Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

Logan was a big man: solid, round even. Taller than Petrovitch, he had presence and confidence, and he was on home ground. He took another step closer.

“I hope you don’t mind your wife hearing this,” said Petrovitch, “because husbands shouldn’t have secrets from wives — I learnt that the hard way — but if you don’t let Joseph and Christine spend the evening together in the limousine I’ve parked outside, which can’t go anywhere because he has to stay near me, because of the restrictions your government has placed on my movements while I’m here, even though I’ve a diplomatic passport, I will personally see to it that I ruin you financially and politically by publishing your unaudited accounts for the last twenty years, which will reveal tax evasion and the payment of kickbacks on a frankly industrial scale. I am very aware of how quickly Reconstruction will turn on you and tear your bloodied carcass apart, leaving only scraps for the crows to chew messily on, because it happened to a friend of mine who ended up having to flee the country and become a penniless refugee in the Freezone. So, your call. What’s it going to be?”

He took a deep breath and smiled again. This time, he meant it.

“Joseph!” Christine swept down the stairs, a cloud of green silk and emeralds. She tottered to a halt on her high heels, staring down at the strange tableau below, starring her parents and this white-haired foreigner she’d heard so many appalling things about. She tried to make sense of it, of the conflicting body language exhibited by her father and the stranger.

One thing was clear, though: Newcomen seemed to grow in her presence. He stood straighter and looked stronger. “Hello, Christine. You look amazing.”

Logan almost said something. The corner of Petrovitch’s eye twitched. They were so close, there was no way the man could miss its meaning.

Christine smiled, and her whole face lit up like a flashbulb. Newcomen held the dozen red roses out in front of him, offering them and himself up to her.

She came to collect them, and chastely offered her cheek to be kissed. He did so, trembling.

“They’re lovely, Joseph. Now come on, or we’ll be late, and that would be disrespectful.” She had blonde hair, the colour of a lion’s mane, which bobbed with every one of her precise, positive gestures.

Newcomen collected her coat from the closet — he’d been there often enough to know where it was and which of her many coats she’d need — and draped it around her shoulders.

“Actually, my dear, we’re doing something slightly different tonight. I’ll explain on the way to the car.” He opened the door, and Christine caught sight of the long white limousine.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Joseph.”

With the carelessness of youth, she didn’t look back at her terrified mother and furious father, just strode out into the night as if wolves only existed in fairy tales.

“Half eleven’s late enough for you two, I think,” said Petrovitch. “Be back by then. I need my beauty sleep.”

Newcomen mouthed his suddenly heartfelt thank-you, and Christine’s excited voice was suddenly muffled by the click of the latch, leaving Petrovitch alone with the Logans.

He grunted, halfway between satisfaction and displeasure. Logan was in his personal space, and he didn’t like that. He pressed the fingertips of his left hand into the man’s expensively covered chest and pushed him slowly away. “Why don’t you just relax and make the best of it. There are a million places I’d rather be, and yeah, I blame you for your part in this charade. Despite what you think, your daughter could do worse: much worse. So past’ zebej : I don’t want to hear another word from you this evening or I’ll hand the IRS your zhopu on a plate.”

Logan was used to being undisputed master in his own home. If he’d hated Petrovitch in the abstract before, he now loathed the reality with a passion bordering on obsession. But he was beaten, and knew there was nothing he could do about that. For now.

He turned and stalked away. “Margaret?”

He expected her to follow, to listen to his invective behind a closed door, perhaps even be the target of his ill-temper.

Time, thought Petrovitch, to twist the knife.

“Mrs Logan? I understand you’re quite the artist. If you’d allow me, I’d like to take a closer look at some of those landscapes you’ve done. I’ve only seen pictures of them — the ones from the country club show — and I’m sure they didn’t do them justice.”

He linked his arm through hers so that she could guide him, even though he knew where she displayed them already. He saw her hesitate for the longest time.

Then a spark of defiance. Petrovitch knew how to kindle that into a flame. It would be a better revenge than paupering them all.

“Of course, Dr Petrovitch. My studio is just through here.”

“Come on, G-man,” said Petrovitch, kicking the bed. “It’s time to get up.”

Newcomen groaned and put the pillow over his head. “Yeah, yeah. Even on a good day I could drink half a bottle of vodka before breakfast. A few glasses of fizzy French wine shouldn’t give you a headache.”

“What time is it?”

“Oh six hundred. What does the oh stand for?”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Newcomen.

Petrovitch peeled the pillow away and bellowed: “Oh my God, it’s early! Now, up. We’ve got a full day ahead of us, and another flight to catch.”

There was a thump as Newcomen fell out on to the floor. After a moment of lying as stranded as a beached whale, he started to crawl towards the bathroom.

“No pyjamas, then.”

“No.” Newcomen’s legs disappeared into the bathroom. The door closed and the shower started up.

“I’ll be back in five minutes.” Petrovitch stepped back out into the hallway in time to see his own room door click: the green light on the lock was just winking off. He flipped his key card into his fingers and ran it through the reader. The light came on again, and the bolt whirred free.

He felt a surge from his heart as it responded to the chemicals in his blood. He checked his power levels, which were good enough, and twisted the handle.

The man inside was already pushing past him, trying to surprise him with his speed and agility. Petrovitch slammed him with his shoulder against the unyielding wall, lifted him off the floor by his right armpit, then pitched him across the full length of the bedroom.

The intruder hit the window with his back. His head cracked hard against the glass, adding a separate star to the blossoming spiderweb of cracks. The pane held — just — and he bounced on to the floor face first.

Three strides, and Petrovitch was on him again, grabbing the material of his jacket at his neck. He threw him again, and the man hit the wall upside down, denting it with his heels. Where his head had hit, there was a smear of blood.

He fell between the bed and the bathroom. Petrovitch took a second to scan the room: his carpet bag was on the floor next to the now-crazed window. He’d left it locked and it still was, but the outer material was now slashed. The inner flexible metal mesh seemed to have held. A sharp-bladed scalpel had been kicked half under the bed base.

“ Mudak ,” said Petrovitch. He was about to step around the bed to drag the unconscious man upright when he noticed the first of three laser dots dancing on his chest.

He looked down, then up at the three hooded figures crowded in the doorway, guns trained unerringly on him.

“You’ve heard of the Vienna Convention, right? What makes you think it doesn’t apply to you?” He bent down slowly and lifted up his damaged bag. “I know you don’t care, but I’m filing these images with the news wires as I speak. Upload, download, ready for anyone to use. US government interfering with diplomatic bags. Diplomat held at gunpoint. Breaking and entering. It’s all good stuff.”