The Mandel Files, Volume 1

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Philip nodded slowly. ‘The consortium has mentioned it … Someone … to oversee their interests.’ His voice sounded terribly weak. Julia was looking at him, almost in pain with what she saw. His head turned from the camera again. Greg thought he was looking out of the study window. ‘Then what?’ he whispered.

  ‘This is just theory, you understand, based on what you told me about Kendric trying to muscle in on the management side of Event Horizon. But after Kendric landed his boardroom seat I’d say that he simply planned to close down the spoiler, bringing Event Horizon’s accounts back to their usual profit level. He’d disguise the link of course, make it an issue; shuffle personnel, target resources at the furnace maintenance division, but that kind of high-profile result would guarantee him the chairmanship. Now, because Event Horizon is a family company, he can never own it. But as chairman he could oversee a massive asset-stripping raid, presumably by his own front companies. That sort of money he is most definitely interested in. Julia and the consortium would be left with nothing.’

  Julia had listened raptly the night before, after she’d pulled the information about Siebruk Orbital for him. ‘So simple,’ she’d said, when he’d finished explaining. ‘I had all the pieces before you and I didn’t put them together. If you hadn’t had your suspicions that the memox crystals were being brought down, we would never have uncovered Kendric’s involvement.’

  It was his intuition, of course. A foresight equal to everyone else’s hindsight. He hadn’t told her that. Let her go on thinking he was a magician. Event Horizon might have a few more jobs coming up, and they paid bloody well.

  ‘I see,’ said Philip. ‘Either way, Kendric wins. How typical.’

  ‘What are we going to do about di Girolamo?’ Victor asked.

  ‘The options are regrettably limited,’ said Walshaw. ‘Our respective Scottish operations are almost fully integrated. We can hardly untangle them now, certainly not with the Scottish PSP so close to falling. A replacement for Kendric would be hard to find.’

  Julia cleared her throat. ‘The ship in the Atlantic.’

  ‘Yes,’ Walshaw said. ‘I can arrange a hardliner assault. We might even retrieve some more of our memox crystals.’

  ‘See to it,’ said Philip. ‘You’ve done some good work for me here, Greg, I won’t forget. You too, boy.’

  Victor ducked his head.

  Julia took her grandfather’s hand, steadying the shaking fingers. ‘That’s enough, Grandee.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you later,’ Walshaw said.

  Julia gave him a vaguely remorseful nod before the image blanked out.

  Greg spent another ten minutes filling in details for Walshaw before saying goodbye. He’d been away from Eleanor for too long.

  ‘There’s a permanent job for you at Event Horizon if you want it,’ the Security Chief said as Greg reached the door.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ Greg said. He didn’t even have to think about it. Office hours, suit, tie, the same people day after day. He had wanted something regular, but not regimented. ‘I’m not ready for that yet.’

  The nineteen-fifties Rolls-Royce was waiting for him on Stanstead’s buckling grey concrete as he came out of the administration block, chauffeur already opening the door.

  Philip Evans died two days later. His funeral was the biggest civic event to be held in Peterborough for two generations. The Prime Minister and two senior royals were in respectful attendance.

  His will named Julia Hazel Snowflower Evans as his sole beneficiary.

  13

  Julia watched the crackling life of the night-time city through the Rolls-Royce’s tinted windows, impatient for the ride to be over, the drama she’d conceived to unfold. She could almost believe they were driving through some German metropolis. Peterborough’s New Eastfield district possessed the same frantic pace and power, the strut that came from being number one.

  Its buildings were post-Warming, laid out in a precise geometrical array, like Manhattan before the Anarchy March. They were foreign-funded, a thorn in the side of the PSP, physical evidence the Party couldn’t fulfil its promises. All of them followed the same palaeo-Spanish theme, six-storey, marble or cut stone, with long balconies that sported a profusion of greenery and flowers. Smart-uniformed doormen stood outside the gingery smoked-glass lobbies.

  Wealth was everywhere, in clothes, jewellery, salon beauty; in the absence of bicycles and graffiti.

  The road was clogged with traffic: gas-electric hybrid BMWs and Mercs cruised up and down, their headlights and tail-lights two contrasting severed ribbons of light. The folksy tables of pavement cafés were spread out under brightly striped awnings, alternating with arched entrances into small arcades of exclusive shops. Brightly lit windows full of designer-label clothes and esoteric gear silhouetted the fast-moving pedestrians, painting their faces in cool neon tones. Soft warm rain had fallen earlier in the evening, its residual sheen reflecting gaudy biolum ads in long wavering flames from walls and paving slabs.

  But the prosperity was only a few blocks across. A ghetto of the rich. She remembered Grandpa saying that New Eastfield was a seed, that in a proper economy this kind of life style would spread out like a microbe culture, consuming and changing its surrounding neighbourhoods, right out to the city boundaries. He’d wanted the New Conservatives to build cores like it in every English city, showcases for a top-led society, the acceptable face of capitalism.

  Good old Grandpa. An eternal optimist. But there were a lot of people enjoying the balmy evening street life.

  ‘Are you sure Bil will be there?’ Katerina asked.

  Julia turned away from the window, back to the subdued oyster shade inside the car. Her friend was wearing a skintight black tube dress; a slash down the front was loosely laced up, showing the deep cleft between her breasts. Brazen, but Julia was forced to admit she looked wonderful. Her hair was a fluffy gold cloud.

  ‘He was invited,’ Julia said tonelessly. Bil Yi Somanzer: the hottest, meanest rock and roller in the history of the world, ever. Even Kats would look ordinary around his groupies. She smiled in the shadows; Kats had only agreed to come after she’d promised her Bil would be there.

  ‘Well, Julie, dear, anyone can invite him. Having him turn up is different.’

  ‘He’ll be there. Stars and the media, they need each other. Feed off each other. And media doesn’t come any bigger than Uncle Horace.’

  Kats wasn’t convinced, fuchsia lips screwing up petulantly, but Adrian nudged her quiet. He was wearing a white jacket, black bow tie, a red rose tucked into his buttonhole. Stunningly handsome. And he’d silenced Kats from spouting off inanely because he knew she was still supposed to be shaken over Grandpa’s death. Her feelings mattered to him.

  The Rolls dipped down into the giant Castlewood condominium’s underground garage. Horace Jepson had his own private park on the second level. Thick metal doors swung open as the chauffeur showed his card to the lock.

  Steven Welbourn and Rachel Griffith, Julia’s two bodyguards, hurried out of the trail car as the little convoy came to a halt. Both of them were wearing formal evening dress, Steven in a dinner jacket, Rachel in a long navy-blue gown. Their alert faces scanned the stark, brightly lit concrete cave. They needn’t have bothered, two of Horace’s own security staff were waiting for them.

  There was a distinct air of farce about the entire scene. But Julia was careful not to show disapproval. Steven and Rachel were just doing their job, and she got on quite well with them. Steven had been with her for years, almost since she came to Europe, a twenty-seven-year-old with sandy hair that she teased him was already thinning. He was sympathetic about her circumstances, and his discretion had been demonstrated time and again, considering the schoolgirl truancies which he could have told her grandfather about. Rachel had been with her for about a year; a twenty-two-year-old with neat close-cut mousy hair; she came across as a mix of big sister and maiden aunt. Courteous, but an absolute stickler for security protoco
l, always checking the toilet cubicle first, which could get embarrassing. Of course, one day she might be very glad of them. Besides, any complaints would find their way back to Morgan Walshaw. And then there’d be another bloody lecture.

  The five of them squeezed into the penthouse lift. Kats and Adrian didn’t notice the press, lost in a private world of furtive smirks and hungry looks. Julia gritted her teeth.

  The lift opened straight into the vestibule of Horace Jepson’s suite. Music and conversation hit them as the doors slid apart.

  On her previous visits, the centre of the penthouse had been divided up into various function areas by hand-painted Japanese silk screens depicting scenes from mythological battles, samurai and improbable creatures. Now the screens had all been folded back against the walls leaving one big open space. Coloured jelly-blobs of hologram light swam through the air, wobbling in time to a loud acid-thrash version of ‘Brown Sugar’. Bodies packed the black-tiled dance floor, a rainbow riot of frantic movement; older sweating men with younger energetic girls. More people lined the vestibule walls under the umbrella of fern fronds; drinking, chattering excitedly. She recognized a lot of faces from the channels.

  Trust Uncle Horace. There was nothing refined about this party, it was deliberate Dionysian overload without a refuge, forcing you to enjoy. She wondered if he’d have a topless model bursting out of a cake at some point. More than likely.

  Horace Jepson broke free of the crowd, shooing away a girl who had the glossy vibrancy and dazzling pout of a Playmate. He was smiling warmly at Julia. A genuine smile, she thought. Then it flickered slightly as he took her in, as though she’d come in the wrong sort of dress, or something. But she’d chosen a five-thousand-pound Dermani gown, pale pink silk with a mermaid-tail skirt; nothing like as tarty as the rest of the girls she could see, so that couldn’t be it.

  His smile had mellowed by the time he reached her. He took both her hands and gave her a demure peck on the cheek.

  It was almost saddening. He used to give her big bear hugs and a huge slobbery kiss. Funny, she’d always hated them at the time. Now they were a part of an old familiar world, lost and gone for good.

  ‘I was afraid you weren’t going to come,’ he said.

  ‘Try keeping me from a party.’

  ‘That’s my gal. Say, look, I’m real sorry about Phil. One of the best, you know?’

  Behavioural Response: Sorrow.

  She’d loaded the program in the processor node to remind her, keyed by any mention of Grandpa. For her to giggle at his name, at people’s earnest sympathy, would never do.

  ‘Thank you. Do something for me, Uncle Horace?’

  ‘Sure, honey.’

  ‘Don’t treat me like glass. I won’t break. And it only makes it worse.’

  ‘Right.’ He grinned at Katerina and Adrian. ‘Come on in, you guys. We’re just getting warmed up. Plenty of action here tonight.’

  Julia thought his glance hovered around Kats’ cleavage. Then he was looking over her shoulder at Steven and Rachel, a faintly puzzled expression on his face as Kats dragged Adrian past him into the throng.

  ‘No escort, Julia?’

  ‘ ’Fraid not.’

  ‘Hell gal, why didn’t you let me know? Cindy could’ve fixed something up for you. That girl’s got a list of boys bigger than a census bureau.’

  ‘Maybe next time.’

  ‘Damn, Clifford won’t be over before the weekend. He would’ve done, just fine. You met Cliff before? My boy? From my first marriage.’

  ‘You’ve mentioned him,’ she said drily. Had the two of them walking down the aisle in his mind.

  ‘Oh well, let me introduce you to a few people. Hey, maybe I can have one dance. Make an old man happy.’

  ‘I think your friend would scratch my eyes out first,’ she nodded at the Playmate girl.

  ‘Ouch, Julia. There’s a lot of Philip in you,’ he said admiringly.

  She quashed the laugh while it was still in her gullet.

  Sorrow.

  ‘Good. Because I’d like to do some business with you.’

  Horace Jepson suddenly became wary. ‘Most of Globecast’s contracts with Event Horizon are pretty much cut and dried.’

  ‘Well, not formal business. More a favour.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s a programme I might want broadcasting. It’s important to me, Uncle Horace.’

  ‘What sort of programme?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘A planet-wide exposé. Every current-affairs channel Globecast owns.’

  Now his face really fell. ‘Julia, honey, do you know the kind of legal angles on this? I mean, if you’re really hot on rubbishing someone, then hearsay ain’t no use.’

  ‘I’ve got the proof. All we need.’

  ‘Damn, but I wish you didn’t grow up so fast.’

  Kendric di Girolamo was at the party, and Hermione. Julia didn’t know when they’d arrived. Kendric was his usual oily suave self, dancing with a girl who made the Playmate look like a hag.

  Their eyes met and held. She gave him a cool, level gaze. Quietly satisfied at the startled light in his eyes. Quickly hidden.

  He knew full well she couldn’t stand the sight of him; expected a girlish glare, a tossed head, flouncing off in a huff. Instead he got a dispassionate assessment from a multi-billionairess. Small wonder he was surprised. Hopefully concerned.

  Squirm, she wished him silently. Her eyes moved on sedately, showing him how little he mattered. Fighting the impulse to whoop for joy. It’d begun.

  Horace Jepson had hired a five-piece rock band for the evening, the Fifth Horseman, their axemen tooled up with reasonable copies of Fenders. They were dressed in torn T-shirts, studded leathers, and thigh-length boots. Clean, though, Julia noticed. But they were a tight outfit for all their synthetic attitude, the rhythm pumping out of their Gorilla stacks hot and fast. The singer had a Ziggy Stardust stripe across his face, 3D paint opening into middle-distance.

  She danced with Bil Yi Somanzer to a number that could’ve been ‘Five Years’. Uncle Horace had introduced them, interest in her name and wealth finally penetrating the mega-star’s syntho stupor. Basking in the jealousy which lashed out in tangible waves from the other girls. His skin was smooth and shiny from plastique, his voice slurred. He groped her backside and asked if she fancied a quick trip to one of the bedrooms. The band finished their stuff, and they parted. His reputation upheld.

  Seeing Kats standing on a table trying to Bunter down a long glass of champagne to the boisterous cheers of an admiring audience of young blades. The hologram blobs congregated around her legs in a silent red and green swarm, floating up inside her skirt. Adrian hovering on the sidelines, tolerant, fixed smile.

  Talking to a young French finance manager who was helping Uncle Horace to expand Globecast into Europe. He was nervous about her, stammering, telling her about the investment ratios of various gilt stocks, and the new junk-bond markets opening in South America. She turned down his invitation to dance. Boring.

  Kendric offering a gentlemanly hand to Kats as she climbed down off the table, face flushed. He handed her a drink. Hermione joined them, palpably excited. Laser fans swept across the trio, sparkling off jewels, teeth, lips, fluorescing Kats’ cloud of hair into an electric-pink halo.

  A dance with Adrian. Doing his duty. A smoochy number, so he’d have to hold her close. Swaying rhythmically with the feel of his hard body pressed against hers, his hands on her back.

  ‘You dance well,’ she told him.

  ‘Oh, yeah, thanks.’ Distracted.

  She shivered beneath his hands.

  Kendric and Kats dancing. She was hanging on to every word he uttered, both laughing ebulliently, plainly delighted with each other’s company. Her body flowed with the music, lost to the beat, wild and sensual.

  Half a dance with Uncle Horace. His face red and puffing as he gave up, leading her over to the seafood buffet. Picking out their food together, Horace with something t
o say about every dish, urging her to sample. His own plate piled high. Divine crabs.

  A cocktail that took the bartender an elaborate three minutes to prepare. Only it tasted like orange juice that someone had spilled vinegar into. She flashed him a smile saying how wonderful it was, and poured it into the punch bowl when no one was looking, green ice-swan sculpture and all.

  Kendric and Kats nearly alone on the dance floor. Doing the lambada. Adoration in her eyes.

  She chatted to the Playmate girl, whose name was Cindy, and was actually a data-compression expert. So much for first impressions. Cindy was raucous and worldly wise, and had lots of funny stories about men in general. A life lived in the fast lane, with no regrets. She hung on to every word, Cindy gave her a window on the kind of world she so rarely glimpsed.

  Cindy was well into a completely unbelievable recital of her recent Spanish holiday when both of them became aware of the shouting. The Fifth Horseman ground to a halt in a dissonant metallic skirl.

  Adrian, Kendric, and Kats stood in the middle of the dance floor, two against one. Kats stood beside Kendric, breathing heavily, sweat-darkened tassel ends of her hair sticking to her shoulders. Hologram blobs orbited the trio slowly.

  ‘Enough!’ Adrian yelled.

  Kendric raised a warning finger. ‘Go home, little boy, you’re making a fool of yourself.’

  ‘I’ll go all right, you people make me want to puke. And you’re coming with me.’ He tried to grab Katerina, but she dodged nimbly behind Kendric.

  ‘No way,’ she shrilled. ‘I’m having some real fun. First time in bloody ages, too.’

  Julia knew Kats well enough to see how she was loving the scene, milking it. The centre of attention. All the glitzy people she worshipped were focusing on her, asking who she was, a girl so desirable she was worth fighting over in public.