The Sacred Scroll Read Free Page B

discovered – had no conscience. And what should he blame for having been too credulous? Too trusting? The trace of Irish blood in hisancestry? Marlow smiled. No – allowing hope to get the better of reality, that was all. Bad news in his business. But nothing is wasted. Above all, he’d learned to know when there was nothing but darkness in another person’s eyes.
    He shook himself free of his demons and ran up the steps; at the entrance before the commissionaire had a chance to get the doors for him. The commissionaire didn’t know him, and looked searchingly at the tall man casually dressed in a faded denim shirt under a black leather jacket. Marlow read the man’s expression. The uniform was thinking, This guy doesn’t look like our average guest. The clothes are good, OK, but he’s dishevelled. Doesn’t care about how he looks. Maybe too rich to need to. Maybe a music mogul? Give him the benefit.
    Marlow swung past him. After all, the commissionaire was an innocent – he thought he was simply working for a hotel.
    Two out of the five desk clerks knew better. The auburn-haired woman, a field agent once herself, returned his look and nodded him through. The look they exchanged wasn’t entirely professional. There was remembered electricity in it for both of them. Real electricity, in their case. But Marlow was done with all that.
    Running a hand carelessly through his dark hair, more unruly than usual thanks to the wind outside, he crossed the lobby, passing unobtrusive signs indicating the direction of the restaurant and bar, gym and pool. He didn’t like the overstuffed
richesse
of the place, but it was good cover, and beat the hell out of the old import-export premises INTERSEC had used to hide its New York baseback in the bad old days of the Cold War. He remembered them like his first date. He’d been recruited after graduating in 1990, just in time for glasnost and all the shifting goalposts which followed.
    He reached a red door beyond the lift area and went through it into what anyone else would have taken for a breakout space for the staff – vending machines and a couple of tables and benches, smell of poor coffee. Marlow glanced round – checking a space was second nature to him – then he spoke the magic words, a machine swung back, and he entered another world.
    A minute later the steel-lined elevator deposited him in a modern, soundless lobby off which only one door led. An aluminium plaque on it read:
Richard Hudson
.
    Marlow hadn’t reached the door before it opened and Sir Richard himself stood before him. His new boss, though no stranger. They’d locked horns way back, in the London office, even before Marlow’s Paris posting. Must have been sometime during his SAS secondment, thought Marlow. How tough that had seemed, back in the day. He hadn’t thought he’d survive the disciplinary measures his insubordination had resulted in. But they must have thought him more of an asset than a liability.
    Hudson was sixty-something now, the air around him carrying that odour of Lancero cigars and Annick Goutal cologne which only rich men in Savile Row suits exude.
    He extended a hand. ‘Jack. It’s been a long time.’
    ‘Sir.’
    Hudson waved a hand. ‘These days you must call me Dick. Everyone does. You and I are both Englishmen abroad, and here in America one dispenses with formalities.I can’t tell you how happy we are to have you on board. Chap with your qualifications. Especially now.’ Marlow thought the man looked troubled.
    ‘It’s good to be here,’ Marlow replied. There was a lot hanging on this appointment.
    ‘It’s a small team but a tight one. You’ve got Leon Lopez, as you requested. I gather you two go back a bit?’
    ‘You could say that.’
    ‘The girl’s been with us a while but she’s new to this field. And little field-work experience, beyond training. So you’ll have to show her the ropes. Brilliant in her way. Hand-picked. But, of course, if she doesn’t