The Peripheral

48

Lev’s entranceway was cluttered with parenting equipment. Miniature Wellingtons, coatrack clumped with bright rainwear, a push-bike reminding Netherton of the patchers, things to hit balls with, many balls themselves. A few stray bits of Lego edged fitfully about among lower strata, like bright rectilinear beetles.

Netherton and Ossian sat on a wooden bench, facing these things. The end nearest him was smeared with what he assumed was partially dried jam. Anton’s sparring partner was expected momentarily, from Richmond Hill. Ossian had rejected his suggestion that they wait outside.

“Had the nannies shitting themselves, that did,” Ossian said now, apparently apropos of nothing.

“What did?”

“Your buggy, there.” Indicating, Netherton at first thought, the burdened coatrack. “Against the wall.” He pointed. “Cloaked.”

Netherton now made out the outline of a folded pushchair, currently emulating what happened to be nearest, in this case grubbily off-white wall and the brown tartan lining of a weathered jacket.

“The grandfather had it sent from Moscow,” Ossian said, “when the girl was born. Diplomatic bag. Only way to get it in.”

“Why was that?”

“Has a weapons system. Pair of guns. Nothing ballistic, though. Projects very short-term assemblers. Disassemblers, really. Go after soft tissue. Take it apart at a molecular level. Seen footage of doing that to a side of beef.”

“What happens?”

“Bones. It’s autonomous, self-targeting, makes its own call of threat levels.”

“Who would pose the threat?”

“Your Russian kidnappers,” said Ossian.

“It does that with a baby aboard?”

“Being shown pandas against the trauma, by then. Headed home, nannies or no, in armed evasion mode.”

Netherton considered the faintly visible, harmless-looking thing.

“Zubov’s missus wouldn’t have it. Never gotten on with the grandfather. Sided with the nannies.”

“How long have you worked here, Ossian?”

Ossian regarded him narrowly. “Five years, near enough.”

“What did you do previously?”

“Much the same. Near enough.”

“Did you train for it?”

“I did,” Ossian said.

“How?”

“Misspending my youth. How did you train to stand up smart and lie to anyone?”

Netherton looked at him. “Like you. Near enough.”

A shadow darkened one sidelight. Chimes sounded.

“That would be itself,” said Ossian, standing, tugging down his dark waistcoat. He turned to the door, squared his shoulders, and opened it.

“Good evening.” Tall, broad-shouldered, in a dark gray suit. “Pleased to see you, Ossian. You may not remember me. Pavel.”

“Quick about it,” ordered Ossian, stepping back.

The peripheral entered, Ossian closing the door behind it. “Pavel,” it said to Netherton. Pronounced jawline, strong facial bones, eyes pale and somehow mocking.

“Wilf Netherton.” Offering his hand. They shook hands, the peripheral’s grip warm, careful.

“The garage,” said Ossian.

“Of course,” said Pavel, and strolled ahead of them, toward the elevator, entirely at home.