"Nice to know they"re watching," said Carla bitterly.
"Yeah." He closed his eyes.
She touched his arm. "Chris."
"Alright." He nodded. Opened his eyes. "Alright. I"ll talk to them."
200FILE#3:.
FOREIGN AIDTWENTY-FIVE.
Two weeks.
For Chris, marooned on the fringes of the preparations, it pa.s.sed like a waking dream. He lived a distorted copy of his real life, tinged in equal portions by nightmarish tension and an odd, unlooked-for romantic nostalgia.
Work was as he"d expected. He acted normal and watched his back.
Troop movements in a.s.sam, hostage-taking in Parana, and in Cambodia a handful of executions no one had foreseen. He handled it all with eerie calm.
At home, he dared not talk openly to Carla so they took up a bizarre dual existence, life in the house as if nothing had changed, set against hushed exchanges s.n.a.t.c.hed in the secure confines of the Saab. Carla, somehow, had persuaded Erik and Kirsti to act together as the link with the ombudsmen, and she went regularly to the Brundtland to gather details from her father. Some kind of code was in use over Erik"s netlink, a fake reconciliation underway between the parents to serve as cover for the information Chris and Carla agreed in their hasty conferences in the car.
And here came the nostalgia, the bittersweet taste of something almost used up. The moments grabbed in the Saab had the tang of illicit s.e.xual encounters, and once or twice even ended that way. And the rest of the time, acting out normality for any possible listeners, they treated each other with an abnormal tenderness and consideration. In both aspects of their new existence, they were getting on better than they had in months.
It was weird.
Two weeks, and the ombudsman came.
He disliked Truls Vasvik on sight.
Partly, it was the Norwegian thing - the same irritating aura of easy outdoor competence that he"d noticed in most of Carla"s friends on the few occasions they"d been up to Troms6 together. But more than that, it was the clothes. Here was a trained professional who, Carla claimed, earned at least the same as he did, and Chris could have bought the man"s entire outfit for less than he usually spent on a haircut. The grey 203wool of the jersey was stretched and pilled, the nondescript trousers were bagged in the knees and the walking boots had shaped themselves to Vasvik"s feet with constant use. The coat looked as if he"d slept in it.
It only needed the carelessly-tied-back greying hair to complete the image of a teen antiglobalist who"d never grown up.
f4/hich is exactly what he is.
"Thanks for coming," he said guardedly.
Vasvik shrugged. "I should thank you. You are taking a far greater risk than I."
"Really?" Chris tried to ignore the jolt Vasvik"s comment delivered to his stomach. The set-up had left him jangled and twitchy. A shrill part of him wondered if the ombudsman was trying to psych him out. "I would have thought we"d both be arrested pretty f.u.c.king rapidly."
"Yes, we would. But your government would be forced to release me intact. That much power we still have. The police might work me over a little while they have me, but it"s unlikely to be worse than some other close encounters I"ve had."
"Hard man, huh?"
Another shrug. Vasvik looked around the workshop and spotted an ancient steel bar stool shoved against one wall. He went to fetch it.
Chris mastered his irritation and waited for the Norwegian to come back. Again, he couldn"t be sure if Vasvik was doing it deliberately or not. The ombudsman"s detached calm was impenetrable.
Out in the rest of Mel"s AutoFix, tools whined and screeched. The noise raked along his nerves. It hadn"t been easy, finding a safe place to meet, and even now he wondered how far he could trust Carla"s boss.
"Well." Vasvik dragged the stool under the jacked-up Audi Mel had left on the lifter, and seated himself. "Shall we talk about extraction?"
"In a minute." Chris prowled the s.p.a.ce beneath the Audi. Extraction. The way the word hung there was another jolt in itself, like walking up to Louise Hewitt at the quarterly and asking her out loud if she wanted to f.u.c.k. "I"m still getting used to this. Maybe I still need to be convinced."
"Then we"re wasting each other"s time. I"m not here to talk you into something, Faulkner. We can live without you at UNECT."Chris stared at him. "Carla said "
"Carla Nyquist cares about you. i do not. Personally, Faulkner, I don"t give a s.h.i.t what happens to you. I think you"re sc.u.m. The ethical commerce guys would like to hear what you have, that"s why I"m here, but I"m not a salesman. I don"t have to reel you in to get my name up on some commission board somewhere, and frankly, I have a lot of better 204things to do with my time. You come in or you don"t. Your choice. But don"t waste my time."
Chris flushed.
"I"m told," he said evenly, "that UNECT recruit people, sc.u.m, like me for the ombudsmen. That"s important, because I need a job. Now. Have I been misinformed?"
"No. That"s correct."
"So we could end up colleagues."
i Vasvik looked at him coldly. "It takes all sorts."
t "Must be hard," Chris taunted. "Working alongside people that dis gust you. Putting up with such a low grade of humanity."
"It"s good preparation for undercover work. Living with the stink."
The workshop Mel had lent them had been swept for bugs an hour ago, and there was too much metalwork going on in the other shops for exterior scanning to be possible. Still, there seemed to be an audience waiting as the pause smoked off Vasvik"s words. Chris felt his fists curling.
"Do you have any idea," he said, "who the f.u.c.k you"re talking to?"
The other man"s grin was a baring of teeth, a challenge. "Why don"t you enlighten me."
"I have treated you with respect "
"You"ve got no f.u.c.king choice, Faulkner. I"m your escape hatch. You want out so bad I can smell it on you. Your shrivelled little soul has finally got tired of what you do for a living, and now you"re looking for redemption with no drop in salary. I"m your only hope."
"I doubt you earn what I"m used to.""Doubt away."
"Oh yeah? Blow it all on clothes, do you?" Chris stabbed a finger at the Norwegian. "I know your sort, Vasvik. You grew up in your cosy little Scandinavian nanny state, and when you found out the rest of the world couldn"t afford the same propped-up artificial playgroup eco nomic standards, you never got over it. Now you"re out there sulking and throwing moral tantrums because the world won"t behave the way you want it to "
Vasvik examined the palm of one hand. "Yeah, but on the other hand I didn"t watch my mother die of a curable illness and "
"Hey "
"And then go to work for the people who made it happen."
It was like a lightning strike. The slow burning anger sheeted to split second fury, and Chris was in motion. Attack raged at the edges of his control. A Shotokan punch to the temple that would have killed Vasvik, had it landed. Somehow, the ombudsman was not there. The stool staggered in the air, tumbled sideways. Vasvik was a whirl of black coat 205and reaching hands, off to one side. Chris felt his wrist brushed, turned in some subtle way, and then he was hurled across the workshop on the i wings of his own momentum. I He crashed into the bench, hands trying to brace. A sound behind .I him and something hooked his legs out from under him at the ankles.
His face smashed the bench surface among scattering drill bits and bolts. Something sharp gouged his cheek in pa.s.sing. He felt Vasvik"s weight on him and tried to kick. The Norwegian locked his arm up to the nape of his neck, grabbed his head by the hair and rammed it back down on the bench sideways.
"Mistake," he gritted in Chris"s ear. "Now, you going to behave, or am I going to break your f.u.c.king arm?"
Chris heaved up once against the weight, but it was useless. He slumped. Vasvik let go suddenly and was gone. Somewhere behind him, Chris heard the ombudsman picking up the stool. When he got himself upright and turned, Vasvik was seated again. There was a faint beading of sweat across the pale forehead, but otherwise the fight might never have happened.
"My mistake," he said quietly, not looking at Chris. "I shouldn"t have let you get to me like that. In a Cambodian enterprise zone, that kind of giveaway"d get me a bullet in the back of the head."
Chris stood there, blinking tears. Vasvik sighed heavily. His voice was dull and weary.
"As an operational ombudsman, you"ll earn approximately a hundred and eighty thousand euros a year, adjusted. That includes a hazardous duties bonus, which you can reckon on getting for about sixty per cent of the work you do. Undercover a.s.signments, swoop raids, witness protection. The rest of the time they keep you on backroom stuff.
Admin and forward planning. That"s so you don"t burn out." Another deep breath. "Housing and schools for your kids are free, accommodation and expenses while on a.s.signment, you claim. I"m sorry for that crack about your mother. You didn"t deserve that."
Chris coughed a laugh. "Told you I made more than you."
"Yeah, well f.u.c.k you then." Vasvik"s voice never lifted from the tired monotone. His gaze never shifted from the corner of the work shop."Do you like it?" Chris asked him finally.
The ombudsman looked at him. "It matters," he said, pausing on each word as if English were suddenly difficult for him. "You"re doing something that matters. I don"t expect you to understand that. It sounds like a bad joke, just saying it. But it means something."
They faced each other for a while. Then Chris reached into his jacket and pulled out a plastic sheathed disc.
206.
J."This is a breakdown of the accounts I service for Shorn. There"s nothing here you can use, but anyone who knows the ground will be able to work out what I know. Take it back and ask them if I"m worth extracting. I want the package you just talked about, plus a million dollar or -euro equivalent payout on extraction."
He saw the look on Vasvik"s face. He heard his own voice harden.
"It"s not negotiable. I"m losing heavily if I pull out now. I"m plugged in here. Comfortable. Stock options, executive benefits. The house.
Industry rep, client connections. All of that"s worth something to me.
You want me, you"ve got to make it worth my while."
He tossed the disc across. Vasvik caught it and examined it curiously.
He looked back up at Chris.
"And if we don"t want you that badly?"
Chris shrugged. "Then I"ll stay here."
"Yeah? You sure you"ve still got the stomach for that?"
"I"m not like you, Vasvik." Chris wiped at the gouge in his cheek and his fingers came away specked with blood. "I"ve got the stomach for whatever they can feed me."
Vasvik left in the back of a covered truck, supplied by Mel and on its way to Paris for Renault parts. Jess drove, no shotgun rider along.
UNECT operatives would vanish the ombudsman at the other end.
No questions. Carla had sold the whole thing to Mel as wrangling over preferential supply contracts, a new covert bid from Volvo coming in to upset the BMW status quo at Shorn. Both Mel and Jess hated BMWs with a deep and abiding pa.s.sion, and as far as they were concerned anything that might reduce the number of them on the streets of London just had to be a good thing, dear, just had to be.
Carla came in a couple of minutes later, a welding mask still pushed up on her head. Chris was trying to a.s.sess the damage to his face in a propped-up fragment of mirror he"d found on the floor.
"What did you say to him?" she asked angrily.
Chris pressed at his cheek, peering at the gouge in the mirror shard.
"I told him our terms. And I gave him the disc. Went like swimming."
"You had a fight, didn"t you."
"We had a minor disagreement." He gave upon the mirror and turned to face her. "I said some things I shouldn"t have. Then he said something he really shouldn"t have. Took a while to straighten out."
"He"s trying to help you, Chris."
"No." He couldn"t keep the snap out of his voice. "He"s looking for benefits, Carla. Just like every other f.u.c.ker in this world. Quid pro f.u.c.king quo."
207She stared at him, wordless for a moment, then turned away and walked out of the workshop.
He let her go.
208TWENTY-SIX.
It rained hard most of the next week, and the roads turned treacherous.
As usual, patchwork repairs hadn"t stood up to the summer weather, and the various service providers were still squabbling about whose responsibility it was to put it right. Chris drove the Saab at careful velocities, getting in to Shorn later than usual and doing a lot of his phone work from the car. The datadown ran remote scrambling and patched through flagged callers on automatic.
Back to work. Back to the pretence.
It was easier now he was committed. Two weeks of jittering uncertainty, of not knowing if they"d get away with it, knowing even less what would come of the meeting - now it all gave way to solid data.
He knew they wanted him now, knew at a level he could trust more than Carla"s wishful thinking a.s.surances and his own mixed feelings.
Now it was just a matter of waiting to see if they could afford him. A no-lose situation. They could afford him, he went. They couldn"t afford him, he stayed. Either way, he had work, he had guarantees.
He had income.
A small part of him knew that he would lose Carla if he stayed, but somehow he couldn"t make that matter as much as he knew it should.
Back to work.
Wednesday morning, turning onto the Elsenham ramp, he heard from Lopez. Confirmation of Vicente Barranco"s arrival date.
"It"s good," said the Americas agent through the crackle of the scrambler and a bad satellite link. "The way I figure it, you"ve got North Memorial on. You could show him round, maybe buy him a few a.s.sault rifles."
"Yeah, that"s. f.u.c.k." His foot came off the accelerator as the realisa tion hit. He nearly braked.
"Chris?" Lopez sounded concerned. "You still there?"
He sighed. The car picked up speed again, down the ramp. "Yeah, I"m still here. I don"t suppose there"s any way you can set thit date back about a week?"
"A week? Jesus, Chris, you said as soon as possible. You said you"d move things around to "