The Insider

‘My God,’ Harry said. ‘Is that a maze?’

As she spoke, the moon broke through the clouds and she could see that the dense evergreen had been planted in the shape of an enormous enclosed rectangle, extending as far back as it did across. There must have been over an acre of hedge out there.

‘Awesome, isn’t it?’ Dillon said. ‘The previous owners planted it about twenty years ago. I just had to have it. Come on, let me take you in.’

He strode across the lawn, his trainers making whispering noises against the dry grass. Harry followed, stopping in front of a red triangular flag that marked the entrance to the maze. She felt her brain dissolve into pulp, the way it always did when confronted with a navigational challenge.

‘I feel like I need to throw a six to start,’ she said.

Dillon laughed. ‘Come on, before the moonlight goes. I want to show you what I built in the centre.’

She followed him in. The spicy pine fragrance was more intense inside the maze. All around her were curved, towering hedges. The rough clay path was only a few feet wide, so they were forced to walk in single file.

Dillon took a sharp left, and Harry trotted to keep up. The path followed a tight arc, and suddenly Dillon disappeared. The moonlight waned, and Harry’s skin prickled. She quickened her pace.

‘What do you do if someone gets lost in here?’ she called out.

‘We talk them in from the viewing deck.’ He sounded close by, only a few feet ahead. ‘It overlooks the whole thing. But if you do get lost, just follow the left-hand rule.’

‘The what?’ She clung to the main path, refusing to be tempted by left or right turns.

‘Put your left hand on the hedge, follow the wall and keep walking. You’ll get out eventually.’

By now, the moonlight had completely vanished, turning the hedges into black walls. Harry stretched her hands out in front of her, feeling her way around the blind bends.

‘Don’t worry, it looks worse than it is,’ Dillon said. ‘A lot of it’s just an optical illusion.’

Harry’s step faltered. Optical illusion. The phrase triggered a snap of electricity in her brain, and an image of her bank account showing €12,000,000 flashed into her head.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The paths are designed to lead people down the wrong turns. Psychological trickery.’ He sounded ten or fifteen feet away, but whether to her left or right, she couldn’t tell. ‘For instance, people tend to avoid paths that seem to go back the way they came. Stuff like that.’

Harry tried to see how this could have anything to do with her bank account. Could it have been some kind of trick? She shook her head. Some part of her brain had made a connecting leap, but she’d no idea why.

Feet scuffed against the clay behind her. She frowned. Had Dillon circled behind her? She checked over her shoulder, but all she could see was solid hedge. Her back tingled, and she geared up to a power-walk.

‘Ever hear the story of King Minos and the Labyrinth?’ Dillon’s voice was growing fainter.

‘King who?’

‘Old Greek legend. King Minos of Crete built this huge mazelike building called the Labyrinth. He used it as a prison for the Minotaur.’

Harsh breaths cut through the darkness behind her. She whipped her gaze around, stumbling against the hedge. Where the hell was Dillon?

‘What’s a Minotaur?’ she called out, not liking the note of panic in her voice.

‘A man-eating monster, half man, half bull.’

She jogged along the narrow path. The scuffing sounds behind her grew louder, more urgent, the breathing laboured. Harry spun round again and stared at the dark empty path.

‘Dillon? Is that you?’

Silence. A wood pigeon cooed overhead. The footsteps had stopped. Had she imagined them?

‘Harry?’

She whirled round at the sound of Dillon’s voice, straining to locate him. Somewhere far to her left.

‘Wait there!’ She lurched round a bend. ‘And keep talking so I can find you.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Just keep talking!’ She broke into a run, her heart thudding. ‘Go on about the Minotaur.’

‘Right. Well, the king locked the Minotaur up in the middle of the labyrinth and every year he sacrificed seven youths and seven maidens into the maze.’ His voice sounded stronger; she had to be nearly there. ‘They’d get lost, and eventually the Minotaur would eat them.’

Feet pounded on the track behind her. Harry gasped. She wheeled around a corner, the disorientation making her head spin. The sound of ragged panting tore after her through the dark. The path began to spiral, the bends so severe she could only see one step ahead. Something warm and damp tagged her shoulder from behind. Harry screamed and shook it off, sprinting deeper into the maze.

‘Harry! Are you okay?’ Dillon sounded somewhere up ahead. ‘Stay where you are, I’ll find you!’

Harry blundered out of her spiral and came up against a T-junction. Left or right? The scuffling behind her was like an animal sound. 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.

15

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 to make them vulnerable to a takeover. He read the note again. Whoever this Prophet was, he was obviously expecting the price to go up when the announcement of the takeover deal came through. If the announcement came through.

He tapped his fingers on the desk. Anyone buying Serbio shares now, before the price soared, would make a killing later on. The notion teased him with its simplicity. He picked up the document and peeped at the numbers again. Then he flung it back on the desk. It was too big a risk. His personal trading activities were closely watched by Merrion & Bernstein’s compliance department. Insider trading was a professional hazard that the investment banks worked hard to avoid.

He ground his teeth and locked the document away. He tried to forget about it, but every day for the next week he scoured the financial papers for any hint of the takeover. There was nothing. After two weeks he concluded that it had all been an elaborate hoax, and a curious mix of relief and disappointment washed through him.

And then, almost three weeks after the arrival of the brown envelope, Leon spotted a headline in the business press that made him clench his fists.

NASDAQ Darling TelTech in bid for Serbio.

He locked himself in his office and checked out the Serbio share price from his PC. Ten dollars and rising. He poured himself a large whiskey, loosened his tie and settled in for a long wait. For the next few hours he sat transfixed by the NASDAQ ticker prices. By the end of the New York business day, at 9.30 p.m. Irish time, the Serbio share price had closed at nearly twenty-five dollars. Leon did the sums, and glowered at the numbers in front of him. On a 30,000-share trade, he would have netted over half a million dollars.

Two weeks later, Leon received a second brown envelope from the Prophet and this time he didn’t hesitate. He set up a new trading account without disclosing it to Merrion & Bernstein, and made over $700,000. With the third envelope, the Prophet sent a demand for a cut of the takings and instructions on how the money was to be paid. That was how it had been ever since.

Someone retched in the communal bathroom across the hall and, not for the first time, Leon wanted to burn his bedsit to the ground. His hand shot out towards the white envelope on the table, but at the last second he snatched up the phone instead. Maybe things would be better this time when he talked to Maura. Maybe he could find a way back. Without the white envelope.

He wiped the palm of his hand on his T-shirt and dialled his old home number. He pictured Maura hurrying to answer the phone, her heels snapping against the black-and-white marble tiles that were laid out like a chessboard in the hall. Then he heard her voice.

‘Hello?’

Leon straightened his shoulders and focused on the meagre fireplace across the room. ‘It’s me.’

There was a short silence. ‘Leon. I’m on my way out.’

‘Oh, sorry. I just wanted a quick word.’

‘I really haven’t much time.’

He heaved himself up and began pacing the few steps over and back between the fireplace and the sofa, like a demented bear in a zoo. ‘Just thought I’d call round. You know, to see Richard.’

‘What, now? I have a lunch appointment.’

‘No, no of course not now, I know you’re busy. Maybe later this afternoon?’

‘Richard has rugby practice.’

‘Well, how about this evening, then?’ he said. ‘I could come over for tea.’

She was silent for a moment. ‘You want me to cook your tea?’

He stopped in front of the fireplace and squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers gripping the mantelpiece. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. After tea, then. I’ll come after tea.’

‘That’s not going to work either, he’s got studying to do. He’s doing the Junior Cert this year, in case you’d forgotten.’

Leon opened his eyes and stared into the empty grate. It was cold and black. ‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten.’ Shit, why hadn’t he remembered that? ‘I won’t stay long. Just a quick chat.’

‘Look, I really don’t want him upset.’

Leon trudged over to his unmade bed and sank down on it. ‘Come on, be fair, it’s been months since I saw him.’

‘It’s been longer than that, Leon.’

He could see the kitchenette at the far end of the room, with its stacks of dirty dishes and takeaway cartons. ‘Yes, well, things have been hectic here.’

‘I can imagine.’ Her voice was flat, with no hint of sarcasm.

‘Does he ask about me?’ Leon gripped his knee with one hand.

‘Not often.’

Something strangled his throat, and for a minute he couldn’t speak.

‘I don’t encourage it, tell you the truth,’ Maura said. ‘What am I supposed to say? “Your father’s doing great, apart from the white-collar crime and that little gambling problem he has?” You’re not an easy topic of conversation.’

Shit. Things were slipping away from him, sliding out of control the way they always did. He dragged his fingers through his sparse hair. ‘But that’s all changing Maura, I swear.’ He flicked a glance at the envelope on the table. ‘I’m sorting it all out. Soon I’ll be right back where I was. Leon-the-Ritch.’

‘I really have to go.’

‘But I mean it. Everything’s going to be okay.’

‘Can we do this another time?’

Leon took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Of course. Sorry. Didn’t mean to delay you. I’ll call again later in the week.’

‘Let’s leave it till after the exams.’

‘Oh.’ Jesus, another two whole months. ‘Right. Well, if you think that’s best. Say hello to Richard for me.’

But she had already hung up.

Leon leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head low between them. Hot tears stung his eyes, and he shook his head. Every time he talked to her it ended up the same way. No wonder he gambled, she drove him to it. Better to feel the gambler’s rush than the pain of failure with his son. He lifted his head and took in the squalid bedsit, furnished from pieces of crap hauled out of a skip. He could never bring Richard here.

His gaze settled on the white envelope. He clenched his fists and moved back over to the sofa. He traced the finger and thumb of one hand around his mouth as though trying to make up his mind, but he knew the decision was already made. He picked up the envelope and opened it.

Inside were two sheets of pale blue paper. Leon stared at them for a moment, and then he understood. This was the Prophet’s proof. Adrenaline sparked through him like a lit fuse. So the girl really did have the money. Well, not for long. Wait till he told Ralphy-Boy about this.

But first, he had another call to make. He grabbed the phone again and punched in a by now familiar number.

The call was picked up after two rings. ‘Mr Ritch. I was about to phone you.’

‘What’s happening? Where’s the girl now?’ Something about this fucker made Leon’s skin crawl, but right now he was the only option he had.

‘Back at her apartment.’

‘Look, we need to make a move. There’s been a development at this end.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s something funny going on here too.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean whatever your next move is, you’d better make it fast.’ There was a pause. ‘We’re not the only ones following her.’

16

Harry huddled over a mug of tea and thought about optical illusions. Now you see me, now you don’t.

An image of the maze reared up inside her head, and her chest tightened. She shoved her tea away and scurried down the hall to check her apartment door. It was still locked. Then she prowled through the rest of the rooms, testing the windows, listening for unfamiliar sounds. It was the fourth patrol she’d made that morning.

Dillon had driven her back to the apartment the night before and stayed with her till she fell asleep on the couch. When she woke, she found a quilt pulled up to her shoulders and signs that he’d slept on the floor. He was already up, on his way to the office. He’d knelt beside her and stroked her hair, ordering her to take some time off.

She cast an eye over the empty apartment and shuddered. She’d spent the last few hours cleaning the place up, but it still didn’t feel like home.

Dillon had called the police from his car soon after they’d fled the maze, but by the time they got there, the intruder was long gone. The only trace the police had found was a rusty gate buckled at the hinges.

Harry reached out to check the window lock on the living-room sash, but at the last minute she clenched her fist. Goddammit, enough of the neurotic rituals. She marched back to the kitchen and brewed some coffee strong enough to juice up her brain. She paced the kitchen floor, gulping the coffee down. Her swollen knee felt stronger, her body less tender. The need for action jerked through her limbs like an electric current.

What she needed was hard information. What had happened with the Sorohan deal? Who were the other members of the ring? How had her father operated? If she understood the mechanics of her father’s insider trades, maybe she could work out where the twelve million euros had come from. And who the hell was after it.

As for optical illusions, she dealt in science and technology, not smoke and mirrors. The twelve million was no illusion. She’d seen it on the screen with her own eyes, and the bank had confirmed it. No Houdini tricks there.

Unless someone had tampered with her account records.

Harry’s pace slowed. But how would anyone do that? And why? Rigging the bank’s database to show a false lodgement wouldn’t make the money real. Sure, it would show up temporarily on a snapshot of her transactions, but the bank’s reconciliation procedures would soon catch the error. No one could ever access the money, not a sum of that size. Harry shook her head. It made no sense. The money had to be real. The question was, who put it there?

She hauled her satchel up on to the kitchen table and rummaged through it. Dillon had told her to talk to her father. He was right. She needed explanations, and what better place to start? But she couldn’t face it, not yet. There had to be another way.

She pulled a fistful of business cards out of the satchel and thumbed through them till she found the one she was looking for. She scrutinized it, chewing at her bottom lip. She’d already had a run-in with this guy and didn’t feel like asking him for any favours. But she had no choice. Apart from her father, he was the only investment banker she knew.

She dialled the number on the card and waited. He was bound to be there, even on a Saturday. Weekends didn’t mean much to investment bankers.

‘Hello, Jude Tiernan speaking.’ His voice was deep, like a woodwind instrument.

Too late Harry realized she hadn’t prepared her story. She’d have to play this out cold. ‘Oh, hi, this is Harry Martinez.’

The silence at the other end went on a shade too long. She prompted him. ‘I met you yesterday?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I remember you all right,’ he said. ‘I just can’t believe I’ve got to have another conversation with you.’

Harry shut her eyes. Maybe she deserved that one. She decided to stick with the truth. ‘Look, I owe you an apology. I was probably out of line yesterday.’

‘You were more than out of line, you were downright slanderous.’

Harry’s eyes flared open. ‘Hey, I was seriously provoked, remember? Your colleague wasn’t exactly mincing his words.’

‘Felix Roche is a dickhead, I’ll give you that much. But, as I recall, your accusations seemed to include the entire room.’

Harry flopped down on a chair and sighed. ‘Look, can we start again? I’d really like to talk to you about something else.’ She picked at the corner of his business card. ‘It’s about my father.’

There was a pause. ‘Go on.’

‘I’d like to ask you some questions about what he did.’

‘Why can’t you ask him?’