by Peter James Page B

resulting from his work. And Monty was earning more than double the subsistence wage she had previously been eking out of Bannerman Genetics.
    So what was behind the letter? Was it simply a mistake? Some goof-up of internal communications? Or was this wherethe glib promises of Sir Neil Rorke and Dr Vincent Crowe all terminated? The end of the line.
    In half an hour she would find out.
    She put the letter in her handbag, then turned her attention to the stack of CVs on her desk. Her father was busy hiring, increasing the size of his team during the next twelve months from thirty-five to two hundred. He had made up a hit list of graduates, postgraduates, postdocs, and research fellows to head-hunt. And he was obviously enjoying himself; it made a big change from turning people down or, worse, letting staff go because he couldn’t afford them. For the first time since her mother’s death Monty considered him happy, and she wanted it to stay that way.
    At five to eleven she put on her double-breasted navy jacket and picked up her handbag. She still hadn’t got used to the luxury of an office of her own. It wasn’t big by any standard, but the only fault she could really find was not having an external window. The temperature was pleasant and the air did feel fresh, even vibrant, but she had the same slightly claustrophobic sensation she always experienced when inside enclosed places.
    She walked past the male security guard seated at his console in front of the lifts. But these lifts went no further than the forty-eighth floor, and only a Director with a smart-card could summon the express lift which went beyond. She had been instructed to ask the guard to call it, which he did.
    God, the Directors are paranoid!
she thought.
What are they frightened of? Industrial espionage? Terrorists? Animal Rights? Cranks?
    As she waited she thought fleetingly of the American who had travelled up in the lift with her that morning, and smiled privately to herself, remembering the expression on his face when she had caught him preening himself.
    He was a good-looking guy, but no doubt typical of the men whom she had met here so far. There seemed to be an abundance of rather precious types who took themselves far too seriously, as if working for Bendix Schere had elevated them quite beyond the status of ordinary mortals.
    A sharp ping announced the arrival of the lift and she stepped in. Moments later, the bronze doors opened and she was back in the same anteroom, with its weird abstracts, where she had come with her father for their first meeting with Rorke and Crowe.
    A door opened as she waited in the reception area and Rorke’s private secretary, a draconian-looking woman with flame-red hair, informed Monty that Sir Neil was ready to see her.
    Rorke came to the door of his office himself, hand outstretched, and a smile which instantly made her feel he was genuinely glad to see her.
    She shook the fleshy hand warily, remembering from past experience the steely hardness of his grip. ‘Good morning, Sir Neil – I appreciate you taking the time to see me.’
    â€˜Always time for you, my dear.’ He gestured her to sit in one of the comfortable chairs grouped casually around a coffee table well away from his desk, making her feel a little thrown by the informality. It had been several months since she had last seen him, but he was unchanged, his face just as rubicund, his black hair as flamboyantly long as before, and he was dressed in one of the loud chalk-striped suits and kipper ties that seemed to be his trademark.
    â€˜So tell me,’ he said. ‘How’s it all going?’
    â€˜Well,’ she said hesitantly, not wanting to start off by launching straight into her proposed attack, ‘it’s been going extremely well. Although the whole process of the move is taking much longer than we thought.’
    He brought his hands together and interlocked his fingers. ‘I understand from Dr