Chameleon

Chapter 7

Christina Laker.

Her friends called her Tina. Her subordinates called her Ma'am. Her superiors only called her when something dirty needed doing. She'd been a Senior Case Officer for Z.O.N.E. for six years now. She was till only forty-three and the smart money said she was still on the way up.

Christina sat in the office of the Project Director at Denby House. The Director himself, Sir Reginald Meres, paced up and down in front of the second storey window that gave him an uninterrupted view of the sweeping drive. He was a dapper little man with a bald head, a bristling moustache and an air force tie. At the moment he was not a happy soul. He glanced at his watch and tutted.

'Where the hell is he?' he asked of no-one in particular.

Christina crossed her legs.

Sir Reginald wished she wouldn't do that. She had very long legs and the sort of unobtrusive good looks that some men found irresistible and others regarded as old maid material. Sir Reginald fell into the former group. He let his gaze linger on the expanse of exposed thigh a fraction longer than was polite and felt a hot flush creep into his face. If Christina noticed it, she gave no sign.

'He'll be here,' she said. 'March radioed in over an hour ago to say they were on their way.'

'I don't like this,' Sir Reginald retorted, 'not one bit.'

'You don't have to like it.' Christina's voice was crisp, matter of fact. 'In a live situation,' she quoted, 'control passes to the relevant Chief of Operations. In this case, to me. All you have to worry about, Sir Reginald, is trying to explain why your screening process was so lax that it allowed someone like Sammy Pierce sufficient clearance to engineer this fiasco in the first place.'

Sir Reginald blushed to the roots of his non-existent hair.

'I meant Payne.' He almost spat the words. 'Damn it, Tina, the man's a loose cannon. I've said so from the start. If Payne had done his job properly, Pierce would never have been able to trigger the lethal response so easily.'

Christina's mouth hardened into a thin line, annoyed at the over-familiarity of being called Tina more than the blustering of a man afraid of losing his job. She rose quickly from her chair and crossed to Sir Reginald, crowding him. She was half a head taller than he was; her ice blue eyes stared down into his watery brown pools. Christina smiled sweetly.

'Payne is my responsibility,' she told him with charming ambiguity. 'Remember that.'

Standing this close, he could smell her perfume, see each individual eyelash, trace the fine, almost invisible, hairs along her upper lip, see the gentle swell of a pale breast between the buttons of her crisp, white blouse.

'Oh, God!' he thought. 'What I wouldn't give to spread you over this desk and wipe that smug look off you face!'

The sound of tyres on gravel interrupted his erotic musings. He turned to the window. From his vantage point he saw a rusty Escort come to a halt in front of the main doors. Stevens and March got out and, after a pause, Payne emerged from the back.

Meres grunted. 'Looks like a bloody scarecrow,' he muttered. Payne wore a shabby trench-coat, patched cords, a frayed and grubby green shirt and trainers that had seen better days. Meres craned forward, resting his head against the glass.

'Bloody man's got odd socks on!' he announced. He turned away from the window. 'Bloody little misfit wears odd socks. I swear he does it on purpose to annoy me.'