Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

He realized he’d subconsciously accepted that it was Baronski who was the surveillance target. Not that there’d been much conscious doubt. The chance of this being a coincidence was way too slim.

“OK, this is how we handle it. Malcolm, you walk down the corridor to the first lift, call it, and hold it. When you’ve got it, Suzi and I will try and get in to see Baronski. If the observers start thinking hostile thoughts, we’ll run for it, if not, we go in. Meantime, you get Pearse to contact that security liaison officer, go through Victor Tyo if it’ll add more weight. But I want to know if that’s an authorized surveillance. This might just be a police drugs bust, or something.”

“Bollocks,” Suzi said.

“Yeah, all right, some hope. But we check anyway.”

“Gotcha,” said Malcolm. He stepped on to the walkway that took him back down the corridor.

“We’re running into a lotta heavy-duty shit for what was supposed to be a simple little track-down,” Suzi muttered. “The Monaco lift, now this.”

Greg was watching Malcolm, who was talking urgently into his cybofax. “Yeah, Julia didn’t think this through properly.”

“How do you mean?”

“Why did the people who took that sample from the flower bother taking it in the first place? I mean if they knew what the flower was they wouldn’t need to take a sample. If they didn’t, then there’d be no reason to do it. The flower was a specific message from Royan to Julia, he knew she’d be curious about it because flowers are special to the two of them. But for anyone else, it would be meaningless, a beautiful girl carrying a token from a lover.”

“If they knew she was a courier they would have ripped her baggage apart to find the message. Analysed everything. Maybe even used a psychic to sniff out what she was carrying. You said the flower was giving off freaky vibes.”

“Could be,” he admitted. “Especially if they knew she was carrying a warning about the aliens, a living example would be an obvious way of providing proof. But if they are working for the aliens, then why let a message about their existence get out at all? Why not snuff her?”

Suzi rubbed her forehead. “Christ, Greg. I’m just here to hardline for you, remember?”

“I don’t expect answers. All I’m saying is that this is weirder than it looks.”

“That’s what I’ve just fucking told you!”

“I’m trying to think what kind of allies these aliens might have plugged in with. For a start, whoever it is has got to be rich enough to afford these kind of deals.”

“A kombinate, finance house, someone like Julia; Christ, take your pick.”

“There’s no one else like Julia.”

“Independently wealthy, arsehole.”

“But why?”

“Like I said to Julia yesterday. Starship technology is worth a bundle. Antimatter drives, boron hydride fusion, high-velocity dust shields. Any one of those would be instant trillionairedom.”

“Right.” He was amused by her reaction. Suzi, a starship buff. He knew the English Insterstellar Society sponsored regular conventions, covering topics from propulsion systems down to the practicality of pioneers setting up homesteads in alien biospheres. And there was a large chapter active in Peterborough, naturally, the heart of England’s high-tech industry. The thought of Suzi attending didn’t fit his world view.

The observer on the other side of the well emitted a burst of annoyance. He began to walk away from his position, thought currents feverishly active.

Looking the other way, Greg saw Malcolm Ramkartra was holding the lift. The hardliner gave Greg a short nod.

Two new minds moved into his perception range, that same steely intent as the first observer prominent amongst their thought currents.

“Bugger.”

“What?” Suzi asked.

“The observation team have realized we’ve seen them. Come on.”

At least Baronski was at home. Greg could sense his mind. Thought currents moving normally, their tension slacker than the people in the well, the way it always was with older people. Another mind close by was denser, brighter, filled with expectancy, a streak of suspense.

“He’s got someone in there with him,” Greg said. “One of his girls, at a guess.” He pressed the call button. The suspicion and interest of the observers rose.

“Yes?” Baronski’s voice asked from the grille.

“Dmitri Baronaki? Could we come in, please? We’d like a word.”

“I’m not seeing anyone today.”

“It is important.”

“No.”

“Just a couple of questions, I won’t take a minute.”

“No, I said. If you don’t go away, I shall call arcology security.”

Greg sighed. “Baronski, unless you open this door right now, I’ll come back with arcology security, and they’ll smash it down for me. OK?”

“Who are you?”

Greg showed his Event Horizon security card to the key, there was a near invisible flash of red laser light. “I’m Greg Mandel. Now can I come in? After all, you’re not on our shit list… yet.”

“You’re from Event Horizon?”

“Yeah, and one of your girls met with our boss in Monaco the other night. Are you getting my drift?”

“I… Yes, very well.” The door lock clicked.

Baronski’s lounge was huge, its colour scheme navy-blue and royal purple. The chairs and settee were sculpted to look like open sea shells. Antique furniture cluttered the wall, delicate tables holding various art treasures, a genuine samovar, an ikon panel of the Virgin Mary that was dark with age, what looked suspiciously like a Fabergé egg, which Greg decided had to be a copy. The paintings were chosen for their erotica, old oils and modern fluoro sprays side by side. They were illuminated by biolum lamps in the shape of a tulip, grey smoked glass with elaborate gold-leaf curlicues. Vivaldi was playing quietly out of hidden speakers.

Suzi whistled softly as they walked in. Greg’s suede desert boots sank into the pile carpet. He was conscious of his leather jacket again, Eleanor’s disapproval.

Baronski and the girl were both in silk kimonos. There was a pile of glossy art books on a low coffee table in front of the settee. Two tall glasses full of crushed ice on Tuborg beer mats standing beside the open volumes.

The girl was black, about sixteen, with that same athlete’s build that instantly reminded him of Charlotte Fielder. She was obviously going to be beautiful; her cheeks and nose were covered in blue dermal seal, but her features were so finely drawn it almost didn’t matter. She stood beside the settee, perfectly composed, looking at him with wide liquid eyes, unafraid.

Baronski was backdropped by the Alps beyond the picture window, a thin man with a thin face, nothing near Greg’s simple mental image of burly red-faced Russian grandfathers. He was dainty, birdlike, longish snow-white hair brushed back, resembling a plume. But stress had marred his face, leaving bruised circles round his eyes, creases across his cheeks. His mind had such an air of weariness that it evoked a strong sense of sympathy. Greg wanted to urge him to sit down.

“What exactly is it you require?” Baronski asked stiffly. “I’m sure you must be aware that I’ve never sought to infringe upon any of Event Horizon’s activities. My girls have very clear instructions on this matter.”

Greg clicked his fingers at the girl. “Best if you disappear.”

She glanced at Baronski.

“Go along, Iol. I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

She curtsied, and walked silently across the lounge to the hallway door.

Suzi watched her go. “Give her a lot of artistic tuition, do you?”

The door closed.

“Miss…?”

“Suzi.”

Baronski appeared to chew something distasteful. “Indeed.”