‘Yes. He, uh, he got in the way.’
Notley raised an eyebrow. ‘That was inconsiderate of him. So, is he dead?’
‘No, not yet.’ Chris hurried into explanation. ‘But that’s okay. Sickbay have got him on life support, sedated until we’re ready. In fact, that’s one of the strengths of the way we’ve set this up. If I can just show you the—‘
‘No, that won’t be necessary. As I said before, this is about having the guts to let you run with the ball.’ A faint smile. ‘Just like our old friend Webb Ellis. Illustrious company you find yourself in, Chris Faulkner. Maybe they’ll put up a plaque for you too, one day.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
He caught it on the radio as he drove home. Some general news reporter from the scene, a woman but not—
Cut that out.
‘—were shocked by this terrorist attack in the heart of London’s West End. I’m standing outside the famous Brown’s Hotel, only a few metres from the spot where less than an hour ago visiting head of state, General Hernan Echevarria and his aide, Lieutenant Colonel Rafael Carrasco, were fired upon by masked gunmen. Details aren’t clear as yet, but it seems two men opened fire with machine pistols as General Echevarria was brought to his hotel in a Shorn Associates limousine. The general’s aide and an unnamed Shorn executive were both hit by machine-gun fire as they exited the vehicle ahead of the general. The terrorists then threw some kind of anti-personnel grenade into the interior and made their escape on a motorcycle. All three men and the driver of the limousine have been rushed to intensive care at—‘
He turned it off. He knew the rest. Michael Bryant, thrown miraculously clear of the explosion, recovers from gunshot wounds in hospital. The limo driver, protected by the armoured partition, gets off with burns, abrasions and shock. General Echevarria and his aide go home in body bags, scorched and shell- and shrapnel-riddled beyond useful autopsy. State funeral, full military honours. Rifles volley, women weep. Closed caskets. Everybody in black.
In the highlands, Barranco’s insurgents stir to freshly-equipped life.
You ‘re a changemaker, Chris.
He felt it rising in him, stirring like the hard-eyed men and women in the NAME jungle. He saw himself. Embodied purpose, rushing over asphalt in the darkness, carving a path with the Saab’s high beams like some furious avatar of the forces he was setting in motion on the other side of the globe. Riding the quiet power of the engine across the night, face masked in the soft backwash of dashboard light. Bulletproof, careproof, unstoppable.
He called Barranco at the Hilton.
‘You heard?’
‘Yes, it’s on the TV. I’m watching it now.’ For the first time that Chris could remember, Barranco’s voice sounded unsure. ‘You are okay?’
Chris grinned in the dark. ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’
‘I, would not have believed. Something like that. To do something like that. In front of your colleagues. In your situation. I did not expect—‘
‘Skip it, Vicente. The old fuck had it coming.’
Barranco was silent. ‘Yes. That is true.’
And more silence across the connection, like snow drifting to the ground on the other side of the world. For a beat, Chris could feel the cold out there, like something alive. Like something looking for him.
‘I saw him die,’ said Barranco.
Chris shook himself. ‘I, uh. Good. I hope that was worth something to you, Vicente. I hope you feel. Avenged.’
‘Yes. It is good to know he is dead.’
When the Colombian showed no further sign of speaking, Chris cleared his throat.
‘Listen, Vicente. Get some rest. With what’s coming down in the next few weeks, you’re going to need it. Plane’s not ‘til noon, so sleep in. Lopez’ll get you up in plenty of time.’
Silence, sifting down.
‘Chris?’
‘Yeah. Still here.’
‘They aren’t going to punish you for this?’
‘No one’s going to punish me for anything, Vicente. Everything’s under control, and you and I are going right to the top of this thing, together. I give it six months before you’re in the streets of Bogota. Now get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He waited for a reply. When there was none, he shrugged, cut the connection and gave himself to the driving.
changemaker!
He got off at the Elsenham ramp, and picked up the road east, pushing the Saab faster than was smart. The car jolted in potholes and the engine grew shrill as he dropped gears late on the bends. Trees stood at the roadside, sudden and dusty-looking in the glare of the Saab’s lights. When he got to Hawkspur Green, he shed some of his speed, but he was still rolling too fast. The car snarled angrily to itself as he took the turn into the driveway, and he had to lean on the brakes.
He killed the high beams and up ahead in the sudden dark, the house security lights flared to life. He frowned and glanced at the ID broadcast set. A tiny green active light glowed back at him, reassuring as far as it went. He felt tension go stealing along his nerves, wondering if Notley had, after all, gone conservative on him and sent night-callers with silenced guns. The Saab crunched up the winding drive. He reached across to the glove compartment and opened it. The Nemex fell out into his palm, still slightly greasy from the factory wrapping oils. He straightened up again and cleared the last bend.
Carla was waiting for him, wrapped tight in a towelling robe, hair wet and straggling. Backlit by the security system’s lamps, she looked like the ghost of a drowned woman. When she bent to his window, face hard-boned from the wet and the lack of make-up, he almost jumped.
He stopped the Saab short and opened the window.
‘What are you doing out here? You’ll catch your death of cold.’
‘Vasvik,’ she said. ‘He just called.’
The rest of the week snapped by like scenery.
He got Barranco out of the country, got final signatures on the regime term sheets on the way to the airport. Sandwiched between Lopez and Chris in the helicopter, Barranco signed it all like a man under sedation. Chris waved him goodbye from the asphalt.
He dropped in on Mike at the hospital. The other executive had nothing worse than severe bruising across the ribcage from the machine-gun fire, but it seemed politic to keep him in the intensive care unit for a few days at least. There were news crews queuing in the corridor outside, but Shorn security had them managed.
‘So now you’re a fucking celebrity?’
Mike grinned from a chair beside the bed. There were a couple of small cuts on his face, and his left hand was bandaged. He got up, wincing with the effort.
‘You see Liz out there?’ he asked.
‘No. You expecting her?’
‘Never know.’ Mike poured himself a drink from a pitcher beside the bed. ‘Nah, to be honest, she’d be the last thing I need right now. I’m in enough pain just breathing heavily. You want some of this?’
‘What is it?’
‘What does it look like? Juice.’
‘Maybe later. What happened to your face?’
‘Ah.’ Mike waved dismissively. ‘Did it myself with a broken bottleneck, beforehand. Good for the media to see a real wound or two, I reckon.’
‘And the hand?’
A scowl. ‘Sprained my wrist going down on the pavement. Like a fucking idiot. I was trying to keep Carrasco upright for the machine gun, like this. And then dive out of the way, this way, when they tossed in the grenade. It was awkward.’
‘Any witnesses?’
Bryant shook his head. ‘Monday night, and it’s a quiet street, anyway. A couple of people might have looked our way once the firing started maybe, but too late to notice anything odd. There’ll be footage from the hotel security cameras, maybe that street scanner we couldn’t mask out at the corner of Stafford Street. Elaine’s already on it. No problem, she says. Barranco get off okay?’
Back at Shorn, Chris sat in the covert viewing chamber while Nick Makin and Louise Hewitt talked to Francisco Echevarria by uplink. The young man was pale and hollow-eyed, and it was clear he had been crying. From the way he kept looking off to the side, it was also clear he was not alone in the projection room at the other end. Hewitt conveyed smooth corporate sympathies, and encouraged him not to concern himself with contractual details at such a time. Shorn’s own principal officer for the NAME account was, in any case, unable to leave hospital for the foreseeable future. There was no sense in rushing into anything. Shorn CI would be very happy to put the whole issue on ice until the family felt more able to deal with the negotiations.