Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

“And to you.” He forced first one boot off, then the other. He wiggled his toes and inspected his socks for holes. “You want to do this, don’t you? More than anything. You can just go. I am probably the most watched person in the continental United States at the moment. Isn’t that right, guys?”

Petrovitch picked up a boot and threw it against the wall. He imagined an operator clutching his bruised ears and howling in pain.

“I can’t just go. I can’t.”

“Just go next door and sort it out.”

“They won’t answer: they’re not supposed to be there.”

Petrovitch flipped his key card at Newcomen. “They don’t have to answer. You can walk straight in.”

“I cannot take on the entire NSA.”

“You ought to try it sometime. It’s fun.”

Both men stared at each other, one with despair, the other with detached amusement. Petrovitch broke first.

“Come with me.” He pulled the jammer out of the bag and walked into the en-suite bathroom. He turned on the taps in both the shower and the sink, and, for good measure, flushed the toilet.

Newcomen closed the door behind them. “What is it?”

“Okay, it’s like this. Your two friends, Gowan and Baxter? They’re propping up a bar in First Hill. Buchannan’s been at home for an hour. If you ask any or all of them why they’re not returning your calls, they’ll swear blind and pass a polygraph test that they never had a single message. You’re not meant to meet Christine tonight, or any other night.”

“But who would do such a thing? Why would they do it?”

“You mozgoyob . You’ve been left swinging in the wind, and you can’t work out who’s done this to you? First of all you get assigned, quite out of the blue, to go to one of the most dangerous cities in the world — for an American — to meet one of the most dangerous people in the world — me — and you have the temerity to come back home alive. Since that hasn’t worked, you’re now put in a situation where either you leave me here, go on your date and get sacked for it, or stay with me and your girlfriend dumps you. If that doesn’t work, there are a thousand and one different accidents you can have on the North Slope, one of which is bound to kill you.” Petrovitch pushed the toilet seat down and sat on the lid. He flushed again for good measure. “You’re the detective. Work it out.”

“No. Not getting this.”

“Edward Logan. Christine’s father. Honorary treasurer of the Washington State Reconstruction Party.” When he got a blank look, he asked, “You have heard of him, right?”

“Christine’s father?” Newcomen shook his head violently, as if to dislodge an angry bee. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You don’t have to believe me. It’s not compulsory in any way. But I am right. Logan doesn’t want you to marry his daughter. Status and money are everything to him. I bet he’s got a line of eligible suitors ready to go: right after a suitable mourning period, of course.”

“Mr Logan wants me dead?”

“No. If only because he’ll have to spring for a funeral wreath. He just wants you, a lowly government employee, gone, and he doesn’t care how that happens.”

“But I’m a federal agent. He can’t just…”

Petrovitch pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what? You are too stupid to live. Of course he shouldn’t, but he does, and because he’s a big Reconstruction cheese, he’s going to get away with it. No one is going to investigate him. No one is going to rat him out. No one is even going to look in his direction. This is how your country works now.”

The sound of spouting water filled the deep silence. Newcomen worked his jaw and Petrovitch watched the patterns the steam made as it fogged the mirror. The extractor fan busied itself, venting the air to the freezing weather outside.

“Want to get even?”

Newcomen, sitting on the edge of the bath, looked up to see Petrovitch smiling at him.

“How am I going to do that?”

“You have exactly forty-one minutes before you’re supposed to be picking Christine up. We’ll be right down to the wire, but I have a plan. It takes about twenty-five minutes to get from here to Logan’s place, depending on traffic. I can do something about that, so let’s call it twenty. Ten minutes in the shower, ten getting ready. Yeah, we can do this.”

“But what about-”

“ Past’ zebej . Shower, now.” Petrovitch took the jammer with him back into the bedroom and pulled the door shut. He could hear Newcomen’s shoes hit the floor, and the soft rustle of clothing as it fell away.

Time to test the epigram: money talks. He could shout louder than most; not just the personal wealth he’d signed away to the Freezone, but the collective’s entire resources. Even Teddy Logan would be grudgingly impressed.

He didn’t care about that as much as he did about wiping the condescending smile from Logan’s face, the one he used on all his publicity material.

So Petrovitch made a list of things he needed, and sent virtual agents out across the network to find them. They came scurrying back with their results even as he was talking to the hotel’s concierge.

“Yeah. This is going to be a tall order, but I’m prepared to shovel an obscene amount of cash your way if you can make these things happen. Your foyer is about to be besieged by couriers, and I need the stuff they’re carrying bringing straight up to my room. Also, I need a hamper full of buffet-style snacks — you know, finger-food things — and some desserts that won’t fall apart in the back of a limo. And a limo. A bottle of pre-Armageddon champagne, some soft drinks, glasses. Look, you know how to do this better than I do. A picnic for lovers, okay? And I need it in fifteen minutes.”

There was a knock at the door, and Petrovitch opened it. Two men in hotel uniform stood outside.

“Wait there.”

He kicked the bathroom door open, grabbed Newcomen’s suit and shoes, and thrust the bundle into the men’s waiting arms. “ Chyort . One more thing.” He delved into the waste bin for the tie, and handed it over. “I need this all back in ten minutes. Do what you can.”

Then came the steady stream of people bearing all the things he thought were essential — that Madeleine thought were essential, because she was telling him exactly what he needed and what would impress.

By the time Newcomen emerged, wrapped in a towel, Petrovitch was dressed in a pale jacket with matching trousers, brown shoes and a white Nehru shirt.

“Not a yebani word, got that?” He held out a new shirt sealed in a plastic bag and a pair of cufflinks in a box. “That’s your size. Get it on.”

“Uh, shorts?”

Petrovitch threw another sealed bag at him. “Socks, too.”

The door rattled again, and he took delivery of Newcomen’s freshly pressed suit and shined shoes.

“You have four minutes.”

Newcomen hurried, and it turned out that he scrubbed up quite well. Petrovitch adjusted the knot on his tie and shook the lapels of his jacket out.

“How did you do all this?”

“By being married to someone who knows what a woman wants, and who is continually frustrated by her husband’s singular inability to provide any of it.” Petrovitch checked the time. “Out.”

He paused only to throw the jammer in on top of the open carpet bag and grab the handles. Newcomen found himself shoved through the barely open door and towards the lifts. One car was waiting for them, because Petrovitch had fixed it that way.

Thirty seconds later, they were in the foyer, being shown through the evening throng by the concierge. “Everything’s ready, Dr Petrovitch.”

“Everything except me. I’ll settle up with you later, but yeah. Not bad for a Yank.”