had come to meet and, although he felt he should say something in greeting, his mouth was dry, his throat constricted. He was in awe and fear of this man, this legend before him.
The man rose from behind the desk, tall and powerfully built, broad shoulders lifting long black hair into gentle curves, a gentleness at odds with the sharp, angular face and long blade of a nose. A deep scar ran from the cleft of his chin, past the corner of his mouth to his left eye, pulling the lid half shut, giving that side of his face a dull, sleepy look. His age was difficult to determine, but he was at the very least in his middle years. He smiled, the smile of a shark, a predator, teeth bared in a greeting that was equally a warning.
"Mr Mayor, glad to meet you at last." His voice was deep and booming in the empty hotel. "My name is Suzex."
Chapter 12
Corridor Twelve had colour.
It was the first thing that struck Jack when he stepped from the travel tube. It might be little more than a few coloured wall panels and the occasional aesthetically pleasing minor work of art but, after the sparseness of Corridor One and the tube, it was a luxury for the eyes.
The day-to-day bustle of the T.I.C. could be seen here, people hurrying from one place to another, armed security guards outside important rooms, small clusters of anonymous but powerful people discussing the outcome of recent meetings. On Corridor Twelve there were no offices, only conference rooms. It was one of several such corridors in the complex, but Corridor Twelve was where the Council met.
Calming his nervousness, deliberately playing down his expectations, Jack submitted to a brief security scan outside 5A and then walked through the now open door.
The walls, floor and ceiling were bare, clinical, clean, the distinction between them hardly apparent, producing a dizzying sense of floating rather than standing on a solid floor. No cameras, no listening devices, no security surveillance equipment dotted the walls. This was truly a clean room.
Dominating the floor space was a large, circular table, recently polished, furnished with carafes of water, glasses and a small, digital minute taker, currently, Jack noted, switched off.
The full Trading Council, ten men and women of varying ages, sat around one side of the table, facing Jack.
He recognised Councillor Braben, the leader of the Council and a man who had risen through the administrative channels to his current position; Councillor Chivers, one of the pioneering women traders who had successfully crushed the traditional sexist barriers that had existed in the profession at the time; Councillor Jareth, another ex-trader, and Councillor Smitheson, the only outsider to sit on the Council. The mythology was that Smitheson had first travelled to Sellit as a diplomat from one of the old colony worlds to attempt to persuade Sellit to allow his home world to enter into trade with others directly. The outcome had been his switching allegiance to the traders. Like most converts, he was among the most zealous when it came to protecting Sellit's trading rights. Jack didn't know the others by name, but it was clear they were as much a part of the Council as their more notable companions.
With the full Council facing him, he knew for certain that this was no trivial recall to duty. This was important. He was quietly satisfied. He had not been given a tough assignment for almost a year, having been temporarily 'rested' after a particularly violent assassination attempt had been made by a terrorist group on a visiting VIP Jack and nine other T.I.C. agents had been protecting. Seven had been killed, as had all the attackers. Jack had been badly injured, spending six months confined to a hospital bed. On his release, he had been on an official vacation of indeterminate length. It seemed that vacation was now over.
"Mr Holt. Feeling fit?" Councillor Braben, a broad stocky man in his late forties, was the first to speak. He
The man rose from behind the desk, tall and powerfully built, broad shoulders lifting long black hair into gentle curves, a gentleness at odds with the sharp, angular face and long blade of a nose. A deep scar ran from the cleft of his chin, past the corner of his mouth to his left eye, pulling the lid half shut, giving that side of his face a dull, sleepy look. His age was difficult to determine, but he was at the very least in his middle years. He smiled, the smile of a shark, a predator, teeth bared in a greeting that was equally a warning.
"Mr Mayor, glad to meet you at last." His voice was deep and booming in the empty hotel. "My name is Suzex."
Chapter 12
Corridor Twelve had colour.
It was the first thing that struck Jack when he stepped from the travel tube. It might be little more than a few coloured wall panels and the occasional aesthetically pleasing minor work of art but, after the sparseness of Corridor One and the tube, it was a luxury for the eyes.
The day-to-day bustle of the T.I.C. could be seen here, people hurrying from one place to another, armed security guards outside important rooms, small clusters of anonymous but powerful people discussing the outcome of recent meetings. On Corridor Twelve there were no offices, only conference rooms. It was one of several such corridors in the complex, but Corridor Twelve was where the Council met.
Calming his nervousness, deliberately playing down his expectations, Jack submitted to a brief security scan outside 5A and then walked through the now open door.
The walls, floor and ceiling were bare, clinical, clean, the distinction between them hardly apparent, producing a dizzying sense of floating rather than standing on a solid floor. No cameras, no listening devices, no security surveillance equipment dotted the walls. This was truly a clean room.
Dominating the floor space was a large, circular table, recently polished, furnished with carafes of water, glasses and a small, digital minute taker, currently, Jack noted, switched off.
The full Trading Council, ten men and women of varying ages, sat around one side of the table, facing Jack.
He recognised Councillor Braben, the leader of the Council and a man who had risen through the administrative channels to his current position; Councillor Chivers, one of the pioneering women traders who had successfully crushed the traditional sexist barriers that had existed in the profession at the time; Councillor Jareth, another ex-trader, and Councillor Smitheson, the only outsider to sit on the Council. The mythology was that Smitheson had first travelled to Sellit as a diplomat from one of the old colony worlds to attempt to persuade Sellit to allow his home world to enter into trade with others directly. The outcome had been his switching allegiance to the traders. Like most converts, he was among the most zealous when it came to protecting Sellit's trading rights. Jack didn't know the others by name, but it was clear they were as much a part of the Council as their more notable companions.
With the full Council facing him, he knew for certain that this was no trivial recall to duty. This was important. He was quietly satisfied. He had not been given a tough assignment for almost a year, having been temporarily 'rested' after a particularly violent assassination attempt had been made by a terrorist group on a visiting VIP Jack and nine other T.I.C. agents had been protecting. Seven had been killed, as had all the attackers. Jack had been badly injured, spending six months confined to a hospital bed. On his release, he had been on an official vacation of indeterminate length. It seemed that vacation was now over.
"Mr Holt. Feeling fit?" Councillor Braben, a broad stocky man in his late forties, was the first to speak. He
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