landing?”
“Sir.” It was Point B. “There was a book. On the stairs.”
“Bitchin’. Okay, get little Miss Lethal here loaded and ready to move. Bravo, start the cleanup. I want her personal files, wherever she keeps them. And her computer, and all the disks. Whoever the hell was with her this evening, I want to know who they are too. And everything else. Charlie, pack her bags like she’s going on vacation—a long vacation. Clothing, bathroom stuff. Don’t make a mess of it. I want to be ready to evacuate in twenty minutes.”
“Sir. Yes, sir.” Control nodded. Point B was going to pull a shitwork detail when they got home, but you didn’t discipline people in the field unless they’d fucked up bad enough to pull a nine-millimetre discharge. And Point B hadn’t. A month cleaning the latrines would give him time to think on how close he’d come to getting plugged by a sleepy woman with a thirty-eight revolver.
Spec A was nearly done; he and Spec B grunted as they lifted the coffin-shaped framework off the bed. Miriam was unconscious and trussed like a turkey inside it. “Is she going to be okay?” Control asked idly.
“I think so,” said Spec A. “Bad bruising on her right arm, and probably concussed, but I don’t expect anything major. Worst risk is she pukes in her sleep and chokes on her own vomit, and we can deal with that.” He spoke confidently. He’d done paramedic training and Van Two was equipped like an ambulance.
“Then take her away. We’ll be along in half an hour when we’re through sanitizing.”
“Yeah, boss. We’ll get her home.”
Control looked at the dressing table, strewn with underwear, month-old magazines, and half-used toiletries. His expression turned to disgust at the thought of searching through piles of dirty clothing. “Sky father, what a mess.”
* * *
There was an office not far from Miriam’s cell. The office was quiet, and its dark oak panelling and rich Persian carpets gave it something of the ambiance of a very exclusive Victorian gentleman’s club. A wide walnut desk occupied the floor next to the window bay. The top of the desk was inlaid with a Moroccan leather blotter, upon which lay a banker’s box full of papers and other evidence.
The occupant of the office sat at the desk, reading the mess of photocopies and memos from the file box. He was in his early fifties, thickset with the stomach of middle age, but tall enough to carry it well. His suit was conservative: He might have been a retired general or a corporate chairman. Neither guess would be wrong, but neither would be the full truth, either. Right now he looked as if he had a headache; his expression was sour as he read a yellowing newspaper clipping. “What a mess,” he murmured. “What a blessed mess…”
A buzzer sounded above the left-hand door.
The officeholder glanced at the door with wintry gray eyes. “Enter,” he called sharply. Then he looked back at the papers.
Footsteps, the sound of male dress shoes—leather-soled—on parquet, were abruptly silenced as the visitor reached the carpeted inner sanctum.
“You summoned me, uncle? Is there any movement on my proposal? If anyone wants me to—”
Angbard Lofstrom looked up again and fixed his nephew with a long icy stare. His nephew shuffled, discomfited: a tall, blond fellow whose suit would not have been out of place in an advertising agency’s offices. “Patience,” he said in English.
“But I—”
“I said patience .” Angbard laid the newspaper clipping flat on his blotter and stared at his nephew. “This is not the time to discuss your proposal. About which there is no news, by the way. Don’t expect anything to happen soon; you need to learn timing if you want to make progress, and the changes you are suggesting we make are politically difficult.”
“How much longer?” The young man sounded tense.
“As long as I deem necessary.” Angbard’s stare hardened. “Remember why you are
“Sir.” It was Point B. “There was a book. On the stairs.”
“Bitchin’. Okay, get little Miss Lethal here loaded and ready to move. Bravo, start the cleanup. I want her personal files, wherever she keeps them. And her computer, and all the disks. Whoever the hell was with her this evening, I want to know who they are too. And everything else. Charlie, pack her bags like she’s going on vacation—a long vacation. Clothing, bathroom stuff. Don’t make a mess of it. I want to be ready to evacuate in twenty minutes.”
“Sir. Yes, sir.” Control nodded. Point B was going to pull a shitwork detail when they got home, but you didn’t discipline people in the field unless they’d fucked up bad enough to pull a nine-millimetre discharge. And Point B hadn’t. A month cleaning the latrines would give him time to think on how close he’d come to getting plugged by a sleepy woman with a thirty-eight revolver.
Spec A was nearly done; he and Spec B grunted as they lifted the coffin-shaped framework off the bed. Miriam was unconscious and trussed like a turkey inside it. “Is she going to be okay?” Control asked idly.
“I think so,” said Spec A. “Bad bruising on her right arm, and probably concussed, but I don’t expect anything major. Worst risk is she pukes in her sleep and chokes on her own vomit, and we can deal with that.” He spoke confidently. He’d done paramedic training and Van Two was equipped like an ambulance.
“Then take her away. We’ll be along in half an hour when we’re through sanitizing.”
“Yeah, boss. We’ll get her home.”
Control looked at the dressing table, strewn with underwear, month-old magazines, and half-used toiletries. His expression turned to disgust at the thought of searching through piles of dirty clothing. “Sky father, what a mess.”
* * *
There was an office not far from Miriam’s cell. The office was quiet, and its dark oak panelling and rich Persian carpets gave it something of the ambiance of a very exclusive Victorian gentleman’s club. A wide walnut desk occupied the floor next to the window bay. The top of the desk was inlaid with a Moroccan leather blotter, upon which lay a banker’s box full of papers and other evidence.
The occupant of the office sat at the desk, reading the mess of photocopies and memos from the file box. He was in his early fifties, thickset with the stomach of middle age, but tall enough to carry it well. His suit was conservative: He might have been a retired general or a corporate chairman. Neither guess would be wrong, but neither would be the full truth, either. Right now he looked as if he had a headache; his expression was sour as he read a yellowing newspaper clipping. “What a mess,” he murmured. “What a blessed mess…”
A buzzer sounded above the left-hand door.
The officeholder glanced at the door with wintry gray eyes. “Enter,” he called sharply. Then he looked back at the papers.
Footsteps, the sound of male dress shoes—leather-soled—on parquet, were abruptly silenced as the visitor reached the carpeted inner sanctum.
“You summoned me, uncle? Is there any movement on my proposal? If anyone wants me to—”
Angbard Lofstrom looked up again and fixed his nephew with a long icy stare. His nephew shuffled, discomfited: a tall, blond fellow whose suit would not have been out of place in an advertising agency’s offices. “Patience,” he said in English.
“But I—”
“I said patience .” Angbard laid the newspaper clipping flat on his blotter and stared at his nephew. “This is not the time to discuss your proposal. About which there is no news, by the way. Don’t expect anything to happen soon; you need to learn timing if you want to make progress, and the changes you are suggesting we make are politically difficult.”
“How much longer?” The young man sounded tense.
“As long as I deem necessary.” Angbard’s stare hardened. “Remember why you are
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