Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“Did you enjoy that?” Gabriel asked.

“No. Come on, time for us to make our exit.”

Greg sneaked a peek through the lounge door on the way out. The pool was filling up; people fully clothed, people half-clothed, naked people; empty magnums and sodden burger baps were bobbing about among them. A cloud of thick blue-black smoke was mushrooming up from the barbecue grill, the steaks and sausages were burning fiercely. Led Zep was crashing out ‘Whole Lotta Love’. Hell of a party.

Greg tugged the Duo away from the kerb in a tight U-turn, ignoring the shrill clamour of incensed bicycle bells, and headed back towards Oakham.

Gabriel hunched down in the passenger seat and devoured the information O’Donal had squirted into his cybofax.

“Make any sense to you?” Greg asked.

“Nothing obvious leaps out. The targets are companies and finance houses. Most of the time Wolf wanted logic bombs crashed into their data cores; though there are some data snatches too, mainly high-tech research.”

“Doesn’t tell us much. I’ll squirt it over to Morgan Walshaw, get his economic intelligence team to run an analysis on it, see who benefits most.”

“But you’ve got a pretty good guess. I know you. You’re almost happy about finding this list.”

“Yeah. What odds will you give me that our friend Kendric di Girolamo comes up top of the beneficiaries?”

“You really have got it in for him, haven’t you?”

“Yep, logic and instinct both. All I need is proof, and darling Julia’s avenging angel will take it from there.”

“I’m not so sure,” Gabriel said. “That entrapment gig this Wolf character snared O’Donal with, it’s very long-term. Find a gear-crazy kid who’s growing up in exactly the right sort of environment that’ll turn him to hotrodding, then tap his phone for seven years just to get the evidence to nail him with. Why? I mean what’s he doing for Wolf that he wouldn’t have done ordinarily on the Gracious Services circuit?”

“Let’s see. How many burns are on that list?”

“Thirty-two, including the one against Event Horizon.”

Greg slowed the Duo and turned on to the B6047 heading for Tilton. It was a terrible road, so overgrown in places that the tarmac had vanished under grass and thistles. He steered into the ruts left by the farm wagons to get some decent traction, hoping nothing was coming the other way.

“Thirty-two is one hell of a lot of burns for a ten-month period,” he said. “And Wolf has a team of at least eight hackers running these burns for him. Gracious Services is normally pretty independent, but even their umpires might begin to wonder what was going down. They’re smart, if there is a pattern to the burns they’d spot it. Wolf isn’t the type to leave his flank exposed like that.”

“Hence the need for privacy. Yes, I can buy that. Well, we’ll just have to see what Walshaw’s people come up with. By the way, what did you want O’Donal’s account number for?”

“Wolf chose O’Donal because he isn’t a true hotrod, not yet. He’s a greenhouse product, force-grown; given viruses on a plate instead of developing his own talent to write them. That way he can’t stray from Wolf’s carefully ordained path. O’Donal doesn’t have the ability to backtrack the credit transfers, but Royan sure as hell does.”

“That still doesn’t explain away the police complicity in O’Donal’s entrapment.”

“Kendric has more than enough money to bribe a squad or two of underpaid bobbies.”

Gabriel groaned in dismay. “Christ, and Eleanor thinks I’m neurotic.”

Julia closed the heavy panelled door behind her, stepping into the understated elegance of the Princess of Wales suite. The room made her uncomfortably aware of just how uncouth her own bedroom was. Here, she was surrounded by temperate shades and smooth curves, the brocade-covered furniture seemed to flow into the walls. Several antique pieces were dotted around, and instead of clashing with the modern setting they complemented it to perfection. Part of their appeal was in their placing, she’d decided. She was continually afraid she’d bump into one of the little Pope chairs and ruin the whole effect. She’d never be able to put it back in the exact spot.

Several huge bouquets of fresh flowers filled the air with their perfume. She breathed down the scent and headed for the bathroom. The evening had been an utter delight so far, she was determined not to lose the theme now.

“See you in a couple of months,” was her grandfather’s parting shot as she’d left Wilholm. He was paring down the sarcasm now, but couldn’t resist one last dig.

She’d brought eight suitcases with her to the Marlston Hotel for the book launch. Actually, it was the gala relaunch of the Alaka publishing company. They’d decided to promote their new catalogue in grand style, no expense spared. A three-day junket for celebrities, financiers, aristocrats, and the media, even some of their authors were there. Three days, and more importantly, three nights.

Julia hadn’t been quite sure what level the event was going to be pitched at, so she’d made some meticulous preparations. The first night dinner-dance had turned out to be a formal occasion; so, after much deliberation, and consulting Adela, she’d chosen a twelve-thousand-pound Salito gown. It was midnight black, because it was hard to look bad in black; scarlet and gold moire patterns skipped across the fabric at every movement; the back was low, and the skintight front uplifting. For once she’d abandoned her St Christopher and worn a single diamond choker. Her hair had taken Adela and the hotel’s in-house crimper three-quarters of an hour to arrange; they’d made it seem slightly ruffled, as though it wasn’t styled at all. The most difficult thing to do with hair the length of hers.

And it’d worked a dream. A miracle. Walking slowly down the stairs to the reception with Adrian on her arm she’d felt like a queen on her way to her coronation. Every head in the hall had turned to watch her progress, seven channel cameras had focused on her.

Serene, the nodes had yelled into her mind; grinning or giving a thumbs-up like some crass ingenue would’ve wrecked everything. But she’d kept her composure, and Adrian had walked tall beside her.

Alaka’s chairman had hurried to the bottom of the stair to receive his guest of honour. The band had struck up, and she’d been offered champagne by a liveried waiter. All on camera.

She grinned oafishly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, dignity gone, clapping her hands in celebration. The Salito split down its invisible seam and she wriggled out of it, kicking off her shoes. Choker and panties joined them on the mossy purple carpet.

Two minutes. The time since Adrian had said goodnight. A soft kiss that had lasted far longer than politeness dictated. His room was two doors down the corridor.

He’d stayed with her all evening, turning down offers to dance with anyone else. And there’d been a lot of good-looking girls who’d asked him. Most of them were the daughters of the rich and famous that Alaka had invited. Julia had enjoyed their company, girls her own age who weren’t so self-conscious and hung up about money as most people. There had even been a couple of them she wouldn’t mind meeting again, potential friends.

Yes, it had been the best evening for quite some time.

Three minutes. Naked, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Not totally displeased. Her figure was lanky, but elfin rather than skinny. Her breasts were nicely rounded, even if she didn’t have Kats’ milk-beast size, and they didn’t sag at all. Reasonably broad feminine-looking hips, too. And an all-over tan that’d taken two days on her balcony to perfect.