Brian cast an expertly disdainful eye at his new office, lingering at the gold nameplate on the corner of his desk. Maybe it was his imagination but his last name seemed to be bigger than the first. As if the Cuthbert was overshadowing the Brian, a useless smattering of letters which could easily be replaced with Oliver. He lightly traced the brisk designation that was stencilled below: Budget Analyst. Somebody's idea of a cheap joke.
He didn't belong here, in this blown-out, air-conditioned, wood-panelled, plush-carpeted, glass-walled room. Money wasn't for conspicuous consumption, money was for owning. Owning things, owning secrets, owning people—it was all the same after a while. This hole in the wall corner was nothing. He should, damn them, have better.
The phone was ringing off the hook. He grabbed it, irritated, checking Caller ID first. His voice instantly turned to pure honey when he greeted Anna. He was on automaton, one eye already on the goings-on at the firm outside his door. Whatever prattle was on her mind shot through one ear and went out the other. He caught Elizabeth's name, and quickly scribbled make dinner reservations @ww 8 with ec. It would give them an opportunity to… talk. Brian was getting tired of seeing her in an exclusively social or business capacity, as either the solicitous brother-in-law or the underling. Nothing suited him as much as getting her on his turf. Get better secretary, was next on his agenda. He shouldn't have to be doing things like this by himself.
By the time he hung up on Anna, he felt distinctly better about his day. He would enjoy snapping his young niece's mind again and again until she was completely amenable to him. If his reach didn't extend to beyond the grave, he would make full use of it on the living.
Right outside his door, he noticed that Muller had paused. Excellent, he thought. A nearby printer was spitting out the capacity estimates for the new rig. Brian had met the geologist exactly once (very pretty, he dreaded trying to dredge her name from the depths of his memory even as he plotted to take her out for drinks) and this was her sending her approval of the topography maps he wanted to attach to his report. It had been his pre-arrival gift to the company: a full-fledged surprisingly detailed preliminary analysis of Anchori's newest project in Dubai. Few people even knew that the rig was going to be set up, so it had also been Brian's demure way of letting them know that self-imposed exile wasn't enough to cut him out of the loop. "I'm here to stay this time," he'd promised his mother. Only Helena Rivera had understood the full extent of the threat that it was.
Armed with the follow-up to his report, Brian strode out to the corridor, handing the manila file to Muller. Pages of Brian's personal, monogrammed stationery peeked out of the top. It didn't hurt to underline his pedigree, even though he was unused to using his name as a commodity. I'll learn, he thought grimly, as he smiled disarmingly at Muller.
"I thought there must have been a reason for you to be prowling around on my floor." He kept his tone genial, his eyes flashing with humour and warmth. He had sized up Muller a long time ago, and Brian intended to throw himself in the guy's path at every possible opportunity. Let Muller and his buddy Princeton think Brian was upto something each time that he did. That way, they'd be so obsessed chasing after the wrong mystery that it'd slip past them when Brian did make his move.
The click of footsteps made him whirl around. Princeton was approaching, two Styrofoam cups of espresso in hand. He held one out for Muller: evidently, he'd been on a coffee run, coincidentally leaving his bosom and suspicious friend near Brian's door. Very subtle. It wasn't their paranoia that interested Brian, however. It was the companion that Princeton had brought with him.
Helena met his gaze coolly, and Brian grinned back at her. He wondered what excuse she had cooked up to get these gentlemen to meet her right in his line of sight. "What a welcoming party for little old me," he quipped. You'd think he was facing a fanclub, not a lynch mob. His gaze flickered from one to the other. "Fancy me thinking it was so that Mr. Muller here and I could have a little chat about Project A/3086." The 'Britishism' was entirely on purpose, to remind them that right before tragedy had struck, he had sunk his roots somewhere else, had already built a life outside their playground. How could he possibly be a threat to them when he wasn't even qualified to enter the arena?
If an apparently coincidental hallway meeting was going to be Helena's opening gambit, he wasn't shy about meeting her midway for it.
