Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

Newcomen sat slightly hunched over, nursing his drink. The steward brought Petrovitch another bottle, thankfully without all the extras this time.

“ Za zhenshhin! ” he said, and again emptied the entire measure in one go. He smacked his lips. “There is a way back, you know. You don’t have to live the rest of your life like…”

“Like a milquetoast, you mean.”

“I should know. I’ve run before. I ran from St Petersburg. I abandoned my family and everyone who ever knew me. It got me into the habit of running from everything. Then, even before the whole New Machine Jihad thing kicked off, I decided I was in so much trouble, I was going to have to run again: I ripped up my Samuil Petrovitch persona, said goodbye to everyone important — though that took precious little time. I’d even booked plane tickets to Auckland under yet another false name.”

“None of that was in the book.”

The corner of Petrovitch’s mouth twitched. “It wouldn’t be.”

“So what made you change your mind?” Newcomen frowned. He was becoming interested, despite himself.

“That is a mystery known only to, well, whatever God you believe in. The man threatening me with death was an even bigger bastard than I was, and I realised no one was going to be able to stop him. And right there and then I decided I was going to be the one to take him down. I stopped running and started fighting. It wasn’t the wisest of decisions, and I can’t even pretend it was anything but entirely self-serving.” Petrovitch chewed at his lip. “But at least I can look at myself in the mirror without shuddering with disgust. That, as it turns out, is quite important when it comes to being a fully signed-up member of the human race.”

Newcomen faced forward, and watched the back of the seat in front for a while. His face held a series of expressions, but Petrovitch couldn’t read any of them. Something was starting to change. For better or worse.

The first thing Petrovitch did when he got into his hotel room was sweep it for bugs; he found five on the first pass, and another three on the second. Those he could dispose of out of the seventhstorey window, he did: those he couldn’t, he zapped in situ.

Still not satisfied, he opened his carpet bag and placed a portable jammer on the table.

Newcomen was already looking at his watch. “I don’t see why any of this is necessary.”

“It’s necessary because your side thinks it’s necessary. Now, what I’m going to do, because I’m reasonably convinced that the rooms either side of this one, and above and below, are filled with personnel and listening devices, is check the hotel’s occupancy list, and pick another room a long way away from this one. Then I’m going to reprogram my key card to open that door and tell the computer that, I don’t know, Hyram T. Wallace from New Mexico has checked in, redeeming his reservation from three weeks ago.”

He did that, and seconds later, the jammer was back in his bag. He headed out into the corridor and strode towards the lifts, Newcomen and his luggage trailing after him again. He walked straight by the metal doors and through into the stairwell. When the door had swooshed shut behind them both, he started down.

“Petrovitch, you can’t do this.”

“You say that like you have some authority to stop me.” He paused on the next landing, and fixed Newcomen with a steady gaze. “You don’t.”

“I mean, I need to go. Now, or I’m going to be late. And it’s that particular room number that my replacements are going to be asking for. If you’re not there, if we’re both not there, then what are they supposed to do? More importantly, what am I supposed to do?”

Petrovitch raised an eyebrow. “Okay. What you’re saying is that because you’re going on your date, and I have to have someone with me at all times, your colleagues will turn up to the wrong room and then just go away again because they can’t find me? Yobany stos , your lot couldn’t find your arse with both hands.”

“I cannot leave you,” said Newcomen. “It’s my duty to stay with you.”

“Then stay.”

“I am supposed to be picking Christine up in fifty minutes. I have not showered or changed, or collected the presents I have for her because I have not been home because you kept me two whole hours extra in New York.” Newcomen’s words came in a deliberate, measured tone that indicated he was ready to burst with impotent rage.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wander down to the restaurant, have something to eat, do some work, then go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.” Petrovitch made to carry on.

“If I leave you, I will be dismissed from the Bureau. Instantly. Someone else will be accompanying you north, someone you can’t control.”

Petrovitch stopped again, mid-step. “You know, you actually make a good point.”

“If,” said Newcomen, swallowing hard, “if you do this for me, I will help you willingly.”

Petrovitch gave him a sceptical look, and the agent revised his rash offer.

“Less grudgingly, then.”

“So I spend the night being watched over by a couple of guys — with a few dozen others behind the walls — you get to show your fiancee a good time at a fancy restaurant, and in return, you’ll stop behaving like a spoilt teenager and man up just a little. Is that right?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that.” Newcomen looked at his watch again. “But yes.”

Petrovitch sighed and turned around. “I hate being spied on.” He tramped back up the stairs, reconfiguring his key card as he went, then shouldered his way into the corridor again.

“Thank you,” said Newcomen breathlessly.

“You’re welcome. See this?” Petrovitch held up his left hand and waggled his ring finger. “It is worth it, if you marry the right person.”

“I know.”

“What I’m trying to tell you is, don’t fuck it up. For either you or her.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

Petrovitch swiped his card and threw his bag on to the king-sized bed. “When are these goons supposed be here?”

“Twenty minutes ago.”

After pulling the curtains closed against the northern night, he turned the television on and cycled through the channels, all without touching the remote. “They’re cutting it fine.”

“I know.” Newcomen ground his teeth. “Go and chase them up.”

“You nuked my phone.”

“There’s a landline on the table.”

The agent made a series of quick, futile calls, his voice rising through each one until he was ultimately both shouting and pleading simultaneously.

In lieu of anything hard to break, he dragged his tie off, screwed it into a ball and drop-kicked it into the waste bin. Then he sat on the bed, holding his head in his hands.

The channels kept changing, one every half-second, until Newcomen snapped. “Either pick a programme or turn it off.”

With an exaggerated blink, Petrovitch turned the screen off. “Sounds like you’ve been let down.”

“Gowan and Baxter are nowhere to be found. Buchannan is in a security briefing and can’t be disturbed. There’s no one else. No one with the required clearance to relieve me.” He scrubbed at his cheeks. “I’m…”

“Screwed?” Petrovitch nodded. “Pretty much. You going to call Christine and tell her?”

“I, uh.” The agent didn’t seem able to believe his predicament. “I, uh. What am I going to say?”

“She’s not going to leave you just because you can’t take her out on Valentine’s Day.” Petrovitch started to unlace his boots. “Not if she really loves you.”

“I don’t think you understand. This is a big deal. Like a really big deal to her.”