“Pearce! Another man who has to go down! Starling… find Bullock! Pull out the stops! Do whatever’s necessary! We’re close to go time for Iceberg!” Verrick turned from the window, walked to his desk, stubbed out the cigar in a glass ashtray. “And about go-time—how many drones do we have operational? They destroyed four at the last encounter…”
“We have six drones, sir. More than enough. If anything—you might, sir, consider moving the timetable ahead…”
That was a possibility Verrick had been considering. “I might. Especially if we don’t locate Bullock…”
“Sir, we’ll find him, sir!”
“We’d better—before they find the Iceberg Project.”
“There is something we can do, sir, if we can even get close to Bullock. I’ve been researching him, since he went missing. Sir, did you know he has diabetes?”
“Yeah, he developed it in the last year. Adult onset, some kind of genetic deal, what about it?”
“You know he has an implant device for delivering insulin, sir? That presents possibilities…”
“Fine, but we’ve got to find him first.”
“Sir—is there anyone else in Blume who knows what’s planned? Anyone else we need to…”
“No. No, the Board of Directors at Blume is made up of a bunch of moderates or the wrong kind of conservative—the old school kind that doesn’t have the balls to face the real enemy. Low-down compromisers! And Blume developed ctOS! Think of the power in ctOS—and they’ve barely scratched the surface of it. There are plans to get ctOS going in a lot of cities around the globe, Starling. If the right people controlled that system they could shape the world if they wanted to! Well, they won’t go in that direction. I’ve tested the water with them. They can’t deal with that hot water, Starling. But if they won’t use it to change the world, I will!”
“Sir yes sir! We’ll do it together, sir!”
“Just take care of—” He broke off, listening. The doorman was ringing from downstairs. “I’ve got to go.”
Verrick went to the door and touched the intercom button. “Yeah?”
A nasal voice on the intercom said, “Mr.Verrick, I have a Mr. Quinn here to see you? A Mr. Niall Quinn?”
Quinn? The son of Lucky Quinn. The guy hadn’t made an appointment. He might be the new head of the Club, replacing his old man, but he wasn’t some kind of boss over Verrick and he couldn’t just bust in here anytime he wanted. Still, Verrick was curious about the visit—and he doubted Quinn was here to do him harm. He would never come in person to do that. “Okay, send him up.”
“There is actually another man with him, Mr. Verrick…”
That’d be his bodyguard. “Sure, fine, whatever.”
He opened his door and stuck his head out. His Graywater bodyguards were gawping at some video on a cell phone. “You two!” Verrick called, making them jump. “Stop pulling your puds and get in here! I’ve got a couple of plug uglies from the Irish mob coming up here! Call Three in here—he can watch the door.”
“Sure, boss, we were just—”
Verrick left the door and went to make himself a drink at the little glass bar across from his desk. The Graywaters came in, a young, blond, tanned mercenary and an Arab who used to work for a Saudi prince. They had their Mack 10s on straps over their shoulders.
“You two, leave the door ajar, get over here, stand on either side of the bar. Keep your weapons in your hands, safeties off, but keep them pointed at the floor. Unless you see someone jerk a gun on us.”
The mercs exchanged glances then went into position.
Verrick mixed a brandy Alexander and when he’d just tasted it, someone knocked on frame of the door.
“Yeah it’s open, come in!” Verrick called.
Niall Quinn came in, followed by a beefy red faced man with red hair. Quinn had long wavy black hair, neatly clipped formed by some high priced barber, clipped just over his shoulders. He had thick black eyebrows, and freckles against pale skin. His lips were red, smirking; his eyes bright blue. He wore a long black double breasted coat, open now, to show a fine dove colored vest—and a gun in a holster, gun butt across his belly. He wore thin, gray leather gloves. His bodyguard closed the door behind them.
“So there he is, Roger Verrick,” said Niall Quinn. “Big shot at Blume, huh? I’m guessing anyhow you’re the one in the monogrammed bathrobe.” There was something mocking in the way Quinn said virtually everything. A barely disguised contempt.
“Good to meet you at last, Quinn,” Verrick said smoothly. “How about a drink? What’ll you take?”
“I look like I’m going to drink anything but Irish whiskey? I’m old school, Verrick.”
“Bushmills?”
“Sure, onna rocks.”
Verrick made the drink. His bodyguard, keeping a close eye on Verrick’s men, came over to get the drink. Verrick handed it to the bodyguard, and he took it to Quinn.
“Thanks, Colin,” Quinn said. He looked around. “You know, Verrick, been a while now since we had a deal. Your man Tranter came to me. Said you wanted some kind of help here and there around town. He’d pay. I said I wanted something else. Needed someone not connected with me to take out that son of a bitch Pearce. I just make it a policy—anytime I can get some asshole clocked out without my name attached, I do it. Degrees of separation and all that, you know?”
“Sure,” Verrick said. He noticed that Quinn hadn’t taken off his gloves or coat. That meant he wasn’t planning to stay long. Which could mean a couple of different things. One of them had to do with overseeing a hit.
Verrick glanced at the Arab, the brighter of his two guards, and raised his eyebrows. The man caught the look and nodded slightly. Understanding that Verrick wanted him to stay alert.
Quinn sipped his drink, made one of those grunting ah sounds that people made over liquor sometimes, and went on, “So Tranter says he can take care of it. With your approval. You’ll pay the guy. Bing bang boom. But there’s no boom. I mean—you know—there’s a bang. But no boom. The dumb son of a bitch missed his target.”
“Stan Grampus was the son of a bitch in question. Yes. Close but no cigar.”
“And word is, Grampus is dead. Probable killer? Aiden Pearce! The same cocksucker Grampus was supposed to off! And who’s Aiden Pearce—he’s the guy who killed my father. I repeat—my father, Verrick!”
“Right. Understood.”
“Way I see it, Verrick, you either owe me some money—and some vig on top of that—or you owe me a clean-up. I want Pearce killed. Soon. Because we laundered a big fat pile of money for you—two piles, really, brought in two lots, piping hot from Somalia—and we gave you a lot of accommodation. We sent some of our Chunkies over there to help you out, on the South Side. What happened? Dead Chunkies, wasted personnel I can no longer use.”
“Not our fault if your men were not efficient.”
Quinn stared at him—then a red light seemed to shine in his blue eyes. He threw his glass at the wall to his left, where it shattered.
The two Graywaters stepped up, raising their guns.
“Hold your fire,” Verrick said.
“So my men were inefficient? You man was inefficient. Aiden Pearce is still alive!” He pointed a finger at Verrick. “And I haven’t heard a fucking word about you making this right!”
Verrick glanced at the brown splash on his wall. “You know, that was pretty rude.”
“You want to see rude?”
“One step forward, men,” Verrick said.
His mercenaries both took a step toward Quinn.
Quinn looked at the men, first one and then the other. “Look at that, Colin! See that military style these guys got? That’s Verrick’s military background! He was a major! And now he’s an important man at Blume! And he thinks he can threaten me!”