The Curve of The Earth sp-4

by Simon Morden

  “She’s not going to leave you just because you can’t take her out on Valentine’s Day.” Petrovitch started to unlace his boots. “Not if she really loves you.”

  “I don’t think you understand. This is a big deal. Like a really big deal to her.”

  “And to you.” He forced first one boot off, then the other. He wiggled his toes and inspected his socks for holes. “You want to do this, don’t you? More than anything. You can just go. I am probably the most watched person in the continental United States at the moment. Isn’t that right, guys?”

  Petrovitch picked up a boot and threw it against the wall. He imagined an operator clutching his bruised ears and howling in pain.

  “I can’t just go. I can’t.”

  “Just go next door and sort it out.”

  “They won’t answer: they’re not supposed to be there.”

  Petrovitch flipped his key card at Newcomen. “They don’t have to answer. You can walk straight in.”

  “I cannot take on the entire NSA.”

  “You ought to try it sometime. It’s fun.”

  Both men stared at each other, one with despair, the other with detached amusement. Petrovitch broke first.

  “Come with me.” He pulled the jammer out of the bag and walked into the en-suite bathroom. He turned on the taps in both the shower and the sink, and, for good measure, flushed the toilet.

  Newcomen closed the door behind them. “What is it?”

  “Okay, it’s like this. Your two friends, Gowan and Baxter? They’re propping up a bar in First Hill. Buchannan’s been at home for an hour. If you ask any or all of them why they’re not returning your calls, they’ll swear blind and pass a polygraph test that they never had a single message. You’re not meant to meet Christine tonight, or any other night.”

  “But who would do such a thing? Why would they do it?”

  “You mozgoyob. You’ve been left swinging in the wind, and you can’t work out who’s done this to you? First of all you get assigned, quite out of the blue, to go to one of the most dangerous cities in the world — for an American — to meet one of the most dangerous people in the world — me — and you have the temerity to come back home alive. Since that hasn’t worked, you’re now put in a situation where either you leave me here, go on your date and get sacked for it, or stay with me and your girlfriend dumps you. If that doesn’t work, there are a thousand and one different accidents you can have on the North Slope, one of which is bound to kill you.” Petrovitch pushed the toilet seat down and sat on the lid. He flushed again for good measure. “You’re the detective. Work it out.”

  “No. Not getting this.”

  “Edward Logan. Christine’s father. Honorary treasurer of the Washington State Reconstruction Party.” When he got a blank look, he asked, “You have heard of him, right?”

  “Christine’s father?” Newcomen shook his head violently, as if to dislodge an angry bee. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You don’t have to believe me. It’s not compulsory in any way. But I am right. Logan doesn’t want you to marry his daughter. Status and money are everything to him. I bet he’s got a line of eligible suitors ready to go: right after a suitable mourning period, of course.”

  “Mr Logan wants me dead?”

  “No. If only because he’ll have to spring for a funeral wreath. He just wants you, a lowly government employee, gone, and he doesn’t care how that happens.”

  “But I’m a federal agent. He can’t just…”

  Petrovitch pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what? You are too stupid to live. Of course he shouldn’t, but he does, and because he’s a big Reconstruction cheese, he’s going to get away with it. No one is going to investigate him. No one is going to rat him out. No one is even going to look in his direction. This is how your country works now.”

  The sound of spouting water filled the deep silence. Newcomen worked his jaw and Petrovitch watched the patterns the steam made as it fogged the mirror. The extractor fan busied itself, venting the air to the freezing weather outside.

  “Want to get even?”

  Newcomen, sitting on the edge of the bath, looked up to see Petrovitch smiling at him.

  “How am I going to do that?”

  “You have exactly forty-one minutes before you’re supposed to be picking Christine up. We’ll be right down to the wire, but I have a plan. It takes about twenty-five minutes to get from here to Logan’s place, depending on traffic. I can do something about that, so let’s call it twenty. Ten minutes in the shower, ten getting ready. Yeah, we can do this.”

  “But what about-”

  “Past’ zebej. Shower, now.” Petrovitch took the jammer with him back into the bedroom and pulled the door shut. He could hear Newcomen’s shoes hit the floor, and the soft rustle of clothing as it fell away.

  Time to test the epigram: money talks. He could shout louder than most; not just the personal wealth he’d signed away to the Freezone, but the collective’s entire resources. Even Teddy Logan would be grudgingly impressed.

  He didn’t care about that as much as he did about wiping the condescending smile from Logan’s face, the one he used on all his publicity material.

  So Petrovitch made a list of things he needed, and sent virtual agents out across the network to find them. They came scurrying back with their results even as he was talking to the hotel’s concierge.

  “Yeah. This is going to be a tall order, but I’m prepared to shovel an obscene amount of cash your way if you can make these things happen. Your foyer is about to be besieged by couriers, and I need the stuff they’re carrying bringing straight up to my room. Also, I need a hamper full of buffet-style snacks — you know, finger-food things — and some desserts that won’t fall apart in the back of a limo. And a limo. A bottle of pre-Armageddon champagne, some soft drinks, glasses. Look, you know how to do this better than I do. A picnic for lovers, okay? And I need it in fifteen minutes.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Petrovitch opened it. Two men in hotel uniform stood outside.

  “Wait there.”

  He kicked the bathroom door open, grabbed Newcomen’s suit and shoes, and thrust the bundle into the men’s waiting arms. “Chyort. One more thing.” He delved into the waste bin for the tie, and handed it over. “I need this all back in ten minutes. Do what you can.”

  Then came the steady stream of people bearing all the things he thought were essential — that Madeleine thought were essential, because she was telling him exactly what he needed and what would impress.

  By the time Newcomen emerged, wrapped in a towel, Petrovitch was dressed in a pale jacket with matching trousers, brown shoes and a white Nehru shirt.

  “Not a yebani word, got that?” He held out a new shirt sealed in a plastic bag and a pair of cufflinks in a box. “That’s your size. Get it on.”

  “Uh, shorts?”

  Petrovitch threw another sealed bag at him. “Socks, too.”

  The door rattled again, and he took delivery of Newcomen’s freshly pressed suit and shined shoes.

  “You have four minutes.”

  Newcomen hurried, and it turned out that he scrubbed up quite well. Petrovitch adjusted the knot on his tie and shook the lapels of his jacket out.

  “How did you do all this?”

  “By being married to someone who knows what a woman wants, and who is continually frustrated by her husband’s singular inability to provide any of it.” Petrovitch checked the time. “Out.”

  He paused only to throw the jammer in on top of the open carpet bag and grab the handles. Newcomen found himself shoved through the barely open door and towards the lifts. One car was waiting for them, because Petrovitch had fixed it that way.

  Thirty seconds later, they were in the foyer, being shown through the evening throng by the concierge. “Everything’s ready, Dr Petrovitch.”

  “Everything except me. I’ll settle up with you later, but yeah. Not bad for a Yank.”

  The conc
ierge tipped his hat and opened the door for them.

  A white stretch limo was idling outside, the driver in a dark blue uniform standing beside it.

  “Is that ours?” asked Newcomen.

  “Yobany stos, man. It’s a wonder you can find your way to the office in the morning. It’s ours, for the evening at least. Now, we’re late, and I’m going to have to do some real-time traffic control in order to get us to the Logans’ on time.”

  The chauffeur opened the door to the cavernous interior, and Newcomen climbed in. Petrovitch followed, the cold nipping at his ankles. The clothes he was in felt alien, uncomfortable, stiff. His usual stuff was his by right of conquest, but the jacket felt like it was wearing him, and his shoes were hard and unyielding.

  He’d had to put up with worse. It was going to be fine.

  13

  It seemed to take an age for the chauffeur to walk around the front of the car to the driver’s seat. Finally the engine note changed and the limo pulled away.

  “This is all very…” Newcomen huffed. “Kind. But I don’t see how it’s going to get me out of the pickle of having to babysit you all evening when I’m supposed to be alone with Christine. Even if I get her to the restaurant on time, you’re going to have to…” He huffed again.

  “What? Sit between you and play gooseberry? Yeah, the ladies love that sort of thing.” Petrovitch watched the lights of Seattle go by as they pulled out on to the interstate. “You can’t go to the restaurant. It’s just impractical. Sorry. I’ve cancelled your reservation, and we’re going with plan B.”

  “I’m clutching at straws now anyway.”

  “Newcomen, listen. I’d barely turned eighteen when I had to execute a war against two hundred thousand crazed fanatics. And I won. If you think you can come up with something better than I have, then be my guest. As it is, all you’ve done is run around in circles, pulling at your hair. Take what I give you and be grateful.”

  “And what is it exactly that you’re giving me?”

  “What could be your last ever evening with your fiancee,” said Petrovitch. “Some people don’t get the chance of knowing. You kiss the wife goodbye, you step out of the door, and wham. Someone, something takes you out, and you’ve missed the chance to invest those few moments with meaning.”

  “I’m supposed to be grateful?” Newcomen’s voice rose in pitch and volume.

  Petrovitch’s reply was matter-of-fact. “Yeah. You were never meant to meet her tonight, if ever. Now you can.”

  Newcomen stared and ground his jaw.

  “You look like a cow when you do that.” Petrovitch leaned forward, and realised the other bench seat facing him was too far away to reach. “Over there’s a hamper filled with all sorts of goodies. There’s champagne on ice, and I don’t even want to think about how much that’s cost us. There’s two bouquets of flowers: tiger lilies for Mrs Logan and red roses for Christine. You’ve been to Logan’s place: you know the summer house down by the lake. You and her can take the hamper down there and do whatever it is you two want to do, entirely undisturbed. When you’re done, we go back to the hotel. Vrubatsa?”

  “But what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”

  “I’ll be in the house with Christine’s parents — I’ve checked they’re not going out anywhere — and that should satisfy both you, and the pickiest of tribunals, if it ever comes to it. You’ll be on the same property as me. If I need you, I’ll call for you: barring disasters, I promise I won’t call you.” Petrovitch grimaced. “That’s right. I’m going to spend the whole evening making pleasantries with the man who doesn’t care whether his daughter’s boyfriend lives or dies, and sees me as an aberration before God. I’d rather lie in a bath of broken glass, but there you go.”

  Newcomen threw himself back against his seat, and sat upright again as the chair began to massage him. He looked around at it with distaste. “Are you sure about Logan?”

  “What? Whether he’s going out or not?”

  “No, not that.”

  “The other thing? Yeah. There won’t be a paper trail I can follow, he’s far too careful for that: but you know he hates you. You know his wife doesn’t dare say anything to him. The only reason you’ve lasted this long is because Christine genuinely does love you. Then it got serious. You proposed and she accepted. You dared to pick a date and a venue. That was when he started to look for ways to get rid of you.”

  “This is still the father of my fiancee you’re talking about.” Newcomen slid across the car to inspect the hamper.

  “Yobany stos, man. He’s trying to have you killed, and you worry about good manners? Chyort, the only reason you’re polite to him is because Christine is his chattel and he can do what he wants with her.” Petrovitch laid a proprietorial hand over his carpet bag. “This sort of situation would never happen in the Freezone. It just couldn’t. If Lucy had ever shown any interest in men, there’d have been no question of me interfering. Or even threatening to cut their yajtza off with a cleaver.”

  “She’s your daughter, though.” Newcomen opened the lid of the hamper, and his eyes grew wide. He was disarmed enough that his train of thought derailed and fell down an embankment.

  “She doesn’t belong to me. I belong to her. After she lost her parents, I was all she had. I might have been piss-poor as a dad, but even I knew I had to protect her, teach her, and try and turn her into a rounded human being. I pretty much failed on every count, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her. What it does mean is that I don’t own her.”

  The lights outside dimmed. They were crossing the Murrow Bridge. In the dark, Newcomen asked quietly: “You’ve not had children of your own?”

  “There’s a good chance that both me and Maddy are sterile. She’s a mutant, I’m radiation-damaged.” Petrovitch stared at the glint of his wedding ring. “We’ve not done any tests, not gone for any treatment. Yeah, a gestation tank would be the simple answer, but we’re still young. And you know, we still enjoy trying at every available opportunity.”

  Newcomen pulled a face. “Oh, stop. Now.”

  “Bearing in mind this could be it,” continued Petrovitch, “you might consider doing the same. Going out in a blaze of glory. Spawn and die.”

  “I am not an animal. And Christine…”

  “It’s often when faced by imminent death that you feel the biological urge the most.”

  “Shut up, Petrovitch.” Newcomen balled his fists, but didn’t do anything with them. “Just, shut up.”

  “Okay.”

  The limo cruised off the bridge and into a tunnel.

  “We’re still being followed,” said Petrovitch. “Wish I could do something about that.”

  “Maybe they’re wondering where we’re going.” Newcomen sounded relieved at the change of subject.

  “They’re not wondering at all. They made the plates on the car and checked the destination with the hire company. They’re just doing it to piss me off. Did you know they’ve diverted a satellite so that it can track me better? Polar orbit, so it’s only overhead for a short time each day, but they’re bringing in another one tomorrow. All that expense, all that effort, just to see where I’m going.” Petrovitch looked up from his lap at Newcomen. “Do you suppose they have a good reason why they’re doing that, and not using those same resources to find Lucy?”

  “If it’s true…”

  “Which it is. I don’t think I’ve lied to you yet.”

  “Which itself is probably a lie,” said Newcomen. “If it’s true, perhaps they are using it to look for Lucy.”

  “Wrong footprint on the ground.” Petrovitch gave a halfsmile. “And we’ve intercepted the datafeed. We know exactly when it’s live, and where it’s pointing. You’ve got plenty of resources, you’re just not using them right.”

  The car turned off the freeway and slowed to the new speed limit. It became obvious who was on their tail, as first one, then two sets of headlights peeled off from the main road but kept a respectful distance.<
br />
  “Nearly there,” remarked Newcomen. “Will you be listening in, when I’m alone with her?”

  “It’s not the way it works. Michael monitors you. If you say anything you shouldn’t, he’ll let me know. I can honestly say that you won’t be overheard by another human being.”

  “So you’re definitely bugging me?” He checked the inside of his jacket, as if he was going to find something obvious within the folds of his clothes.

  “Yeah. We get to keep some secrets. Neither was I born yesterday, so let’s change the subject.” Petrovitch reached into the carpet bag for the jammer. “I will leave this for you, though. That should be enough insurance against your own side. I’ll take my chances.”

  Closed high gates presented themselves in the limo’s lights, and the chauffeur buzzed the intercom to speak to his passengers.

  “There’s no call button, sir. Can you contact the house, get them to open up?”

  Newcomen lifted up his tie to access the keypad, while Petrovitch eyed the gates.

  “I can open them for you. Security’s good, but I’m way better.” He realised what Newcomen was doing, and pressed his hand against the American’s. “Fried, remember? I’ll call.”

  Newcomen’s face clouded over. “At least try and keep things civil.”

  Petrovitch spoke to one of Logan’s staff, and despite their visit being prearranged, permission from the man himself suddenly became necessary.

  “Logan knew I was here too.” Petrovitch raised his eyebrows. “He’s got someone on the inside. Fancy that.”

  “Everything you say is deliberately designed to reinforce the idea that you’re right.”

  “Maybe so. Or perhaps I’m trying to get into your thick skull the fact that I am right. All the time.”

  The gates started to swing apart, and the driver nosed the car forward. The drive was gravelled, and stones crunched beneath the wheels as they pulled up outside the mock-Georgian frontage.

  Lights blazed from every window, and a silhouetted figure was visible in one of the first-floor rooms, hands on hips, staring down at them. Petrovitch ran a pattern match, and found it was Logan. He was probably looking forward to this encounter as much as his guest was.