‘Good driving conditions, then?’
‘Yes, it looks like it. Of course, we won’t be allowed over the envelope until twenty minutes or so after the duel ends, but I’m told the roads have more or less dried out. And with the summer repairs on this stretch completed well ahead of schedule, this promises to be—‘
He told the TV to sleep, finished his coffee and left the espresso cup standing on the phone deck. Brief existential shiver as he looked at it and realised it would still be there tonight, untouched, whatever happened on the road today. Wherever its owner was.
He shook off the chill and settled his jacket on his shoulders. In the hall mirror, he put on his tie with a languid, frictionless calm that was just the right side of panic. His hands, he noted, were trembling slightly, but he couldn’t decide if it was fear or caffeine. He’d dosed himself pretty heavily.
He finished the tie, looked at himself in the mirror for what seemed like a long time, checked for keys and wallet, and went out to the car. He pulled the door of the house closed and breathed in, hard. The morning air was still and damp in his lungs.
Gravel crunched to his left.
‘Chris.’
He spun, clawing at the shoulder holster. The Nemex came out.
Truls Vasvik stood at the edge of the house, hands spread at waist height. He smiled, a little forcedly.
‘Don’t shoot me. I’m here to help.’
Chris put up the Nemex. ‘You’re a little late for that.’
‘Not at all. This is what I believe you English guys call the nick of time.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Chris shoved the Nemex back into the shoulder holster, spoiling the blunt gesture a little as the gun failed to clip in. He pushed a couple more times, then left it. Clicked the car key with his other hand and the Saab’s lights winked at him as the alarms disabled. He stepped towards it.
‘Wait. Chris, wait a minute.’ Vasvik moved to block him, hands still held placatory at his sides. ‘Think this through. Bryant’s going to kill you out there.’
‘Could be.’
‘And - what? That’s it? The great macho sulk? Kill me and be done with it. See if I fucking care. What does that achieve, Chris?’
‘I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘Chris, I can get you out of here.’ The ombudsman pointed. ‘Back that way, through the woods. I’ve got a three-man team back there and a covered van. Sealed unit, medical waste documentation. It’ll get us through the tunnel without checks. You get your million dollars, you get the job. All you’ve got to do is come with me.’
Out of nowhere, Chris found he could grin. The discovery made his eyes prickle, and put a ball of sudden, savage joy in the pit of his stomach.
‘You’ve not been keeping up on current events, Truls,’ he said. ‘I’m globally famous these days. My face is right up there with Tony Carpenter and Inez Zequina. Everybody knows who I am. What kind of ombudsman is that going to make me?’
‘Chris, that isn’t important. We can—‘
‘What are you going to do then, give me a new face?’
‘If necessary. But—‘
‘And the million dollars, well.’ Chris tutted regretfully. ‘That just isn’t such a lot of money any more, Truls. I’m up for junior partner. That’s equity. Capital wealth. Several millions, plus benefits.’
‘Or cremation later today.’
Chris nodded. ‘There’s a risk of that. But you know what, Truls. The thing you guys will never understand. That risk is what it’s all about. Risk is what makes winning worth it.’
‘You aren’t going to win, Chris.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll see if I can live up to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—‘
He stepped forward. Vasvik stayed where he was. Their faces were a handsbreadth apart. Eyes locked.
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Chris.’ The ombudsman’s voice was low and taut. ‘You think this is going to pay off what you’ve done to Carla, and everybody else? Don’t be a fucking child. Being dead doesn’t solve anything. You’ve got to live if you’re going to make a difference.’
Chris grinned again. ‘Well, that’s about as good a defence of cowardice as I’ve ever heard. I guess you need that, working where you do.’
He saw the flare in Vasvik’s eyes.
‘Yeah, that’s it, Truls. Back the fuck off. Go file a report or something. You came and asked, and I turned you down.’
‘You’re a fool, Chris. You’ve pissed away your marriage, pissed all over your wife—‘
The Nemex came out again, smoother this time, and he jammed it under Vasvik’s chin.
‘Hey. That’s my fucking business.’
The ombudsman smiled with one corner of his mouth. He went on talking as if the Nemex wasn’t there. ‘—and now you’re going to piss your life away too. Just to make Carla Nyquist cry over your corpse.’
Through gritted teeth. ‘I told you—‘
‘And she will.’ Vasvik saw the change in his face, and reached up for the Nemex. He curled his fingers around the barrel and pushed it away.
His eyes were icy with disgust. ‘Yeah. She’ll cry for the next ten years of her fucking life over you, Chris. But then, she would have done that anyway. Whatever happened. Whether you were dead like you’re going to be, or just dead inside like you already are.’
Chris gave him a fixed little smile and stowed the Nemex again.
‘Get out of my way.’
‘My pleasure.’
Vasvik stood aside and watched him climb into the Saab. The engine awoke with a rumble like distant thunder. Chris closed the door and put the car in gear. As he let out the clutch and the Saab began to crawl forward, something in the ombudsman’s face made him crank down the window.
‘Oh, yeah, Vasvik. Speaking of millions, I forgot. You heard they’re going to make a movie about me?’
‘Yeah.’ The Norwegian nodded sombrely. ‘I heard. Make a great ending if you and Bryant managed to kill each other both.’
Gravel crunched under the wheels. ‘Fuck you.’
‘No, really. I’d go and see it.’
He hit the turn for the ramp going too fast, ignored the bounce and accelerated down onto the motorway. Vasvik’s offer was gone, like Vasvik himself, like conscious long-term thought, bundled up and flung out behind him, flapping on the road in the rearview. Over and out of reach. There was only the road ahead and his hold on the car around him. The Saab snarled throatily to itself as he picked up the centre lane and flipped on the comset.
‘Driver Control.’
‘This is Chris Faulkner, driver clearance 260B354R.’ His voice was even in his own ears. He felt a quickening of the joy in the pit of his stomach. He felt armoured. ‘Inbound on M11 for partnership challenge. I’m looking for the duel envelope.’
There was a brief pause. He wondered suddenly if any of the same crew that had worked the gangwit car-jack fiasco were on today.
‘Got you, Faulkner. You’re about twenty kilometres off the northern edge. We will advise when you breach. Leave the channel open.’
‘Traffic?’
‘Executive traffic has been disallowed until nine-thirty. You have two automated bulk transporters currently inbound within the envelope, moderate loads, and maintenance vehicles at junction eleven. Please note that collateral damage to said vehicles is not permitted within the duel protocol.’
‘Noted. So where’s Bryant, then?’
Another pause. You could hear the outrage.
‘That information is classified under duel protocol. Please do not request it again.’
‘Noted. The sense-of-humour failure, I mean.’
‘Please also note that selective jamming is in effect within the envelope. You will be unable to receive outside transmissions other than our own.’
‘Thank you, Driver Control. I have done this before a couple of times.’
He settled into his speed. The overgrown margins of the motorway flashed past on either side in a bumpy green blur. The asphalt fed thrumming under his wheels and fled in his wake. The sense of power grew, feeding off the caffeine and adrenalin. Dying suddenly seemed a long way off, a ridiculous rumour he didn’t believe, something he wouldn’t get round to.