Back in Europe, the seasonal cycle her metabolism had originally been calibrated for was already well into autumn and winding slowly down to winter. And you never could quite get it together to get recalibrated, could you, Greta. Too little faith in the local service providers – it was a complicated procedure, went very deep – and too little disposable income or time to go back and pay someone she’d trust. Yeah, and if you’re honest, just never the right time either; too fucking busy, then too fucking depressed, then just too fucking asleep. It was a pretty standard hib complaint – along with the more obvious physiological factors, the hibernoid hormonal suite lent itself to mental fluctuations that were almost bipolar in their intensity. All through the waking segment of the cycle, she whirred like an overloaded magdrive dynamo, working, dealing, broking, living but always too busy, too busy, too busy to rest or relax or sleep or worry about minor considerations like changing her life for the better. Then, as the hormonal tide began to ebb and such considerations finally managed to creep to the front of her conscious concerns, they came in freighted with such a surging sense of weariness in the face of insurmountable odds that it was all she could do not to weep at the pointlessness of trying to do anything about a thing like that now. Better just to sleep on it, better just let it go this time around, pick up again in spring and…
And round she went again.
An unfortunate psychological side effect, went the arid, tut-tutting text of the Jacobsen protocol, and somewhat debilitating for those implicated, but not a failing this committee need concern itself with unduly, nor a social threat as such.
Somewhat debilitating. Right. Her fingers mashed at the door code panel, slow and clumsy, as if they weren’t really hers. The Samoans stood by. Isaac and Salesi, both of them familia enforcers since their youth, long schooled in a sort of hard-faced butler’s diplomacy where escort duties were concerned – they knew better than to offer her help. She’d been in a foul mood for days now, snappish and strung out at the wrong end of her waking tether. Judgement fraying, social skills barely operational. Under normal circumstances, she’d already have handed over operations here to one of Manco’s brighter minions, given in to the inevitable changes in her blood chemistry and let the cold tide turn opiate-warm along her veins. She’d already be housebound, down at the Colca retreat, pottering about, prepping for the long sleep ahead. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have to–
He came out of nowhere.
She still had her sunglasses on, blurry early morning vision, and not much peripheral sense at all this late in the cycle – no surprise she didn’t see it happen. Her first warning was the sound of a solid, untidy impact behind her. The door, coded open, was already swinging inward off the latch. She felt the huge hand of one of the bodyguards hit her in the small of her back, shoving her bodily inside. She stumbled, caught the corner of a desk in the cramped office space, struggled foggily to comprehend.
We’re being hit.
Impossible. Her mind rejected it out of hand, objections in a blurry rush. Manco had put his stamp on the Arequipa gangs a decade ago, made his allegiances, wiped out the rest. No one – no one – was stupid enough to buck the trend. And the courtyard, the white stone courtyard, was pristine when they crossed, empty this early.
The sound behind her, played back in her head. Shock jumped in her blood as she put it together.
Someone had come off the paved walkway above the cloister, jumped better than five metres directly down and onto one of her escorts. Was outside now, finishing the job…
Isaac cannoned into the doorjamb and sagged there, clinging. Blood matted his hair and poured down his face between the eyes. He made a convulsive effort to gain his feet again, failed, went down in a heap.
Behind him in the doorway, a black figure silhouetted against the gathering glare of the early morning sun. Something flopped in her sluggish blood, deep jolt of instinctive fear just ahead of recognition.
‘Morning, Greta. Surprised to see me?’
‘Marsalis.’ She spat it out, temper snapping across. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
He stepped carefully into the office, skirting Isaac’s toppled bulk with catlike care and a wary sideways glance. Behind him, through the open door, she saw Salesi stretched out unmoving on the chessboard white and grey paving of the courtyard like a beached whale. Marsalis didn’t have a mark on him, didn’t even appear to be breathing heavily. He stood just inside reaching distance and looked impassively at her.
‘I haven’t had much sleep, Greta. I’d bear that in mind if I were you.’
‘I’m not afraid of you.’
He saw it was true. Smiled a little. ‘I guess not. Welcome to the twist brotherhood, right? All just monsters together.’
‘I repeat.’ She stepped away from the desk corner, straightened up to him. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
‘I might ask Manco the same question. See, I’ve been pretty polite so far. Couple of quick conversations and I’m out of your hair for good. No damage, no disruption, everybody’s happy. That’s the way I wanted it, anyw—’
‘We don’t always get what we want, Marsalis. Didn’t your mummy ever tell you that?’
‘Yeah. She also told me it was rude to interrupt.’ He reached in, whiplash swift, and her sunglasses were gone, plucked into his hand. Her vision watered and swam. ‘Like I said, Greta, I could have been out of everyone’s hair in nothing flat. Instead, last night, while I was on my way here to talk to you, someone paid a bucketful of your illustrious local military to have me disappeared.’
She blinked hard to clear her vision. Silent curse at the tears it squeezed visibly out at the corners of her eyes.
‘What a shame they didn’t manage it.’
‘Yeah, well you just can’t get the help these days. Point is, Greta, who do you think I should blame?’
She tipped her head to look past him at the crumpled form by the door. ‘Looks to me like you’ve already decided that one.’
‘You’re confusing purpose with necessity. I don’t think your islander friends would have been over-keen on us all having a sit-down chat.’
She met his gaze. ‘I don’t seem to be sitting down.’
For a moment, they stared at each other. Then he shrugged, and tossed her sunglasses onto the desktop. He nodded at the chair behind the desk.
‘Be my guest.’
She made her way round the edge of the desk and seated herself. At the door to the little office, Isaac stirred, shook his head muzzily. Marsalis glanced his way, looked back at Greta and pointed a warning finger, then crossed to where the Samoan lay. Isaac snarled and spat blood, glared up at the black man in disbelieving rage. He braced his arms at his sides, pressed huge hands flat to the floor.
‘You stand up,’ Marsalis said without passion. ‘I will kill you.’
The Samoan didn’t appear to hear. His arms flexed, his mouth formed a grin.
‘Isaac, he means it.’ Greta leaned over the desk, put urgency into her tone. ‘He’s thirteen. Unluck. You stay where you are. I’ll square this.’
Marsalis shot her a glance. ‘Generous of you.’
‘Fuck you, Marsalis. Some of us got loyalties past getting paid.’ Sudden, unstoppable, cavernous yawn. ‘Wouldn’t expect you to understand that.’