Саймон Морден - Equations of Life

“We understand each other perfectly, Petrovitch-san. Come; I will take you to Hijo, who will show you out.”

As they walked, Petrovitch glanced behind him at Sorenson, standing by the shrine, fists clearly clenching and unclenching. “I think you should have told him.”

“Told him? Ah, yes. Sorenson. You believe I have ruined his life?”

“I think you might have given him the choice first.”

“Do not waste your sympathy on him,” said Oshicora. “He appears to be what the Yankees call a hick, but he has a past which he manages to hide from his own Homeland Security, from himself even. I, however, believe I have discovered his secret. That aside, the mere fact of his relationship with me will ruin him when he has completed his work and tries to return home. It is good that he suspects nothing; it will be an unpleasant surprise for him.”

Petrovitch nodded, and managed somehow not to swear out loud.

Oshicora appeared not to notice the abrupt whiteness of Petrovitch’s skin, and he carried on. “One word from me, and he will lose his citizenship, his company, his assets. He will be stateless, a refugee like we once were. You, I will deal with honorably. After the way the Americans treated my countrymen and women, I have no compunction in exploiting any one of them mercilessly.”

“Yeah, well.” They were at the lift again. Hijo was as immobile as when Petrovitch had left him. “Thanks again, and goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Petrovitch-san. I wish you good fortune and success in your studies. The secrets of the universe are elusive, but perhaps you are the man to catch them.” Oshicora turned to Hijo, who bowed low. “Petrovitch-san is leaving us now. Please make certain he arrives home safely.”

The last sight of Oshicora that Petrovitch had was his smiling face being narrowed to a line by the closing doors.

Hijo led him back through the sea of Japanese faces to the lobby, but didn’t leave him there. Instead, they went through a side door and down a spiraling ramp to an underground loading bay. Sharp white light lit up a pillar-supported concrete chamber. A car sat silently, waiting for them.

It was big and black and crouched low on its suspension. Polarized glass rendered its windows opaque. Petrovitch wondered if there was anyone in it—whether or not it was completely automatic—when the rear door rolled aside electrically and the courtesy light came on.

“Please, Petrovitch-san.” Hijo gestured to the open door, and Petrovitch climbed in. He’d been wrong. There was a driver, and someone riding shotgun. Then Hijo himself got in beside him and tapped the shoulder of the man behind the wheel.

“I didn’t realize you were coming with me,” said Petrovitch. He was eager to be away; he didn’t trust Sorenson to keep his mouth shut.

Hijo pulled the seatbelt across his body and clicked it into place. “My employer would be most displeased with me if something happened to you while you were in our care,” he said by way of explanation.

“So I get a ride in a bullet-proof car.” Petrovitch took a deep breath, and followed Hijo’s example with the seatbelt. “Does this thing go south of the river?”

Barely aware that the engine was running, Petrovitch felt the car ease forward toward a steel shutter that rolled upward. They were outside in a recessed road that gradually rose to join another. He twisted in his seat: he could see the base of the Oshicora Tower behind him, but not its top. They turned, and he lost even that view.

He was driven down the Strand, and across Waterloo Bridge, which neatly skirted the parliamentary Green Zone, then back west along the river before heading south. He even caught sight of the old Palace of Westminster brooding, black and cold, behind concrete walls.

The driver’s wraparound sunglasses showed him which way to go, and Petrovitch became a mute passenger until he felt he was back on his own territory.

“If you drop me here, that’ll be fine. I want to get a coffee.” They knew where he lived, but he didn’t have to take them to his door.

Hijo tapped the driver again, and the car pulled up next to the curb nearest Wong’s.

“ Chyort! ”

“Sorry, Petrovitch-san?”

Petrovitch pressed his fingers into his temples. “This morning, I had a brand new Random Access Terminal delivered. Detective Inspector Chain took it in for questioning, and it vanished from the evidence room. Your lot didn’t have anything to do with that, did they?”

“I believe not, but I will ask. Should I return it to you if we have it?”

“Bring it here,” he said, “Wong will look after it for me. No offense, but the less I get seen in your company, the better.”

“As you wish, Petrovitch-san.” Hijo slipped his seatbelt and opened the door. He got out first for a precautionary look around, before allowing Petrovitch to step out onto the litter-strewn pavement.

They were attracting more than a little attention, not least from Wong who was at his shop door with his arms folded disapprovingly.

“Right then,” said Petrovitch. “ Dobre den .”

“Please,” said Hijo, “I would like to know: why did you help Miss Sonja?”

Petrovitch could already taste coffee in his mouth, bittersweet and strong. “Tell you what, Hijo,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose, “I’ll answer that if you tell me what the yebat she was doing out on her own.”

Hijo looked like he’d just been slapped.

“Yeah. Thought so,” said Petrovitch, and shouldered his way past Wong in search of an empty table, cries of what a bad man he was ringing in his ears.

He woke up, but this time not to the sounds of the streets and windmills and voices. Someone was hammering on his door with something hard and heavy.

The door was steel, reinforced with electrically operated bolts. No need to panic, he lied to himself even as ice water flooded his veins and his poor heart struggled to keep in time.

He grabbed his glasses from where he’d thrown them the night before and listened carefully. The banging wasn’t the right rhythm for breaking in—he’d expect a slow, heavy concussion with sledgehammer or a ram. Neither was it someone with more technical expertise and a gas axe or plastique; he’d have woken with the room full of smoke and a masked man standing over him with a gun.

Petrovitch pulled on the death metal T-shirt from the day before and stood close to the door. Through the insulation he could just about hear his name being shouted out.

Bangbangbangbang. Petrovitch. Bangbangbangbang.

“ Ahueyet? You opezdol, you raspizdyai! Go away,” he called back, but the banging and shouting redoubled.

He pulled the first bolt, then the second, working his way around the door. Finally, he gripped the handle and pulled.

Sorenson stumbled in, shoe in hand. Petrovitch shoved him hard toward the far wall and glanced outside. Everyone there was staring at him. He let fly with yob materi vashi and slammed the door shut again.

“What the chyort are you doing here?”

Sorenson stared at him wild-eyed. He was in the same clothes—shirt and shorts—that he’d worn yesterday, and Petrovitch guessed that he’d not been back to his hotel at all.

“You were right,” he muttered. “So now I need your help.”

“You want what?” said Petrovitch. He reached for his trousers and dragged them on. “Why do you think I’d be either willing or able to help you? And how the huy did you get my address?”

Sorenson walked toward the chair and looked like he was about to sit down.

“No. You’re not staying.” Petrovitch jammed his feet into his boots and started to lace them with controlled savagery. “Who told you where I live?”