The Curve of The Earth

14

“Come on, G-man,” said Petrovitch, kicking the bed. “It’s time to get up.”

Newcomen groaned and put the pillow over his head. “Yeah, yeah. Even on a good day I could drink half a bottle of vodka before breakfast. A few glasses of fizzy French wine shouldn’t give you a headache.”

“What time is it?”

“Oh six hundred. What does the oh stand for?”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Newcomen.

Petrovitch peeled the pillow away and bellowed: “Oh my God, it’s early! Now, up. We’ve got a full day ahead of us, and another flight to catch.”

There was a thump as Newcomen fell out on to the floor. After a moment of lying as stranded as a beached whale, he started to crawl towards the bathroom.

“No pyjamas, then.”

“No.” Newcomen’s legs disappeared into the bathroom. The door closed and the shower started up.

“I’ll be back in five minutes.” Petrovitch stepped back out into the hallway in time to see his own room door click: the green light on the lock was just winking off. He flipped his key card into his fingers and ran it through the reader. The light came on again, and the bolt whirred free.

He felt a surge from his heart as it responded to the chemicals in his blood. He checked his power levels, which were good enough, and twisted the handle.

The man inside was already pushing past him, trying to surprise him with his speed and agility. Petrovitch slammed him with his shoulder against the unyielding wall, lifted him off the floor by his right armpit, then pitched him across the full length of the bedroom.

The intruder hit the window with his back. His head cracked hard against the glass, adding a separate star to the blossoming spiderweb of cracks. The pane held — just — and he bounced on to the floor face first.

Three strides, and Petrovitch was on him again, grabbing the material of his jacket at his neck. He threw him again, and the man hit the wall upside down, denting it with his heels. Where his head had hit, there was a smear of blood.

He fell between the bed and the bathroom. Petrovitch took a second to scan the room: his carpet bag was on the floor next to the now-crazed window. He’d left it locked and it still was, but the outer material was now slashed. The inner flexible metal mesh seemed to have held. A sharp-bladed scalpel had been kicked half under the bed base.

“Mudak,” said Petrovitch. He was about to step around the bed to drag the unconscious man upright when he noticed the first of three laser dots dancing on his chest.

He looked down, then up at the three hooded figures crowded in the doorway, guns trained unerringly on him.

“You’ve heard of the Vienna Convention, right? What makes you think it doesn’t apply to you?” He bent down slowly and lifted up his damaged bag. “I know you don’t care, but I’m filing these images with the news wires as I speak. Upload, download, ready for anyone to use. US government interfering with diplomatic bags. Diplomat held at gunpoint. Breaking and entering. It’s all good stuff.”

One of them lowered his gun and started to edge in.

“Where are you going?”

The masked man didn’t say anything. Perhaps he thought his voiceprint could be taken down and used to identify him, and he’d be right. Instead, he pointed at his fallen colleague.

“No. He’s going to be arrested, processed and charged by the FBI officer in the room opposite, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it, suki.”

They disagreed, and kept on edging forward. Petrovitch calmly unlocked his bag and pulled out a fist-sized sphere. It had a safety guard over its trigger, which he flipped out of the way with his thumb.

The men froze. Petrovitch smiled.

“Yeah, you know what this is, don’t you? You’ve got them yourselves by the planeload, ready to level whole cities at a moment’s notice. Still, it’s not comfortable being in the same room as one, is it? Especially when it’s held by the guy who invented it.” Petrovitch dropped the bag and held up the sphere. It was very black. “How many storeys are we up right now? Reckon they’d find much of you by the time you’re compressed to a point and dropped a hundred metres to the ground in amongst the debris?”

One of the men started to sight down his arm.

“Think you can kill me before I press this button? I don’t. My reaction speed is simply faster than yours. You don’t even know where to aim.” He tapped his chest. “Kevlar under the skin.”

There was a commotion behind them, and Newcomen found himself with the barrel of an automatic pistol jammed under his chin. He was only wearing a towel, and as his hands came up, the knot loosened.

“Yeah, you’re now holding a gun to the head of a naked federal agent. That makes everything better.”

Newcomen reached up and pushed the gun away, then retrieved his towel. “What’s going on?”

“We’re having our very own Watergate. You know about Watergate, right? Just in case that fell into one of the massive black holes that litter your education.”

“I know it.” Newcomen tried to muster as much dignity as he could. “Gentlemen, you’re going to have to leave now. This man is a guest of the United States government. I don’t know who it is you’re working for, and I’d rather not find out. If you go, then we can say the matter’s ended.”

“Not that simple, Newcomen. They’ve got a man down, and I don’t want them to take him with them.”

“Petrovitch. Let them have him. He won’t do you any good at all.”

“I’m not planning on barbecuing him. I’m planning on you throwing the book at him. That’s how it works, right? Due process, Miranda, all that jazz?”

“If these people are who we think they are, that’s not going to happen. Ever.”

“Why not? They’re above the law? How the huy did that happen? You’ve got a constitution, and I don’t remember seeing any amendments that said the Man can do what he wants and the citizens have to suck it up like a shlyuha vokzal’naja.”

“Petrovitch, shut the hell up and let them all go. I’m wearing a towel and someone from the Secret Service has a gun pointing at my junk. You might have won last night, but you’re not going to win this, so just give it up.”

Petrovitch considered matters. “Yeah, okay. Take him and go.” He took his thumb off the red button, and the two men targeting him lowered their guns. When they’d holstered them, he clicked the safety guard back down.

The closest one helped drag the still form from the room, and finally the door closed, with Newcomen on the right side of it.

“You said a rude word,” said Petrovitch. He tossed the bomb back into his bag and resealed the lock. “Twenty bucks in the honesty box.”

“You could have got yourself killed, you, you idiot.”

“I’m not the one with their blood halfway up the wall. Or,” he said, turning, “smeared on what’s left of the window. No, I’m fine. Getting that out of the wallpaper’s going to be tough, though.”

Newcomen clenched his fists to disguise the fact he was shaking like a leaf. “You cannot die.”

“I have no intention of dying, either now or at all. That it might come anyway is an occupational hazard I have to put up with. You’re angry and you’re scared, and so you should be. But this is what it means, Newcomen. This — all this govno — this is what Reconstruction does to those who don’t fit inside its comfortable little shell. And it’s always been like this. I could tell you a thousand stories about ordinary people who’ve been crushed by your holy juggernaut: the only thing that’s different is that it’s happening to you now. You pledged to uphold this system. Regretting it yet?”

“How? How can you live like this?”

“I could say the same to you. I live like this because people like you let people like them get away with stuff like that. Someone has to stand up, give them the finger and tell them no fucking way.” He flashed a grin, on and off. “Remind me to tell you about Lebanon when we have a spare moment.”

Petrovitch looked around the room again. There was nothing he needed to come back for. Newcomen was resting his head against the wall, eyes closed. His world was disintegrating around him just at the moment when it held the most promise.

“I can’t do this.”

“I’m sorry. You don’t have a choice. Or you do,” amended Petrovitch, “but you won’t take it.”

He almost felt sorry for him. There was Lucy to think about, though, and his reservoir of compassion was never particularly full at the best of times. And the circumstances weren’t exactly ideal right now.

“Shit,” said Newcomen.

“Forty bucks.” Petrovitch jerked his head towards the next room. “They’re still listening. I wonder what would happen if we walked in next door? Would they fight us? Or would they watch while we trashed their equipment? Why are they even there? Who authorised this level of surveillance? What do they hope to get from it?” He scratched at the bridge of his nose. The scar there felt hard and strange today, and he remembered how it felt for the knife to cut him open and ruin his eyes.

Newcomen’s shoulders sagged. “I should get dressed.”

“Yeah. Trust me, the only one who should get to see your junk, as you so quaintly put it, is Christine.”

There was silence between them: nothing to stop the sound of the traffic below, the hum of the aircon, the distant rumble of jets powering up.

“It’s going to be okay, Newcomen.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because you can trust me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Good point, well made.” Petrovitch shrugged. “My daughter’s still missing, and this isn’t finding her. I reckon we can make it back to your room without getting rolled. Go.”

He was right, and while Newcomen put his clothes on, Petrovitch stared out of the window at central Seattle. They were in the area hit by the 2012 tsunami, and all the buildings were less than twenty years old, supposedly built with new technology to resist earthquakes, save power, use natural light as much as possible. He didn’t rate them.

“Did Edward Logan cheat on his taxes?”

“I have absolutely no idea at all,” said Petrovitch. The traffic was building up on University Street, far too early. It was still dark, and the Sun wouldn’t be up for another three quarters of an hour. “I thought it was highly likely, given a quick perusal of his public filings over time and trying to match them to his holdings. So I just went for it.”

“You bluffed him?”

“He could have defended himself. He could have denied it. He did neither. I have such a bad-ass hacker rep. Go me. Yay.” Petrovitch could see Newcomen’s reflection in the glass. It was safe to turn around. “Maybe I will take him down after all.”

Newcomen was half in his jacket. “Don’t.”

“Even though you know you’re never going to marry Christine?”

“Especially because of that.”

“How did it go last night? Everything okay?”

Newcomen sat on the edge of the bed to lace his shoes. “We had a good time — no, an excellent time. I’ll remember yesterday for the rest of my life, however long that might be. I was gallant to the end. And you? You were good. Moral, even.” He looked over his shoulder at Petrovitch, and held his gaze.

“Except I’m a complete bastard really, aren’t I?”

The other man nodded sadly.

“When you flew to the Metrozone, did you care about what had happened to Lucy? Did you care about finding her?”

“No. All I cared about was the idea I’d been chosen for something special. That it would impress Christine. That it would impress her father. That my career was taking off, higher clearance, more money, me telling people what to do rather than the other way round. I didn’t care about Lucy at all. I thought you were a stupid, careless parent for letting her go, and she was as good as dead, so why bother?” Newcomen went back to his lacing. “So I imagine I’m just as big a bastard as you are.”

“Sixty bucks,” murmured Petrovitch. “Does stack up, doesn’t it?”

Newcomen stood up and started to throw things into his open case. After a while, he slowed down, and eventually stopped.

“I’m not going to need any of this, am I? Not where we’re going.”

“No, not really. I’ve ordered a whole stack of cold-weather gear that’ll be waiting for us when we go north. Stuff that genuinely works, not the tourist kit.” Petrovitch stood up and looked into Newcomen’s case with him. “You never really needed much of it anyway. A toothbrush. That’s about it, really.”

“I could just leave it here. Someone will make good use of it.” Newcomen reached in and pulled out the hefty brick that was the sat phone. “Should really return this, though.”

“Doesn’t work any more. Nuked that, too.”

Newcomen threw it back in on top of his clothes and dropped the lid.

“Your office is what, a couple of blocks away? Why don’t we go and have a talk with your Assistant Director while we’re here?” Petrovitch turned from the window. “I do need breakfast first, though. Mrs Logan made me an omelette, which she didn’t need to, but that wasn’t really enough to keep the wolf from the door.”

Newcomen grabbed the free pen and scribbled on the top sheet of the pad of paper that was next to it.

Help yourself, he wrote, and laid the note on top of his case. He stared at it, the little square of white against the grey of the plastic.

“Is this what it comes down to?” He chewed at his lip.

“Yeah. Pretty much.” Petrovitch jammed his hands in his pockets. “Welcome to my world.”