Will Adams: Newton’s Fire

There was a moment of shocked stillness before Luke hurried down to kneel beside her. He felt for a pulse, for any sign of life. Nothing. Her eyes were already glazing. He felt sick, furious. He turned to Steven who was making his way calmly back down the steps. ‘You killed her,’ he said.

‘She shouldn’t have sent that fucking email, should she?’ His callousness jolted Luke, reminded him how alone he was. That was when the third man arrived, and he really put the fear of god into Luke. It wasn’t just his shaven head, or the shrunken white T-shirt that showed off his tattoos and body-builder’s physique. It was the overt meanness of his face, the kind of man who met the world with cruelty and violence, because he liked it that way. Without a word, he went to stand beside Blackbeard, pointedly cutting Luke off from the main body of the house.

‘I need to call an ambulance,’ said Luke, his voice cracking just a little.

‘I thought you said she was dead.’

‘I’m not a doctor, am I?’ He tried to push between Blackbeard and the bruiser, but they stood firm. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Let me through.’ But even he could hear his own fear.

‘Boss?’ asked Blackbeard.

Steven reached the foot of the steps. He didn’t answer for another moment or so, thinking the situation through. But finally he came to his decision. ‘Take him,’ he said.

Naples Airport wasn’t done with Vernon Croke quite yet. The control tower bumped him from his take-off slot to allow some Russian oligarch off first. He sat there seething. However much you earned, there was always someone left to kick sand in your face. It was how the game worked. And even trying to compete was dizzyingly expensive, especially when you found out how unforgiving a ratchet pride could be. Every car had to be faster than last year’s; every boat fancier, every villa plusher. One step backwards and people would whisper that you were on the slide. Last year, as a consequence, Croke had spent three million dollars more than he’d taken in. Three million dollars! And this year was tracking even worse. He needed something good to happen, that was the blunt truth of it. He needed Jerusalem to come off. But there was no point undertaking so risky a venture unless he could guarantee a major payday. And that meant talking to Grant.

Croke had no way to contact Grant directly, for the man took his security far too seriously, but he sent word out into the ether, and it wasn’t long before Grant called him. ‘What do you want?’ Grant asked.

‘Our Jerusalem project,’ said Croke. ‘We’ve had movement.’ He talked him through the day’s developments, withholding Avram’s absurd deadline and their ignorance of where in Crane Court to look until the end.

‘Hell,’ grunted Grant. ‘You had me excited.’

‘There’s still one possibility,’ said Croke. ‘We search the whole block. Every building.’

‘You’re shitting me, right?’ laughed Grant. ‘How do you expect to pull that off?’

‘By calling in a bomb threat,’ said Croke. ‘We’ll have the whole place evacuated then send in people in to check it out. Which is why I needed to speak to you.’

‘Forget it,’ said Grant tersely. ‘You know we can’t have our fingerprints anywhere near this. That’s why we hired you.’

‘I don’t need you for that. I’m going to go to our beloved Vice President.’ With the president still in recovery from the recent attempt on his life, she was in charge of the administration, so it made sense to use her while they could.

‘She’ll do it for you, will she?’

‘Not for me. For God.’

‘Ah. Thaddeus.’ Grant allowed himself a moment’s thought. ‘He’d have to talk directly to her, you realize? Her team have gotten pretty good at running interference.’

‘I thought they were all true believers too,’ said Croke.

‘They’re DC insiders. They believe whatever will win them the next vote.’ Grant paused then asked: ‘So why the call? You don’t need my approval for that.’

‘There’s no time for me to arrange covert delivery. Not by tomorrow night. So, if we find it, I’m going to have to take it in through the front door myself. And, to put it bluntly, I’m not doing that for free.’

‘Fair enough,’ agreed Grant. ‘How much?’

‘A hundred.’

Grant laughed loudly. ‘A hundred? Are you crazy?’

‘Let’s not fuck with each other,’ said Croke. ‘I may not know your real name, or who you represent, but I’m not stupid either. We have to be talking the owners and CEOs of some big fucking corporations. Fortune 100 kind of big. The kind whose slush funds can buy small countries. That’s what all this secrecy is about, because you can’t risk word leaking about what America’s business elite are up to.’

‘Get to the point.’

‘If this project succeeds, it’ll be worth tens of billions in revenue to them. Hundreds of billions. You gave me five years to make it happen. Five years is an eternity for your modern CEO. I can deliver it on Tuesday. Doing so, however, will mean risking my reputation, my freedom and my life. And you expect me to do it for free ?’

‘There’s a pretty big gap between free and a hundred million dollars.’

‘A hundred’s my price. Take it or leave it.’

‘Then I’ll leave it, thanks.’

‘I’m impressed,’ said Croke. ‘I had you down as a spokesman, if I’m honest. Some kind of lobbyist . I didn’t realize you had the authority to make trillion dollar calls without even asking.’

Grant sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll check. But don’t expect an answer today, not on a Sunday. My friends are fierce about family time. Tell you what: why don’t you set things rolling, and I’ll call you back as soon as I get an answer.’

‘Sure,’ laughed Croke. ‘And when will that be? On Wednesday, by any chance? Why hire me if you think I’m that stupid?’

Another sigh. ‘Fine. Give me a few minutes. I’ll see what I can do.’

Luke had no hope of fighting his way past Blackbeard and the bruiser. But Steven was another matter. He flung himself backwards, catching Steven by surprise, knocking him down. He scrambled over him, his feet on his chest and face as he sprinted up the steps.

Someone tap-tackled him. He went tumbling. He span as he fell, kicked out blindly, caught the bruiser in his throat, sent him crashing. He turned and scrambled up into the attic, zigzaging between broken furniture and dust-sheeted mounds that glowed like weary ghosts. He pulled over a stack behind him to hamper the pursuit and glassware and crockery shattered, littering the floor with shards. His jacket was hanging from a rusted nail, his mobile, wallet and keys in its pockets; but he didn’t have time to stop for it. He ran down a short passage to a window that led out onto the roof. He tried to lift the sash but it was painted shut, so he smashed the glass out with his elbow and dived through its empty heart, twisting in the air to avoid the daggers of dirty glass on the sloped roof, hitting with his shoulder instead, tumbling down into the leaded valley between two gables. He thrust out his foot to stop his momentum and it went straight through an old red roof tile whose two halves snapped back together like a mantrap. The bruiser reached out the window for him but Luke pulled himself free, hobbled along the gable valley to the roof edge, took half a step back. The house looked incomparably higher from up here than from down below. And there was no easy way down. Its walls were thick with ivy, and there were iron drainpipes at either corner, but he didn’t much fancy trusting his life to either of those.