by Simon Morden
“I would have thought that would make her extra smart.”
“Yeah. But she’s guarding something and she needed to know just how important it is.” He stopped outside a door whose only distinguishing feature was a plastic plaque engraved with the numbers four-one-oh. “This is me. Us.”
He kicked the door open with his usual lack of grace and came face to face with Chain’s police special.
In an instant, Sister Madeleine had her own Vatican-approved hand-cannon out.
“Perestan bit dabayobom, Chain. Put it away.”
Chain looked over Petrovitch’s shoulder at Sister Madeleine’s drawn weapon. “After you, Sister.”
Neither of them wanted to be the first to move. Petrovitch shook his head and walked around the policeman. “Pif.”
“Hey, Sam. Detective Inspector Chain has been wondering where you were. And,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “why are you dressed as a priest?”
“Because,” he started, then thought better of it. “It’ll keep.” Then he turned his ire on detective and nun. “Will you two knock it off? Get in here and close the yebani door, Sister.”
“Sister?” Pif turned to see Sister Madeleine squelch uncertainly into the room. “I’m not sure if that explains everything or nothing.”
“Really, I’m not in the mood. I’ve already had a perfectly good jacket ruined by the vnebrachnyjj Paradise militia, and I’m soaked through for the second time today.”
“How’s the heart?”
“It’s not great. If I catch a cold, it’s going to kill me.” Petrovitch dropped the bundle of cloth on the floor and spread it out wide. He laid the guns—his own Beretta, an ageing Israeli Jericho and a newer Norinco knock-off—out in a fan and put the night-vision goggles next to them to dry off. He held up his jacket.
The back had completely burned through. It was a circle of material with a ragged hole. He went through the pockets, retrieved his student card, a credit chip and a single bullet for the Beretta. Then he threw the remains of the jacket at the wall, where it stuck for a moment before sliding down onto the floor.
Chain holstered his gun and looked over Petrovitch’s growing collection.
“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
“And you know what I’ll say in reply. Where were you? Where were you when the lights went out and they were coming at us in the dark? Where were you when I picked up this little peesa and shot a man in the face from no more distance than you are from me?”
“I was saving forty people from being driven into the river. What’s your point?”
“That. Precisely. You can’t protect me. When the Metrozone is safe enough that I don’t have to worry about three—count them, three—different gangs trying to send me to hell, I’ll hand over every offensive weapon I own. Do you think I like carrying them around? Do you think I enjoy blowing someone’s brains out in a church? We’ve got to this point because you lost control of the city, and you lost it long ago.” Petrovitch picked up the little Beretta, ejected the magazine into the palm of his hand and inserted the single cartridge. He slammed it back in. “Anything you can say to make it better? Anything at all?”
“I suppose not.”
“Then pl’uvat na t’eb’a! What are you good for?”
Chain rubbed at his chin. “You called me, remember? Something about the Oshicoras?”
Petrovitch forced a half-smile onto his face. “Yeah. So I did. Pif, give him the files. No, wait. Don’t.”
Pif looked from Petrovitch to Chain. “Which is it going to be?”
Petrovitch got awkwardly to his feet. “I haven’t eaten a hot meal since yesterday morning. Detective Inspector Chain is going to buy us all lunch. Then we’ll talk about the death of Oshicora senior.”
Chain blinked.
“Have you got time for some lunch, Sister?” Petrovitch picked up the Jericho and slipped it into Pif’s bag.
“You walked me through Hyde Park. I don’t even know if I’m hungry.”
“Then come for the warmth. Hot sweet tea, or whatever it is you British drink. At least let me do for you what you did for me. Get you dry before you go back out.”
She was torn. “I need to phone Father John.”
“Do it after lunch,” suggested Petrovitch.
“Sam, I’ve broken my vow of obedience once today. I can’t go on like this.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
She bit at her lip, and for once looked like the teenager she still was.
“Looks like I’m paying,” said Chain. “Come on, Sister. You can tell me all about it on the way.”
19
They stood in a quiet corner of the kitchen, catering staff busy elsewhere but not around them. She took everything off: robes, armor, piece by piece, until all she was wearing was a skin-tight gray body suit. Her veil came off last, revealing that the sides and front of her head were shaved. What was left of her dark hair cascaded backward between her shoulder blades almost to her waist.
All the while, she stared unblinking at Petrovitch. He was struck both dumb and motionless, his heart beating slow and heavy in his chest.
She struggled into a cook’s white coat at least a size too small for her, then gathered everything up to hang in front of the huge catering ovens.
When it came for him to disrobe, he did so behind the industrial-sized dishwasher. He emerged, white-coated too, to be reminded of her, tall and strong and lithe, by her impact armor sitting like a headless soldier on a spare chair.
Back at their table, she kept on stealing Petrovitch’s chips.
“I thought you said you weren’t hungry.”
She looked at him with a gloriously defiant expression, and reached forward again.
“Still counts as food, even if it is from my plate.” He speared a whole sausage with his fork and started to eat it from one end.
Chain put down his sandwich and wiped his mouth. “Can someone please tell me why you think Oshicora’s dead? It’s important, even if you lot are busy filling your faces.”
Petrovitch spoke around his mouthful. “Pif, give him the card.”
Pif reached past the gun in her bag for the data card and slid it across the table.
“Sam hasn’t seen these yet,” she said. “They seem authentic.”
“Yeah. In my little conversation with Hijo, he all but admitted that he’d put a bullet in Old Man Oshicora’s head. Then he told me I was next, which was nice of him.” Petrovitch turned his fork and made short work of the other half of the sausage. He lost two more chips to the same predator. “Chyort! Get your own!”
“Don’t swear at the nun, Petrovitch,” said Chain. He got out his handheld computer and slid the card in.
The little computer wheezed and strained, and eventually a tinny voice called out: “I hope this is you, Sam. I really hope it’s you. They’ve killed my father. They dragged him away and they shot him. I heard it even though I wasn’t supposed to. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know where to go, I don’t know anyone who can help me. Except you. You have to save me, Sam, because there’s no one else.”
Chain looked out of the corner of his eye at Petrovitch, naked but for a catering uniform, chewing on the last piece of sausage.
“What?” said Petrovitch.
A smile flickered on Chain’s lips. He tried to squash it, but failed.
Petrovitch swallowed, and turned in his chair. “What? What is it?”
“Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope,” squeaked Chain, and started to laugh.
“Zatknis na hui, gaishnik. Did she call the police? No, she didn’t. Why? Because she knows they’re all as useless as you.” Petrovitch examined the tines on his fork and wondered what they’d look like sticking out of Chain’s leg.
“Okay, so it’s quite sweet she asked you for help, but really, Petrovitch.” He snorted. “Get a sense of perspective.”
“Detective Inspector,” said Pif. She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. “T
his man discovered how to make gravity out of electricity yesterday. Don’t be too quick to dismiss him.”
Petrovitch bared his teeth in a feral grin. “I’ll tell you what I told that raspizdyai Hijo: I will save her. Just to prove that I can.”
Sister Madeleine shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Chain looked at Pif, then at Petrovitch. He sighed, and played the second file.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Get me out of here, I’m begging you, get me out!”
When the electronic feedback screeched, Chain turned the sound off. He stroked his chin. “That was Hijo, pulling her down. Never happen if Hamano Oshicora was still around.”
“You don’t say?” Petrovitch held out his hand for the computer, and Chain reluctantly handed it over.
He watched it for himself. He knew the content but not the nuances, the way Sonja Oshicora spoke earnestly, stared wide-eyed and steady into the camera. In the first clip, she wasn’t pleading with him, she was telling him precisely how it was: she was alone in a sea of confusion, and only he could cut through it and rescue her.
In the second, it was different. Something had gone wrong, and she’d fled to the only safe space she knew—her room inside the tower. She’d locked the door, got out one final message before becoming a prisoner.
But there was a tickle in the back of his mind, worrying him. He played it again while everybody watched him hunch over the screen and not blink.
“She didn’t send this message,” he said. He looked up with a smile. “No, really. What’s the last thing you see?”
Chain reached out for his computer: Petrovitch held it away from him. “Okay, then. Hijo pulling Sonja to the floor.”
“No. After that. Someone points their gun at the computer. That ends the message.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You might send mail by destroying your hardware. I send it by clicking the little send icon, or by saying ‘send,’ or by pressing a key. Sonja did none of those things because she was underneath Hijo. Hijo didn’t do it, either, because he didn’t want the message sent: he was breaking down the door to make sure she couldn’t call for help.”
“So who did send it?”
“I don’t know,” Petrovitch said. “But I know what it means.”
“Someone other than Sonja wanted it sent,” said Sister Madeleine. “Just to show I’m paying attention. This Hijo isn’t in complete control, there’s at least one person loyal to the old leader.”
“Blimey,” said Chain, “no need to labor the point. Even if this was true, even if Hamano Oshicora turns up in the river or propping up a bridge somewhere, I don’t know what you expect me to do about this.”
“Ooh, I don’t know,” wondered Petrovitch, tapping his chin, “maybe you could round up some of your police friends and turn up mob-handed at the Oshicora Tower, set Sonja free and arrest Hijo for murder. What do you think? Sound like something the police might be interested in?”
Chain started to answer, then stopped. He tapped on the table and turned his empty plate around. “I’ll tell you what would happen. I’d go to my boss: I’d say Hamano Oshicora’s been assassinated by one of his trusted lieutenants and has taken Sonja Oshicora hostage. We need to organize an operation to get her out. He’d say, ‘Why? Why on earth should I risk any of my people while Oshicora’s empire is busy imploding?’ That’s what he’d say. He might add, ‘Good riddance,’ and then question my sanity, but that’s about the measure of it.”
“So you’re going to do what you’ve done all along: exactly nothing.”
“Have you seen what’s going on out there at the moment? It’s pissing down with rain with no let-up in sight, your little electronic war with the Oshicoras has infected the whole Metrozone with all sorts of nonsense, and you want me to arrange a bloodbath on the steps of one of the most heavily defended buildings in the city.” Chain snatched his computer back. “Damn right I’m doing nothing. This is a good day for me. I haven’t been able to so much as slow Oshicora down since he turned up. Now he’s gone, and Hijo hasn’t got the smarts to keep it together. I can sit back, kick off my shoes, and watch them fall. No one but them has to get hurt.”
“Sonja’s going to get hurt,” said Petrovitch, “and Hijo wants to kill me.”
“Hijo will be too busy with important things to worry about little you.” Chain slipped the computer away and got up with a scrape of his chair. “As for Sonja, I guess she’s beyond help. Nice meeting you all again. Petrovitch, if you still want the body armor, it’s in the back of my car.”
Petrovitch pretended to think about the offer, then slowly extended his middle finger. “Za cyun v’zhopu.”
“Your choice. I’ve done what I could: what you don’t seem to understand is that what I’m allowed to do is limited not just by the law, but by what’s possible.” Chain pulled his coat off the back of the chair and shambled to the door.
Sister Madeleine rose to her feet. Because she was very tall, it took some time. Petrovitch was going to tell her not to bother with Chain, but she had such a look of righteous indignation on her face that he didn’t dare. She strode after the inspector, her long legs eating up the distance between them.
Then it was just him and Pif at the table. Petrovitch pulled off his glasses and tossed them carelessly aside. He rubbed his eyes. “You know, I could do without this.”
“Sam, maybe it’s for the best. We can get back to doing what we’re good at.”
“Yeah. That’d be great, except Hijo’s on my case and I’m not as confident as Chain about his lack of ability. He seems pretty competent to me.” He squinted for his glasses, and toyed with the arms. “That plane flight out of here is looking increasingly attractive.”
“Then take it,” said Pif. “See what it’s like in a few days. Any other university on the planet will take you: all you have to do is wave that sheet of paper I’ve got on my desk at them.”
“It’s your work more than mine. Besides, I’ve got something else to prove now: I said I’d save Sonja Oshicora.”
“It’s a good thing to want to, Sam, but…” Her voice trailed off and she ran her fingers through her beaded hair. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“What’s the time?”
Pif glanced at her wrist. “Half twelve.”
“I die in just over an hour’s time anyway.” He saw the look on her face. “Don’t worry. It’s just an admin thing. And I don’t need Chain. I have a plan. It’s not a very good one yet, but it’s a start.”
“Do I want to know?”
“No. No you don’t.”
“Okay.” Pif’s phone chimed, and she reached past the inconveniently large pistol to retrieve it. She frowned at the number, flipped the cover, and said hesitantly, “Hello?”
Petrovitch looked away to give Pif her privacy. Chain and the sister were in animated conversation over by the door. She was pointing back at Petrovitch, jabbing her finger and leaning over the detective, who in return looked up with an expression of unconcerned passivity.
“That’s… strange,” said Pif. She pressed a button and passed the phone to Petrovitch.
He tore his eyes away from Madeleine and peered at the little screen. She’d brought up the last number to call her.
“One-three-five, seven-one-one, one-three-one, seven-one-nine. That’s not a real number. In fact, that’s,” and he used the only word that could describe it, “strange.”
Petrovitch twisted around. Sister Madeleine was fuming that Chain had taken a call in the middle of their argument. He stood a little way back, computer trapped between ear and shoulder. He said “Who is this?” twice, then cut the connection. He stared at the device.
Almost immediately, the nun’s phone was brought out by one of the kitchen staff from where it had been laid to dry. She moved away from Chain and slipped the phone beside her head.
Petrovitch walked over slowly, still clutching Pif’s phone. He took Sister Madeleine’s wrist down from its
height and turned it so he could see if it was the same number.
“There’s no one there,” she said, “not even breathing.”
He leaned in and she pressed the speaker against him. It was just dead air, not even the hiss of an open microphone or a digital click. Then the line fell dead.
He straightened up and searched the ceiling of the restaurant. There were cameras in each of the four corners, and another over the door. There were half a dozen other people eating; the place was usually busier.
“I think someone’s trying to contact me,” said Petrovitch.
“Why don’t they just call you?”
“I don’t have a phone. I know I must be the last person in the Metrozone not to have one, but there you are. I’ve never needed one. I’ve no one to talk to.” Petrovitch pushed his glasses up his face and glanced across at Chain. “One-three-five, seven-one-one, one-three-one, seven-one-nine?”
He nodded. “You know the number?”
“Yeah. Just never expected to see them like this. I’m going to get my clothes on before I’m forced to run naked from the building chased by ninjas, which is probably where this is going.”
Petrovitch forced a smile at the kitchen staff as he raced around, picking up his boots, socks, trousers, pants, T-shirt. He struggled into his trousers and put his warm, stiff boots on. Then he waved his goodbyes, still wearing the white coat and carrying what he hadn’t put on under his arm.
“Pif? Phone.” He threw it across the table at her. “Keep the gun.”
“Sam?”
“Back to the lab. I’ve just remembered I can be contacted.”
“The mail servers are down, though.” She put the phone in her bag and slung it over her shoulder.
“I still got in touch with you, didn’t I? Good old-fashioned copper wire.”
The pair headed for the doors, and Chain barred their way.
“You have to explain,” he said.
“If you weren’t such a kon pedal’nii, you’d have worked it out.” Petrovitch darted to one side, Pif the other.
She shouted back, “First eight primes,” just before the doors swung shut again.