INCEPTIO (Roma Nova) Read Free Page B

few moments. My pulse was still pushing adrenalin around my body.
    ‘Your research was excellent, Karen,’ Hayden said, his face serious. ‘More importantly, the Roma Novans were impressed by your ideas.’
    I flushed. ‘I was just concentrating on getting my pitch right.’
    I sipped my dose of coffee. I glanced over at the papers strewn over the large, gleaming table like so much ticker tape left after a parade. That was all it came down to after days of solid work.
     
    I rode along more familiar ground that afternoon, briefing the art director and marketing team. I needed to have the draft campaign plan ready for approval for the next client encounter in two weeks, so I settled down and attacked my keyboard.
    A while later, my stomach growled. It would be home-time soon. Amanda had gone a while ago. I glanced at the clock. How could it be past seven? I was alone in the open-plan office – except for the IT engineer in the corner, and he was a geek. I had gotten lost in my so-called boring job. I smiled and admitted it felt good.
    I treated myself to a gnocchi marinara and a glass of red at Frankie’s on my way home. I didn’t run into anybody I knew. I didn’t really expect to: New York was a city of isolated strangers, smiling outwardly but all intent on their individual universes. I was savouring the fruit-laden tang of the wine when the interpreter invaded my head. Sure, his English was excellent, British-sounding, but just a little too perfect. He wasn’t an interpreter; that was way too ordinary. Self-assured, nonchalant even, he had watched everything and missed nothing.
     
    Next morning, I was immersed in developing the implementation outline when the harsh ring from my desk phone broke through.I grabbed the handset and struggled with untwisting the cord.
    ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you at work, but I wondered if you’d like to meet for a drink or some dinner on Saturday.’
    The interpreter.
    ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t date clients on principle.’
    ‘I didn’t mean a date; simply as colleagues.’
    I heard an undertone of laughter in his voice.
    ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said.
    ‘Out of your comfort zone?’
    I gasped. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
    ‘Sorry,’ he said before I could slam the handset down. ‘That was rude of me. But will you still come?’
    I hadn’t been asked out to dinner for six months. Why the hell not?
     

III
    Renschman was more used to the dull thud of a silencer than the ping announcing a new message. Yawning, he detached his hand from under his chin, stretched out and tapped the screen to open the message. From External Affairs. He began skimming the words of the cover sheet, his eyes half-closed with boredom.
    Opening the attachment, he saw the name ‘Karen Brown, father William Brown’ on the first page. He jerked his head forward, breathing suspended. He read the message and the file through again. Twice. He didn’t notice his other hand snap his pen, the red ink spreading over the desk.
    Anger flushed through him at the memory of his last meeting with William Brown. The man was gone, but his daughter would do.
    He reached for his frameless glasses. The father’s blond smugness was as Renschman remembered, but the mother’s immigration photo showed red-brown hair and a soft face, with light eyes like a frightened rabbit.
    His task was to watch the girl and report back; she was flagged up as a Category 3 risk. What the hell had she done? She was a weekend volunteer park attendant. But it came direct from Hartenwyck’s office. The stills showed her coming out of the advertising agency where she worked during the week: a tall strawberry blonde, chin jutting out, her body caught in a long stride.
    She must have pissed somebody off really badly. He started scrolling through his resource file, selecting the four grunts he’d need to cover her.
    But they had to know her connections, didn’t they? He smiled. If they hadn’t realised