"Only after Reiger went on the rampage. I think your judgement in selecting him was execrable, Clifford."
"Not your type, huh? A bit too direct for you, Julia? I've got no complaints."
"Well, you ought to have. After all, what has he accomplished for you so far? And Jason Whitehurst was a friend of mine."
"Yeah." A muscle twitched under Clifford Jepson's right eye. "I couldn't help that. Reiger wouldn't have done anything if Whitehurst had seen reason. The old man told his bodyguards to shoot Reiger's squad. He didn't leave Leol with any choice."
"I was there, Clifford, and what you're saying is absolute tabloid. You have no control over Reiger, he's as much a danger to you as anyone else."
"What do you mean, you were there?"
Julia gave him a level stare, then accessed her personality package memory files in Wilholm's 'ware and pulled the recording taken from the camera in Jason Whitehurst's study. She squirted it over to Clifford's terminal. He watched the scene as Leol Reiger confronted Jason Whitehurst. The rip gun fired.
"Motherfuck." Clifford Jepson winced, lips peeling back from his teeth.
"I know Reiger got clear of the hospital in Lagos," she said. "Call him off, Clifford, pay off his contract and dump him."
Clifford Jepson raised his gaze to a point above the camera. Julia watched the shadows of doubt forming across his face, she imagined cogs turning behind his too-smooth skin.
"And then what?" he asked faintly.
"Sorry?"
"What happens after that? I mean, let's not flick around here, Julia. You've got the Fielder girl, right?"
"She's under my protection. I won't let anyone harm her, least of all you and Reiger."
"That's just it, Julia. This goddamn AV recording; lifting her out from under Reiger's team like that; and now I'm told Harcourt might get blown away in a cabinet reshuffle. Jesus, Julia, how do you do that? You're just laughing at me. Reiger was one of the best, and he barely gets out alive. I mean, nobody's that good. It's goddamn frightening the way you operate. I'm fighting for my life here, Julia. You know what I mean: the Fielder girl. She could screw me. My contact is playing a very elusive game, I'm not hiding that. You go barging in there with Fielder and that freak Royan, and I'm flushed. I ain't gonna roll over and let that happen. No way."
Julia watched the light-pen being tapped on the edge of the desk, it was hypnotic. The pressure was starting to get to Clifford Jepson.
And he's not the only one.
"Risk you take playing in this league, Clifford. So I'll make you an offer. In return for giving me your source and dumping Reiger, I'll cut you in on forty per cent of the profits from atomic structuring."
"No." He shook his head. It was paper defiance, she thought.
"If I get to the source first, you won't get a penny."
"I play to win, Julia. I'm not backing out now. You're just as worried as me or you wouldn't have called."
"Don't count on it," she said, and broke the circuit.
He hasn't got the generator data yet, her grandfather said. We could come out of this holding the trumps.
Providing we secure the generator data first, NN core two said. Clifford knows he's going to have to produce it tomorrow to satisfy the bidders. He must be reasonably confident about that. That doesn't give us much time.
Are we all agreed that the alien is the source? Julia asked.
Yes.
Looks that way, girl.
And it's currently up in New London?
Concurred.
Right then. Let's see if we can prevent it from squirting the data down to Clifford.
Sean Francis's face formed on the study's phone screen. His shoulders straightened when he saw who was calling.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," he said respectfully.
She smiled, showing him he was in favour. Sean Francis took life a mite too seriously, but he was the best executive in the company. Even so, she considered forty-five thousand kilometres was just about an ideal separation distance.
"Afternoon, Sean. Has Greg Mandel's team settled in?"
"Absolutely fine, no problem. They've just left the residence to go and look for Miss Fielder's Celestial Apostle."
"Excellent. I'll be joining you myself in about three hours. In the mean time I want you to cut New London's communication links with Earth."
Sean Francis looked as though he'd misheard. "Cut our communications?"
"Completely. I want New London isolated from Earth. Leave the company security link, but shut down all business, private, and finance links. And all the channel linkages as well, please. We have the franchise from English Telecom, it shouldn't be difficult."
"But what can I say, what reason? And there's the spacecraft traffic, yes? They'll need guidance updates from flight control."
"I was just coming to that. Turn back all vehicles on their way up from Earth, their docking clearance is revoked as from now. Keep the local communication frequencies open, of course, we don't want any accidents with the commuter pods and tugs. But the direct relays to geostationary platforms must go; tell them it's solar flare activity, or the exchange 'ware has crashed. Nobody will believe it, but cover yourself. It's only until tomorrow."
"I suppose I could," he said unhappily.
"You're my representative up there, you've got the authority. I'll take full responsibility. But unplug New London, now."
Victor was waiting on the lawn outside the library's French windows as she hurried out, still sealing the front of her topaz-coloured shipsuit.
"How did it go?" he asked.
"No use. Clifford's scared of me. But he's more scared of losing out on atomic structuring."
"Pity."
They walked over to the CHO-808 Falcon spaceplane sitting between the two Pegasus hypersonics. It looked like a stretched version of the executive jets, slightly fatter, a lead grey in colour, with a single induction ram intake protruding from the underbelly. There was something coldly daunting about its lines, an impression of hidden power.
Event Horizon produced the marque: it was a rapid response vehicle for the RAF, and the Greater European Defence Alliance. They used it primarily to investigate new satellites, checking to make sure they weren't kinetic harpoons. It could also carry six technicians and a two-tonne payload up to geostationary orbit.
Might as well concrete the lawn over, she thought as she went up the Falcon's composite airstair. It's used as a landing pad more than anything else.
The small cabin had seating for seven including the pilot, Maria Garrick. She was an ex-RAF officer who had flown Julia around for eight years, highly competent, and loyal. Julia liked her, one of that rare breed, like Victor, who gave an honest opinion when asked.
Julia ducked her head to avoid the low ceiling as she walked over to the seat behind Maria. The Falcon had none of the padding and trimming of commercial spaceplanes, apart from the active cushioning of the seats. A functional composite cave.
"Take us straight up to New London," Julia said. The seat cushioning flowed round her legs, gripping them like a vice made of sponge.
Maria twisted round, giving her a bright stare. "How straight?"
"Fast as we can, please."
"Right-oh, one purple corridor coming up." Maria turned back to the graphics on the heavily shielded windscreen slit.
Pilots were all the same, Julia reflected, can't resist a dramatic race against time.
The cabin hatch slid shut, its actuators drowned out by the sound of compressors winding up. They lifted with a jolt, the cabin tilting up thirty degrees. Acceleration pressed Julia down into the seat, rising quickly to two Gs. The Falcon was already doing Mach two when it passed over Yaxley and charged out over the Fens basin.