Man-eating monster, half man, half bull. She blanked the image out, and tore down the left-hand fork. The maze flung her into another twisting vortex.
She scrambled along the path, clutching on to the hedges. Rough branches cut into her palms. The firs snapped and she stumbled, her weak knee giving way. Someone thrashed through the hedges behind her, grunting. She clawed back to her feet, her head reeling.
Averting her eyes from the swirling path, she focused on the hedge. She grasped the woody stems, hauling herself round the tortuous bends. Suddenly, the twisting stopped, and she staggered into a wider stretch of path. She picked up speed, and crashed around the next corner. She slammed straight into someone’s chest and screamed.
‘Harry!’ Dillon grabbed her by the shoulders.
Her heart banged against her chest. She clutched on to him. ‘Someone’s there, someone’s running.’
He shot his gaze to the path behind her. The panting and crashing was closer than ever. Then suddenly the sounds died away.
‘What the hell –’ Dillon shoved her behind him and took a step towards the noise.
Harry yanked his arm. ‘No!’
Who knew what lay behind those hedges?
He looked at her, then back at the maze, hesitating. Then he grabbed her by the hand. ‘This way.’
He dragged her down a narrow path and plunged them both into a series of random turns, or that’s how it seemed to Harry. She raced after him as he zigzagged through the maze, his navigation never faltering. Branches scraped her arms and face as she ricocheted against the hedges. Then the path straightened out and a gap opened up in front of them. Together they burst through it, emerging at the side of the maze.
Dillon hauled her across the lawn. She flashed a backward glance at the massive hedge. It loomed above her like a black fortress. Then she tore after Dillon around the side of the house, to where his Lexus was waiting.
Leon turned the envelope over in his hands and studied it. It was slim and white, with the word personal printed above the cellophane window that framed his address. It was the type of envelope he’d normally toss into a corner with all his other unpaid bills, except for one important difference. This one was addressed to Harry Martinez.
He sank down on to the shabby sofa and tapped the envelope against one hand. The curtains of his bedsit were closed, even though it was almost noon, and the air smelled of stale sheets and chips from a brown paper bag.
How the hell had a letter meant for Harry Martinez ended up with his address on it?
Leon scratched his chest through his T-shirt. He needed to shower, but the thought of the vile bathroom across the hall made his bowels bunch up. He’d only got up so that he could call his wife, and after that he’d planned on crawling back to bed. But then the post had arrived.
Leon closed his eyes. Ever since he’d woken up, the enormity of last night’s poker losses had been pressing down on him like a ton of wet sand. He’d left O’Dowd’s pub with his wallet lighter by more than eighty thousand euros. Add that to the rest of his poker debts and his bill was now running close to a quarter of a million. Worst of all, he knew he’d be back in O’Dowd’s again tonight.
He squinted at the envelope in his hand. He reached over to the faded drapes and dragged them back a few inches, the curtain rings rattling like chains. A wedge of sunlight pierced his eyes, and he held the envelope up towards it. All he could see were wavy blue-and-white lines, the contents of the letter totally obscured.
The Prophet was responsible, no doubt about that. This was how he operated. Inexplicable letters, anonymous emails. Leon turned the envelope over again. He should just go ahead and open it. Nothing left to lose.
He set the letter down on the coffee table and stared at it. He didn’t like it that the Prophet knew where he lived.
The first contact Leon ever had from the Prophet had been through the post, ten years earlier in 1999. A thick brown envelope had arrived at his home in Killiney, and Maura had brought it up to him in his study, along with a glass of champagne.
‘Time you changed into your tux,’ she’d said, setting the glass by his elbow. They’d been invited to dinner by the chairman of Merrion & Bernstein, the firm of investment bankers where Leon worked.
‘Yeah, in a minute.’ He took the brown envelope from her and ripped it open. Inside was an official-looking document with a cover note attached.
‘How do I look?’ Maura’s voice was as seductive as honey, as she swirled the layers of her silver dress around her tanned legs. Ignoring her, Leon read the note and frowned.
Maura fidgeted. ‘Leon?’
‘You go on downstairs,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
She sighed. ‘Richard wants you to say goodnight to him before you go.’
Leon shook his head. ‘Tell him I won’t have time.’
Maura stood still for a moment. Then she turned and marched out of the room. Leon read the note again. It was brief and to the point.
Buy Serbio stock. TelTech bid has been accepted and will be announced next week. It was signed The Prophet.
Leon flicked through the document, but had only to scan the first few paragraphs to know what he was looking at. It was a highly confidential proposal for a hostile takeover bid. A ripple of illicit fascination stirred in his groin, and he felt like a teenager with his first porn magazine.
He leafed through the pages, checking the details. The takeover was being launched by a company called TelTech Internet Solutions. Leon raised his eyebrows. He’d heard of them. Who hadn’t? The Dublin-based software company had floated on the NASDAQ a couple of months earlier, its founders making fortunes in a matter of hours.
The target for the takeover was an American company called Serbio Software, a well-established outfit with the misfortune to be operating in the same e-commerce space as TelTech. Leon sifted through the finances of the deal, and gave a low whistle. These TelTech guys had more money than God. Jesus, what was it about the word ‘internet’ that justified such crazy economics? He could remember when software start-ups meant a collection of techie nerds in need of a bath. Now they were breeding grounds for multi-millionaires. The fact that none of them had yet to rack up a profit just didn’t seem to matter.
Leon set the document down on his desk as though it might explode in his face. Who the hell was this Prophet guy that he could access such a confidential document? And why had he sent it to him?
He checked to see which investment bank was managing the bid, hoping to Christ it wasn’t his own. Being in possession of information leaked from Merrion & Bernstein would really drop him in the shit. But he needn’t have worried. The document had been prepared by JX Warner. He’d worked for them a few years back, but they’d turned prissy about his ethics and fired him after three months.
Leon turned to his PC and checked the Serbio stock price on the NASDAQ. Just under eight dollars a share, low enough
