The block where O'Hagen rented office space for Firedrake was eight stories high, its exterior white marble and copper glass. Satellite uplink antennae squatted on the roof inside their weather domes; an indicator of just how much data traffic the building handled. Richard pulled up in the visitors' car park, then took the lift to the sixth floor.

Firedrake had one employee. Apparently she did everything in the office: personal assistant, receptionist, site maintenance, made tea and coffee, handled communications. Like O'Hagen, she wasn't what Richard was expecting, but for very different reasons. She was small, though he quickly redefined that as compact. He didn't think she'd take very kindly to people who called her small. Every look was menacing, as if she were eyeing him up for a fight…a physical one. Her dress had short sleeves, showing arms scuffed with what looked like knife scars, and a tattoo: closed fist gripping a thorn cross, blood dripping.

After he'd given his name she reluctantly pressed her intercom button. “Mr. Townsend to see you,” she growled.

“Thank you, Suzi,” O'Hagen answered. “Send him in, please.”

Her thumb jabbed at a door. “In there.”

Richard went past her and found himself in Alan O'Hagen's office. “That's some secretary you've got there.”

“She's cheap,” O'Hagen replied with a grin. “She's also surprisingly efficient. And I don't get too many unwanted visitors barging in.”

“I can imagine,” Richard muttered.

O'Hagen indicated a woman who was standing at the side of his desk. “My accountant, Mrs. Jane Adams.”

She gave Richard a curt nod. Her appearance was comfortable after the girl outside; she was in her late forties, dressed in a business suit, with white hair tidied in a neat short style.

“I understand you intend to invest in Firedrake,” she said.

“That's what I'm here to decide.”