Pavel Kirilov hesitated. "This additional data, you are offering to sell it?"
"No, we're offering you a partnership."
"In what?"
"In atomic structuring technology. We secure the construction data for a nuclear force generator. You market it to a kombinate as you originally intended. And we take a percentage. Simple."
Pavel Kirilov patted his hands together in front of his face. "My God, a child and a—You really know what you're talking about, don't you?"
"You got it," Fabian said triumphantly.
"Are you interested?" Charlotte asked. She was jamming her knees together to stop her legs from shaking. "If not, we can always call Event Horizon or Clifford Jepson, offer them the generator data."
"What sort of percentage?" Pavel Kirilov asked impassively.
"Five. And as a guarantee, Fabian and I are to be named on the patent application which you and the kombinate file."
"I'm interested. No doubt you have devised a foolproof method of handover."
"Yes. We're up in New London now."
Pavel Kirilov raised his eyebrows. "You have the generator data already?"
"We'll provide it for you," she said. "But it does have to be you, in person. No one else. I don't mean come alone or anything."
"How very gratifying."
"We have our own hardliners with us. So we'll meet here, on neutral territory, and we'll explain how we want to handle the actual transfer." She held her breath.
Pavel Kirilov gave her a reluctant nod. "Baronski would be pleased to see the way you've turned out. You're a credit to him, Miss Fielder, if not to me. Where exactly in New London do you wish to meet me? Should I wear a carnation in my lapel, knot my tie in a certain fashion?"
She tried to ignore the sarcasm, but there was a lot of weight behind it; one of the largest crime lords in Europe focusing on her. Displeased.
"The more important they think themselves, the greater the disdain they feel they must show," Baronski had told her. "They can only intimidate you if you allow yourself to believe in this charade. None of it is real, they are acting. Imagine yourself as a channel critic and watch for the flaws in their performance."
Charlotte said nothing.
"Well?" Pavel Kirilov asked.
He wanted to know, he needed them. God bless you, Dmitri, she wished silently. "Phone me exactly one hour before you dock," she said. "I will tell you where to wait, you may bring up to four hardline bodyguards for your personal safety. But if you phone after you arrive, if you send someone else in your place, if there are more than four hardliners, then the deal is off."
"Very well, Miss Fielder, Fabian. I agree."
"All right!" Fabian grinned.
"But. If you are unable to provide me with the generator data, or if you try and sell the data to my rivals, then you will wish you had stayed on board the Colonel Maitland. Do I make myself clear? This is not a game. If you genuinely know what is going on, you will understand this."
"We understand," Charlotte said.
"Good. I shall make arrangements for a flight, expect me within six hours." His image disappeared from the Amstrad's screen.
Charlotte's muscles felt drained, her palms were damp and sticky.
Fabian was laughing like a mad thing. "What a team! What a team! We did it, we nailed the bastard." His face jiggled about on the screen.
"Oh, Christ," she murmured. The enormity of what she'd done was beginning to register.
"What's the matter? It's over. We did it. We won!"
"It's only just started, Fabian."
"Rubbish, stupid. He's on his way. That's all we needed. Once he's phoned you and confirmed he's docking, we'll tell Julia Evans." His lip curled up. "She'll have to act then. There's no way she'll allow Kirilov into New London, not with you and the alien and that Royan chap all up there together. And there Pavel Kirilov will be, in a spaceship, all alone. A sitting duck. I mean, do you know what kind of Strategic Defence weapons they've got up there?"
"No, Fabian, I don't."
"Hundreds and hundreds; masers, lasers, particle beams; and everyone knows Julia's got her own electron-compression warheads too. Ten megatons apiece. Scrunch! She'll dissect him."
Trust Fabian to know about heavy duty weaponry, something in the male make-up drew them to it. Small boys and shiny warplanes went hand in hand, big boys too, come to that. "And then us, I should think," she said quickly.
"Oh come on, Charlotte. We're doing her a favour. You heard her say she'd hunt Kirilov down afterwards. Well, we've gone and saved her all the trouble. We've given him to her on a plate. And she won't be able to shirk off this time. All she has to do now is give one order, and Kirilov is a cloud of hot atoms."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
There were seven of them in the group that emerged from the public lobby below the Governor's Residence. They stood clustered together on the lava-like surface of the ring road which ran round the base of the southern endcap, looking across the open parkland, not quite sure where to go first. Very touristy, Greg thought, not that he was particularly concerned with stealth. But they did give the impression of a booked party. No need to draw unnecessary attention. Charlotte and Suzi were with him, of course; along with Rick and Melvyn; while a couple of the crash team, Teresa Farrow and Jim Sharman, completed the group. Lloyd McDonald had set up a dedicated mission office in the security centre, where he was reviewing reports from the police and his own personnel from inside the Cavern.
"Where we headed?" Suzi asked.
"Not sure. Lloyd will call us as soon as someone spots a Celestial Apostle." He sucked in some air, glancing round Hyde Cavern. A tiny secretion struck up a certain restlessness, but there was no call towards any particular part of the cylindrical landscape. "But in the mean time, we'll try the beach. The one where you met the priest, Charlotte."
Charlotte nodded. "All right."
Other pedestrians were glancing at her as they passed. Greg had to admit she looked sensational. Perhaps he ought to have asked her to wear something less conspicuous.
It isn't her clothes, he told himself, it's your hormones.
Rick had stuck close to her side on the way down from the Residence, making small talk, absolutely not looking at the top's scoop neck. The way she dealt with the attention was a frictionless wall of politeness, nothing that would encourage, nothing to take offence at. It was a neat trick. Poor old Rick.
He took his cybofax out of a jacket pocket, and pulled a map of New London's train network from the colony's memory core. There were stations every two hundred metres round the endcap. He started walking towards the nearest one.
"I've just heard from Sean Francis," Melvyn said. "Julia Evans is on her way up."
"When will she be here?"
"Three hours."
"What's the matter, doesn't she trust us?" Suzi grumbled.
"Give her a break," Greg said. It came out flatter than he intended. "She needs that atomic structuring technology. Once I confirmed the alien was here she didn't have many choices."
"Yeah," Suzi said. "This alien thing, knowing it's here somewhere, ain't helping calm me. Why doesn't it show itself?"
"It hasn't demonstrated any hostility," Rick said.
"Not yet," Suzi said knowingly. She patted the Browning in her shoulder holster.
Rick gave a despairing sigh.
The vine-roped balconies gave way to sheer rock cliff, and the road bowed out from the base. They walked over a gently curved mock-stone bridge across the neck of a lake. A waterfall emerged from a cleft in the rock a kilometre above; Greg had to tilt his head right back to see its apex. The crinkled rock behind it was thick with creepers and slimy algae. He tracked the ragged white plume as it curved sideways through the air, thundering into the lake twenty metres away. The air was full of a fine spray, leaving the side of the bridge permanently slicked.