"I am, I'll have you know, Rick, in remarkably good shape for a man of my years," Landesman declared. "In all aspects of my physical health. But still, you're right. I do want you 'that bad,' Sam."
A couple of the others made encouraging noises: go on, do it, say yes.
"OK then," Sam said eventually, with a sigh, hardly believing the words were coming out of her mouth. She could always back out if she didn't like the look of what Landesman had in mind, if what he was proposing seemed too preposterous.
Landesman beamed with delight. "And that leaves Mr Pugh. Darren? Would you care to make it twelve out of twelve?"
Darren Pugh made to put his hand up, but then dropped it to the tabletop, with a smile that he might have thought was impish but looked to everyone else like a malicious leer.
"Nah," he said. "Not interested. Mainly because if ginger tits there" — he jerked a thumb at Sam — "is in, I don't want anything to do with it. And also because, you know what? This is bollocks. All of this. Heap of utter, steaming bollocks. You, Mr Landyman, Handyman, whatever your name is, you're talking shite. You can't beat the Olympians. No one can. I don't believe you've got any marvellous plan at all. You just like the idea of thinking you do, and you've roped in all these losers, got them halfway to believing your scheme, your fantasy, whatever this is, and nothing'll come of it, you mark my words. It'll all turn out to be some half-baked nonsense and the whole thing will fall apart.
"You know what you remind me of?" Pugh went on. "A posh version of those blokes you hear talking down the pub, the ones who say they know how they'd get rid of the Olympians, this is what we should do, and they've got some huge, complicated method, use poison gas or smuggle in a suitcase nuke or some such, and if only the government would listen to them then this whole thing would be sorted… But it's all just pie in the sky, just bullshitters bullshitting. And for all your money, your fancy invitations, your island and your World War Two bunker, you're no different from them."
"That's a no, then, I take it."
"Yeah, you could say it's a no. The only way you could kill the Olympians, I reckon, old man, is by boring them to death. Which, longwinded as you are, I wouldn't put past you. Other than that, though…" Pugh glanced around the table. "Good luck in your little happyland dream, all of you, and I'll keep an eye on the television for news reports about your bodies turning up charred and mangled in a field somewhere. That's assuming anything more comes from this meeting, which I seriously doubt'll happen."
He stood up, scraping back his chair.
"Now, I'd like to leave, if you wouldn't mind. I've been here long enough, and I don't enjoy being kept in places where I don't want to stay."
"I'll bet you don't," Sam muttered under her breath.
"What?" Pugh rounded on her. "What did you just say?" He took a step towards her, squaring his shoulders.
Ramsay stood up, ready to lunge.
"I asked you a question, she-pig," Pugh spat. "What did you just say?"
Sam locked gazes with him, at the same time motioning to Ramsay not to intervene. She could handle this. She'd fronted down far larger and far angrier men in the past.
"You don't like being detained against your will, Mr Pugh," she said. "That's understandable. So go. Go now. Don't make a fuss about it. No one wants any trouble."
Pugh took another step closer to her. His head was twitching. His eyes flicked to a table knife, just within his reach. Not particularly sharp, but a useable weapon all the same.
"But if you do want trouble," Sam went on, evenly, "I will give it to you. Come at me with that table knife, and I will break your wrist before you even get near me. Then I will break your elbow. Then I will break your nose. And while you're down on the floor screaming like a little girl, I will take out one of your ankles. And then I will get started on your crotch — and not in a good way. If you ever want to walk normally again, walk now, straight past me, out of that door, and don't come back. That's the one safe, sane course of action open to you right now. Try anything else, and you will regret it."
She kept her voice low, steady, to indicate that she meant every word she said. It was no bluff. She did.
Pugh weighed up his options. He could fathom only one way out of this that didn't involve losing face.
"Fuck it, you're not worth it," he growled. "Anyway, I don't hit women."
Sam wondered if Pugh's estranged wife, were she still alive, might have had something different to say about that.
"I'm off." Pugh headed for the door, skirting round the table on the opposite side from where Sam sat.
Landesman moved to intercept him. "Darren, I'm sorry it has to be this way. But, as a token of my appreciation, and by way of recompense for your time and inconvenience…"
He produced a chequebook, one of those furnished by the kind of bank that did not have high street branches, that had perhaps one premises in a Georgian townhouse in the City of London, another in Switzerland, and a third on a Caribbean island with malleable tax laws. He also produced a Mont Blanc pen. A quick scribble, a rip of perforations, and Pugh was holding a cheque for a sum whose size was sufficient to transform his normally tight-slitted mouth into a wide, gap-toothed grin.
"It was no inconvenience at all, Mr Landesman," he said, folding the cheque and tucking it into a back pocket. "For that kind of dosh, you want me to come and waste a day here again, just call, any time."
Lillicrap was waiting in the corridor outside to escort Pugh upstairs.
Landesman turned back to the remaining eleven. "No great loss," he said. His lack of disappointment seemed entirely unfeigned. "I knew he'd be fifty-fifty, and his antipathy towards Sam would have been an almost insurmountable obstacle. We're better off without him. Besides, one dropout, out of twelve, isn't bad. Now, if you'd all care to follow me, I have something to show you. The wait is over. This is where you learn that I am not, as Rick put it, a deluded nutjob, nor, in Darren Pugh's parlance, a bullshitter. I am the enabler of your vengeances and, quite possibly, the saviour of the world."
6. TITAN
They were, Sam judged, perhaps half of a mile to the east of the bunker entrance, which put them somewhere on the far side of the island, maybe even right at its opposite shore. They were in a chamber that could have comfortably housed a football pitch, with a rugged arched ceiling that had been dynamited out of the solid rock. She had the sense that the chamber was deep underground but still above sea level, the hilliness of the island affording a thick protective layer all around. Her guess would be that the far wall formed the inside of a sheer cliff. She could dimly hear waves pounding against the other side, with that heavy booming impact that suggested they were breaking against a vertical surface rather than a slanted one.
A substantial proportion of that wall was taken up by a mural, a copy of a Renaissance painting she recognised. It depicted two naked Greek gods, one young, one old, the former hacking at the latter's crotch with a scythe while various other disrobed divinities sat around looking on in postures of horror and despair. All of these huge figures had lumpen fleshy physiques, and in the background was an image of the earth enclosed in a spherical golden cage that presumably stood for the universe. Sam couldn't at that moment recall which myth the painting represented. The artist's name, likewise, escaped her. Michelangelo?
The chamber itself, however, was of lesser importance than what it contained.
It contained a handful of technicians, most dressed in casualwear, a couple in denim coveralls. They sat at flatscreen computer stations hooked up to one another by high-density cables, each with its own array of gonks, action figures, toys, pinned-up postcards and photos — geek territorial markers. The computer stations vied for floorspace with heavy-duty industrial workbenches that were littered with tools such as screwdriver sets and soldering irons.