‘You leave her out of this – we’ve been separated for the last eighteen months, as you’re probably aware, given you’ve been spying on me – and she knows nothing about this research.’ Peter stepped closer to the other man and lowered his voice. ‘And if you’re going to threaten me or my family, then you can piss off.’ Peter began to turn away.
‘Doctor Edgewater, I’m sorry you feel that way inclined,’ said David. He took hold of Peter’s arm. ‘I’ve been asked to convey the message that you tread very carefully. Some of the comments you’ve been making during your lecture tour could be construed by others as being inflammatory, at least.’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘Have you received any threats in recent weeks?’
Peter shrugged the other man’s grip off his sleeve. ‘Apart from the one you just gave me? No.’
David looked at him. ‘I hope you’re telling me the truth, Peter. I am not a threat, and I don’t like being lied to – my superiors are actually very concerned for your safety. If you get yourself into trouble before we’re ready to make a move against this organisation, you’re on your own – I certainly can’t vouch for your safety. We’d much rather work with you than against you.’
‘Thank your superiors for me, David. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting to go to.’ Peter brushed past the other man and walked down the ornate steps to the door, heart racing.
He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the busy street. He looked both ways, willing himself not to start panicking. The lecture notes and research were in an envelope in his briefcase.
Call it instinct, but he’d decided from the outset of his lecture tour in Europe he’d need a back-up plan. He expected the conglomerates and organisations involved in blocking the research would sit up and take notice, but this was suddenly becoming more extreme than he’d bargained for.
As he hurried along the street, he raised his umbrella and pushed past commuters heading out to lunch. He turned left at the intersection, careful not to slide on the wet pavement. He spotted the post office on the other side of the road and tapped his foot while he waited for the traffic lights to change. He stepped back as a bus splashed past him. He couldn’t help a surreptitious glance over his shoulder.
He was convinced he saw David Ludlow standing with a woman, watching him from a distance, but the crowd shifted and he lost sight of them. An electronic zap brought him to his senses as the pedestrian crossing lights flashed green and he hurried across the street. Increasing his pace, he hurried along the street to the post office and pushed the door open, lowering his umbrella and nearly knocking over a young mother and her child. ‘P-pardon, Madame,’ he stuttered as he held the door open for them.
The woman glared at him with the child’s face echoing hers. Peter closed the door and turned to the counter. He breathed a sigh of relief – the lunchtime rush hadn’t yet started.
He opened the briefcase against his leg and slid out an envelope. After checking the seal was secure, he took a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled an address on the outside.
As he paid the postage to send the package, Peter turned and glanced up out the post office window as a woman passed by. He was sure it was the same person he’d seen standing with David Ludlow.
He swallowed, and felt a drop of sweat streak down the side of his face. This was real. It was really happening. A thought raced through his head – I was right! It did nothing to calm him. If people really were following him, it meant his research was correct and he had to protect that.
Peter moved over to a corner of the room, away from the growing queue and took out his mobile phone. Scrolling through the contact list, he glanced outside the window again. No-one there. He found the name he wanted, hit the send button and waited for the connection.
Dammit! It went straight to voicemail.
‘Dan, it’s Peter here. I think I’m in trouble. I-I don’t know who else to call. I’m in Paris at the moment. I’m going to get a train back to Ashford this afternoon then I’ll drive up to Oxford to do the last lecture tomorrow. I’ll call you after the lecture. I’ve no idea where you are these days so I’ve sent some information to Sarah – it’ll explain everything. I don’t know if I’ll be able to. If I don’t make it, please go to her – and be careful who you give the information to or discuss it with. I’ve already received some threats I didn’t think were serious, but after today, I’m beginning to think my life’s in danger. I’ll call you as soon as I can.’
Hanging up, Peter realised his hands were shaking.
‘Events continue to prove the rush for precious metals is real. People continue to struggle against multi-national takeovers of their gold mines, with more and more control of these resources being lost to foreign organisations. Further, takeovers are little-publicised affairs, despite the size of the organisations involved. More importantly, it would seem it is the coal, oil and gas companies seeking to control the precious metals market.’
Extract from lecture series by Doctor Peter Edgewater, Paris, France
Brisbane, Australia
Morris Delaney stood with his hands clasped behind his back, and looked out of the smoked glass office window. Below, he could see people dashing backwards and forwards across the busy intersection. Ants, he thought. No – cockroaches.
Tall, broad shouldered, a slight limp was the only indication of his old rugby-playing school days. He ran his hand through his white hair, still thick after all these years and cut slightly longer than his contemporaries. He tipped his head backwards and heard a satisfying crack as a muscle stretched. He grimaced, conceding that over the past few years he’d spent too much time in an office instead of being outside, getting his hands dirty.
He glanced down at the reproduction paddle-steamer going up the river, the late afternoon sun casting its shadow along the embankment as it went along, full of tourists clamouring for a three-course buffet dinner. He snorted with amusement.
His gaze shifted to the plaza below, where a small group of protestors gathered around the entrance to the building, their sad placards flapping in the breeze coming off the river. Down with Delaney. Wind not Coal. Coal Equals Global Warming. Apparently the London office was attracting the same sorry bunch of misinformed members of the public.
Delaney didn’t mind protestors – any publicity was welcome as far as he was concerned – it gave him an opportunity to go to the media and explain to the masses why the environmentalists had it so wrong and then publicise his latest mining acquisition.
He glanced down at the newspaper on his desk and smirked. The Mail always misquoted him. He tossed it into the bin. He knew his facts, even if the journalists didn’t.
Only three years ago, the UK government had received information from one of its key advisors that the country would be facing blackouts within the next five years as the old coal-powered power stations were decommissioned, because the wind and solar plants wouldn’t be operational in time and gas was so expensive. Delaney shook his head in wonder. The public always wanted renewable energy – as long as the wind farm or solar array wasn’t built next door. It made it so much easier for organisations like his to continue touting coal as the fuel of choice. Dirty, yes, but so what? Coal was still cheap, it was safe – and there was plenty to go around, not to mention export opportunities.
He noticed the reflection in the glass of his office door opening as his secretary knocked and entered the office, her high heels silenced by the thick carpet.
‘What is it?’
‘A new report from the mine – it just came through.’ She held up an envelope and stood in the doorway, hesitant.
He nodded to his desk. ‘Leave it there; I’ll get to it in a minute. Any surprises?’
‘I- I didn’t read it.’
‘Good,’ he growled. He knew how secretaries in the small city networked and gossiped; it was a strict policy at the organisation that access to senior managers’ post and emails was never provided to admin
istration staff. Still, he figured it didn’t hurt to check and keep them on their toes on a regular basis. ‘Leave it and get out.’
The secretary placed the package where he indicated then turned and quickly walked out of the office, closing the door quietly behind her. Delaney wandered over to his desk, ripped open the envelope and scanned the pages of the report.
The equipment development had been going well. Now the extraction method had been perfected and scaled upwards, the schedule was going smoothly. Building the entire operation near the existing coal mine had ensured the process hadn’t raised suspicion.
A piece of notepaper protruded from under one of the reports. Removing a fountain pen from his jacket pocket, Delaney drew out the notepaper carefully with the nib of the pen. He had a team of security agents which monitored all reporting about his company. More diligent than a typical press agency, his agents also monitored conferences, lectures and government campaigns. If anything threatened the reputation or success of his organisation, it was brought to his attention.
A vein on the side of his head began to pulse as he read the message. His fingers tightened on the file cover. Pulling out the notepaper completely, he read it again before he picked up his phone, dialled a three-digit number then slammed the receiver back down. No need to say anything – his number would be displayed at the other end. No-one asked questions. They came when they were summoned.
A minute later, a knock on the door preceded a small man, buttoning up his jacket and straightening his tie.
Delaney waited until the door was shut. Glaring at the other man, he walked around his desk and sat down, the chair creaking under his weight. He left the other man standing nervously in the middle of the room, shuffling uncomfortably on the carpet.
‘Who have we got in Europe at the moment, Ray?’
The other man visibly sweated as he wracked his brains. ‘Um, that would be, um, Charles, Mr Delaney. That is, er, if we’re talking about someone you need to kill.’
Delaney pressed his fingers against his lips. ‘Shhh, Ray. Never mention that word in here, or anywhere else in my presence.’
Ray nodded, sweat patches beginning to show under his arms, despite the air-conditioning. ‘Right, Mr Delaney. Of course.’ He changed his weight from leg to leg.
‘Where is Charles at the moment?’ asked Delaney.
Ray pulled out a palmtop computer and ran a sequence of numbers. ‘London. Just arrived from Berlin.’ Ray put the device away and nervously played with a ring on his left hand. ‘He’s the source of the information you’ve just received from us,’ he added.
‘Is he trustworthy?’
Ray nodded again, more enthusiastically. ‘Oh yes. Loves his work. That is, he’s very dependable. Tidies up nicely too.’
Delaney smirked. ‘Perfect. Tell him to get to Oxford. There’s a conference there I want him to attend tomorrow. One of the presenters is starting to become a bit of a pain. Tell Charles to get a feel for what this guy’s movements are.’ He scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Ray. ‘Tell him to phone me on this number once he’s had a chance to speak with Doctor Edgewater and be ready to accept orders directly from me.’
Ray almost ran across to the desk and took the note from Delaney. Retreating to the middle of the room, he opened his mouth to speak then thought otherwise.
‘What is it, Ray?’
The other man looked at the piece of paper, then at his boss. ‘There’s a ten-hour time difference between here and London at present, Mr Delaney.’
Delaney glared at the small man. ‘Wake him up.’
Ray nodded and retreated as quickly as he could from the room. As the door closed, Delaney got up and turned, looking out the window. He closed his eyes, replaying the plan in his mind.
Nearly three years of extensive research in a remote area of central Queensland followed by six months perfecting the sequence. Only two months remained until everything fell into place. He opened his eyes and glared down at the protestors.
It couldn’t come soon enough.
‘Someone is buying and, moreover, stockpiling the world’s gold supply. In the current climate and demand for oil, gas and uranium, the sale and purchase of this valuable commodity is overlooked by analysts again and again. We must ask ourselves, why? Why is this not being highlighted, pursued, or investigated? Here, today, we seek to rectify this.’
Extract from lecture series by Doctor Peter Edgewater, Oxford, England
Oxford, England
Peter closed his eyes and tilted his head back, stretching his neck muscles, glad to be home. He felt he could smell the history of the building surrounding him while, in the next room, he could hear the audience finding their seats, the soft clink of wine glasses as they greeted colleagues, calling to each other, laughter.
‘It never loses it, you know.’ The voice broke his reverie.
‘What?’ He opened his eyes, and looked around for the source of the interruption.
‘Sorry – didn’t mean to startle you.’ A man leaned against one of the pillars, smiling. ‘I meant the atmosphere of the place – it’s always here.’ He walked towards Peter and held out his hand. ‘Charles Moore.’
Peter shook it, then looked around him once more. ‘You’re right.’
‘I take it you were a student here?’ Charles enquired. He took his glasses off and began to polish them.
‘Yes. Although it seems a lifetime ago these days – you?’
‘Cambridge I’m afraid,’ Charles smiled apologetically, put his glasses back on and wandered over to the archway which led to the lecture theatre and peered through.
‘Are you planning on talking to this lot today?’
Peter nodded, joining him. ‘Yes. I’ve just completed a small lecture tour around Europe and the college asked me if I’d like to take part in the inaugural New Year lecture series before the university term begins. It seemed a fitting way to finish my tour.’
Charles turned to him. ‘Has the lecture tour been well received?’
‘Not bad. I enjoy the conversations afterwards actually – travelling can be a bit monotonous. I got the opportunity to talk with quite a few people about my research. You know, compare facts and the like. Always good to know what other academics think – and some of the students. It helps to gauge what reaction the published article will have.’
Charles’ face visibly hardened. ‘Published article?’
Peter nodded enthusiastically, not noticing the man’s changed demeanour. ‘Yes – the feedback from the lecture tour has been so good, I’m discussing publication of the research and lecture notes with a few people, the press included.’
A figure appeared in the entrance to the lecture hall. ‘Doctor Edgewater? You’re up next.’
Peter nodded. ‘I’ll be right there.’ He turned and offered his hand to Charles. ‘Nice to meet you – I’d better go.’
Charles shook Peter’s hand and stepped back. ‘Good luck with the article, Doctor Edgewater. I’m sure it’ll be a fascinating read.’
Charles watched Peter enter the lecture hall, then turned and walked down the hallway to the exit. As he left the building and walked down Parks Road, he pulled a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a sequence of numbers.
Brisbane, Australia
The city lights cast an orange glow over the river, as ferries and high-powered catamarans carried the last of the late-night diners home. A faint breeze moved through the humid air while the occasional frustrated car horn or siren broke the enveloping silence across the business district.
On the eleventh floor of the skyscraper, Morris Delaney opened the door to his office and ushered in his guest.
Stephen Pallisder was a tall, broad man. A self-made millionaire, the chairman of a large national rail organisation, he had few friends, but had many politicians on his payroll and enormous influence nationally. He also had a reputation for a short temper and an unforgiving fury. Overweight, the product of too much fine wine and di
ning and very little exercise, he eased himself into one of four leather armchairs, sighed, loosened his tie and put his feet up on the low coffee table in front of him.
‘Jesus, Morris, when did it become so fucking fashionable to be a tree-hugger?’
‘Blame Al Gore – I do,’ said Delaney, ‘I even had one of Helen’s nieces lecturing me at the weekend about clean coal technology being the equivalent of a low-tar cigarette.’
Pallisder laughed. ‘I hope you wrote her out of your will first thing on Monday.’
Delaney grinned. ‘Well, her university fund just mysteriously stopped being paid. Not that I ever understood what she hoped to achieve with a degree in bloody drawing. Surely it can’t be that hard.’
Delaney pushed a brochure across the table to Pallisder.
‘There you have it. With my new mine coming on line and your railway commissioned last month, the shareholders will be happy and we’ll blow away the competition at the conference. I expect we’ll have quite a few offers for new investment by next week.’
Pallisder nodded as he looked at the glossy presentation promoting the joint venture between the two men. ‘Good work. I’ll have my marketing team send you some up-to-date material for that promotional film too – we sent a film crew up there last week to do some aerial shots from a helicopter, you know, the sweeping camera angles over a fully loaded coal train – good for the Australian economy, the usual messages.’
Walking over to a mahogany cabinet, Delaney picked up two crystal tumblers and a decanter. ‘Drink?’
‘Make it a large one. Apparently the traffic’s backed up all the way to the Bribie exit so there’s no point leaving town for another hour. Lucy will kill me for being late again,’ said Pallisder.
Delaney carried the drinks over and sat in the opposite armchair. He chuckled. ‘I do believe you’re officially under her thumb.’ He handed a glass to the other man and raised his in a toast. ‘To plans going well.’
White Gold: (A Dan Taylor thriller) Page 3