The Curve of The Earth by Simon Morden Page A

wonder how many NSA agents are going to be on our tail this time.”
    “I’ve already complained to the State Department, for all the good that’ll do. You don’t honestly think they trust the FBI to control you, do you?”
    “It would just be brilliant if they left me alone like they said they would.” Petrovitch nodded in Newcomen’s direction. “I’ve got an escort…”
    “Who you drugged and boobytrapped,” interrupted Marcus.
    “… who, I was going to say, should be enough. It’s now more in my interest to keep him with me than bury him in the nearest snowdrift. They should be thanking me.” He levered himself upright, scooped up the bag and advanced on Newcomen. “Come on then, G-man. You’ve got a date with a real live woman, which in itself is an accomplishment of sorts. Let’s get you there on time and looking vaguely presentable.”
    Newcomen looked up from his reading, trying to match the skinny, scruffy blond man carrying the alarmingly heavy bag with the monster of legend.
    “Did you do all this?” He nodded at the screen. Petrovitch snorted. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
    “Then why did you get me to read it?”
    “Because some of it is true.”
    Newcomen tossed the reader into the chair opposite him, and stood up, straightening his jacket. “Which bits, then?”
    “You don’t honestly think I’d waste a second with that
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, I was there at the time: I know what went on.” Petrovitch retrieved the reader and rolled it up into a tube. He pushed it into Newcomen’s top pocket. “And in some respects, it’s not what happened that’s important. Not ten years on andan ocean away. It’s why a tabloid journalist should spend six months of their lives digging through all the old news reports and web pages to write a book that’s only partly right. Figure it out. But later: we need to go.”
    He led the way back out to the library foyer, and Newcomen was reunited with his luggage.
    “Is it clean?”
    “Yeah, it’s clean. Even that old satellite phone you’ve been lugging around with you.”
    “You… know about the phone?”
    “You were unconscious and I only had my hands in your chest for a little while. I thought I’d have a poke around and make sure that you weren’t carrying any contraband.” Petrovitch shrugged. “It’s not like the locks were difficult to crack. I had to assume the ones who sent you wanted me to look inside.”
    “I’ve been…”
    “Talking to Buchannan on it. I know. Good work on not telling him about the bomb, by the way. Because if you had, you’d be dead by now.”
    “And…” Newcomen was aghast.
    “Christine. Likewise. Though you employed so much corn on your last conversation I thought I was going to have to break it up by puking all over you.” Petrovitch put his hand out to the door lock, and the bolts pulled back with a clunk.
    “My private conversations.”
    “Yeah. I warned you when you first woke up: everything you say, everything you do, I get to find out about. You had no reason to assume your box of tricks was immune from that. Not that it’ll be a problem any more, because both your tie and your sat phone are slag.”
    Petrovitch heaved the door aside. There was another taxiwaiting on the kerbside, the driver just emerging into the cold New York air. No Artak this time – he was away over in Brooklyn on another fare – it was just another guy with a car and a meter, looking to make a few bucks carrying a couple of out-of-towners down the New Jersey Turnpike.
    When he saw the two men with their bags, he moved to open his trunk. Only the tall guy wanted his squared away, though. The foreigner shook his head with such steady conviction that he felt compelled to back away and get into his cab as quickly as he could.
    “What you got in there anyway?” the driver asked conversationally once they were on the road.
    “It’s a, uh, diplomatic thing,” said Newcomen. “Best not go