Equations of Life

by Simon Morden

  And for Petrovitch, who’d always clung by his fingernails to the edge of existence, it came as a revelation. He’d deliberately chosen the domiks over this bright, clean, warm life. The corner of his mouth twitched with the realization that perhaps he’d made a mistake.

  The paycop on the door let him out with a grunt. The screen on his desk was a storm of static.

  Suddenly, it was cold. The damp dawn air goosebumped the flesh on his bare arms, and he regretted the loss of his jacket. Thought followed thought; he’d lost a lot more than just a piece of clothing. He hunched his back against the weather, and set off across the campus.

  There was one more airlock of comfortable warmth to enter. He passed through the foyer, showed his singed student card to those on duty, and hesitated at the main doors.

  Something was wrong, and it took him a moment to see what it was. The street outside was all but deserted, and he’d never seen it like that before. He turned to the guards, who seemed to have caught the same sense of disquiet as he had. They huddled close together at the reception desk, talking quietly amongst themselves and casting the occasional glance through the windows.

  A car, two cars, went by with their headlights blue-white bright, but then nothing. The pavements, the same ones that he was used to grinding his way along everyday, were wet with moisture that reflected the street lights. There were people, just not enough of them for him to feel comfortable. He’d stick out, exposed in plain sight.

  The clock on the wall clicked to eleven minutes past six. He was going to be late. He felt the cold press of the gun at the base of his spine, the weight on his right ankle.

  He tapped the door mechanism. “What’s the worst that can happen?” he said to himself as he waited, and waited, for the door to open. After a while, he shoved at it instead, and eventually it wheezed aside enough for him to slip out.

  The cold returned, and he assumed his usual head-down posture for the road.

  Except that it was impossible to maintain. There were too few pedestrians. He felt compelled to look at them, commit the cardinal sin of making eye contact for a brief moment as they passed. Everyone had the same expression, one that showed that deep down, no matter their bluff, they were afraid.

  Petrovitch could only assume that his eyes held that same fear.

  He crossed the road, walking at a diagonal. In all his years in the Metrozone, he’d never done such a thing. He passed darkened shops that he couldn’t remember ever closing. Their signs were illuminated, but inside was gray gloom.

  He turned out of Exhibition Road, turned right. Across, on the other side, was Hyde Park, just as still as it had been yesterday. Yet today, it wasn’t the stillness of death that emanated from the miasma. It was the silence of a held breath.

  It wasn’t only the city that was waiting for something to happen. Petrovitch pushed his hands up inside his T-shirt sleeves, and hurried along to Hyde Park corner.

  Marchenkho wasn’t there, and Petrovitch had no watch or phone to tell him the right time. He could be late, or early. The only thing he was certain of was that he had the right day. So he stood under the Wellington Arch while a dozen vaguely human-shaped piles of bags and blankets slept around him, making the most of the shelter.

  In the distance, he heard the sound of bells ringing the half-hour. Now Marchenkho was late. He jumped up and down and swung his hands around, both trying to keep warm and wishing to evaporate the cold sweat that had broken out across his body. He shivered.

  In the distance, coming up Grosvenor Place, was a line of black cars. At first, he thought it another strange computer-directed aberration, but then he saw more clearly. The cars, six of them, circled the monument once, and then parked up against the curb.

  People, Slavs like himself, slowly emerged into the dawn air, well wrapped up to conceal their firearms. Petrovitch made sure both his hands were on show as he approached.

  “Hey, Yuri.”

  Grigori narrowed his eyes and raised his chin. “Petrovitch. I lose, then.”

  “What?”

  “I bet fifty euros you wouldn’t show.” He leaned against his limousine and knocked on the rear window. It slid down.

  “Dobroe utro, tovarish.”

  Petrovitch peered in. “Yeah. I can’t believe you have a Zil.”

  “Why not?” said Marchenkho. “Zil is a good car. Reliable. Armor plated.”

  “Parts must be a bitch.” Petrovitch ran his hand across the polished, waxed roof, leaving a trail of sticky fingerprints.

  “With money, anything is possible.” Marchenkho stroked his mustache. “Are you armed?”

  “You don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.”

  “This is good. What do you need?”

  “Nine millimeter for the Norinco. Point three two for the Beretta.”

  Marchenkho nodded to Grigori, who went to the boot of the car and opened it, revealing neatly labeled cartons and long cases. “Petrovitch, aren’t you cold?”

  “I’m freezing my tits off, truth be told. My jacket got incinerated by the Paradise militia.”

  “What did you do to them, that they would set your clothing on fire?”

  Petrovitch stamped hard on the ground. “It’s a long, and probably pointless story. They weren’t after me, anyway.”

  “Getting caught up in other people’s battles again? I thought you were supposed to be a smart man.” His mustache twitched as he smiled mirthlessly. “So many enemies for one so young.”

  Grigori handed him two small cardboard cartons, heavy with bullets. He watched as Petrovitch tried to find somewhere on him to put them, then shrugged off his long black leather coat.

  “Here,” he said.

  Petrovitch looked blankly at him. “I can’t do that,” he said when he finally realized.

  “I have more coats, more clothes, suits, shoes, jeans, than I can ever wear. Take it. Look on it as an example of socialism in action.” Grigori draped it over Petrovitch’s shoulders. The collar smelled of cologne.

  “You look fit to be in my company now,” said Marchenkho. “Get in.”

  Petrovitch dropped a carton into each of the side pockets of his coat, and pulled it around him as he slid onto the long backseat.

  There were three people opposite him: two men and a woman, each cradling a Kalashnikov.

  “Leon, Valentina, Ziv. This is the kid I told you about.”

  “Yeah. Whatever he said was a lie.” Petrovitch slid the Beretta from his sock and sprung the clip.

  The woman called Valentina shook her ponytail. “He said you were fearless.”

  Petrovitch looked across at Marchenkho. “Does that mean you like me?”

  “It means I have decided not to kill you. This is good, no?” Marchenkho glanced down at the little pistol Petrovitch was busy reloading. “Your peesa is very small.”

  “That’s what the other guy said, just before I killed him.”

  Marchenkho shook with laughter. “See? See how he looks like a kitten but roars like a lion.”

  The driver’s door slammed, and Grigori started the Zil.

  “Tell me,” said Marchenkho. “What happened to your American friend?”

  “Sorenson? I don’t know. Oshicora screwed him over, and then Inspector Chain did the same thing, only worse.”

  “But Oshicora is dead.”

  “Sorenson won’t know. If he’s gone feral, he’ll never find out. He’ll spend the rest of his days hiding from someone who no longer exists.” Petrovitch tucked the Beretta in his pocket, and reached around for the Norinco. “I guess I might know what that’s like.”

  “Perhaps you can find him, when we have done what we came to do.” Marchenkho nodded to dour Ziv, who tapped Grigori on the shoulder. The car pulled away and started down Piccadilly.

  “Did you have any problems this morning?” asked Petrovitch. He fed fat bullets into the Norinco’s magazine.

  “Why? What do you know?” Marchenkho stroked his chin, and leaned over, resting his solid bulk agai
nst Petrovitch’s shoulder. He radiated menace.

  Petrovitch slapped the magazine back home and rested the gun on his knees. He chose his words carefully. “Something’s happening. I don’t know what. I can’t say I like it.”

  And just like that, the Ukrainian changed moods. He rumbled deep in his chest. “My mobile refuses to connect. My computer cannot talk to others. My breakfast is accompanied by white noise, not the news. This is not good. But the streets are clear. The cameras are off. Even if this is for just one day, it could not be better. We are the Lords of Misrule, and there will be no one to see the mischief we make. Once we are done here, Oshicora has other operations in the East End that we wish to see closed down.”

  Grigori was slowing, making a big U-turn in front of the Oshicora Tower, the other cars blocking the road in front and behind, screeching tires, disgorging people.

  A shabby figure in a brown trenchcoat looked balefully at them from the curbside.

  “Yeah, should have mentioned this earlier.” Petrovitch waited for the Zil to stop, then opened the door. “Chain might have overheard us talking.”

  22

  Chain frowned as guns and people spilled out onto the pavement. He turned to Petrovitch with an expression like a cross tortoise. “You don’t think you’re going to get away with this, do you?” he said.

  “As has been pointed out,” said Petrovitch, “today is the only day we’ll get away with this.” He swirled his coattails and admitted that it did look pretty cool. “Do you think you can stop us?”

  “I came to try.”

  “Yeah,” grinned Petrovitch, “you and whose army?”

  “Oh very droll. I appreciate you’re resourceful but it won’t save you.” Chain fished around in his pockets and found his own gun. “I should arrest you right now.”

  Petrovitch reached behind him for the Norinco. “Maybe you should, but you can stand to wait until later.”

  “I suppose I could,” admitted Chain with a shrug. “Perhaps it’s time I cut you some slack.”

  Marchenkho stood beside Petrovitch and slapped him hard on the back. “All friends now? This is good.”

  “About all this,” said Chain, “I don’t have the manpower to rescue Sonja Oshicora: you know that, don’t you?”

  “We do,” said Petrovitch.

  “So, let’s get on with it.” Chain patted his pockets for his police card. He flipped it open and tucked it facing outward from his top pocket. “Has one of you got a plan?”

  Marchenkho looked at Chain, then at Petrovitch. “Of course,” he growled. “What sort of half-assed organization do you think I run?”

  Petrovitch shrugged. “I had the idea that I was just going to walk up to the front desk and start the revolution from there. If it goes pizdets, we do it the old-fashioned way: straight down the middle, lots of smoke.”

  “And you have some reason to believe that might work?” Chain looked up and down the height of the Oshicora Tower.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I’m doing the talking, though.” Petrovitch flicked the Norinco’s safety to off.

  “Wait, wait,” said Marchenkho, waving his large hands. “This will not do. My people cannot see me stay behind while you walk to the tower. It’s no good. Grigori, walkie-talkie.”

  Grigori placed the fist-sized device in Marchenkho’s upturned palm.

  “You come when called, da?” He waited for Grigori to nod. “No hanging around like some krisha who takes my money and does nothing for it.”

  “Now can we go?” said Petrovitch. “It’s not getting any earlier.”

  He strode off across the plaza. The fountains that should have played with the early morning light were still, just pools of trembling water. Aware of the other two men behind him, he kept his gaze on the tower.

  There were no guards on the door, and there should have been, no matter what time of day it was. He anticipated being challenged, each and every step he took closer. Or was it going to be a sniper on a neighboring rooftop instead?

  “I never thought I’d say this,” said Chain, trotting up beside him, “but it’s too quiet.”

  “What have you heard, Chain? What’s going on? And don’t say this is all my fault.”

  “I don’t believe that anymore. I do know that the Metrozone Authority is shutting everything off in stages and starting again from the ground up. We have a couple of hours, tops. After that, everything will be live again.”

  “It’s going to take longer than that to get it all working. Everything’s connected, Chain. There just has to be one wrong thing somewhere and it gets everywhere.” Petrovitch glanced behind him, past the striding bulk of Marchenkho. Figures were spreading out across the concourse, ducking down behind the abstract granite shapes and crouching behind the lips of pools. “Why is there no one out front?”

  “One of two reasons. One of which is that they’re not expecting us.”

  “The other being that they are. Marchenkho, how tight is your organitskaya?”

  “We are all comrades together. We all have as much to gain or lose as the next man. Da?” The Ukrainian’s olive-green greatcoat flapped as he walked, flashing the presence of his shoulder holster. “Since the last purge, we have stayed secure.”

  “That doesn’t fill me with confidence.” Petrovitch pressed his glasses hard up on his nose. “Can you see anyone inside?”

  The reception area was in darkness, but they were close enough to make out vague shapes moving against the glass doors; a hand, a face.

  “I’ve seen this before. So have you, Petrovitch.” Chain started to jog toward the tower.

  “What does he mean?” asked Marchenkho, holding Petrovitch’s arm.

  “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

  They caught up with the detective as the tower darkened the sky. It became all too clear that there were people trapped inside; some of the glass panels had starred through attempts to break them, and the reflections of the three men distorted as the doors were shaken. But there seemed to be no way out.

  “Hivno!” grunted Marchenkho and put his hand on his gun. “Some answers, now.”

  “If it’s computer controlled, it’s gone wrong.”

  Chain pressed his police card to the glass. “Back off,” he shouted. “I’m going to try and shoot my way in.”

  “That won’t work,” said Petrovitch. “But if you insist, let me take cover before the ricochet drills a neat hole in my skull.”

  Those inside crushed themselves tighter to be near to Chain. He couldn’t shoot even if he wanted to. “Got a better idea?”

  “I do,” said Marchenkho. He spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Grigori? We need Tina and her box of tricks.”

  Meanwhile, Petrovitch was shoving Chain out of the way. “Not like that. Like this.” He got level with the staring eyes of one frantic sarariman and said haltingly: “Shinkansen ha mata hashirou.”

  “What?” said Chain. “What did you say?”

  “Zatknis!” Petrovitch pushed him away again, raised his voice and repeated. “Shinkansen ha mata hashirou.”

  The man inside blinked for the first time. He turned away, his face losing definition behind the smoked glass. Then he came back and nodded, mouthing “hai.”

  Valentina slid a steel briefcase onto the floor next to him. She clicked the catches with her long fingers and opened the lid.

  “Nice,” said Petrovitch, inspecting the contents.

  “Do your job. Get them away from the doors.” She busied herself with a lump of plastic explosive, forming it into a disc in her hands.

  Petrovitch mimed what the woman was intending to do, including the explosion that would follow. They didn’t understand until she started pressing detonators into the gray wads of plastique she’d stuck to where she hoped the opening mechanism was. Then they moved in a clump, all clutching at each other, as far as the banked reception desks.

  “Ready,” she said, briefcase in one hand, roll of thin wire in the other. She trotted toward the first fountain
, trailing cable behind her. Marchenkho, Chain and Petrovitch followed, and squatted down next to her behind the hard cover.

  “You do remember you’re just supposed to blow the doors off, don’t you?” said Chain, and received a withering look in response.

  “Amateurs,” muttered Valentina, and opened her briefcase again for the battery pack. She wired in the loose ends of cable and flipped the safety cover off the big red button. “Cover your ears,” she said.

  She pressed the button, and the silence was broken by the sound of a single handclap, magnified out of all proportion. The air stiffened and relaxed, now tainted with a burnt chemical odor.

  They peered over the parapet. At first, the doors were obscured by smoke; then, as it cleared, it seemed that the door, and its glass was still in place.

  Slowly, gracefully, the frame fell outward and landed with a second concussion on the paving slabs. Still the glass didn’t break.

  “Excellent, Tina,” said Marchenkho, and he stood up, pulling out his gun in one fluid motion. “Come on. You want to live forever?”

  “Good point, well made,” said Petrovitch, and he held the Norinco high. They ran for the doors as those now freed streamed out, coughing from the fumes.

  As they emerged, they scattered. They ran as if from the devil.

  “Catch one,” called Petrovitch, and he watched as Marchenkho straight-armed a middle-aged man in the face. He’d barely hit the floor before he’d been hauled up to tiptoe by his tie. “Not quite what I meant, but yeah, okay.”

  Blood was streaming down the man’s face from his nose, staining his crumpled shirt. He was almost incoherent with terror.

  “Where’s Sonja Oshicora?” asked Petrovitch.

  The man stared at him, at Marchenkho, at the building he’d just left at such speed. Japanese phrases dribbled from his lips, none of which Petrovitch could hope to understand.

  “Sonja Oshicora. Where is she? Which floor is she on?”

  Marchenkho drew his fist back for another strike, and finally the man seemed scared enough of being beaten to talk. “Miss Sonja gone.”

  “Gone? Dead?”

  “Not dead. Gone. In night.”

  “Where did Hijo take her?”