‘That’d make you happy, would it?’
‘What’d make me happy, Chris, is to take back our plastic from your lightly charred and broken corpse.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m unlikely to get that chance, of course. Policy doesn’t allow us to duel across partner-employee lines. But I will, I think, live to see you booted out of Shorn and back to the riverside slum existence you so eminently suit. I’ve told you before, and it’s becoming clearer by the day, you do not belong here.’
Oddly, the line made him grin. ‘Well, you’re not the only person who thinks that, Louise.’
It got him a sharp look, but Hewitt wasn’t biting.
‘Notley and I have also agreed that you’d better draft the apology to Philip’s specifications. A first draft by this evening. That’s a minimum requirement if you intend to continue with this firm. Philip’s in uplink conference right now, with Echevarria. But he’ll be done by six. Take it in for his approval then. You might like to add a verbal apology at the same time.’ She looked at him, grim amusement curled in the corner of her mouth. ‘A personal touch, say. A little bridge-building.’
He walked out, wordless. Louise Hewitt watched him go, and as the door slammed, the smile broadened on her lips.
It took him the walk to his own office to decide. Two flights of stairs and a corridor. He saw no one. He reached the door with his name on it, stood facing the metalled slab for ten seconds, and then turned away.
He was a dozen paces away and accelerating before it had properly dawned on him what he was going to do.
I look after my people.
He found his way almost absently, most of him thinking about Carla and how fucking delighted she’d be to see his life come tumbling down like this. The main door to the conference room was locked, but the entrance to the covert viewing chamber was on a code he knew. He let himself in. Peered through the gloom and the glass panel.
In the conference room, Philip Hamilton sat opposite a holo of Francisco Echevarria. The dictator’s son was dressed in his usual Susana Ingram splendour. He looked hard and implacable against Hamilton’s soft and light-suited untidiness.
‘—are aware that you have friends in Miami, and we have no desire to exclude them from the proceedings. You should certainly speak with Martin Meldreck at Calders, who will, I’m sure—‘
Enough. He coded himself through the connecting door, stood abruptly behind Hamilton. Echevarria’s eyes widened as he stepped inside the pick-up field of the holoscanner and he knew that in the chamber on the other side of the world he had appeared, like a ghost at the feast.
Hamilton turned around in his chair.
‘Faulkner.’ He wasn’t worried yet, just surprised. Anger edged his cultured tones. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, interrupting me with a client?’
Chris grinned down at him. ‘You wanted a statement from me.’
‘Yes. In due course. At the moment, I’m busy. You can—‘
Chris hit him. Open-handed, swinging from the shoulder. It took Hamilton across the side of the head and tipped him out of the chair.
‘First draft.’ Chris grabbed him up by the hair and hit him again in the face, this time with a fist. He felt the junior partner’s nose break. He punched him once more for security and let go. Hamilton slumped to the floor like a filled sack. He turned about, reached Francisco Echevarria with his eyes.
‘Hello, Paco.’ He got his breath back, straightened up the chair. ‘You don’t know me, do you? Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the man who beat your father to death.’
Echevarria’s face tightened. ‘Are you fuckin’ crazy, man? You di’n kill my father.’
Chris settled into the chair. ‘No, I did. The terrorist stuff was something we set up to cover what really happened. The CE—, those guys, they went with the claim because it gives them prestige. Your father was a sick fuck, and anyone killing him could claim they’d done a good day’s work.’
‘You gonna fuckin’ die for that, man.’ The dictator’s son was staring at him, transfixed. ‘You gonna fuckin’ die .’
‘Oh, please. As I was saying, there’s no way the, that bunch, are well enough organised to do something like that on the streets of London and get away with it. So, as I said, I killed your old man. I beat him to death, in this very room, with a baseball bat. All part of a day’s work for the Shorn corporation. Check with Mike Bryant if you don’t believe me, I’m a colleague of his.’
Echevarria’s voice came out strangled. ‘You—‘
‘It’s what we do here, Paco. Neoliberal commercial management. Global mayhem, remote-control death and destruction. Market Forces in action. If you don’t like it—‘
Hamilton charged him from the side.
He had time to be impressed - fat fuck didn’t look like he had it in him -then the chair went over and the junior partner was on top of him, bloodied nose spattering down into his face, soft hands digging into the cords of his throat with surprising strength.
Chris wasted no time struggling. He got a grip on the little finger of Hamilton’s right hand, curled it back and snapped it. Hamilton yelped and let go. Chris came up from the floor like a hinge and punched the partner in the throat. Hamilton lurched back, just on his feet, clutching at the point of impact. Somewhere on the other side of the world, Echevarria was yelling in Spanish. Chris got to his feet, stalked towards Hamilton. The partner’s eyes widened. Chris threw a punch, Hamilton ducked and fended with a rusty boxing move, the other hand still at his throat. There wasn’t much strength in it, and he came up panting. Impatiently, Chris repeated the punch, snagged Hamilton’s wrist with an aikido hold he knew and jerked the partner off balance towards him. He punched low into the expansive gut, and as Hamilton spasmed, he grabbed him round the neck and yanked up and round.
It had the fury of the whole day behind it.
It snapped Hamilton’s neck.
Chris heard the muffled crack, and as the partner went limp in his grip, the rage drained out of him. He let go and Hamilton hit the floor. He turned back to Echevarria and the suited aides who were crowding into the holocast around him. They stared at him like frightened children.
He cleared his throat. ‘Now—‘
Something cold and jagged slapped him. He blinked and raised one arm to look at the mass of silvery wire mesh that had come out of nowhere and wrapped around his side. He was starting to turn to the door behind him, when the stungun web sparked and went off with a smell like scorching plastic. The jolt flung him hard against the table, where he clung for a moment, staring.
In the open doorway, Louise Hewitt stood with the stungun still levelled and watched him collapse.
The last thing he saw was her smile.
Chapter Forty-Four
The cell measured about three metres on a side, and smelled very faintly of fresh paint, thick pastel layers of which coated the walls. There was a comfortable steel frame bed against one such wall, a three-drawer desk under the window and an en suite bathroom capsule in one corner. Next to the capsule, plain white towels hung on a heated rack and next to that there was hanging space and boxed shelving for his clothes. The fixtures were good-quality wood and metal, and the window looked out over the river through glass that only betrayed its toughened qualities with the tiny red triangle logo in one corner. The whole place was no worse than some hotels Chris had seen on placement, and it was in considerably better condition than any of the rooms in Erik Nyquist’s Brundtland estate apartment.
As far as he could work out, he was the only person in the block.
Guest of honour, he thought vaguely as he went to sleep the second night. Full run of the facilities.