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uncle his staff were using the old IBM Selectrics. No sign of the Internet.'
    'You're right,' Marienetta agreed and chuckled as they stepped out on to level 103. 'He knows how easy it is for rival companies to employ top hackers to break into a computer system. As for the Internet, forget it. Actually I do agree with him. Here we are, my cubby hole.'
    'But you use computer cards instead of keys,' Paula pointed out as Marienetta used a different card to open a door.
    'He agreed to those - so did I - providing the cards are changed every evening. Which they are. Enter. Don't expect too much.'
    They walked into a spacious room with shag carpet, a luminous blue which gave a feeling of warmth. It was divided into two sections with a panelled partition excluding one half. The walls were rounded and Paula realized they were still at the summit of the Cone. More comfortable armchairs and antique tables were scattered about. Marienetta headed for the closed door in the panelled wall, taking out another computer card from her gold handbag slung over the shoulder.
    'Inside here,' she announced in a tone of mock gravity, 'is my Holy of Holies. Few visitors see it. I ban all bores.'
    'I want a drink,' Sophie called out rudely.
    She was pursing her lips, using one hand to stroke her hair. She stood stock-still.
    'You can have a glass of water,' Marienetta said, picking up a glass by a water cooler. 'No alcohol here.'
    'Don't want water. I'm going to my office. Open the bloody door.'
    'Do watch your mouth when we have visitors,' Marienetta said gently, going back to open the outer door.
    Newman said something about how he hoped they'd meet later. Sophie brushed past him without a glance in his direction.
    'She's in a mood,' Marienetta said amiably after relocking the door. 'But she's a genius with security and inventing new weapons.'
    'Weapons?' asked Tweed.
    'She can tell you how Marlborough fought the battle of Ramillies and the function of the hydrogen bomb. Science is her real flair. Now, let me show you.'
    The room beyond the panelling was a surprise. A white tiled floor, work tables with half-finished sculptures, mod ern, large bowls of plaster, a variety of tools. Beyond was an easel with an unframed portrait of Roman Arbogast. Very lifelike. A palette with squelches of paint, a large ceramic pot crammed with long-handled paint brushes.
    'Is this your work?' asked Paula as Marienetta donned a long white coat smeared with paint.
    'It's where I'm really at home.'
    She picked up a hammer and tapped hard at the shoulder of a sculpture in stone of a sprawling man half-sitting up. The whole arm broke off, Marienetta shrugged, slammed down the hammer on the metal table top.
    'That's ruined it,' she said. 'Have to start again.'
    Tweed had walked over to a mantelpiece, where a small maquette - or miniature sculpture - rested. He picked it up carefully, admired it, turned round to address Marienetta.
    'This is your creation?'
    'You have an artistic eye, Mr Tweed. Unfortunately it is not mine. Roman lent it to me for inspiration. It is a genuine Henry Moore maquette, cost a fortune at auction.'
    Tweed was carefully returning the precious maquette to its place on the mantelpiece while Paula wandered over to the easel with the unframed portrait of Arbogast. 'You paint too,' she said to Marienetta who had followed her.
    'I daub, but it clears my head of other problems,'
    'It really is a marvellous likeness. You've got him per fectly.'
    'Turn it over. There's another painting on the other side.'
    Paula gingerly took hold of the top of the picture. It was painted on board, not canvas. She swivelled the picture round and perched it back on the easel with the second painting showing. She stepped back a pace, shocked.
    It was another painting of Roman, a horrific version of Marienetta's uncle. The face was distorted, the mouth open, exposing small sharp teeth, the lips twisted far to one side. The expression was of incredibly murderous rage, the jowls