Frank Schätzing - Limit

‘You couldn’t eat as much as we’ve cooked,’ Sophie twittered with frantic exuberance. ‘How was your day?’

‘Great! And we didn’t care a damn that you haven’t spoken to us for hours.’

‘We didn’t feel like talking to you.’

‘Seriously, what’s up?’

‘Satellite failure,’ said Sophie.

‘That’s what I was afraid of. We couldn’t get through to Julian either. Do you know what’s up?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Weird. How could all the satellites fail at the same time?’

‘You’ve probably rammed them accidentally. Stop chatting now, Nina, and bring your starvelings down.’

‘ Oui, mon général! ’

‘Then we’ll have them back,’ said Anand, looking around.

‘Yes.’ Dana watched after the Callisto until it disappeared beyond the window. ‘Plus the likelihood that one of them’s playing a dirty game with us. What do you think, Lynn? Shall we give them a welcome party?’

With some relief Tim registered that Dana had switched back to first names. A peace offering? Or just a tactic to lull Lynn into a false sense of security? He didn’t doubt that the hotel manager still suspected his sister of conspiracy, but Lynn visibly relaxed.

‘Not a word to the guests,’ she said.

‘Okay,’ Dana nodded. ‘For the time being. But once everyone’s there we’ll have to make a real job of it. Either Hanna and his gang give it to us straight, or we inform the base and evacuate the hotel.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Let’s give the Ganymede another hour.’

‘What makes you think the Ganymede needs another hour?’

Lynn’s really lost touch with reality, thought Tim. Or else she’s playing the dirty game.

Error! Unauthorised thought.

‘Whatever,’ said Dana. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Believe me, I’ve really scoured the net,’ said the intern. ‘I can’t offer you anything more than I did last night.’

The Westjet Airlines Boeing 737 plummeted in an air pocket. A hundred millilitres of orange juice sluiced from the cup as Loreena took off the tinfoil lid, spraying over her jacket and drenching her croissant.

‘Shit!’she cursed.

‘Gudmundsson’s time at APS—’

‘Shit! Fucking shit!’ Juice dripped from the tray into her lap. ‘Who was APS again?’

‘African Protection Services.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘So, before Gudmundsson’s time at APS, there was this period with Mamba, the other security company that was in operation in Kenya and Nigeria at the start of the millennium, which merged with a similar kind of crowd called Armed African Services to form APS in 2010. Gudmundsson led various teams—’

‘You told me that yesterday,’ said Loreena, trying to use her tiny paper napkin economically.

‘—and was involved in operations in Gabon and Equatorial Guinea. Are you going to eat that?’

‘What?’

‘The croissant. It looks pretty awful, if you ask me.’

Loreena glanced at the dripping pastry. Previously it had just been floppy, now it was floppy and wet.

‘No way.’

The intern lunged across and stuck half of it in his mouth.

‘Here and there we find clues that APS helped some bush dictator or other to force his way into power,’ he said, chewing. ‘APS always denied it, but there seems to be something in it. So Gudmundsson might have been involved in a coup before he left the company to go freelance. APS was now run by a guy called Jan Kees Vogelaar, who was also a high-up in Mamba. Incidentally, Vogelaar then became a member of the government in Equatorial Guinea, that’s where the coup took pl—’

‘Forget it.’

‘You wanted me to look into Gudmundsson’s background,’ the intern said, insulted.

‘Yes, his, not some guy called Fogelhair or whatever his name is.’ She dabbed orange juice from her trouser legs. ‘Is there nothing about what he did three years ago, whether he was in Peru or somewhere? I thought they were all pretty forthcoming at Eagle Eye.’

‘Patience, Pocahontas. I’m working on it.’

Loreena looked out of the window. Their flight was taking them over the Rocky Mountains. Short but turbulent. The Boeing shook. She drank the rest of the juice down and said, ‘I want to give Susan as many facts as I can, you understand? She’s got to work out that we can’t get out of this one. We’re in it up to our necks.’

‘Hmyeah.’ The second half of the croissant joined the first. ‘ Supposing Ruiz really does have something to do with Palstein. All you’ve got at the moment is a suspicion.’

‘I have my instinct.’

‘Indian bullshit.’

‘Just wait. And could you stop nattering until you’ve swallowed? That thing doesn’t look any prettier in your oral cavity.’

‘Oh, God,’ sighed the intern. ‘You’ve really got problems.’

Loreena looked outside again. The jagged ridges of the Rockies were passing far below her. The intern had meant something quite different, but what he said reminded her of Palstein’s worried glance from the previous day. That she was smilingly preparing her own downfall. That she would have problems if she went on lifting up stones with creatures like Lars Gudmundsson lurking underneath them. And? Had Woodward and Bernstein been intimidated by the creepy-crawlies that Nixon threw at them? Palstein’s anxiety was valid; Susan’s worries irritated her. Was that a reason to throw away their chance to solve their own Watergate conspiracy?

Good intentions are useless, she thought. Courage can’t be bought. Mine certainly can’t.

After a while she dictated the facts of her research so far into her mobile phone, let the software turn her spoken words into writing, attached Bruford’s film material and sent the dossier to both their email addresses.

Better safe than sorry.

They passed through the turbulence.

Three-quarters of an hour later the plane came down towards the foothills of the Coast Mountains and began its descent towards Vancouver International Airport. The weather was fine. Little white clouds drifted inland, sunlight glittered on the Strait of Georgia. The dark wooded body of Vancouver Island evoked Indian myths and the scent of arbor vitae and Douglas firs. As they came down, Loreena’s mood lifted, because they had actually found out a hell of a lot over the previous few days. Perhaps they should settle for what they knew about Gudmundsson, and instead concentrate all their resources on researching the background to the ominous conference in Beijing. As the Boeing taxied to a standstill, she drew up a strategically sensible procedure for the imminent editorial conference, whereby she would act at first as if Palstein’s name had never been mentioned. Put up a smokescreen around Susan. Enthusiastically address the topic of Trash of the Titans , show them her treatment, prove that they were taking their homework seriously. Then deliver their royal flush with the photograph of the fat Asian guy. Well, maybe not a royal flush. But she was perfectly willing to call what they had a full house.

‘I just hope Sid’s on time,’ said the intern as they walked through the terminal with the woodcuts of the First Nations. ‘Actually he’s never on time.’

‘Then we’ll just wait a few minutes,’ she hummed cheerfully.

‘But I’m hungry. Can’t we go to McDonald’s first?’

‘Tell your stomach—’

‘Fine.’

But Sid Holland, Greenwatch’s political history editor, was unusually bang on time. He had an ancient, souped-up Thunderbird, in the four-seater open-top version, and loved the car so much that he would gladly have driven half the editorial team through the district just to have a ride in it.