"Right, you ugly bastard, whoever you are,” she said to her empty apartment. "I’m coming back with some armor and defenses that’ll make even you think twice.” But when she gingerly reentered the Matrix and tracked the SAN into which the figure had vanished, her child persona drew back suddenly. It was the entrance to the Transys Neuronet system. No way! Her resolve evaporated as fast as it had formed. She didn’t intend to go headlong into the system of the most paranoid and dangerous cyber-research corporation in Britain.
Francesca didn’t like letting go of an unsolved mystery, but she knew when she needed a little help. Armor and shield programs executed from an independent frame would be just a start, but first she needed to touch base with some contacts outside the Matrix. She ignored her aching shoulders and back and keyed in the telecom code. He wasn’t home, but that was expected. She left a message instead.
“Geraint, you slippery cobber, I’ve got something a little wild on my hands. Dinner at the Savoy Grill at eight? Don’t drink too much-I need your mind intact. RSVP, Welsh boy.”
The government won by a majority of twenty-one votes, the Cambridge meeting looked worthwhile, and Geraint arrived home to find that the Empress had called. He’d been half-expecting to hear from her, yet when he wrote a card to be sent by courier, he put the date for dinner at the Savoy Hotel at two days from now. He wasn’t sure what made him want to delay. Some stubborn uncertainty in him just wasn’t ready for things to begin happening so swiftly.
The killer is satiated right now, but he’s still learning what needs to be done. With no one to mourn her, what’s left of Polly Nichols lies in the morgue. It has begun, but no one has noticed. Yet.
4
“I like the way you do that." Francesca grinned as she sat down at the table glittering with silver and crystal. “Thank you, sir!"
“Hmm?” Geraint blinked at her, unfurling an immaculate linen napkin from its gleaming ring. Her smile broadened at his quizzical, absent-minded expression.
“Oh, nothing. Just that men back in L.A. wouldn’t draw back my chair as I sat down. You Brits may be broke, but you sure have manners."
“Not so broke, Francesca. HKB’s last set of global estimations show that we own seventeen percent of your gross domestic product. Almost as much as the Japanese, in fact.
"But you aren’t here to talk about Hildebrandt-Kleinfort-Bernal," he said, leaning across to light her cigarette. "The lemon sole’s good, but I expect you'll want your usual lump of dead mammal with added steroids and antibiotics?"
“Yes please," she said. "Good and rare. And don’t forget the growth hormone additives!” Francesca blew out smoke from her cigarette as she dug around deep in her handbag. Just how did women get so much into the space of a purse? Geraint wondered. Legions of credsticks, powder compacts, and chipbooks for addresses bore testimony to the enduring violation of the laws of physics in women’s handbags. Staring down into the depths of the bag, she finally found what she was looking for and drew out the slim palm-sized screen. “Take a look at this.”
She tapped in a code and passed him the screen. Immediately fascinated by the holographic images that unfolded before his eyes, Geraint drew in his breath at the sight of the faceless persona. With a kind of shudder he set the screen down on the table. He said nothing for a few moments, fingertips wandering distractedly over his chin and lips, then asked simply, “When was this?”
“Just last night. Ever seen anything like it?”
He shook his head. "I doubt I’d even have believed it if you hadn’t shown it to me. But I’m no decker, Fran. Why bring this to me?"
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her fragrance blotting out the scents of food and cigar smoke. "I’m not sure. Maybe because you know all kinds of stuff, all kinds of people. There might be something in that magpie mind of yours… And, well, I suppose it’s also that I wanted to see you again. It’s been a while." There was the slightest hint of reproach in her voice. She stared at him intently, only a breath away from knocking over her sherry glass. He smiled slightly and moved the glass a little distance from her elbow.
“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s been busy." He was glad that the waiter chose just that moment to come pour their wine, providing a welcome diversion while he ordered his thoughts. When he looked back at Francesca, her face was slightly drawn, the embryonic crow’s feet around her eyes showing, but her blue eyes shining as always. He closed his hand around hers and took a chance on his intuition.
“You’ve been dreaming.” His eyes met hers across the table, and she sighed as her whole body slumped a little. She looked away briefly, then met his gaze straight and strong.
“Only once. It may be nothing… when it’s only once." But her tone of voice said she knew better.
Geraint tried to hide his shudder as he thought of the last time they’d been together and she’d awakened with the old nightmare. He’d never heard anyone scream like that before. They’d been lovers then, lying beside one another. Though her terror had set his own heart to pounding violently, he’d shushed and tried to calm and comfort her. Now he smiled as reassuringly as he could. She wanted that, and she fumbled the hologram pad back into her bag.
“There’s another reason." She looked mischievous. “What do you know about Sir Jonathan Ambrose?”
Geraint puckered his tips as a sensation of relief passed through his body, relaxing the tension he’d begun to feel. This was familiar territory. ‘‘He’s an absolute dweeb, my dear. Ancient noble heritage, pots of money, degree from Oxford, and absolutely no chin at all. He’d be as much use in bed as a Fuchi Sensation without the batteries. Why do you have such appalling taste in men?”
Francesca pretended to look shocked as he directed the arriving steak and fish to their respective quarters with a polite smile. When the waiter had finished scooping the shrimps and cream over his sole, Geraint raised an eyebrow to her and lifted his fork to the feast. She was giving him that old, familiar look. The shadow had passed.
“Look, leave the holopad with me and I’ll make a copy, give it some thought. But you’d best keep it quiet for now. Don’t tell anyone else until we know a little more. You have work?”
"May-be, maybe,” she said slowly, tantalizingly. “It’s not just for lunch with Jonathan to the Lounging Lizard that I’m going tomorrow. We’ll see what Lady Luck turns up with the day’s Mr. Johnson.
“And hey, speaking of Lady Luck, what do your cards have to say these days?”
It was a query Geraint did not wish to answer. He paused just long enough to let her know he didn’t want to talk about the cards, but she knew him well enough to permit him his cautions and silences. Whatever noncommittal remark he gave faded into a stream of small talk and enjoyment of the gracious surroundings.
Clutching his carryall tightly Serrin strolled down Regent Street, passing the Stuffer Shack on his way from Cambridge station to the University Arms. Three days of pointless time-wasting had ended in a meeting where Smith and Jones had been a no-show. All that greeted him at dinner was a card expressing their profuse apologies, along with a credstick to persuade him to accept an additional assignment. A couple of minor nobles who were major stockholders in Optical Neotech PLC, one of his surveillance targets, would be attending a seminar at Cambridge’s finest hotel that weekend. Could he please tag a watcher or two to their rooms after an initial snoop?