by Jack Heath
The numbers on the screen scrolled up. The biggest set represented the floor this lift was on, but there were smaller numbers on either side, telling him which floors the other lifts were on. He wondered why anyone would need to know.
The doors slid open, and he stepped out onto Buckland’s floor. There was a curly-haired guy sitting behind another reception desk.
“Hi,” the guy said. “I’m Adam. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ford.”
“Call me Joseph,” Peachey said. “I’m here to negotiate the sale of Syndicate Studios. Is Mr. Buckland—”
“Yes, your secretary called ahead,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Buckland is looking forward to meeting with you to discuss the matter. He’s otherwise engaged just now, but has you booked in for five o’clock. So if you’d like to follow me…”
Just like Walker said it would be, Peachey thought. He followed the receptionist down a wood-panelled corridor speckled with obnoxiously bright paintings. It smelled of carpet cleaner. They passed an emergency stairwell, a few conference rooms and a bathroom. Peachey took particular notice of the stairwell. This was a long corridor – after killing Buckland he probably wouldn’t want to run all the way to the other end and wait for a lift. Taking the fire stairs seemed like a much better idea, particularly as they should be deserted.
He grinned. Actually, maybe he should set off the fire alarm, making the stairs horribly crowded. He could blend in, disappear, and have a coffee across the road as he watched the HBS employees line up outside, pleasantly surprised by the forced early finish. He’d taken to staying nearby for a coffee after his assignments were complete, partly because he was a caffeine addict, but mostly because the coffee shop next door was the last place the police ever searched for a murderer.
“Been working here long?” Peachey asked. Mundane conversation might distract the receptionist enough to leave no lasting memory of his appearance.
“Why does everyone ask me that?”
“You’re cheerful. Corporate life hasn’t crushed your spirit.”
The receptionist laughed. Peachey read his name tag: KEIGHLEY.
“Well, give it time,” Keighley said. “But I have to say, it’s been fairly easy so far. Main reception downstairs finds out who’s who, security up here deals with anyone who doesn’t do what they’re told. Nothing left for me to do but show up on time, look respectable, and lead people from one end of this corridor to the other.” He grinned. “And, of course, act cheerful. Here we are.”
Peachey stared past the two security guards to the huge oak doors. They more or less ruled out killing Keighley and the guards before being admitted. He’d never be able to break them down, and he lacked the tools to pick the lock. He’d have to preserve his cover for a little longer.
Keighley went behind his desk and pulled what looked like a price-tag scanner out from under his desk, and tapped a few keys on the computer. He approached Peachey. “Hold still for a second.”
Peachey tried to look relaxed as Keighley reached towards him with the scanner and pointed it at the name tag. He didn’t like being this close to people who weren’t clients or targets. But he told himself that Keighley was staring at the name tag, not his face – and that he’d probably have to kill him on the way out anyhow.
The gun made a faint hiss, and Keighley took it away.
“What was that about?” Peachey asked.
“I just activated the barcode in your tag. If security ever approaches you, just hold out the tag so they can scan it. The tag tells them your name, your business here, and which floor you’re not allowed above, and the barcode proves it’s legit.” Keighley smiled. “The floor numbers are the same as the security levels, and you’re allowed to be on any floor up to your level. You’re a temporary level 25, obviously.”
Peachey doubted this would be useful to him; in a few minutes he planned to be well past handing his tag to guards to scan. But he smiled. “So I’m not allowed to go to the roof, then?”
“Not a lot to see up there,” Keighley said. “A big cube, and about a million cigarette butts. Take a seat.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Mr. Buckland will see you in a few minutes.”
Peachey removed his pocket watch from his breast pocket. He’d never been able to own wristwatches, because he had thick wrists and very narrow hands. Watches fell right off, unless he tightened them so much that he lost circulation. The pocket watch was annoyingly distinctive, but he told himself that his appearance was so bland that witnesses would remember the watch rather than him.
He settled in to wait.
Buckland’s office was less like an office than the foyer of a resort. Chilled daylight poured through wall-sized double-glazed windows. A few convincing ferns stroked the air by the air vents. An apparently original Giger hung on the wall, a carefully measured stain of darkness amongst the polished hardwood panels – a marked contrast to the cheery prints outside. There were shelves of bottles and glasses and a bench with a sink. Maybe Buckland invited people here for parties as well as meetings. An empty scuba suit stood in the corner. Ashley’s eyes widened as she turned – there was a large spa to the side, with cornflower-blue water lapping at the pale tiles around the edge.
Despite this, the room had a lived-in feeling. A long overcoat hung from a hook behind the door. A briefcase leaned against the wall. There was a dish on a side table with a wallet and keys sitting in it.
“I spend as much time here as at home,” Buckland said from behind his desk. “Why confine my luxuries to night-time?” He stood up and offered his hand. “Good to meet you, Miss Arthur.”
“Call me Ash,” she said as she approached. She’d seen him on TV a few times over the past three or four years, on a couple of magazine covers, and on ads for his various companies and products. He looked smaller in real life, the way most famous people do. Something about their epic fortunes, Ash thought, their massive influence, their huge reputations and tremendous houses makes you feel like they should tower over you, like you should be in their shadow. But when you meet them in the flesh, they’re people-sized. Buckland’s outstretched, latte-coloured fingers were only a little longer than hers. His golden-brown eyes were level with hers, and he was only stooping a little.
“Congratulations on an exquisite essay,” Buckland said.
Ash grinned. “Thank you, sir.”
“I didn’t expect to read an entry that matched my own thoughts on the issues so precisely. Was that your aim, or just a fluke?” He sat down again. “You’ve already won, so you can be honest.”
“Coincidence, sir,” Ash said. “I’d been researching the issue before the competition was announced, so I thought I’d go with my strengths.”
Buckland looked sceptical. “You were researching tax law problems for global corporations recreationally?”
“I plan for them to be my problems someday, sir.”
“Interesting. Is that because you want to own a corporation, or because you want to be a tax lawyer?” He gestured at the chair opposite his desk. “Take a seat. And there’s no need to call me sir.”
“Thanks, Mr. Buckland.” Ash sat down. The city sprawled out in front of her, uncaring and powerful, looming behind the windows like a shark in a tank.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Buckland said. He leaned forward. “You don’t want to own a major corporation. Trust me.”
Ash stared at him. “That seems a strange thing for you to say.”
“Who’d know better than me?”
“You didn’t get this far by accident.”
“No, you’re right.” Buckland turned his chair sideways, and gazed out at the city. “I didn’t.”
There was a pause. “So you built your empire,” Ash said, “and now you don’t want it any more?” She smiled. “Can I have it?”
Buckland laughed. “That’s what I’m saying. You don’t want it.”
Ash wasn’t sure what she’d expected from this conversation. But this wasn’t it. When she was a child, her mother had t
old her that money was the most important thing in the world, because it could be traded for almost anything. Money bought success, and respect, and happiness. Ash hadn’t imagined that a billionaire like Hammond Buckland would disagree.
“Statistics dictate that I will live for roughly another forty years,” Buckland was saying. “Divide $2.2 billion by forty, and you know what you get?”
Ashley frowned and thought for a minute. “Roughly $55 million?”
Hammond Buckland raised his eyebrows. “Exactly $55 million. Your maths is as good as your writing.”
“Just a lucky guess, Mr. Buckland,” she said. Maybe Benjamin was starting to rub off on her.
“Well anyway, my living expenses are nowhere near $55 million per year. Like most people, I’d settle for a nice home, a big TV, a holiday once a year, and a car that always starts. That would cost only a fraction of my savings. In fact, I’m currently earning money at a much faster rate than I could possibly spend it. I’m forced to save.”
“Lots of people would kill to have that problem,” Ash said.
“You’d be surprised how small a consolation that is. What’s the point in having money you can’t use? I spent my whole life lusting after wealth, and I didn’t think about what I’d do when I had it until it was too late.”
“But why is that such a problem?”
Buckland sighed. “Because I can’t buy back the things I had before I was rich. Anonymity, for instance. My face isn’t that famous, but I can’t sign a cheque without being stared at, or called a liar or both. And companionship – I can’t make friends, or go on dates. Anyone I get close to will either be trying to exploit me, or they’ll be at risk of being abducted.”
“Have you thought about giving the money away?” Ash asked.
“To a stranger on the street?” Buckland shrugged. “Their bank would never be able to cash the cheque. Unless they were with my bank, and I don’t even know what would happen there. It’d be like a snake eating its own tail. And I can’t sell the company, either – no one can afford to buy it for what it’s worth, and if I try to sell it for less, the stock market will collapse.”
“I meant to charities,” Ash said. “Becoming a philanthropist.”
“I’ve tried that. It’s hard to find charities that won’t spend it on advertising or converting people to their own cause. And even with the good ones, it turns out there’s only so much they can use. If you give a charity with too few resources too much money, they drown in it. The imbalance makes them collapse. It ends up being way more effective for me to build my own homeless shelters, send food to Africa myself, buy my own sections of rainforest for conservation. And I’ve been doing all these things, but my fortune keeps growing. I’m not spending enough. And the government tries to stop me.”
“The government?” Ash and Benjamin had researched the influence of governments on the rich and vice versa for the essay, and hadn’t come across anything to suggest that wealthy individuals were discouraged from donating to charities. “Why?”
“Because I have no family or friends,” Buckland said. “And as such, I have no legal will. If I die, the running of the company goes to the various people below me on the ladder. But my majority holding of shares in HBS, my personal possessions and all of my savings will go to the government. So they want me to stay as rich as possible, so someday they can have it all.”
Ash’s eyes widened. “Doesn’t the government have way more money than you anyway?”
“Our nation is wealthy, but not so wealthy that my fortune is negligible to the economy. Particularly with our foreign debt, and the war costing us billions.”
“And they’ve tried to stop you from donating to charity?”
“They try to stop me spending any money on anything,” Buckland said. “Particularly anything overseas. They don’t like my money leaving the country. At first they arranged special discounts for me on local products, equipment, labour, whatever. When they realized I didn’t care, they started putting huge tariffs on foreign things so that it’s impractical for me to have any connection to any kind of business outside our country.”
“Are they allowed to do that?”
“They never do it directly. From time to time I get singled out by another big company as someone you shouldn’t trade with, and I can see the government pulling the strings above. When they can’t do that, they change the law so it stops everyone from doing what I was trying to do. That way I can’t claim bias.”
“But no one else notices because no one else is rich enough to be able to do those things anyway?” Ash tried to keep the cynicism out of her voice.
“Exactly,” Buckland said. “So here’s my advice: don’t get greedy. Think about your goals before you make them. And when you reach the finish line, don’t just keep running out of habit. Take a moment to rest, be proud of what you’ve accomplished, think about how lucky you are. Otherwise you’ll wake up someday and realize you’re working yourself to death for a life you never really wanted.”
Ashley rested her hands on his desk. “So what are you going to do?”
“Me?” Buckland smiled. “I’m leaving the country. Tomorrow. I’m changing my name and going to a place where no one reads Business Review Weekly.”
The scuba suit made more sense now – although Ash wondered why he had it out already. “Really? I hadn’t heard that.”
“Of course not. It’s a secret.”
“Won’t the government try to stop you?” Ashley stared at him. “Doesn’t that kind of interfere with their plans for your money?”
“Let them try,” Buckland said. “But there’s nothing they can do.”
Why is he telling me this? Ash thought. He doesn’t know anything about me.
“Anyway, here’s your cheque,” Buckland said. He handed Ash an envelope. “Ten thousand dollars; congratulations. Any plans for spending it?”
“Nope. I’m putting it in my AU account,” Ash said. “I’ll have earned $350 interest by the end of the year.”
Buckland frowned. “You mean $700, don’t you?”
Ash winced inwardly. She was splitting the prize money with Benjamin, but Buckland wasn’t supposed to know that.
“Yes,” she said, “of course. Sorry, I’m just excited.”
“And here,” Buckland said, rummaging through his desk, “is a voucher entitling you to two regular coffees. You can either use it at the café downstairs, or at any coffee shop on this street – I own them all.”
He handed her a card in a little plastic wallet. “I know I’ve just given you enough money for about three thousand reasonably priced coffees, but the cheque will take a couple of days to clear, and I figured you might want one to celebrate right away.”
Ashley laughed. “Thanks, Mr. Buckland.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. He glanced at his watch.
“This has been fun, but I’m supposed to be meeting a potential business partner at five o’clock. No rest for the wicked.” He offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Ash said, shaking it. “Good luck with your travels.”
“Thanks. And please don’t tell anyone about that until I’m gone. You wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, right?”
Ash shook her head. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. Least I can do.”
“Excellent.” Buckland punched in a combination on his keyboard, and Ash heard the locks on the big doors click open. “Well, goodbye.”
Ash turned to look at him once more as she approached the doors. He was already engrossed in other things, removing a piece of paper from his desk drawers with one hand and typing with the other. They would probably never meet again – the next time she saw him might be on the news, as the media realized he’d skipped town.
She twisted the handle and walked through.
Keighley smiled at her. “Hello again.” He nodded at a man sitting on the couch, in the same spot Ash had occupied while she was waiting. “Mr. Ford? You can go in now.”
&
nbsp; The man looked up from his pocket watch, stood, and straightened his suit. He barely looked at Ashley as he walked past her through the doors. They swung shut behind him.
“Well, how was that?” Keighley asked. “Exciting?”
“Yeah, it was great.”
“Can I take you to the cafeteria, or are you going straight home?”
Ash needed to discuss the conversation with Benjamin. “It’s okay, I’ll show myself out. I need to use the bathroom first. Is there one on this floor?”
Keighley pointed down the corridor they had arrived through. “Third on the right. There’s another lift you can use there. Remember to hand in your name badge on your way out.”
“Thanks.” Ashley started walking. When she was out of sight and earshot around the corner, she put her phone to her ear. “Still there?”
“How weird was that?” Benjamin said. “I didn’t expect a ‘money is the root of all evil’ lecture.”
“Neither did I. But you see our new problem?”
“He’s leaving the country tomorrow.”
“That’s right,” Ash said. “Someone else will take over, and the first thing they’ll do is demand an inventory of the building.”
“So either he’ll take the loot with him, or they’ll find it.”
“Exactly. So now we have a time limit. Wherever he’s hidden the money, we have to find it and get it out today. Before the building closes. This is our last chance.”
“I don’t know about this,” Benjamin said. “You think we can still do it?”
Ash bit her lip. She knew that professional thieves usually got busted because they got too confident, too spontaneous, too greedy. They tried to take more than they could carry. She and Benjamin had never done a job this big. They’d never worked without a solid plan. They were breaking all the rules. They should abort.
But it was so much money.
“We can do it,” she said.
Peachey was reaching for his Glock even as the doors swung shut behind him. When my life is made into a movie, he thought, this part of the soundtrack will be heavy metal. Guttural guitars and bass-rich drums, more felt than heard. But with an electronic touch – Rammstein, maybe, or Marilyn Manson.