The Psychonaut_Book 1 Read online

  “Right.” Merrick could hear Dominik’s pen clicking at the end of the line. “I think I can persuade them. Anything else?”

  “Yes, my fee has just increased by ten per cent—for the short notice and the fact I’ll be up all night preparing for this.”

  “You deliver, and I’m sure Harris-Billinger will give you a bonus. Hell, they’ll give you the keys to the executive pisser.”

  “Well, let’s not count the chickens yet. They might not agree with my assessment of the situation.”

  Dominik laughed. “Tell them what they need to know, not what they want to hear. Okay, I’m going to let you go now. You’ve got your homework to do boyo. I’ll set up the pre-conference meet for seven a.m. at Canary Wharf. Make sure you get some sleep.”

  Merrick was about to close the call when he remembered why he’d rung in the first place. “Dom, don’t think I’m being funny, but you haven’t passed my contact details to any third party have you?”

  “Of course not. You know how hard I work to protect your privacy.”

  “And there’s no possibility that someone’s hacked your address book, I suppose?”

  “If they have, I’ll be terminating our IT company’s contract. Trouble?”

  Merrick stood up and looked out the window again. The street was still empty. “I hope not.”

  “Okay, let me know if you find any evidence of a breach and I’ll get our man onto it.”

  “It’s probably nothing. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Your e-mail’s arrived.”

  “Sure thing. Remember, it’s the Preston Building—seven a.m. sharp.”

  He pressed the disconnect button and stepped over to the desktop.

  A blue envelope icon had appeared centre screen. He clicked on it and followed the link, entering his username and password. The e-mail had several attachments totalling over seven megabytes. That was a lot of documentation—it was going to be a long night.

  ~~~

  It is time to charge the vessel.

  The thought was paramount in his mind as the Master entered the room. His lovers were already participating on the floor-level bed, their tanned, intertwined limbs blending with the damask coverlet. Sarlic, the male partner, had prepared the room well. The Master was obsessed with the unconventional and this room, modeled on an Ethiopian design, met his high standards. Stone pillars lined each side, extending like sentinels in a corridor to meet the stained glass window at the end. He reached out to one of the large candles, glimmering in its sconce. The wax dripped on his fingers and he delighted in the brief, energising pain as the greasy substance solidified on his hand.

  The lovers were not yet aware of his presence and so he watched. Sarlic, the male was physical perfection, a flower to savour in winter when the season’s cold touch removed every vestige of beauty. The woman was also comely. Her dark hair fell in a long plait down her back as she rode Sarlic. She arched her back and cupped her breasts, kneading the nipples between her fingertips. Hips writhed and twisted as she merged her rhythm to his.

  The Master moved towards the bed. Sarlic looked up and smiled. The woman was still lost in rapture, her mouth open with longing. Scarlet brilliance.

  She could be the one, he thought. She had an affectional energy, and Sarlic had spoken of her infused orgasmic ability. A whore or low woman would not do for his holy purpose—he treated his liaisons as sacraments. Neither would a virgin suffice. Most importantly, the woman he required for the great work should not seek reward for her compliance. But could she engage in the telos which he and Sarlic had agreed beforehand? He intended to find out.

  He unbuttoned his tunic and allowed it to fall to the floor. The woman, sensing him standing there, opened her eyes. The pupils constricted.

  She is not afraid.

  He traced his finger down her sculpted cheek as she reached out to clasp his erection. Her massage was expert, all the more impressive as she maintained an independent, slower motion with her pelvis, pleasing both lovers at once.

  Sarlic groaned. She eased off her thrusting with tantric expertise, and took the Master in her mouth. The intensity of her attentions threatened to bring him to an early climax, but he eased into a mindful resistance, holding back the tide for now.

  “She is exquisite, isn’t she?” Sarlic said.

  The Master put his finger to his lips and ran his other hand down the woman’s back. He observed how the snake tattoo curled around her spine, how her waist pinched in before swelling out to the scallop of her hips. His goblet filled.

  Without a prompt, Sarlic eased himself out of her and indicated a change of positions.

  This was the moment.

  The Master lay on his side and allowed Sarlic to lubricate his anus, teasing it wide with saliva-laden fingers. When he was ready, Sarlic guided himself into the Master’s willing depths. Being the recipient to an underling was not incongruous. Sex magick was not about dominance and submission, but participation. It served the purpose of enabling each to fulfil their will, to further the object of their existence.

  The Master had a supreme goal.

  As Sarlic conducted his candlelit motions, the woman settled herself next to the Master.

  “Your name, child, I need to know your name,” the Master said.

  “It is Merve. But I am no child.”

  “That you are not,” he said and sank his head between her thighs. She moaned in delight and began to work on him again.

  The goblet filled another inch.

  Now they entered the inner sanctum of experience, walking a tightrope of sensitivity and balance. It was a dangerous pathway, tickling the tail of the dragon. Too much stimulation and the worm would awaken, bringing all the concomitant dangers—sensations of fire and irrepressible heat followed by bleak depression. It was all the more perilous as the craft of three participants had to be minutely tuned to each other.

  The Master’s soul swam, through sense and spirit; hearing hushed hearts beating as psalms sung in a cloister. His goblet approached over-brimming as he sensed Sarlic’s inner evocation, listening with spiritual ears for Merve’s heartbeat. He could hear it faintly, like a damselfly’s wing-beat over a calmed pond. It was promising but insufficient. It needed to be a dragon-storm, a matching tumultuous cyclone.

  They reached their climaxes like a trio of fountainheads, Merve shuddering while Sarlic’s muscles knotted in motionless bliss.

  Sarlic withdrew to imbibe his elixir from the Master’s depths. They were all adepts in the practice and moved as one to share their fluids, the excess running down the triumvirate of their solemn faces.

  Merve collected the overflow and poured it into the hollow charm at the bedside.

  Sarlic leaned back against the silken cushions. “Is it sufficient, Master?”

  “Enthralling, my pet. But alas, it falls short.”

  A look of alarm crossed Merve’s face. “Did I cause Kundalini?”

  “Nothing as calamitous as that,” the Master said. “Do not cower. It is the closest I have come to attaining what I seek.”

  “You have done well,” Sarlic said to Merve. “There will be another opportunity. Wait for me in my chambers, I will be down shortly.”

  She collected her singlet, draped it over her shoulder and walked languidly out of the room.

  The Master pulled on a robe and knotted it at his waist. “How long has she trained?”

  “Two years or more.”

  “She has accomplished much in a short time.”

  Sarlic’s eyes glinted. “I’ll take that as a compliment to my teaching.”

  The Master picked up the talisman. “I will need this for my next ritual.”

  “A step closer?”

  “Indeed. I will be indisposed for the next day. How are you going to occupy your time?”

  “You denied me my pleasure earlier this evening. I will seek another innocent.”

  The Master, his face alight with cruel amusement, nodded.
“Tonight you have earned your reward. Feast well my pet.

  ~~~

  Chapter 3

  The eyes

  The Preston Building was a three hundred metre glass leviathan, raising its head above competing architectural beasts on the wharf’s skyline. Entering through the revolving door, the weight of corporate dealings settled upon Merrick like a mantle. It fit well. The smell of synthetic fibre rose from the carpet tiles. It blended with the scent of executive leather to heighten the aura of well-oiled business machinery.

  After signing in at the reception desk, and receiving his visitor badge, he walked across the open-plan area seeming for all the world like a high tech modernist temple, built in honour of the God Mammon.

  On the tenth floor he was ushered into a small office by an aide who presented him to the congregating executives. A balding man in an immaculately ironed shirt steered his paunch towards him. “It must be Merrick,” he said. “Richard Hislop. I’m MD of Harris-Billinger.”

  The handshake was important. Hislop, as he expected, clasped his hand with almost painful intensity. It pointed to a dominant personality and one who wished to assert himself from the outset. Motivation? Power. But tempered with a sense of integrity. This man had probably stepped on the heads of lesser mortals on his way up the greasy pole, but he was aiming at a laudable goal—or he had at least convinced himself of this.

  Merrick dropped his gaze from Hislop’s steely grey eyes first—a tactical show of deference. Hislop released his hand just before it developed a rictus.

  “Let me introduce you to my team,” Hislop said. He held up his arm in an open gesture towards a greying man. His circular framed glasses and trim moustache cut a patriarchal image.” This is Duncan Bancroft, Head of Research.”

  Bancroft obviously liked to dress down. He shuffled forward in an open necked shirt, cords and loafers. Merrick shook his hand, grateful that it wasn’t to be held in a vice again.

  “... and this is Anne Maisery. She’s in charge of finance.” A perfectly manicured woman greeted him. She looked in her thirties and didn’t so much wear her clothes as inhabit them. The grey jacket and matching skirt projected ambition.

  But the charm bracelet reveals a certain vulnerability.

  A brown-suited stalk of a man with greased back hair stepped forward before he had finished appraising Ms. Maisery. “I’m Alan Carrack, chairman of the board,” he said in a voice inflected with nasal charm. Merrick took an instant dislike to him. “I’m glad we’ve got someone on board with your talents, Mr Whyte. It will reinforce our message to the shareholders that this deal can be backed.”

  Merrick looked warily at Hislop.

  “Now remember, Alan, this is not a foregone conclusion,” Hislop said. I’d like Merrick here to keep an open mind.” He guided Merrick forward with a firm hand on his shoulder.

  Hislop finished the introductions with a secretary and two other heads of division, the names of which he chose to push to the back of his mind.

  “Let’s sit down and see where we’re at,” the MD said. “We’ve only got ninety minutes or so before Garento arrive, but I think we can bring each other up to speed.”

  Hislop leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands. “This deal has the hallmarks of a dream ticket. It could give us the financial injection we need to expand our product lines, and open up new markets in the East. But we have to be sure.”

  The blonde PA put cups of coffee in front of each person round the table.

  “Thanks Margaret.” He continued: “The company is built on some key principles. Namely—scientific advancement, professional integrity and ethical practice. This also extends to our employees, of which there are over 12,000 in Europe alone. So this isn’t just about money. Duncan, would you expand a little?”

  “Certainly,” Bancroft said, taking off his glasses and looking at Merrick. “You already know that I’ve been with this company from the outset. I’m proud to say that since that time, we’ve launched some ground-breaking products. Medicines to improve quality of life and set the bar for other companies in terms of safety and price. In the seventies we developed antibiotics that tackled resistant strains of bacteria— pathogens that, up to that point, had run unchecked in the developed world. More recently, we’ve been working on drugs that arrest the progress of Alzheimer’s.”

  Bancroft held Merrick’s attention with unblinking eyes. “We’re still in the development stage and a lot of money is invested, but it’s this sort of financial risk that Harris-Billinger have been willing to take on because of our principles. You see, Merrick, we’ve put our desire to improve life expectancy first, and been lucky enough to find that it’s led us into very profitable markets.”

  “It sounds like the ideal corporate paradigm, Mr Bancroft,” Merrick said. “Ethical development while feathering the nest for your shareholders.”

  Carrack leaned forward. “So, you’ve had a look at Garento’s portfolio and the the history of their mergers, Mr Whyte. What do you think?”

  Merrick cleared his throat. “Well, Garento’s reputation is squeaky clean. Their expansion into the pharmaceuticals market has seen their share price rise by twelve per cent. At the same time productivity in all but one branch has increased by a total of 1.2 billion euros. Acquisitions have seen their workforce increase by five to eleven per cent, depending on the company, especially on the R & D front.”

  “I see you’ve done your homework,” Hislop said. “You can see why we wanted to jump at this chance. But what does your intuition tell you?”

  “My intuition will have to wait until the meeting I’m afraid. I need to see them face to face and see how they interact. But I’ve done a little digging around the movers and shakers. I’m assuming most, if not all will be here.”

  He opened a buff file. “First, their CEO—Anton Farrago. He’s been in the top position for five years and was groomed by the company patriarch, Ricard La Ferrenta. When Ferrenta died suddenly from a heart attack, Farrago moved swiftly to take over the reins. There were objections from some, but were silenced after the first two mergers he oversaw ran with an almost indecent smoothness.”

  “Any skeletons in the closet?” asked Anne Maisery.

  “Nothing that appears on paper.” I’ve checked official and unofficial sources. He’s a very secretive character.”

  The panel seemed satisfied with this assessment so he moved on to other key personnel, creating character sketches from his research. He was in the zone now, and recognised with no small amount of professional pride that Hislop and his associates were warming to him.

  “So, that’s about it,” he concluded. “All, apparently above board with no hidden agendas.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming,” Hislop said.

  Merrick rubbed his chin, “It all seems just a bit too ... ”

  “—Good to be true?” It was Bancroft who finished the sentence.

  “Yes. Call it intuition or cynicism, but usually I manage to dig up some sharp practice in a company’s history, however minor.”

  Better to withhold the fact I found one or two creative accounting entries on Harris-Billinger’s financials.

  “But nothing concrete.” It was a statement from Carrack.

  “Nothing concrete, no.”

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen. Time is marching on,” Hislop said. “Is there anything else you need, Merrick?”

  “Just to establish protocols.” He looked around the table. “Introduce me as a research assistant. It would be best if you all ignored me during the course of your discussions. I need to concentrate on the various players.”

  “And work your magic?” Maisery said, a twinkle in her eye.

  Merrick tilted his head side to side. “If you like.”

  ~~~

  Chapter 4

  Another lie

  They were led into a boardroom where the glass-work provided a panoramic view of the North Bank. Heat rose from the metropolis as if f
rom a sleeping dragon.

  Farrago had grouped his entourage round a coffee machine at the far end of the room. He looked up at the Harris-Billinger staff and immediately strode forward to greet them. A hawkish smile creased his face as he shook each of their hands in turn. “Mr Hislop, a pleasure to meet you face to face at last. Duncan Bancroft, I’m looking forward to hearing about your pioneering work on the Lanotrazine.” His accent was mild, an emphasis on long o’s being the only betrayal of his Toscan roots.

  When Merrick came to shake his hand, he returned the smile and held on to the Italian longer than the man was obviously used to. Weak grip taking in the fingers more than the palm. This man does not like physical contact. Probably washes his hands obsessively, revealing a condescending view of humanity in general. The smile is broad but the eyes are an icy slate-grey.

  Farrago’s brow furrowed as he looked down at Merrick, but he said nothing.

  Merrick didn’t detect anything out of the ordinary from the remaining Garento staff except for one called Marc Slessinger. He didn’t need to shake his hand to pick up that this was more shark than man. A gel-glistened lock of blond hair formed a question mark on his forehead, which he tossed aside with a shake every other sentence. He cruised the shallows to his seat opposite Merrick.

  “Thank you for hosting this meeting, Mr Hislop,” Farrago began, his hands clasped in front of him. “We are grateful that you could accommodate our accelerated schedule.”

  “Well,” Hislop replied “we were more than eager to meet after hearing you were prepared to improve your offer.”

  “Quite. We looked closely at your updated profit forecasts and the list of questions and reservations you included. Marc, our finance and assets controller will summarise our responses.”

  Slessinger was precise, almost curt with his words. Handing round a sheet of figures to each of the assembled, he delivered a reserved but confident set of re-assurances.