Greg Rucka - Critical Space

I let him pass me before saying, "Hey."

He stopped and said, "I thought it was you, but the hair threw me. You've been in the sun."

"Lots of sun," I admitted, and I took his offered hand and shook it warmly.

"Christ Almighty, but I'm glad you're okay."

"I figured you might be pissed."

"You daft? You got her back, and that was the most important thing." Moore looked around the station, then handed me the shopping bag. "Is this what you were after, then?"

"Actually, no," I said. "I need a little help."

"You always do. Buy me a pint and we'll chat about it."

We had a late lunch at a well-hidden pub in Chelsea called The Surprise, on a crooked street called Christchurch Street, about a block from Oscar Wilde's townhouse. It was comfortable and quiet inside, with bare oak floors and wood on the walls. A small dining area was at the rear and we got a table and some food. Moore tried to get me to try one of the ales, saying that it was a good, living brew and that I owed it to myself to try some. I drank a ginger beer instead.

"How's Her Ladyship?"

"Running great guns, as you might expect," he said. "She'll be disappointed that she didn't get to see you."

"I don't want anyone to know I'm here."

"That much I'd already gathered." He nudged the plastic bag with the toe of his shoe, pushing it farther against the legs of my chair. "I opened it when it arrived, of course. It's well done."

"It is."

"Made me curious, you might imagine. Wondered what you were doing sending me paper like that, after everything that had happened. You care to explain it?"

"Not right now."

"All business, then?"

"What I need, I need as quickly as possible."

"And what you need is.?.."

"A name and an address. And I can't get them through my sources."

He opened his pack of Dunhills, lit one. "Think you perhaps better tell me a little more."

"There is an individual, could be female, most likely male. This individual is an accountant or a banker or possibly a lawyer. Most likely working in Europe, in one of the major financial centers."

"This a hypothetical person?"

"No, this person exists. And aside from his normal job crunching numbers or selling loans, he handles accounts and investments for one very specific, very particular client. He does this with absolute discretion and more than a little fear, and in exchange for this work, he makes at least a million dollars a year himself."

"Powerful client."

"Oxford," I said.

Moore leaked smoke from his nose studying me. His eyes were thoughtful, but I couldn't tell if the thoughts were pleasant or not.

"You're looking for Oxford's banker?" he asked. "You sure he's got one?"

"I have it on reliable authority."

"And this authority would be who?"

"Someone who knows."

He took another drag, looking sidelong towards the bar and the door. Then he brought his eyes back to me, and it was clear he knew who I meant. He asked, "Why come to me? You've got contacts on your side of the ocean, why not use them?"

"If they make inquiries, the wrong people will notice."

"Wrong how?"

"Wrong as in the people who've hired Oxford in the first place are also the people one would normally ask about this sort of thing. You've got to understand, Robert – he's not just after my principal, he's after me, too. I'm part of the contract, and he already got too close once."

"So you're appealing to me on the basis of… what? Our history?"

"If that's what it takes."

He shook his head. "No, that won't wash. This is a business transaction between us, all right? We keep it on that level, it won't arse up the friendship."

"Business."

That actually had a visible effect on him, and he relaxed in his seat. "I'll need two thousand pounds and a way to reach you."

"How long will it take?"

"I'll talk to the blokes I know tonight, all goes well, I'll have something for you by morning."

"Then I'll call you tomorrow morning." I dug out my wallet, counted ten of the hundred-pound notes I'd acquired earlier, and handed them over. "You get the rest when I get your report."

He counted the money, then folded it away in his pocket. "Your business sense has improved."

"I need this information, and I need it fast, Robert," I said. "Every day that passes, this guy gets closer to me, to my principal, to the people I love."

"Supposing I bring you what you want tomorrow, what're you doing then? Sharing that with your – ahem – principal?"

"You don't have to worry about that."

"Actually, I do, and if I don't get an answer I can work with, you can take your damn money back."

I shook my head. "You're the one who made this business."

"That I did." He finished his cigarette, ground it out with a grin, then drained the last of his living ale from its glass and got to his feet. "Call me after nine."

He was already on his cell phone before he had left the pub.

I spent the rest of the day wandering through the bookstores on Charing Cross Road, not buying anything. I found another pub around seven and got myself a very limp salad and some very bland fish, and I walked all the way back to the Burns Hotel fighting the craving for some deep-fried food. At the desk I got directions to a twenty-four-hour gym nearby, and spent three hours in it working myself into a lather. When I was done I didn't want fried food, just sleep, so I returned to the hotel and went to bed.

At nine the next morning I called Moore from a different pay phone.

"I'll have something by the end of the day," he said. "But the price is going up."

"How much?"

"There's a rental fee, I'll explain when I see you. Call me at five."

When I contacted him again at five, he told me that Mr. Klein should get a room at the Hilton before nine that evening, and hung up. I went to the Hilton and did as ordered, found that I had most of four hours before anyone would come calling, and used the pool at the hotel for a long swim. Then I went for a run in the rain. Then I went back to the hotel, took a shower, and tried not to think about how slow Alena was on the stairs, about the four men and one woman who were standing guard over her, about the fact that Oxford would go through them like they were made of tissue.

At one past nine Moore knocked on the door and I let him inside, then checked the hall.

"I came clean," he said. "No one's following me."

He was wearing the same raincoat from the day before, and beneath it a well-tailored navy suit. He was also carrying a burgundy leather briefcase, and he set it on the floor between his legs after I'd shut and double locked the door.

"Four thousand," Moore said.

"You taking advantage of my generous nature?"

"Like I said, it's a rental fee. The people I got this information from, they did it as a favor to me, but they didn't do it for free. I'm covering my expenses." He folded his overcoat once and draped it over the back of the nearest chair. "I'm keeping this business."

"I'd like to see what I'm getting for the money."

"You're not getting anything, you're borrowing." He picked up the case and laid it flat on the bed, then popped open the locks. Inside were several folders, manila with red stenciled warnings about violations of The Official Secrets Act. Moore looked at me to see if I understood.

"When do they have to be back?" I asked, gesturing at the folders.

"By oh-five-hundred, no later, otherwise they'll be missed. Gives you shy of eight hours to review them."

I dug out my wallet and handed over the bills. Moore pocketed the money, this time without counting it, then removed the folders from the case, handing them to me.

"Where will you be?" I asked.