19

Maddox Sterling’s office was a glass wonder. A capsule of 360-degree views, its four walls were constructed from electro-chromatic smart windows. The special glass, stretching from floor to ceiling, automatically altered its transparency according to the sun’s strength and position in the sky. Being midmorning, the eastern wall had darkened to amber brown against the golden light streaming over Sydney’s Central Business District.

Maddox Sterling, his back to the shaded sun, stood as Colonel Black, Ling and Connor were ushered in by his personal assistant. Entering the office was almost disconcerting. For Connor, it felt as if he could step right off the edge of the towering skyscraper and plummet fifty floors to the pavement below.

The office’s interior design was as minimalist as the walls themselves. There was no furniture beyond a slim glass desk and four chrome-and-black-leather chairs. For a man in charge of a billion-dollar corporation, the see-through desk was strangely uncluttered. No paperwork, no computer monitor, no ornaments, not even a picture of his daughters—just an ultra-thin aluminum laptop and a cordless phone.

“Welcome to Sydney,” said Maddox Sterling, greeting each of them with a firm handshake and a slick smile, then gesturing for them to take a seat.

“Thank you, Mr. Sterling,” said Colonel Black, settling into one of the designer chairs, Ling and Connor taking their places on either side of him.

From behind his desk, Maddox Sterling swiveled toward an unbroken view of one of Sydney’s most iconic landmarks. With a broad sweep of his hand as if he owned it, he declared, “Without doubt, the finest natural harbor in the world, made even more magnificent by our stunning opera house and the Sydney Harbor Bridge. Truly a sight to behold.”

Connor stared out the window—first, at the sparkling waters of the harbor, then at the overlapping shell roof of the opera house, and finally at the dramatic latticework of arching girders that spanned the waterway. It certainly was an impressive sight.

“They call the bridge the Coathanger because of its arch-based design,” Mr. Sterling explained, a hint of disapproval noticeable in his tone. “But that does it a great disservice. Up close, it’s truly majestic. The arch soars so high, a ten-story building could pass beneath. And the weight of the bridge is monstrous. Over three hundred and fifty thousand tons of steel and six million rivets went into its construction.”

He glanced sideways at Connor and Ling, checking to see that they were suitably impressed.

“The bridge has a surface area larger than sixty soccer pitches, which means it needs a fifty-man team working three hundred and sixty-five days a year just to clean and repaint it. Obviously such maintenance is incredibly dangerous work. That’s why they’ve recently employed two autonomous robots for the more hazardous sections. An appropriate reduction of risk.”

Mr. Sterling pivoted back to face them. His cobalt-blue eyes fixed first on Ling, then on Connor, with an intensity that seemed to cut right through them both.

“Similarly, I’ve employed you two to reduce the risk in my family’s life.”

Connor wasn’t sure how he felt about being compared with a mindless robot, but Mr. Sterling didn’t seem to consider this an insult and carried on regardless.

“I already have a personal protection officer, who will be accompanying me on the trip. My yacht has a ship security officer, and there are other safeguards in place here and at home. But, as you know, that wasn’t enough. I have two beautiful daughters who are very precious to me. And God forbid I have a repeat of last year.”

“You can rest assured, Mr. Sterling, that my guardians will protect your daughters,” said Colonel Black. “Since this is a family vacation, their presence will appear to be relaxed and low profile. But I can guarantee they’ll be on constant alert to any threat and avert any danger.”

“Your organization comes highly recommended, Colonel Black, so I expect nothing less.”

Colonel Black didn’t flinch under Maddox’s steely gaze. And he gave no answer, none being required when his belief in his recruits was absolute.

Mr. Sterling wagged a finger in Connor’s direction. “Is this the boy who saved the US president’s daughter’s life?”

Colonel Black’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know about that?”

“I have my sources. But don’t be concerned, Colonel. Keeping your organization a secret is in my interests. So, is he?”

Colonel Black nodded.

“Then I want him protecting Emily.”

Connor glanced over at Ling. Her lips had tightened, clearly taking the role assignment as an affront to her abilities. But she stayed silent.

“Not a problem,” agreed the colonel. “Now, I understand that you—”

A knock at the door disturbed them, and Mr. Sterling’s assistant appeared. “Sorry to interrupt, but the editor in chief says this can’t wait.”

Mr. Sterling nodded his assent, and a redheaded woman in a tailored pinstripe jacket-and-skirt suit entered.

“What is it, Ruth?”

She shot a doubtful glance at the colonel and two young teenagers in his office. “This might be better in private.”

“My apologies, Colonel Black,” said Mr. Sterling with a regretful smile, “but the world rarely stops in my line of business.”

“We understand,” said Colonel Black, rising to his feet. “I can communicate any outstanding queries via your assistant.”

“Then I’ll bid you farewell and look forward to seeing these two in the Seychelles,” said Mr. Sterling, offering both Ling and Connor a courteous nod. “But before then I’ve arranged for you to meet my daughters for lunch at one of my restaurants. My assistant has the details.”

Ruth stepped aside to allow them out through the glass door. As the door slowly closed behind them, Connor overheard a familiar name.

“There’s more to Harry Gibb’s heart attack than meets the eye . . .” the editor in chief began. “. . . speculation he was murdered.”

“What evidence do you have?” asked Mr. Sterling.

“Nothing conclusive at the moment. But I may have a source.”

“Okay, look into it. If it’s true, it’ll take the heat off the Daily for allegedly causing that idiot’s death through stress. As well as help sell a bucketload more papers—”

Then the glass door slid shut.