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quiet
and the uniformed commissionaire smiled as he came toward her.
    ‘Miss Armstrong! I saw you on the
television last night. You looked good.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘I really
think that you should have won, though.’
    ‘Thank you, Mark,’ Irene spared him
the briefest of smiles, ‘but I’m afraid that I am in a hurry.’
    ‘Of course,’ Mark opened the heavy
glass doors and saluted as Irene bustled past. ‘You businesswomen! Always
rushing away to some meeting or other!’
    The street was busy, with yellow
cabs blaring their horns and commercial vehicles thundering past. Long and dark
green, the limousine was parked exactly in front of the door, with a uniformed
driver at the wheel. Even as Irene approached, the driver started its engine,
the soft purr spurring her forward.
    ‘Wait!’ She heard the crack in her
voice as she pulled open the door.
    The driver turned around. ‘Miss
Irene Armstrong?’ He was about forty, broad faced but not fat, with narrow
eyes.
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Please put your seat belt on,
Miss Armstrong.’
    ‘Irene!’ Avoiding a despairing
clutch by the commissionaire, a naked Patrick lunged toward the limousine.
‘Where are you going?’
    ‘I don’t know!’ Irene held the
door open for a moment. ‘Go and put some clothes on, Patrick, and I’ll let you
know as soon as I find out myself. Go on now.’
    ‘It’s ten o’clock , Miss Armstrong,’ the chauffeur said. ‘I must leave.’
    ‘Drive,’ Irene agreed. ‘He’ll
keep.’
    ‘Wait!’ Patrick pressed against
the window, but the driver eased into the traffic and rolled smoothly away.
Unlike any other vehicle in which Irene had travelled, the limousine seemed to
be able to split traffic like Moses parting the Red Sea . Signals altered to green at its approach, even the
yellow cabs gave way and the road through the city was clearer than she had
ever known.
    Irene tapped on the glass
partition that separated her from the driver. ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘LaGuardia,’ the driver said,
quietly, turning into Grand
Central Parkway East .
‘Sit back and enjoy the ride, Miss Armstrong. We should arrive in about twenty
minutes.’
     ‘LaGuardia?’ Irene sat up
straight. ‘I thought you were taking me to meet Ms Manning.’
    ‘I am following my instructions,’
the driver said enigmatically.
    It was an eight-mile journey, but
the driver barely halted until he steered into a reserved slot in the parking
garage for the Central Terminal. A man in the pressed grey trousers and green
blazer of the Manning Corporation was waiting for their arrival, and gently
ushered Irene through Terminal Building A, past the security guards and onto
the tarmac.
    ‘Onto the aircraft, ma’am,’ he
said, indicating the Cessna Citation Bravo that purred a few yards away. The
tail carried the familiar Manning logo.
    ‘Where am I going?’ Irene asked, but
the blazered man proved as politely unforthcoming as the chauffeur.
    ‘I am following instructions, Miss
Armstrong,’ he said quietly, ‘but I would not worry, Ms Manning takes care of
her own.’
    Irene had dreamed of being inside
an executive jet, but the reality exceeded her expectations. The interior was
the expected green-and-gold, but where the aircraft had originally been fitted
for seven passengers in club class, the Manning Corporation had reduced the
number of seats to four, ensuring more space for the lap-top computers and an
even more relaxing flight.
    ‘Please take a seat, Miss
Armstrong, and fasten your seat belt.’ The green blazered man had accompanied
Irene on board. ‘We will be airborne directly.’
    ‘You don’t allow me much time for
contemplation, do you?’ Irene did as she was ordered, only now aware that her
headache was returning and she was beginning to feel the first pangs of hunger.
Save for one mouthful of bread, she had not eaten since before the show
yesterday evening, and the effects of the morning’s coffee were beginning to
wear