Downtime - Marc Platt [41]
‘Then come on up. Miss Waterfield, she’s the university’s Vice Chancellor, would like to thank you personally.’
He ushered her into a waiting lift and pressed the button marked eight. They stood side by side, she avoiding his eyes.
Once the doors had closed, he said, ‘I think the sum agreed was twelve K, assuming all the personal profiles are complete.’
Sarah took a deep breath. ‘Not quite.’
He still looked straight ahead and she suddenly realized that he was watching her reflection in the polished metal doors.
‘Ms Smith, when we were advised of your reputation, both Miss Waterfield and I were impressed. We thought, what’s a few red-tape barriers to a journalist of this calibre?’
She smiled at his reflection and said curtly, ‘But you didn’t tell me some of this data was government classified.’
The doors slid open with a thunk.
Without another word, he led her along a passage and ushered her into a spacious office. Its large windows and white curving walls should have made it starkly clinical, but the minimal furnishings gave it a surprising warmth and character.
The hi-tech desk that dominated the room was surrounded by several strategically placed antiques: a walnut bureau, a tall and beautiful Chinese vase, a glass cabinet. There were also a number of framed photographs depicting scenes from the last century and several items that Sarah recognized as originating from Tibet: the head of a Buddha and two silver prayer wheels.
Miss Waterfield was sitting behind the desk in a high-backed leather chair. She looked over the top of her spectacles as they entered and then rose to greet her guest with a smile that was more formal than friendly.
Sarah had expected the Vice Chancellor to be older than this smartly dressed career woman. She felt uncomfortable because, although she was used to interviews, it was usually she who was in charge. She was sure that these two, who looked for all the world like mid-morning TV presenters, were going to leave a lot to be desired as far as their interviewing technique was concerned. She simply handed over the disk of information she had compiled and waited with increasing agitation as they flicked silently through the files on a screen she could not even see.
She knew the data well enough. A series of reports on personnel present at the ‘London Event’. She could make out the ID photos reflected in the lenses of Miss Waterfield’s glasses.
Annoyed at being ignored, she finally said, ‘Look, I still don’t know what New World wants these people for.’
Christopher, who had been studying the screen from over the Vice Chancellor’s shoulder, smirked. ‘Afraid of unearthing a scandal?’
Sarah was not going to be thrown. ‘Half of them vanish off any records. And what’s this “London Event” that connects them?’
‘What do you know?’ parried Christopher.
In for a penny, thought Sarah. If that’s the way you want it.
‘I’ve found records implying that about thirty years ago central London was evacuated in an industrial accident. They say it lasted three months. But there are no extant reports. No actuality. No one even remembers. How can that happen?’
Christopher never lost his superior air for one moment.
‘The London Event was a wasted opportunity – the world missed out on interface with a higher plane of existence.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s no big deal. Other chances come along.’
‘It was totally misunderstood,’ insisted Miss Waterfield.
She turned away from scrutinizing the data and fixed Sarah with an equally intense stare. ‘We all stumble about in the unknowing darkness. New World seeks to light the first candle.’
Sarah just managed not to laugh. The woman’s sincerity was genuinely touching. ‘Oh, come on. New World’s more than just a New Age Sunday school. You’ve got fingers in more pies than Robert Maxwell.’
At this, Miss Waterfield looked slightly hurt. She glanced at the screen for a second and then reached forward to open a large painted box that sat on her desk. Inside, nestling on a