Mac dresses carefully. The suit is plain and sober, the shirt pale blue, the cuffs buttoned, the tie dark blue with a small gold design, the shoes black and not too shiny. Stepping back, he surveys the result and nods. Yes, just right. He loads pen, comb, wallet and loose change into his pockets, checking he has the correct credit cards in the wallet. A final check of his appearance and he is done. He fastens his watch on his wrist and pulls on his overcoat - mid-length and dark grey. Glancing out of the window, he sees the taxi pull up. 'Good,' he thinks. 'Right on time.' Picking up the briefcase and overnight bag, he leaves his apartment, locking the door and dropping the keys into his coat pocket.
The taxi driver is not one of those who likes to blether and Mac relaxes a little. The first step of his journey has started auspiciously. While not superstitious, he likes things to go the way he has planned, especially at the beginning. He pays the cabbie and steps out onto the station concourse. A few late-night travellers sit hunched inside their coats or pace up and down. A young couple cuddle in a quiet corner. Nothing unusual. He glances up at the large train indicator board. He has timed it perfectly.
If Mac is honest with himself, he likes railway stations, especially at night. During the day, their bustling anonymity allows him to fade into the crowd - unseen and unnoticed. At night they have an air of shabbiness, of loneliness and mystery that suits him. There is always an aura of transience and impermanence about a large station at night. Night travellers seem to have a furtive air about them. Their posture seems to be apologetic - as if they shouldn't really be there at all and are vaguely guilty about intruding upon the vast echoing emptiness. Mac is not, however, a man much given to introspection and such thoughts impinge only on the fringes of his consciousness. He boards his train.
A first-class compartment is costly but Mac thinks the expense worthwhile. He is a man who values his privacy. He slings his bags onto the rack, hangs up his coat and jacket and settles back on the bed. He does not read; neither a book nor a magazine. Neither does he do a crossword nor solve puzzles. He does not visit the bar or the buffet. He does none of the things that people do to while away time. He simply lies, with his hands behind his head as, with a toot and the slightest of jerks, the train moves off. He lies quietly, eyes open, lulled by the sounds of the wheels on the track and the low whine of the motors. After a while he rouses himself and prepares for bed. He sleeps soundly and dreamlessly. Mac is a man who lets little in life bother him.
He arrives in London, of course, far too early for his appointment. He leaves his overnight bag in a locker at the station. As he breakfasts in a small, inconspicuous self-service café close to the station, he mentally reviews his instructions, checks the address and plans his route. He pays for his meal and sets off for the nearest tube station. It is the start of the rush hour and he endures the rushing, jostling, thrusting crowds stoically, aware once again of one of the main reasons he dislikes this city so much.
He is fortunate with connections and arrives at his destination a bit early. He does a quick mental calculation - ten minutes to kill. Glancing up and down the street, he turns right and sets off with a purposeful step. He walks carefully, paying neither too much nor too little attention to his surroundings - just another businessman off to keep an appointment. He crosses the road, circles a block and walks back towards the tube station. Doubling back is slightly risky but better than cutting through residential side-streets where he would be more conspicuous. He continues past the station and, exactly at the time he'd planned, opens the glass doors of a large, modern office block.
The foyer is air-conditioned, sound-proofed and designed to impress. It is also well protected. His trained eye takes in the three surveillance cameras, the shatter-proof glass ('Probably bomb-proof, too,' he thinks), the infra-red motion detectors and the two guards standing in unobtrusive corners where they have a clear line of sight across the whole area. A second, quick glance suggests the guards are armed. He crosses to where an exceptionally decorative receptionist sits.
"Good morning, sir." Her smile is bright but impersonal.
"Good morning. Mr McDonald to see Mr Klugman."
The receptionist blinks and her expression hardens. "Is he expecting you, sir?"
"Yes."
"If you'd like to wait a moment." She picks up the phone, dials and speaks quietly. Mac turns casually to survey the foyer. He turns back as she speaks.
"If you'd like to take a seat, Mr McDonald. Someone will be down shortly." Her smile is warmer and her tone more respectful.
"Thank you." His smile is brief.
He sits back in one of the sumptuous armchairs, one leg crossed over the other knee, his briefcase in his lap and surreptitiously watches the receptionist while keeping an eye on the foyer as a whole. She is definitely worth watching. Two thoughts idly cross his mind - whether her bottom half matches the top and whether she is merely decorative. He decides that the answers are yes and no.
Several people enter as he waits. Some are obviously employees for they make straight for the bank of lifts. He notes they pass swipe cards through a scanner before pressing for the lift. A man approaches the receptionist and goes through the same routine as Mac had. He is obviously a frequent visitor for he exchanges pleasantries with the receptionist before heading towards Mac. Instinctively Mac is wary but the man merely nods pleasantly and sprawls in one of the seats, subconsciously adopting the same pose as Mac. A lift 'pings' quietly and a young man emerges. He looks at the receptionist who glances in Mac's direction. Mac is amused. The communication had been subtle and it was unlikely that anyone else would have noticed.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr McDonald," he says. "Would you come this way?" He does not give his name or offer to shake hands.
He leads Mac to the lift, swipes his card and stands waiting with an air of impatience. Mac is quietly amused. He guesses that the young man is only a junior employee but is assuming an air of importance to put this nondescript visitor in his place. All the way up in the lift, the man pointedly ignores Mac, tapping his foot impatiently and watching the indicator intently as floor numbers slowly increase.
They step out into a hushed corridor, thickly carpeted and wood panelled with paintings hanging on the walls at regular intervals. Mac, knowing nothing about art, is unable to say if they are reproductions or originals, but they look expensive. His guide strides briskly down the corridor past a number of doors from which emerge the hum of people hard at work, the hushed clicking of keyboards and the muted burble of telephones. It is a seductive sound and, briefly, Mac thinks that it would be nice to belong to that busy bustle - to belong to an organisation, a group. The thought is fleeting for he tried it once and the routine and the petty politics had driven him almost insane within weeks.
The young man knocks on a door and enters. Mac follows. The office is light, spacious and luxurious. An older man, greying at the temples, sits behind a large desk with his back to a window which gives a view of rooftops and the city beyond. He looks up.
"Ah, thank you Philip."
Dismissed, the young man turns and leaves - a gopher as Mac had surmised. The older man steeples his fingers and regards him thoughtfully. Mac returns the compliment.
"You are McDonald?"
Mac nods.
"And you have something for Mr Klugman?"
"Yes."
The man smiles coldly. "I assume you can prove that?"
Mac puts the briefcase on the floor between his feet. "Just so as there's no misunderstanding," he says, slowly unfastening his jacket and opening it to show the man he wasn't armed.
"You're cautious."
"Pays to be," says Mac, pulling out his wallet.
He hands the man the envelope he'd been told to bring, unopened. The man slits the envelope, takes out the paper it contains and reads it carefully. When he has finished, he folds it carefully, replaces it in the envelope and pushes it back across the desk to Mac.
He stands and extends his hand. "Welcome, Mr McDonald. Mr Klugman is expecting you."
Mac shakes the proffered hand. The man is larger than he had seemed seated, almost as tall as Mac, and, despite his age, in obviously good shape. 'Never underestimate suits,' Mac reminds himself.
The man leads him a few doors down the corridor and enters another room without knocking. Three girls sit typing, all of them as decorative as the receptionist. At a larger desk beside a double door sits an older woman, at least in comparison to the women he has seen so far, probably in her thirties. She looks every inch the impeccable PA with her tailored suit, white shirt and dark hair pulled into severe bun.
"Mr McDonald," Mac's guide says to her simply and leaves.
She stands and Mac can see that she carries not an ounce of excess weight and her suit was designed to emphasise her svelte figure. She exudes class and makes the decorative receptionist seem distinctly dowdy. She turns and knocks on the double doors.
"Come," a voice calls from behind them.
She opens them and gestures Mac through. He steps into a huge corner office. His feet seem to sink inches into the pile of the carpet. As well as a vast teak desk and leather chair, there are bookcases, a conference table surrounded by eight seats, settees, display cabinets containing models, plaques, trophies and exotic knick-knacks, occasional tables and so on. It is quite overwhelming and he feels justified in giving it a long, sweeping appraisal, noting as he does the security features on the windows and the surveillance cameras.
"It's a bit over the top," comes a booming voice from behind the desk. He turns his attention to the speaker.
Klugman is a large man - not particularly tall nor particularly fat - just large. He is swarthy and seems more of middle-eastern or Greek origin than his German name suggests. The first thing Mac notices are his eyes. Large and brown, they seem to twinkle almost hypnotically and be constantly in motion. But there is a hardness, a firmness of purpose behind the twinkle. The second thing he notices are Klugman's hands - out of proportion to his body and decorated with heavy gold rings, they move as continuously and expressively as his eyes.
"It's, uh, impressive," Mac says, moving towards the desk.
"You have my package?"
"I have a package for Mr Klugman."
"Give it here, then."
"If you are Mr Klugman."
Mac is tense, wary. He is unarmed and completely at these people's mercy. But he has a job to do and he takes his work seriously. His delivery is to Klugman in person and he will deliver it only to Klugman in person.
The man behind the desk rises to his feet, leaning on his knuckles, his face flushed.
"What do you mean 'if I am Klugman'?"
Mac thinks his words out carefully. "I have never met Mr Klugman nor have I seen any photographs or images of him. My instructions are to deliver the package to Mr Klugman in person and only to him. You will forgive me if I am cautious."
For a moment it looks like Klugman will explode. Then, suddenly, he gives a great booming shout of laughter. "I like you McDonald. You are quite right to be cautious. How can I prove who I am?"
"I have one piece of personal information that could only be known to someone who was intimately acquainted with Mr Klugman."
Klugman resumes his seat and puts his feet on the desk, steepling his fingers over his chest. He looks at Mac thoughtfully. "Hmm. That's a pretty puzzle. I could go on reciting irrelevant facts about myself until I hit the right one by accident. In the meantime you would find out a lot about me that I do not wish to be generally known." His eyes bore into Mac. "You choose your words carefully when you speak." It is more of a statement than a question. Mac nods. Klugman thinks for a minute then says. "I only have one testicle."
"That's what I have been told." Mac lifts the briefcase. "May I?"
Klugman indicates the desk. Mac places the briefcase carefully on it's gleaming surface and opens it. He turns it so it is facing Klugman.
"Your package."
Klugman leans forward and lifts the package out, trying to disguise his eagerness. Mac stands silently while he prises out the staples and looks inside. He extracts a piece of paper, reads it and replaces it with a nod of satisfaction.
"You know what this is?" he asks.
"No."
Klugman sits down, visibly more relaxed and looks at Mac thoughtfully.
"Sit, McDonald. Would you like some refreshment?"
"Coffee, please."
Mac sits while Klugman buzzes his secretary.
"You're a strange man, McDonald." Mac raises an eyebrow. "You came highly recommended but you are not what I expected. I have to say, however, that you have fulfilled your contract impeccably - even to the extent of ensuring that I am who I claim to be."
"Thank you, sir."
The secretary enters bearing a tray with the coffee. She pours two cups and hands one to Mac. The cup is fine bone china and he takes it carefully, afraid of breaking it.
"Myra," said Klugman as she is about to leave. "Look at Mr McDonald and tell me what you see."
Myra stops, turns and regards Mac carefully. "I see a businessman - probably a junior manager in a large company. The sort of person you see every day on the tube. I have to say, sir, this is not the kind of person you would normally see personally."
Mac sketches her a seated bow. "Thank you," he says. They both look at him in surprise. "That's exactly what I want to look like," he explains.
Klugman chuckles. "I think I see." Myra looks puzzled. "Will you explain for Myra's benefit, please?" Mac looks at him quizzically. "It's okay."
Mac considers his words carefully. "I have to make a delivery. The delivery is to a business address and will involve travel. Businessmen travel and visit business addresses." He shrugs.
Myra still looks puzzled.
"Camouflage," Klugman laughs. "No-one is going to notice just another businessman travelling to London on business." He turns to Mac. "You came by sleeper?" Mac nods. "Even better. Very anonymous. Your clothes - Marks & Spencer?" Mac nods again. Klugman is perceptive.
"You mean," says Myra, beginning to understand, "you deliberately bought that suit for this trip? So you wouldn't be noticed?"
"No and yes. I've had the suit for some time," Mac says. "But I did choose it deliberately for this trip."
"And I'll bet you've got a whole wardrobe full," Klugman booms.
Mac shoots him a warning look. He is getting too warm.
"Not really," he says.
"But why?" Myra asks.
He shrugs. "It's my job."
She gives him a strange look and leaves.
Klugman leans back and studies him. Mac sips his coffee and surreptitiously surveys the room. It reeks of money - big money. He doesn't let Klugman's scrutiny bother him. He is used to being treated suspiciously - to being handled at arm's length, to being seen merely as an item of furniture or, sometimes even worse. "I might have a job for you, if you're interested."
Mac raises an eyebrow. "I'm always interested in work," he says noncommittally.
Klugman laughs. "I like you McDonald. I think you'll do fine. I'll buy you dinner tonight."
"I was going home this afternoon."
"Cancel that. Tonight at eight."
He rises from behind his desk. Mac also stands. "I'll need more."
"Money?"
"Information."
Klugman sighs. "You are cautious. Very well. I might be able to put some work your way. There's someone I know who could do with a man like you. I want you to meet him. It could be quite lucrative. Enough?"
Mac smiles. "Yes, thank you."
Klugman ushers him to the door. "Myra'll give you the details," he says clapping him on the shoulder. "I don't know why but I like you, McDonald."
"Thank you, sir."
As well as directions to the restaurant, Myra also gives him an envelope containing some cash. "Mr Klugman said it was a bonus," she explains. "I don't know how but you seem to have impressed him."
Mac shrugs and pockets the money. He glances at his watch. "Now I'm rich, can I buy you some lunch?" he asks.
"Why?"
"Well I could say that it's because you're an exceedingly attractive woman and I'd like to get to know you better but that would only be partly true. I would also like to pick your brains." He grins at her and his whole face changes. He is no longer a slightly shabby businessman. His features seem to become firmer, his jaw stronger, his eyes steelier but with a hidden twinkle. He is actually rather handsome, she thinks. Her heart gives a little flutter and she subconsciously raises a hand to the neck of her blouse.
"I don't think that would be a good idea, Mr McDonald," she says, trying to be severe but afraid he could hear a slight tremble in her voice.
"No, I suppose not," he sighs and grins again. "But you can't blame me for trying - and you are very attractive."
She flushes then grins back. "Perhaps some other time."
"You can count on it."
His escort appears - young Philip again - and he gives her a cheery wave as he leaves, accompanied by a disapproving sniff from Philip.