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DESCRIPTION:

Dante's Fool { novel } London, the near future, a courier who's just descended from orbit is intercepted by armed-robbers on a busy motorway. The robbers get away with the package but it's not what they expected and leads to an enigmatic deep-space mining corporation hunting them down, with brutal consequences. Also tracking them down is a hard-nosed Detective Sergeant from the Metropolitan Serious Crimes Division. What happens next is a journey through a personal Hell, as the Detective discovers there are forces out there that will do anything to see him fail, and entities that exist beyond the ordinary planes of mundane reality. David J Rodger's trademark unforgiving rendering of harsh reality, and relentless narrative pace, are here in palm-sweating abundance, delivered in a novel that focuses an uncomfortable light on the demonic entities that cling to our indulgent existence – and their bonds with the nameless Outer Gods of the Cthulhu Mythos.

CUSTOMER REVIEWS:

Things are never as they seem. I'm starting to pick up your style now. When you're halfway through the book, what you are guessing as the end, is way off! When you think its done, there is more. Really hard to guess whats next even. Kept me reading until 5am!

1.

 

The courier sat with his hands folded across the briefcase resting on his lap, blue chrome with a matt finish. Considering what was contained within he was remarkably calm, but then, he had performed this errand a hundred times, albeit he had never delivered to this particular gentleman: Henry Whitington was a new client.

Two armed men in crisp dark suits sat up front; one driving, the other calmly watching for any symptom of a threat.

The courier looked at them briefly, then returned his gaze upward through the window. The sleek forms of aerodynes streaked past over-head, filling the air-lanes above London.

The car they were in was German. Long, ugly and silver, heavy with armour, the windows tinted black. It punched through the October rain at ninety kilometres per hour, steady as a rock, headlights blazing against the growing gloom of the evening.

The courier dropped his eyes and watched the surrounding high-speed traffic, metallic bodies and blurred lights.

 

 

 

Not far behind, a van pursued, unobtrusive in the milieu of ground traffic bound for the outskirts of London. The van was stolen, and behind it followed another two, almost identical, concealed by the first as they ploughed through the miserable weather. The drivers of the vans were executing the closing moves of a choreographed dance: a rapidly evolving arabesque that began two days ago.

The last component to complete this arrangement was a Bellinger Tauro: a workhorse of the aerodynes. The cockpit was centrally mounted within the squat muscular airframe, enclosed behind a thin slit of high impact plastic.

Dorgan was in the cockpit; reclined in a rubber-webbing seat, banks of hard screens showed views from various angles of the hull. She flew manually, using the stick rather than interfacing with the machine through her wrist-plugs. Her addiction of a few years ago had ravaged the delicate tissues of her nervous system and the transplants were still sensitive to any prolonged burden. Using the wrist-plugs would risk destroying everything the surgeons had worked days to repair, wasting the million-or-so dollars her father had spent to save her from being paralysed for the remainder of her life.

They were nearly there. If the information was correct the courier car would take an off-ramp in two kilometres. Dorgan focussed on the screen above her face, showing the car up ahead; she glanced at the aerodyne's velocity: at this speed she would over shoot the mark.

Disengaging the navigation computer she broke free from the stream of high-speed traffic and began applying the air brakes, bringing the aerodyne down in a steep controlled descent. In a few seconds she would be in position and her associates would begin moving the vans into an offensive formation.

Ordinarily, pilots would never be allowed to pull this manoeuvre without nav-comp assistance; Dorgan had a 'Class 3a' license, meaning she was both competent enough and legally entitled to switch off the nav-comp.

Dorgans' thoughts jumped back two days:

In a warehouse in London:

‘One courier, two armed guards and, allegedly, according to our man Hollis here, a case full of uncut rubies. This is how we play it,' said Cage, an American ex-Marine who had just finished a six-year stretch in a military prison. His brown hair hung freely around his face, which was long and set with a rigid expression of determination. Early forties, white, tall and broad-chested, Dorgan admired the way he had not allowed age to soften his muscular physique.

Hollis made no response; he fiddled with the cap of a beer bottle trying to tear it off with the edge of the trellis table. The table held a thermos full of coffee, Styrofoam cups, and a bucket of bottles. Dorgan thought Hollis was a jerk and a liability. Hollis had the information so it was his deal; Hollis wanted to be part of the job; Hollis forced them to take him: no job, no information.

Cage continued:

‘I'll be in the back of Van One, with Hollis. Hollis, you're driving. Gardiner and Bateman, you take Van Two and Van Three respectively.'

Gardiner, short, overweight, swarthy, hairy, and perpetually stained in engine grease. Bateman was his regular partner in armed robbery; short, muscular, tanned, ruggedly handsome with a week old beard blending into an ultra short hair cut. Dorgan thought Bateman had the craftiest eyes she had ever seen, they literally seemed to sparkle with some inner humour as if everything to him had the potential to be a practical joke.

Cage continued, Gardiner and Bateman listened intently:

‘Once Dorgan reaches the D-Z point all the vans fan out, accelerate hard and close off the rear and two sides of the car. That leaves only the front open. That's where they'll try and break out.'

The floor of the warehouse was grey scrubbed concrete, decades old and littered with the tiny pieces of rusted debris that had never been swept away. The place had a damp and musty smell that Dorgan did not find unpleasant.

Dorgan could picture herself there; short, thin and muscular, she was a volatile blend of Russian and Mongolian. Her full name was Natalya Dorganskya. Her olive skin was dark and healthy. The geometry of her face was shaped from the strong angular lines of her jaw, cheeks and brow. It was a face that immediately captured your attention, and yet could repel you by the ferocity of her gaze; it could seem there was enough hatred for the whole world in those dark narrow eyes. Dorgan considered herself a gypsy; a patrimonial privilege stemming from her birthplace, Vladivostok.

Hollis passed through the group carrying his beer, picking up an irritated glance from Cage as he walked in front of him.

Cage continued:

‘The vans should be heavy enough to contain the car if they're driven right, so it's down to Dorgan to close the trap. She'll be flying the Bellinger. That is one heavy piece of metal designed to be knocked around so once she's in front, there's no way they'll get out.'

‘Except through us,' said Hollis.

Cage repeated his words as a warning against failure, ‘Except through us.'

Dorgan snapped back to the present, the controls of the aerodyne clenched between her hands; the aerodyne was descending into position above the motorway.

Through the narrow slit of high impact plastic she could see the three unmarked vans less than a hundred metres further ahead, sloughing through the dense rain one behind the other, descending the off-ramp in the courier's wake. This was the point to strike: when the courier car was reduced to its lowest speed as it slowed to merge with another flow of traffic.

Dorgan flexed her fingers around the rubber grip of the stick, each knuckle firmly wrapped in transparent micro-tape, the tiny fronds of the non-slip grip prickled against her palm, moist with sweat.

The courier car passed the halfway mark down the off-ramp. Van One accelerated hard to close the gap; simultaneously Van Two and Van Three swung out to either side and bolted forward.

She eased the stick forward and fed the twin Bellinger turbines more throttle; the bulky aerodyne tipped forward and entered a quick assault dive.

Van One was being driven by Hollis; he misjudged his speed, leaving Dorgan to grimace helplessly as she watched the van brake suddenly, and too late, before smashing into the rear of the courier car. The two vehicles wrestled with each other locked in an embrace of twisted metal; their speeds dropped rapidly and caused the two flanking vans to overshoot the mark, forcing them to brake, swerve and fight to keep the formation intact.

Fucking idiot! She knew Hollis would screw things up.

Dorgan plunged the aerodyne lower. Swooping over the roof of the first van with only centimetres to spare she hit the air brakes and began pulling the nose up.

Finally, the two entangled vehicles pulled themselves apart sending pieces of metal debris bouncing and skittering across the road. The courier car accelerated, or tried to. The rear bumper of the car, crumpled by the impact, had been sawing into the tyre; with a sudden shower of sparks the tyre ripped and peeled off the rim, leaving the steel wheel to grind into the tarmac.

Blocked in by both vans at either side, with Hollis closing the rear and the aerodyne dropping down in front, the car had nowhere to go.

Everything came to a rapid, heart-hammering standstill. The horns of passing cars wailed but there were no collisions.

Dorgan breathed out hard as the aerodyne touched down, not aware until now that she had been holding it in. She released her grip on the stick but kept her fingers curled, ready to respond; she settled back into the webbing of the chair and watched the final movements unfold on the flat screens above her face.

There seemed to be a period when nothing moved, as if all this had happened but without reaction. The courier car was a solemn, impenetrable mystery, its occupants hidden behind the dark glass.

Then Cage appeared from around the rear of the first van moving swiftly toward the car, his massive frame daunting, dressed in dark overalls and a ski-mask. He was carrying a short stubby shotgun in his hands. Gardiner and Bateman had lowered their side windows and kept the car contained with 12mm Israeli hand-cannons, their ski-masked faces just visible beyond the square muzzles of the guns.

With two quick strides Cage was up onto the back and then the roof of the car. He dropped down onto his hands and knees and quickly pulled what looked like a tape measure from a pocket of the overalls. The car's armoured shell was going to prevent the two guards from shooting him off there and then.

The device housed a roll of adhesive high-explosive detonation cord. Wedging the shotgun between his calves, Cage stretched forward and slapped the protruding end of cord to the upper corner of the car's windshield. With a quick action, he drew the cord out, down, along, up and then along again, a few centimetres from each edge. It looked like grey string and gripped the glass like glue.

Cage used his arms to slide himself back across the roof on his knees, away from the windshield, and picked up the shotgun.

With a bright magnesium flash, the explosive cord shattered the windshield. Cage pulled himself forward and used the stock of the shotgun to hammer away what was left; held together by the plastic laminate, the windshield buckled with each blow and finally fell into the car in one whole section.

This was Dorgan's cue. Her free hand had already been poised, now she fingered the switch operating the aerodyne's rear spotlights, blasting the opened interior of the courier's car with blinding xenon beams.

She could clearly see the two bodyguards. Smartly dressed men with hard features. They were gripping large black automatics, but their hands were raised, protecting their eyes from the light, faces screwed up and half-turned away. The courier was hunched down behind the driver, cowering or doing something, Dorgan could not tell. She watched on:

‘Drop the weapons,' Cage commanded in a calm but very loud voice. He had his arms, head and shoulders wrapped around the empty window frame, upside down, whilst his body lay out flat along the roof. He swung the thick barrel of the shotgun between the faces of the two bodyguards.

Both bodyguards glanced at each other quickly, squinting in the dazzling light.

‘Uh-uh!' Cage warned, showing each of them the end of the barrel again, ‘Drop them. Now!'

A hysterical voice cried out from the back of the car:

‘Ne jetez pas vos armes, nom de Dieu. Ne jetez pas vos armes!'

Cage cocked his upside down head to one side, ‘You better shut the fuck up back there.' Once again his voice was loud but far from a shout. There was no loss of control. No fear. Cage had to show them this.

The courier continued, his words fast and rising in pitch, ‘Ne jetez pas vos armes, tirez, faites quelque chose, putain, faites quelque chose! Do something!'

‘Hey!' Cage barked, the muscles of his face visibly shifting under the tight fabric of the ski-mask.

‘Bon Dieu! Faites quelque chose!'

Cage shoved the barrel of the shotgun toward the face of the bodyguard who had been driving, addressing him directly in a voice that was close to a growl, ‘Tell that prick to stop babbling, drop your guns and give up the case.'

The driver's professional, unemotional mask cracked as he took in Cage's eyes and saw that he would not ask again. The bodyguard breathed out slowly through his nose, as if letting all the tension escape in one long sigh. He nodded once, looking directly at Cage, then let the gun slip from his fingers. It caught the corner of his seat, bounced, struck the inside of the door and dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.

The courier made a high-pitch noise of disbelief.

Cage pulled himself back and swung the shotgun toward the second bodyguard. The bodyguard was looking down, as if ashamed. He let the gun drop to the floor.

The courier was moving around on the back seat, muttering something incomprehensible. He was making the driver nervous, who half-turned his head, his eyes never leaving Cage, ‘Just give him what he wants!'

The courier sat upright, his tanned face slick with sweat, his dark hair damp and stuck to his forehead. ‘Vous êtes hommes morts.'

‘What?' The driver snapped.

‘Morts. Morts. Vous êtes hommes morts.' The courier suddenly started laughing: a rapid repeating sucking sound, as if fear threatened to overwhelm any further utterance.

The other bodyguard observed Cage to see if the man was still in control of the situation. He was. The bodyguard cleared his throat and said in a matter-of-fact voice that was completely out of context with the moment, ‘He says we're dead men.'

This was taking too long. Cage made an abrupt decision. The ex-Marine shoved the shotgun forward, between the heads of the bodyguards who, instinctively sensing what was about to happen, threw themselves against the sides of the car and covered their ears with their hands, just as the shotgun went off.

The courier did not have the reflexes to react. The blast struck him in the head and blew a hole right through the top-right side of his skull. His body slumped back into the seat but remained upright. A thick trail of blood and pulverised brain matter began to run down his face.

‘Oh Jesus!' The driver wailed, then turned back to look at Cage, squinting against the glare of the spotlight, with the absolute unquantifiable fear that comes at the point when you expect to die. The other bodyguard was still pressed up against the side of his door, eyes tightly shut, hands trembling where they clutched the side of his head.

Cage drew the shotgun back out of their immediate reach. ‘Give me the god-damned case.' His voice was chillingly calm.

The driver twisted round and looked at the corpse in the backseat. ‘Oh my God. Jesus. Jesus.' He clutched onto the headrest to steady himself, then glanced back at Cage, then back again. In a decisive movement he reached over and hoisted the briefcase up off the floor by its handle, pulled it over his shoulder and placed it on his lap.

‘Slide it out onto the bonnet,' Cage ordered.

With an act of finality the man did as he was told, knowing full well that the other was free to kill him now.

Cage smiled, once. He reached down with his other hand and grabbed the case by its handle. Then he yanked it and himself up onto the roof.

Cage vanished as quickly as he came, bolting back to Van One whilst Bateman and Gardiner continued to cover both sides of the car with the hand-cannons.

With a sharp scrape of tyres on wet asphalt, Hollis reversed Van One a few metres. Then he slammed it into gear and swung out into the traffic now crawling with rubbernecks. Gardiner and Bateman pulled Van Two and Van Three behind him, accelerating rapidly, blaring their horns as they bullied their way forward.

Dorgan flipped off the rear spotlight, grabbed the stick and tore open the throttle. Twenty-one thousand pounds of raw thrust pressed her down into the webbing of the seat, filled her vision with darkness and tiny strobing flashes across blood starved retina. The aerodyne leapt up and forward like some colossal beast. It streaked out toward the high-speed air-lanes. The autopilot hazard light blinked a rapid warning and the aerodyne's chip-voice advised her she was close to blacking out. Dorgan squeezed her leg muscles to force the blood back to her brain and decreased the thrust.

She would fly to a nearby forest and land. Cage had shown her how to set the timers on the charges. Four kilograms of incendiary high explosives that would remove any DNA traces left behind in the cockpit.

 

 

 

2.

 

This was the bedroom. A small low ceiling room, with crimson drapes across the windows; heavy enough to muffle any sounds. None of the neighbours were in tonight, he'd made sure of that beforehand. Allowing her to make noise was not a problem; there would be nobody to hear.

There was fire in his mind. Blood was roaring through the veins of his temples with sound of flames. The mask was making him hot; his skin itched from the sweat and synthetic fibres but he could not remove it, could not let her see his face.

She was naked, handcuffed by each wrist to separate corners of the large bed. He closed another steel cuff around her left ankle and fastened it to the ornate brass pole that held up the bed's canopy.

He saw how erect her nipples had become; thick nubs jutting up from aureoles that were as dark brown as her skin. Her large breasts kept their shape even as she lay on her back and jolted with each frantic, futile movement she made. He could see her fear and her excitement.

He had made her undress under the wickedly serrated edge of his knife; each freshly exposed area of smooth-waxed skin had brought him closer to taking her there and then, but he had restrained himself, forced himself to wait.

Now the torment of delayed pleasure was tenfold.

Her flesh glistened with a thin film of perspiration, catching the soft hues of light from the small table lamp. The lamp highlighted the gentle arch of her thighs, the subtle yet hard ridges of her toned stomach, the shallow cavity at the base of her rib cage, the tight arcs of her shoulders, jaw and eye brows. Her lips were mouthing words, pleading for mercy; he was mesmerised by the flicker of light and shadow across the deep purple lip gloss, by the wet flick of her tongue and the almost climactic gritting of her teeth as she strained and struggled.

She was trying to keep her legs closed, muscles tensed. He grabbed her free ankle and yanked her legs apart, his strength overpowering. The wide dimensions of the bed meant that she was forced into a star shape with her limbs at full stretch. He saw her fear intensify, but there was no denying how aroused she was. He stared at the tiny beads of fluid clinging to her pubic hair, he dwelled on the wetness around her labia, the bright pink of the flesh between the dark lips; the sight rocketed his desire into a higher state.

The desire to fuck her now was almost overwhelming. He wanted to lower himself down slowly; wanted to watch her face contort as she felt his weight coming down on her, feel the compact muscles of his chest compressing her breasts.

He shook his head, trying to clear the images, fighting the urge to penetrate her now. ‘Please.....no!' Her wail cut through the sleazy fog in his brain as he forced her legs even wider apart and hooked a cuff around her free ankle. All he had to do now was fasten the accompanying cuff to the brass pole. ‘No!' she cried, ‘Please no, oh God please don't do this.'

‘Shut your mouth!' he yelled back at her with such venom she momentarily froze in her struggles.

He closed the last cuff around the brass pole and stepped back off the bed to savour the sight of her.

‘I don't know you,' she sobbed, ‘I've done nothing to you. I don't know you.'

‘Yes you do.' His voice was low and solemn, as if pronouncing a sentence of death.

Confusion flickered across her Jamaican features. Then the fear returned, doubled, set her mouth trembling. He held up the knife close to his masked face; its serrated blade caught the table lamp and glinted.

‘I'm gonna do you,' he told her quietly, ‘And you're gonna enjoy it and if you don't enjoy it I'm-'

A personal-assistant rang: the incoming call alert warbling like a demented bird, shattering the tension like a sledgehammer hitting a mirror.

‘Fuck!' he yelled.

‘Oh Louis!' she complained, ‘Why didn't you switch that thing off?'

Louis Cloud stepped around the side of the bed to a chair that was heaped with clothes. The PA continued to ring. He dropped the knife; pulled off the mask, breathing hard now and wiped the sweat off his face with it. As he did this he explained, ‘I can't babe, it's work, something must have come through the system on priority.'

‘I don't give a fuck about priority!' she snapped visicously. The steel handcuffs rattled against the brass poles she was fastened to. Her name was Claudine Mitchell and she had been his girlfriend for thirteen months now.

The ringing continued.

Cloud grabbed up the PA – a Paragon-Deltacom Proton – and it registered his close proximity by diverting the ringing to his ear-clip. He checked the caller ID on the Proton's hardscreen: it was work.

‘Shit,' he looked at Claudine, her face like thunder, ‘Hey I've got no choice.'

Her features softened, ‘It's just.... I hardly get to see you. I want you so much,' her voice croaked with her frustration, then shifted into a silky purr, ‘Put the PA down. Come over here and do me. Come on. Come and fuck me.' She arched her back, straining her limbs against the cuffs, making them clank against the brass rods, pushing up the mound between her open legs.

The Proton was still ringing through the surgical implant in his ear.

Cloud's mouth dropped open a fraction of a centimetre, his gaze was rooted to the bed.

She squirmed for the pleasure of his eyes.

The Proton was still ringing. It was a priority-call. He had to answer it.

She was smiling at him with tightly closed lips and her eyes narrowed to dark slits, ‘Come on Louis, are you a man or a mouse?'

He closed his eyes and rolled his head up and round.

The Proton was still ringing.

He looked at his hands held out in front of him, palm down; they were as steady as a rock. ‘Shit. Oh shit,' he muttered; he wanted her, ‘I could always be in the shower.'

He dropped the Proton on top of his clothes, then reached up and squeezed the stone stud embedded in the metal ear-clip and sub-vocalised through his throat implant, ‘Terminate call and shut down.'

The Proton stopped ringing. He pulled off the ear-clip and dropped it beside the PA.

Claudine chuckled.

‘Now you're in trouble,' he told her.

 

 

 

The off-ramp had been closed down to one lane. Uniformed police were swarming everywhere, spattered by the twirling cherry lights of the parked patrol cars. They loitered at the edge of the road with no visible purpose. Traffic cones had already swarmed into place and a drone was redirecting manually-driven vehicles onto the one lane left open, its spidery arms waving green light-batons.

Forensic technicians were sweeping the off-ramp, moving toward the isolated wreck of the courier's car, taking slow, deliberate steps, the white over-sized sterile suits making them look like spacemen.

In the harsh glare of the portable light-rigs the courier's car was like a bruised and dented sculpture. A frozen tableau vivant that lingered as a desolate reminder of an event that led to a man's brutal death. A police photographer slowly leaned through the empty frame of the windshield. The flashes from his camera caught the dead body still seated in the back.

Detective Sergeant Louis Cloud climbed out from his BMW and walked across the rain soaked tarmac toward the crime scene. Detective Constable Ray Joyce, his subordinate from the Serious Crimes Division, was waiting for him beside the open doors of a white response van.

‘Hey Ray, what you got me out here on a night like this for?' Cloud shouted amiably.

A few uniformed police glanced Cloud's way, a couple waved then went back to what they were doing. Cloud waved back. Ray looked up and lifted the amber-lenses of a pair of DVFrames to his forehead and held them there, looking like an out of place tourist squinting in the rain instead of baking sunshine. Ray was as tall as him but skinny, Italian looking with a short crop of black spiky hair, and at twenty-three was a few years younger than he was. A slow grin spread across his stubbly face as he watched Cloud walk over.

‘I thought that bald bonce of yours could do with a rinse. Nothing like a shower to give it a shine, eh?' Ray said and started laughing.

‘Yeah-Yeah, Ray, you're such a funny bugger, you know that don't you.' Cloud wiped a hand across the smooth dome of his forehead then looked at his water-soaked palm. With all these bright spotlights he pictured his head looking like something sold at a confectionery, glazed in sugar drops. He kept his hair razored down to the scalp – for no other reason than it took less time to deal with.

Ray resettled his DVFrames on the bridge of his nose, turned and reached inside the open doorway of the van. He brought out an A4-sized hardscreen encased in a slab of toughened plastic and handed it to Cloud. There was already a video-chip inserted.

‘What's this?' Cloud asked, not looking at it, his attention taken by the lonely wreckage of the courier's car.

‘Road-side cameras. Got the whole thing on film.'

Cloud scanned the crime scene with a swift turn of his head, ‘Lot of lads here.'

‘Orders came down from up high.'

Cloud was pissed-off about this, ‘Ah great. I just get here and there's already a deadline around my neck.'

He glanced down at the slab of plastic in his hands, grimaced and put it down on a ledge inside the van. He saw something else inside, reached in and picked up a Styrofoam cup full of coffee. ‘This yours?'

Ray nodded, busy looking at the display of his PA: black and white like Dalmatian, typical bad-taste for Ray, he mused.

Wrinkling his nose he took a sniff, then sniffed again, ‘This is minty.'

Ray pushed out a white spherical mint with his tongue and held it there between his lips long enough for Cloud to see it. Then he sucked it back in, crunched down hard with his teeth and started chewing.

Cloud shrugged, perplexed, ‘Yeah, so what?'

Ray put the PA back in his pocket and turned to face his partner. He grabbed the cup from his hand, ‘I put them in the coffee.'

Cloud stared at his empty fingers, then at Ray. ‘Hey!'

Ray sighed and handed the cup back. Cloud lowered his mouth to the cup and took a careful sip. Ray made an exasperated sound. Cloud nodded, appreciative, ‘Hmm, not bad, not bad at all.'

 

 

 

They stood beside the wreckage of the courier's car. Cloud studied the crushed rear bumper and the crumpled body panels smeared with dirt and oil. He took in the battered steel wheel and the thick flap of shredded rubber tyre lodged inside the wheel arch.

Ray was silently reading data scrolling down the hardscreen he was holding in his hand. He had already seen this.

Cloud walked around to the front of the car and peered into the shadowy interior through the empty window frame. The courier's eyes were still wide open. Above the insane stare was the ragged and blood-congealed rim of where his skull had been blown away.

Cloud pulled himself upright, glanced around at the surrounding scene and took a long sip of Ray's coffee, thinking about what he was seeing.

What was he seeing? A professional job. They only killed the courier. Five people, including an aerodyne pilot. A lot of skill, he thought. Cloud looked over at Ray. ‘Why did they kill the courier?'

Ray scrubbed his fingers through his hair as he answered. Cloud noticed the short black spikes did not move and thought, Christ what does he put on it?

‘According to the statement made by both security ops, the courier was going skitzo in the back there. Freaking out and stuff. Gunman took him out. Cold.'

Ray's PA made a polyphonic sound like somebody shouting in Chinese. He fished it from the pocket of his short coat; a long black leather thing that Cloud thought made him look too pale. Ray read something on the screen.

Cloud turned his whole body to face the car, took another sip of Ray's coffee, narrowed his eyes as if it would help him focus on the vague idea forming in his mind.

After a few moments Ray spoke behind him, ‘That was a message from Packer. He's got an initial result on the aerodyne found earlier. It was stolen from a quarry in Hampshire earlier tonight and is definitely the one used here. But he thinks it's unlikely we'll get anything from it as someone's done a thorough cleaning job with a few kilo's of plastique.'

Cloud started chuckling, ‘Oh that's sweet. Plastique. That's really sweet.'

‘Packer's sent an enquiry unit to the quarry and to the drop site where the aerodyne was dumped. Could get lucky.'

‘Let's hope so.' Cloud was shaking his head already convinced they would not. He cleared his lungs with a loud snort, stroked a hand across his face. They're too good for that, he thought on a hunch. He smoothed the palm of his hand across the hairless dome of his skull again, wiped away the cold residue of rain. He needed to buy a hat. He used to wear a small leather pork-pie hat, but Claudine hated it. She said it made him look like a drug dealer. She also hated the fact his previous girlfriend had bought it.

Cloud abruptly found his thoughts dumped outside the job at hand, dwelling instead on Claudine's arsenal of possessive emotions. What would she do if she ever found out he was still married? Or that he had children he'd not said hello to in the nine years since he drove his wife away, to run from him and the violence of the beliefs he'd been nearly ruined by. It was a miracle he was standing here now, a representative of the law and order, and not banged up for GBH. He'd been lucky, or clever – you could look at the progress of his life that way. He'd learnt to put his muscle to one side and allowed his brains to take the lead.

Nobody in the life he had now knew about his past, not his colleagues, not DI Calloway, and not Claudine: she knew what the tattoo on his chest stood for, but she'd given up asking him about why he had it. He wasn't the first gangbanger to join the force as a way out from a future of correction centres and jail. People could guess all they liked about what things he may or may not have done, but he'd never been caught, and as far as he was concerned that side of him came in useful when he got into a physical scrape, but otherwise, it was ancient history. So would he be if Claudine discovered he'd lied to her from the start. Problem was, he'd never known he'd get to like her so much. Like all things emotional, he found the issue overly complicated and impossible to work through with his mind alone.

Cloud brought himself back to the job.

Ray squinted and twisted his head round to follow Cloud's gaze. ‘It was a smooth job.'

Cloud nodded, agreeing, ‘What was taken?'

‘A case.'

‘Uh-huh. Who did he work for?' Cloud stared into the vacant eyes of the dead courier.

‘He was free-lance. Registered as David Duplat, working under license for Rollello Corp who deal in the bulk refinery of industrial gem stones, but they're not telling us what the courier was carrying or where he was delivering.'

‘Great. Nice and helpful. Are they talking at all?'

‘They're sending a crisis team to liase with us.'

‘To hell with that!' Cloud turned to face him, ‘They can tell us what's in the bloody case before they get any support from my black ass.' Cloud slowly shook his head, ‘Jesus! These people piss me off. They seem to think they can transfer their cosy office title into a rank above mine.' He stood there with his jaw clenched shut.

Ray let him simmer.

After a moment Cloud asked, ‘Who's the security company?'

‘Akinola-Odusola'

Cloud pondered this. Sipped some more coffee. ‘Extend the hold on the bodyguards, I want to talk to them myself.'

Ray winced, ‘They've signed statements and release forms.'

‘Shit, Ray!'

‘It's all been zipped up.' Ray gave a helpless shrug; the police were often defenceless against the streamlined directives of the Corporate Indemnity Charter. ‘A legal rep from Akinola was at the station when they arrived.'

The smooth dome of Cloud's forehead wrinkled into a dense frown, ‘Mate, this stinks like a bloody skull run.'

‘The call went through to you but you didn't pick up.'

‘Yeah, I know. I was in the shower.' Cloud said the words with a bitter edge. Not taking that call might have fucked things up. Getting in and talking to the bodyguards in person, before this bureaucratic wall came down, would have given him a much better feel for what was going on. It was easier to spot lies in a human face than from a scripted, treated statement. ‘Akinola-Odusola,' Cloud said bleakly; he knew they were one of the largest private security companies in the world, and a big player in UTOC, which probably meant they had automatic membership in the current epidemic of inter-corporate-warfare.

‘Some of their guys are getting the shit kicked out of them in the IGS,' Ray said as if explaining background to the case.

‘I couldn't give a fuck,' Cloud responded; the IGS (Independent Gulf States) was a messy quick-fix in the political vacuum following the Great Gulf War, very similar in danger and volatility as Iraq was after the removal of Saddam Hussein, only about ten times worse. The way he saw it, the private security companies piling into the fray were no better than gold-diggers getting themselves killed during the Gold Rush of the 1800's. They knew the risks. If they made it back alive, they were minted. Cloud had no sympathy, despite the shocking images coming back from media-drones buzzing around the evolving boundaries of the Middle East.

‘Contact their liaison person, get a view of how they operate. Then dig deeper. Cross-check filed reports for anything else in Akinola's history that matches this. I want to know any way those bodyguards could have known what the courier was carrying. If Akinola are playing with skull runs, I want to know about it.'

 

3.

 

The beer bottle flipped over and over on its quick ascent, the long neck a perfect counterbalance. Then gravity re-claimed the errant object and dragged it back toward the hand that threw it. Gardiner caught the bottle perfectly; the smooth cylinder of dark brown glass slapped into his oil ingrained palm with a satisfying sound.

He laughed freely and jubilantly as he shook it, everybody else smiling with him, sharing in the moment of exhilaration after they had opened the courier case.

There it was, lying open on the folding trellis table that had been erected against the wall of the warehouse. Inside was a solid block of slate grey foam with a shallow rectangular cavity, and lying within it, so simple yet so striking and awe inspiring a sight: rubies, dozens of them.

Hollis stood beside the bucket of cold water filled with bottles. He tossed one bottle to each of the team. Cage watched, observing Hollis, resisting the urge to reprimand him now for the atrocious driving of the van; it would spoil the mood: let them celebrate, he mused. He would deal with Hollis later.

Originally an Englishman, Hollis now had a pseudo-American-someplace-foreign accent to his voice. Cage thought it typified his character, contrived. Hollis was as far from the truth of himself as a person could be. An over-privileged child who had grown up wanting to be bad. That was his fundamental personality flaw: he was not bad, just arrogant, to the point of being stupid.

Gardiner stopped shaking the bottle and swung it down, smashing the neck against the cinder-block wall. White foam jetted out and he turned around, grinning wildly, to spray Dorgan and Bateman before tipping the bottle upside down and pouring the remaining contents down his open throat, letting it overflow and run through his wiry black beard and down his oil-smeared T-shirt, gargling and laughing at the same time, to where his hand held the swollen pot of his belly.

Hollis waited for him to finish. Then he offered him another bottle. ‘Are you going to drink this one?'

Gardiner sneered as he grabbed the beer offered to him, simultaneously chucking the emptied bottle to the concrete floor behind him. Somehow it did not break. He let out a long belch. ‘What the fuck do you care, man? I mean,' a sharp laugh, ‘It's not like we can't afford to waste a few!'

He glanced over at his friend, Bateman, who returned a deeply amused look. Gardiner began to snicker. So did Bateman, followed by Dorgan and Hollis. That was it then, the raw exhilaration of what they had just accomplished was unleashed. The four of them all began shaking their beers and spraying each other, laughing, howling and jumping up and down.

Cage remained separate, standing further back he glanced down at the bottle in his hand. He hooked the cap under the rim of his belt's metal clasp and flipped it off. He pushed the wild curtains of hair away from his face, put his lips around the cool glass neck of the bottle and tipped back his head. He drank deep; let the beer simply pour into him. He longed for the numbness to sweep through him, but it would take a lot more than one bottle and he needed to keep straight for now. Still business to attend to.

Cage closed his eyes and kept drinking, half-listening to the sniggering, the jokes and laughed-at comments. They were elated. He partly envied them; partly despised them, yet knew that this only came from wanting to share the same freedom of mind.

`Huh!' he thought, and took the bottle from his mouth. He wiped his lips across the back of his huge hand and regarded them with his serious eyes.

Correction, it's not freedom of mind. None of you have that.

He did not know for certain about Hollis, but Bateman, Gardiner and Dorgan, especially Dorgan, all had their own inner demons. All the money in the world was not going to make those demons go away but at least they could feel the warm side of their humanity, they could sense their own innate empathy throbbing away beneath the hard crystalline mesh of the modern personality, with all its cold interlocking shields and hot cores of restrained emotion. At least they could fucking feel!

Cage lamented the loss of his soul. As part of the great Colonial War Machine under the wing of corporate sponsorship, he had committed atrocities that betrayed the essence of being human. Seeing young children die for no reason other than living in a profitable zone had been part of it, but there were worse memories locked inside his skull.

Dorgan must have sensed his gaze. Smiling, she twisted her head round in his direction and saw him watching her. Her smile broadened, as if trying to project her own happiness into him. Cage tried his best to smile back, then cocked his head wistfully. She understood; turned away. Cage stared at her. In another lifetime he would have loved her. For now, all he craved was the semblance of feeling that came with their closeness, their intimate bond of friendship, and he clung to it like a moth homing in on the moon, running on instinct, the sense that it was right and good.

Cage sucked in a deep breath and blocked the tide of thoughts sweeping out through his mind. Sometimes he could think about her for hours. Tonight his thoughts needed to be free.

 

 

 

Cage closed the courier's case and slid it across the table to Hollis.

‘You're sure this guy can handle the quantity?' Cage asked.

Hollis placed his hands on either side of the case and just held it. ‘Absolutely,' he said distantly.

Cage darted a quick glance at Dorgan who was sat between Gardiner and Bateman.

‘No I mean are you one hundred percent certain? Hollis? Hollis, fucking listen to me when I'm talking to you.'

Hollis sighed, as if he was weary of being doubted. He let go of the case, reached into the pocket of the overalls he was still wearing and pulled out a packet of French cigarettes. There was a deliberate delay to his answer.

Bateman spoke up. ‘I know a guy in Brazil.'

Gardiner nearly choked on a sip of beer. ‘In Brazil!' he exclaimed, ‘You've got to be kidding me! We'd need an army! And they'd still rob us, the fucking cocksuckers!'

‘No,' Dorgan stated firmly, ‘We stick with Hollis. Bristol is close and the sooner we get rid of those,' she nodded at the case, ‘The safer we'll all be.'

Hollis made a grotesque display with his teeth, something that resembled a satisfied smile. ‘That's it sister, you tell 'em.'

Dorgan turned her head to face him and silently mouthed the words `Fuck Off'.

Cage spoke: ‘Look, Hollis, I'm not letting some wet-behind the ears accountant rip us off for whatever he wants to take. Can he handle the quantity?'

‘Yes.' Hollis affirmed.

‘Good, because if this fucks up then I'm gonna be using your scalp to mop up the eggs on my plate for breakfast.'

 

4.

 

Dorgan drove the Volvo making cautious progress through the heavy congestion; she longed for the speed and freedom of an aerodyne, Bristol was an endless crawl of snarled up traffic even at this time of night.

Cage was up front, beside her, smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke out the open window. Bateman, Hollis and Gardiner were in the back.

Dorgan glanced at them in the rear view mirror:

Gardiner sat hunched over a laptop that illuminated the swarthy complexion of his face, picking his nose with a short and stubby finger. He was scanning local and national police agency communications for any mention of the crime they committed less than six hours ago.

Bateman caught her gaze and winked, his cheeks rising as he grinned; she could not catch his meaning, or if there was one. She had to admit she found him very attractive.

Hollis was gazing out the side window; no doubt feeling pleased with himself. Dorgan could not wait to get away from the freak. Hollis's yearning to fit in irritated her intensely; medium height, gangly, long necked and with protruding teeth, he looked like the kind of man you would see fumbling his way through everything. He wore expensive clothes, and had chosen an ensemble of black jeans, black trainers and a black polo neck for this journey, all from Hermes corporate-casual line; she wondered if he considered himself to ‘look the part' for what he was involved in. Too many movies, she thought, knowing that in the real world of crime there was no look for the part. There was skill, there were nerves and there was luck.

She twisted her neck to glance at Cage; she had picked up he felt the same way about Hollis.

Cage turned his head to exchange a tense expression; then he turned away and she saw his huge chest rise with a deep breath. She returned her attention to the road, frowning, concerned for her friend. Was it the job? Or had Cage sensed her attraction for Bateman?

She met Cage twelve years ago in California, when she was nineteen. First sight had been a bare chested muscle-man slicked-up with sun-block, tearing down highway 101 South of Arcata on a chrome black monster, passing her imported MacLaren Z-2000 convertible at an impressive250 kph.

He glanced at her as he zipped past.

The attraction was instantaneous. Not lust, but a deep-rooted feeling that this man was destined to play a role in her life. Following this inner compulsion she hit the accelerator and chased after him, oblivious to the stringent highway laws that could have landed her a jail sentence. Authority had always proven itself a problem for her, especially at nineteen.

She followed him as he swept across the exit for Samoa and again when he took the exit for Woodley Island. He headed straight for the Woodley Island marina.

In the car park of the marina was the Table Bluff Memorial Light. A lighthouse, not much more than two storeys high with flaky white paint peeling off the rutted walls. It was still a strangely beautiful sight, elegant in its simplicity and the aura of its age. Even to this day Dorgan still did not know why there was a memorial for Table Bluff; she did not really care. It was where she had met Cage.

The man had left his bike and was sitting on the brown rock rubble at the base of the lighthouse, hunched up with his back against the side, his arms across his knees, and his head resting there like he was trying to sleep.

He was not trying to sleep; he was grieving.

There was no hesitation in approaching him. It was one of those rare ethereal moments when a higher order of consciousness is directing every movement and action. She climbed out from the MacLaren, walked across and sat down by his side, facing him. He looked up and into her eyes, his features quivering with pain and confusion. She just put her arms around him, simply, comfortably, and let him bury his face into the crook of her neck and sob away the overwhelming burden. It was the only time she saw Cage cry, ever.

The reason for his sorrow: the only two friends he had, died in front of him during an explosion on board a military shuttle. His spacesuit had been closed; they were still in shirtsleeves. Decompression killed them; Cage had watched them double over with the bends and suffocate.

She sat with him by the lighthouse and listened to him talk. It seemed as if it was the first time he had revealed so much of himself so freely, so openly. She knew that he saw her as a stranger, a passing vessel he could unload his emotions upon; yet in her mind Dorgan had known she had become anchored in the stormy waters of his life.

Dorgan came out of her revery and focussed on the rear of the slow moving car ahead of her. She glanced over at Cage again, but this time he was far away.

‘Hey.' she said softly, switching several times between watching him and the road.

Cage looked at her enquiringly.

‘You okay?' she asked, her voice level.

‘Yeah.'

‘How do you feel, about killing that guy?'

‘It was an operational decision,' he replied.

‘Sure you're okay about it?'

Bateman called out from the back, complaining at her intrusiveness, ‘Come on Dorgan!'

She ignored him and searched Cages' eyes; Cage looked away.

‘I'm fine. We can talk later,' he said.

Dorgan did not press any further.

Gardiner spoke without looking up from the laptop, ‘Don't worry about the Captain, Dorgan, the man's just spent the last six years in prison. He's been looking forward to killing someone again.'

Cage twisted himself round in his seat to glare at Gardiner but Gardiner seemed not to notice.

Bateman grimaced, uncomfortable at Cage's anger.

Hollis piped up, ‘Actually, lieutenant Cage was jailed for killing someone. Three someone's, in fact.'

Cage turned around in his seat and said nothing.

Bateman swivelled his head on his thick neck to regard Hollis equivocally, ‘Know a lot, don't you Hollis?'

Hollis smiled smugly, an action that forced Bateman to drop his gaze as Hollis's teeth lunged into view. ‘I am an information broker,' Hollis went on to say with a theatrical flourish that came across as crass; ‘My ability to acquire and distribute knowledge is amongst my greatest assets, I know the right kind of information for the right kind of person. It requires skill to fit the two halves together.'

‘Alright pal, calm it down,' Bateman rolled his eyes, then broke into his usual laughter and slapped Hollis on the shoulder. ‘Check out the fucking salesman! Man, if that's how you make your pitch then I'm truly amazed how you can afford to live.'

Hollis smiled, but his eyes darkened with an inner sadness. Looking at his hands, he said, ‘I suppose if the information is good enough, someone will want it regardless of the salesman. Dorgan, for example, is a good source of information.'

An uneasy tension swelled to make the interior of the car feel uncomfortable.

‘You'd better watch your words.' Dorgan said as a warning.

Hollis went on: ‘Her full name is a veritable filing cabinet of gossip and intrigue.'

‘You prick,' Dorgan cursed.

‘Hey,' Bateman said with surprise, ‘The runt is right, I want to know more and he didn't even have to sell it to me. Sorry Dorgan but I've got to know. Come on Hollis spill the beans.'

‘Natalya Dorganskya.' Hollis answered.

Gardiner looked up from the laptop and squinted as he racked his brain for the item hanging in his memory. Then he found it, ‘Woah! Time out for a second here.'

The name had meant nothing to Bateman who was looking at his friend with frustrated amusement, ‘What, man? What?'

Gardiner was staring at Dorgan, ‘You're Tye Brody's daughter?'

Bateman knew the name Tye Brody. His smile snapped away into a rigid line. He looked at the back of Dorgan's head with an expression that said he did not understand.

‘You're Tye Brody's daughter?' Gardiner repeated the question.

Dorgan whipped her head round to glare at Hollis ferociously, ‘You fucking asshole!' she shouted at him then settled back into concentrating on her driving.

‘Tye Brody's daughter.' Gardiner had finally accepted the statement. He opened his mouth to say something else but Bateman jabbed his leg and shook his head, swinging his eyes toward Cage who was sitting motionless, his anger almost audibly crackling around him.

The rest of the journey passed in silence.

 

The house was set back from the main road behind a tall wall of grey stone. Two marble lions sat crouching as if ready to spring, regarding the Volvo with carved predatory frowns. Three bulky and sullen looking men dressed in formal evening coats stepped aside as the wrought iron gate swung open.

Hollis had made the introductions; they were expected.

The buyer was Simon Barlow; Hollis described him as a collector of rare artefacts with connections throughout the international academic community.

Dorgan drove forward and watched the gates close behind them in the side mirror; ahead was a long curving driveway with dense woodland to either side. She took in the high walls, the prowler-guards, the whole fortress vibe; what would happen if Simon Barlow decided he wanted to keep the rubies without paying for them? The fact Hollis had arranged the deal placed her in a position of uncertainty.

She knew Gardiner and Bateman were still carrying the Israeli hand-cannons. Cage had dismantled the shotgun and ditched the pieces separately, scattering the evidence that could link him to the murder; and like Dorgan he was now unarmed. As for Hollis, who knew? He probably had some black-market Russian derringer tucked down his pants, something small that packed a prohibitive punch, perhaps a depleted uranium round wrapped in lead, the kind of thing that would leave an exit wound the size of your head.

She drove on, catching a glimpse of the house through the trees ahead.

Hollis spoke out proudly, ‘Barlow's a member of the Carthew Trust.'

‘What's that Einstein?' Bateman questioned him mockingly.

‘They're a Bristol-founded enterprise, they have a vast import-export portfolio. It's the mechanism that will be helping us shift these rubies tonight.'

Bateman sighed, ‘You know, for a guy who's supposed to be full of secrets you sure got a big mouth.'

Gardiner guffawed and laughed.

The house came into view: four stories of dressed stone, Georgian construction, large latticed windows providing a glimpse of the warmly lit interior. The front door was open.

Dorgan parked in an area reserved for vehicles; a middle-aged man dressed in the formal attire of a butler emerged and descended the three steps to the gravel drive. He waited there patiently.

They all climbed out of the Volvo; Gardiner kept twisting around, taking in the size and wealth of the place, left hand idly scratching his beer belly; Bateman was carrying the courier case; Hollis strode ahead as if it were his own home; Cage and Dorgan stayed on his heels.

The butler requested they follow him and promptly turned to walk inside. Bateman cleared his throat and affected a heavy German accent,

‘I vood like to see ze Count.'

Gardiner nudged past him as they climbed the steps, ‘Shut it, man.'

‘I vood like to see ze Count!' Bateman implored. As the others entered through the doorway he dropped back a little; he changed his voice to an old cartoon character, a classic from the previous century, ‘Naaah, maybe not!' Then smacked his lips around an imaginary carrot. He did a half-turn as he stepped through the doorway, swinging his shoulders, and looked round the quiet grounds; motionless guards stood watching him.

The butler asked them to wait in the library, a high-ceilinged chamber with several leather-upholstered reading chairs, occasional tables and ornate lamps. Nobody spoke until after he had closed the door behind him.

‘Man,' Gardiner proclaimed, twirling around to take in the walls of shelves and books. ‘If I had as much money as this guy, I would not be spending it on books!'

‘A lot of this is inherited,' Hollis advised. He lowered himself into one of the deep reading chairs. ‘The property belongs to his family.'

Gardiner's gaze was irresistibly drawn to the courier case in Bateman's hand. ‘Yeah, well, I still wouldn't have a whole room filled with books!'

Bateman was grinning as he watched his friend. ‘Come on Don! What, have you got something against culture?'

Gardiner tore his gaze away from the case and turned around again, taking in the room, ‘What a waste of space!'

Hollis slipped a cigarette between his lips, then mumbled, ‘Space isn't really a problem when you're living in a place the size of a hotel.' He lit the cigarette. Gardiner shrugged. Hollis made an ostentatious show of removing the cigarette from his mouth and exhaling the smoke. ‘I think you're more likely to have problems wondering what to do with it. I'm sure you could find a novel way of wasting space. Why don't you make a few suggestions to Simon.'

Gardiner jabbed a stubby finger in Hollis's direction, ‘Hey, fuck you! Personally the only thing I want to waste right now....' He clenched his fists as if gripping onto a woman from behind, gritted his teeth simulating sex, and continued in a growl, ‘Is money!'

Bateman guffawed and laughed; he captured everyones attention as he walked over to a table and put the courier case down. Dorgan came up beside him and gently touched the blue chrome exterior with the tip of her finger. Cage, Gardiner and Hollis silently watched transfixed within their own inner dreams.

‘Oh baby I'm in love now,' Gardiner said.

Bateman looked down at the case, ‘She's beautiful, isn't she?'

‘Man!' Gardiner sighed and looked away as if unable to endure the sight. His hand went to the swollen mound of his stomach. ‘This waiting is fucking killing me! I wish he could just give us the money so we could get-the-fuck-out of here.'

Cage snorted derisively at Gardiner, ‘Take that attitude and we'll get fuck all of what we deserve. If you want to get a good price for these then sit tight, hold tight and don't let loose until that cash is in your pocket.'

In a way, Dorgan found it ironic that she had known more money in her lifetime than the net catch of this heist if the anticipated value was reliable. Those days were dead now, along with their progenitor: her adopted father, Tye Brody.

Gardiner did not like Cage telling him how to act. The amicable relationship they had displayed throughout the past three days was starting to evaporate. Dorgan observed the two men pointing at each other and wondered if this was the first crack?

‘I know how to ride a deal, pal,' Gardiner was saying caustically, ‘I'm not a fucking college kid who just pulled a robbery to pay for next years fees, standing here fucking shitting myself because I'm waaay over my head thinking oh my God what the FUCK do I do!'

Cage stood there glaring.

Bateman was concerned about the volume, ‘Hey come on Don, chill man.'

‘Fuck you!' Gardiner snapped, a warning for him to stay out of it. He went back to Cage, ‘I think you should ask yourself something. Ask yourself who helped make this happen. Eh, pal? Who?' Gardiner thumped a fist against the fatty flesh of his chest, underscoring the word, ‘Me! That's who. Me, my ass on the line and I'll tell you-'

A man's voice sliced through Gardiner's barrage, ‘Do we have a problem?' The voice was smooth and urbane.

Simon Barlow stood framed in a secret doorway that was formed by a hinged section of bookshelf. Short and middle-aged, he had a wide waist and narrow shoulders. There was a gold ear-clip wrapped around the rim of his right ear, studded with a diamond. He wore a jade green shirt, unbuttoned and lacking a tie, cotton slacks and silk-lined slippers: this was an informal gathering. Dorgan had met his type many times before, imbued with an almost mystical aura of self-assurance that came from a background of power that spanned generations. Dorgan disliked him immediately.

Gardiner glanced away and cursed under his breath. Cage stepped forward and proffered a hand toward Barlow, cool, collected, professional.

‘No problems Mr Barlow,' Cage said, ‘Just my associate blowing off steam from the job.'

‘Yes,' Barlow accepted the assertion; he stepped forward and gripped Cage's hand. Dorgan saw knuckles clench white. ‘Yes,' Barlow said again, ‘Fast movers I see, a swift execution; a complimentary job.' Barlow released his grip and scanned the room with an airy gaze until his eyes fell upon the courier case. ‘Ah-haaa,' he crooned.

Cage stepped aside as Barlow moved past heading straight for the case then followed after him.

Barlow stopped in front of the case.

‘Hollis assured me you could handle the quantity,' Cage probed.

Gardiner, Bateman and Dorgan gathered behind them. Hollis pulled himself from the reading chair and walked over. Barlow held his hands above the case palms down as if sensing some inviolable field of energy being radiated by what was within. ‘Five million euros?' he replied to Cage's query. ‘Yes, I think I can stretch to that. Quite a catch, a big score.' Barlow's tone was perfectly condescending.

Dorgan sensed he looked upon Cage and the rest of them with loathing.

Barlow opened the case. Judging by the rapidly shifting expressions on his face, from confusion to a dilating rage, he was seeing something entirely different to what was expected.

‘What the hell is this?' Barlow's voice sizzled.

‘Excuse me?' Gardiner asked, his voice seemed higher than usual.

‘This!' Barlow pointed at the case and stepped back as if he found the contents offensive. He swung around and met Hollis's horrified gaze with a fierce expression, at the same time he clicked his fingers. A moment later three doors were hurled open and seven brutish men dressed in the same tight fitting evening dress strode into the room.

Dorgan and the others twirled round at their entrance, all except Hollis who was rooted to the spot by Barlow's turbulent stare. Hollis knew Barlow; Hollis knew what Barlow was capable of doing if motivated.

‘What the fuck is this?' Bateman was no longer amused by anything; he turned full circle, slipped his hands into his leather coat and grabbed the grip of the Israeli hand-cannon where it dangled upside down from a holster beneath his arm.

‘Take it easy Bateman!' Cage advised, holding out a hand in a universal gesture of calm.

The bodyguards shifted uneasily, watching Bateman, waiting for a signal.

‘Something's definitely rotten in Denmark,' Bateman threw Cage a quick glance, did another rapid scan of the guards and took two steps backward giving himself room.

‘Damn it Andrew!' Cage warned, using Bateman's first name.

Barlow took his eyes from Hollis to observe Bateman with unreserved contempt, yet made no move to protect himself, apparently supremely confident in his safety here.

‘Mr Bateman,' Barlow addressed, icily, ‘Let me explain something to you.' Bateman raised his head to listen, stood his ground, hands deep inside his scuffed vinyl jacket looking like nothing but a street punk from America, full of machismo, out of place here in the library of this elegant British home. ‘This meeting, tonight, has taken an extraordinary amount of energy to arrange. Because of the value involved you were granted my utmost attention tonight. Because of the value involved, I invited you into my home as welcome guests. Yet, it seems a grave mistake has occurred or, you are the brunt of a very cruel joke!'

‘They're not worth five million?' Gardiner mouthed the words weakly. The colour had drained from his face, highlighting the interwoven lines of ingrained oil.

Barlow glared at Gardiner, ‘They are not worth five million, five thousand, or even five euros. What you have in this case is nothing. Absolutely nothing.'

‘Bullshit!' Bateman laughed scornfully, showing a grin that was all clenched teeth and tension through his beard.

‘Indeed!' Barlow mocked furiously, ‘Now to end this costly waste of time I can only advise you to leave. Immediately.'

Gardiner sank his gaze to the floor, shook his head dazedly.

‘This is bullshit, man!' Bateman's voice cracked with emotion

Cage decided to halt the downward spiral that would only lead to violence; he moved across to Bateman and gripped him by both his arms.

‘Calm down or go outside.' Cage said quietly.

Bateman stared into his eyes imploringly for a moment, then tugged himself away. His hands came out of his jacket, empty. ‘This has got to be bullshit, he only fucking looked at those rubies! Hollis, you screwed up, this guy doesn't know what the fuck he's on about.' Bateman came to a decision. He snorted loudly, wiped the sweat from his face and strode over to the courier case, nearly barging into Barlow with his shoulder. He slammed down the lid and grabbed the case by the handle. ‘Man, we're out of here.'

‘So,' Gardiner hesitated, unsure of his words as he addressed Barlow, ‘They're not even gemstones?'

Barlow was calmer now, momentarily sympathetic, ‘No. A glance is enough to tell me that.'

Bateman scoffed, ‘Yeah, maybe if you didn't have two glass eyes you dumb prick.'

‘Enough, man.' Cage said wearily.

The room fell silent. The tension was unbearable. Dorgan made the first move. She bowed her head and began walking toward the door they had entered by. Gradually the rest of them followed her, escorted by the bodyguards.

 

5.

 

Soho was chaotic; colourfully dressed people crammed the pavements – competing for space with coffee tables – and spilled onto the roads. The occasional moped driver who didn't give a fuck just rode on through doing the shoulder-wiggle to weave through. Drivers still on manual – typically dumbass tourists who didn't have a guide-switched on – sat hunched over their steering wheels freaking out about private law-suits for damage or injury. Coffee-regulars seemed eternally oblivious, absorbed in their own thoughts, engaged in important discussions that involved lots of hand-flapping, or supping a cappuccino with the familiar far-away stare as they sub-vocalised through ear-clips, all of them managing to engender an air of crisp fashion from a motley collection of fabrics, piercings and hair-colourings.

Cloud loved it, the energy of the place and the statement of being a part of it; a world apart from the shitty crack dens he used to do be muscle for. He'd taken a high-stool in Cafe Nero, on the corner of Frith Street and Old Compton Street. The stool faced the street leaving him separated from the crowds by a cracked marble bench that looked like it had been there for decades, and a plate glass window. The café was a short walk from the offices of the Serious Crime Division and the coffee was better than the powdered 3^rd World-friendly muck his team of DCs insisted on buying collectively.

He remembered being a kid and walking through Soho with his crew – they'd come to take the piss out of the fags and hassle the stuck-up tourists but instead had been intimidated by the condensed wealth, style, good lucks and vibrant personalities they encountered. Looking back on himself as he was then, Cloud guessed some impression must have lodged itself in his young mind. A desire to be like them. Not fucking gay or anything stuck up. But to be successful. The irony was, he now saw these people for what most of them were: fabrications of the ego and fashion channels.

Cloud frowned as his memories reformed, so that he found his mind's point-of-view returning to a home-video retrospective of the Soho as it used to be. Strangely the biggest change was not the people or the buildings but the furniture out on the pavements; back then it had been lots of cheap plastic or chrome-effect garden furniture. Now there were ergonomic sculptures of orbital crystal, tough as diamonds, that you kind of lounged in; chairs of remouldable resin polymers that could change their shape to suit each individual; although first-grabs went to the latest development in holographic-touch-matrixes (HTM's), brightly coloured fields of energy that had evolved from visual-interaction tools into backside-holders.

Cloud smiled wryly at his thoughts then pulled his attention back to the work at hand.

It was the day after the robbery.

All the files, scene-of-crime reports, photographs, pathology, ballistics, were in front of him on an A3 floppy screen laid out on the marble.

He'd reviewed prevalent developments: Rollello Corporation and the stolen aerodyne.

The crisis team for the Rollello Corporation had arrived to investigate the murder of their courier and the theft. Cloud saw them earlier in the day, they continued to refuse to reveal what the courier had been carrying; they were playing hide and seek behind the Corporate Indemnity Charter. It was now a race to see who could uncover facts faster. He had given his usual warning about them taking the law into their own hands or interfering with his investigation; bland smiles had been their response. He had placed his detective pool onto a stakeout-rota: if the crisis team found something he wanted to know about it.

Akinola-Odusola, the security firm that provided the armed escort for the courier was also remaining tight-lipped. No surprises there.

The initial lab reports on the stolen aerodyne provided little to go on; an explosive device had wiped any evidence left inside. DC Packer's team was performing a more detailed analysis of the hull but results would not be available for a few days.

One lead had come from the site of the recovered aerodyne: a green Volvo Sedan seen leaving the woodland not long after the stolen aerodyne came down. Used by the pilot after nuking the aerodyne? Cloud considered it plausible; he had the description of the Volvo posted on bounty-boards and fed into OVERLORD, the Serious Crime Division's computer system. OVERLORD had requested more information about the robbery; then replied.

Cloud leant forward and used a long finger to tap several icons on the floppy screen to bring up OVERLORDS response again:

 

SCD/OVERLORD

TAG: Green Volvo

SOURCE: Phone call to Avon & Somerset C-team – routed from National Emergency number.

PRIORITY: Low

DESCRIPTION: Caller identified as Mary Lansdale, report man in need of help. Man being threatened (possibly at gunpoint) inside green Volvo Sedan parked close to Clifton Suspension Bridge. Five occupants.

RESPONSE: Unit dispatched to Clifton Suspension Bridge no sign of car. Description of car placed with APB. No results.

 

Cloud smiled and slowly rubbed his hands together.

The call had come in during the early hours of the morning just over six hours since the robbery. Plenty of time to get to Bristol, is that where you all are? It felt like a good lead. One of his Detective pool would be interviewing Mary Lansdale today to try and get a better description of any of the people she saw inside the Volvo.

He typed in a few notes then leaned back, picked up a froth-encrusted cup of cappuccino and drained the tepid remains; he caught the gaze of an attractive Asian girl who was strolling past admiring the Proton he had placed beside the floppy screen. She raised an eyebrow and smiled; he smiled back, and watched her continue her way. Nice tits, and a nice arse packed into lime green corduroys. Other heads turned to follow her progress. One of the dancing girls? He pushed himself forward and got back to work, the smile slowly fading from his lips.

The Proton was the latest release from Paragon-DeltaCom; well it had been the latest release up until three weeks ago when they brought out the new ‘Phoebus' model, but for now Cloud blatantly ignored this fact. He liked the image of ‘successful professional' it portrayed; and he was proud of the feat of bullshitting he had gone through with the head of procurement to authorise its purchase. An operational necessity Cloud had called it; he ignored the fact that no other officer in the Serious Crimes Division had one, or any model comparable to it.

Cloud stared at the facts on the floppy screen, and the shaved dome of his head creased with concentration. He had a pair of DVFrames, Bryce – just like his ear-clip, but he didn't want to sit here lost in a virtual reality Office. That would defeat the point of coming to Soho in the first place: seeing and being seen.

Claudine stepped into his mind.

He had not called her since leaving her in bed last night. He treated her badly. He lied to her. He cheated on her. He never called her when he promised. He always had something more important to do than spend a weekend with her, or even a couple of hours on a regular evening.

Acting on an impulse related to guilt, Cloud closed down the file he had been using to make notes, opened up the phonebook and dialled Claudine's work number.

A window opened up on the floppy screen containing a view of the pale blue fabric of his shirt over his chest stretched by the broad mounds of his pectoral muscles; he adjusted the camera on the PA to bring his head and shoulders into picture.

A moment later another window appeared with Claudine sitting in a typical office environment; she was typing onto a touchboard, blatantly ignoring the call even though she would have known he was watching her.

He had the call routed through his ear-clip to keep the conversations private.

‘Hey babe,' he sub-vocalised, his stomach twisted into knots.

‘So I get to see my man's face!' She looked at him, her expression hostile. ‘I see you're working hard, Louis. See you've got a good reason for not calling me.'

Cloud rubbed the smooth curves of his chin, ‘I'm working.' She gave him this bug-eyed ‘I-don't-believe-you-look' and flicked her eyes to one side as if looking at the café over his shoulder. ‘I'm working. A big one's come down and-'

The palm of her hand shot up, nearly blocking out the screen; she angled her head to the side, her lower lip curled out, petulant: ‘I don't want to hear that shit.' She lowered her hand. ‘They've got you working like a slave.'

‘Don't start with that!' he said with his anger rising, ‘I work hard because it gets me results.'

Claudine sneered, ‘You're above yourself. What? Are you ashamed to be black?'

‘It was a bad idea to call.' Cloud said as a statement.

‘You're just a slave to their society.'

Cloud's eyes narrowed, ‘You've said that before.' She had many times. He continued, ‘I am my own being, Claudine. Call me when you're ready to calm down.'

He cut the link.

 

6.

 

They sat in the Volvo. Dorgan had parked less than five minutes after leaving Barlow's house.

‘I say we shoot this prick for wasting our time.' Bateman had Hollis pressed up against the inside of the car with the Israeli hand cannon wedged against his cheek.

Hollis sat there trembling with his eyes closed, too afraid to move.

Gardiner sat next to Bateman, he slapped Hollis across the head; ‘How the fuck could you set this up?'

‘Go ahead,' Cage sneered from where he sat in the front seat, ‘Blow a fucking hole through his head and the window and cover us and everything else in blood.'

‘Not here, man,' Bateman said, ‘There's some woods down there, down beneath that bridge. Take him down there and do it quietly. Gardiner, you still carry that knife?'

Gardiner nodded, ‘Yeah I've got it.' He used his palm and thumped Hollis's head back against the window. Hollis opened his eyes in shock; he looked at everyone in the car and whimpered.

Cage glared at Hollis, ‘I agree somebody should teach the stupid fuck a lesson.'

Hollis started to speak, ‘This wasn't my fault-'

Cage reached over and smacked Hollis so hard his head hit the window again. Hollis yelped.

‘Fuck teaching him a lesson,' Gardiner said angrily, ‘I was relying on this money and now I'm fucking down on the cost of the vans and everything!'

‘Exactly,' Bateman said, ‘We've all been fucked. I want some fucking compensation.'

‘I agree,' Cage said, ‘But killing him won't solve anything.'

Bateman looked at Cage with contempt, ‘What you're on his side?'

‘The rubies were-' Hollis tried to explain; Gardiner punched him in the face.

Hollis started sobbing.

‘Fucking pussy,' Gardiner sneered.

‘Please don't kill me!' Hollis whimpered.

Bateman smacked the bridge of Hollis's nose with the gun; Hollis screamed.

‘You fucked up you prick, your information,' Bateman suddenly got angrier, ‘Your fucking information was worth jack! Cage killed somebody because of you. We could all go to the slammer for this.'

‘You could have gone to jail anyway,' Hollis protested, sputtering blood that was running into his mouth from his nose. ‘That's the risk.' He looked at Cage for support; Cage looked away in disgust.

Bateman shoved the gun even harder into Hollis's temple, forcing Hollis down, making him slide off the seat and onto the floor on his knees. Outside the car a passing group of people turned their heads at the noise.

‘Damn it,' Dorgan snapped, ‘You've just got this car noticed.' She punched in the access code and thumbed the ignition.

‘Where are we going?' Bateman demanded.

Dorgan did not answer; she started to drive.

Gardiner leaned closer to Cage, ‘My vote is we kill this cocksucker then get a second opinion on the rubies.'

‘You're clutching at straws,' Cage told him, ‘Barlow wasn't lying. He wanted nothing more than those things to be real.'

Dorgan pulled over and cut the engine. She swung round in her seat to face Hollis. ‘You said the rubies came down from orbit, you said your contact worked in customs, saw the rubies, passed on the details to you.'

Hollis looked up at her, wide eyed and shaking, ‘Y-yeah.'

Dorgan looked at the others, ‘That's the man we need to go after.'

‘Fuck that,' Gardiner shouted, then pointed at Hollis, ‘This is the man we need to go after.'

Dorgan did her best to control her anger, ‘Whatever we've got, they're not rubies.'

‘Yeah they should be rubies,' Bateman shouted.

‘That's my point,' Dorgan said with irritation, ‘They look like rubies, so maybe that's the mistake that's been made. Hollis, you said the customs guy only got a look at them, right?'

Hollis spat blood, ‘Yeah.'

‘So we're fucked!' Gardiner exclaimed and slammed his body back into the seat.

Dorgan continued, ‘They're not rubies, but they were being carried by a courier who had armed protection so they've got to be worth something to somebody. Right?'

Bateman was nodding slowly.

Dorgan looked at Hollis, ‘This customs guy, he's expecting a cut.'

‘Yeah, I was meant to be meeting him in five days.'

‘Where?' Dorgan pressured.

‘New Tokyo.'

Dorgan looked at Cage, ‘I'm going to meet him.' She looked at Bateman, then Gardiner, ‘Anyone object?'

‘Fuck no, man,' Bateman was enthused by the idea.

‘I've got no problem just so long as you don't expect me not to gut this prick if it turns out all we've got is a case full of fucking fakes,' Gardiner said glaring at Hollis.

‘What's this guy's name?' Dorgan asked Hollis.

Hollis was about to answer, then clammed up. He seemed terrified by his own thoughts.

‘Come on Hollis!' Bateman growled, nudging him under the chin with the gun.

‘What, so you can just kill me? No! I want some assurances.'

Bateman sighed, put away the gun. He pushed himself back across the seat, away from Hollis, then leaned forward and heaved Hollis back up from the floor, ‘No one's going to kill you man. I like you. I would never kill you.'

Hollis gave him a look that said there was no way he was going to believe anything that Bateman ever said again.

‘Hollis.' Dorgan spoke softly, ‘Give me his name and I'll turn this around.'

Hollis looked her in the eyes. Begrudgingly he told her, ‘K, M, Jones. That's his name. Jones.'

 

7.

 

Dorgan took a flight direct from Bristol to Paris; she had ditched the Volvo on a patch of wasteland on Clifton Downs, DNA prints removed with half a kilo of C-6 incendiary high explosive. Gardiner had spotted the police alert for the Volvo on his laptop.

From Paris she flew to Clermont Ferrand and rented an Audi. Cage, Bateman, Gardiner and Hollis agreed to lie low until they heard from her. She had the courier case.

The sun was just past noon beating down a light that made the colours of the countryside stand out crisp and bright. The window was down, the turbulent airflow refreshing and kept her alert; she had barely slept since the robbery.

It was a forty-five minute drive to Vollore-Ville, the village where Philippe lived. She needed to see him. They had been lovers once, a long time ago. Now she needed his particular sphere of experience, information from his web of contacts, before she made the trip to New Tokyo. This custom's official, Jones, would be expecting Hollis and some money, she wanted to find any angle she could use to put pressure on him; she wanted Jones to find out what the courier had been carrying.

Dorgan allowed herself to relax; the muscles around her eyes eased their perpetual tension, the peripheral flicker of passing scenery drew her thoughts back through her life. These were the immaculately swept boulevards of memory that expanded with every re-construction of each new event. She came here often. Always reviewing the unfinished quarters and the dead ends of unknown conclusions. What would have happened if I'd made this choice? If I'd taken a different route? Dorgan never regretted the decisions she made, she only pondered the alternatives. The architecture of her life had evolved through a dramatic fusion of disparate cultures and class; from abandonment and poverty to the power and cruelty of wealth.

Born Natalya Dorganskya in the port of Vladivostok, less than a hundred kilometres East of the Chinese border and just across the Sea of Japan from the Island of Honshu. Her mother, a Mongolian woman, abandoned Dorgan at the age of four. The orphanage had lacked the funds for adequate heating. Dorgan could still recall the vivid memories of two bitter winters, gazing through the small window in her dormitory, watching steam pour from the smokestacks as the wind blew in from Siberia, huddled close to other children to prevent the intense cold from killing; of watching brief friends carried pale and dead, and thinking how peaceful they looked as if, perhaps, freezing was a pleasurable way to die.

Then had come her saviour. A man of the same coloured skin crouching down before her, descending to her level, soft blue eyes and a dazzling pearl tooth smile, a voice as deep and mesmerising as the ocean. He had smelled the way she had always imagined heaven to smell. Heaven had seemed like a real place then, in that moment, when the orphanage told her she was going to leave with him; he had been wearing robes of fine white material so sort of looked like an angel, or a monk, with his head shorn close to the skull and his delicate Afro-European features. She thought he was taking her to heaven, and in comparison to what her life had known up to that point the idea was not far from the truth. Tye Brody had been looking for a daughter to complete his childless marriage. He had found one.

Tye Brody, if not the most successful actor within the previous three decades, then certainly the most notorious of his time. Three decades of continuous fame. Quite an achievement in an era renowned for producing nothing but seasonal pin-ups that came and went with the flavour of super-star ice pops. A change in taste and a career was sunk, washed over by the next sugar candy coating. Three decades of being a name that could catch the attention of anyone. Not bad for a man who was now dead. Dorgan often wondered if his death and the uniquely tragic set of circumstances surrounding it perpetuated that fame? Like Elvis dying perched over a pile of shit and vomit with a hamburger stuffed in his paw, Tye Brody's death sealed the word `Cult' on his status. Although no one doubted Tye Brody was dead.

Dorgan rubbed her eyes, itchy from tiredness.

What a fuck up! She brought her thoughts back to the present. Here she was, on the start of a long journey to New Tokyo that might return no results. Thankfully she was not desperate for the money. All that effort, all that risk, for a case full of nothing worth to nobody except the person they were meant for.

Trust Hollis, she thought; no, don't trust Hollis.

She sighed loudly, thumped her hand off the steering wheel; the action brought her attention to the twin sockets in her wrist. Her eyes dwelled on them for a moment then went back to the road. Her mind turned inwards.

Tye Brody and his wife, Vanessa, had been struggling to survive as actors in a cynical, over-saturated industry, getting by on low-quality serials and advertising commercials. They had considered themselves fortunate. At least they had work. Tye Brody had been a formidable man, had never settled for one iota less than the total accomplishment of any ambition. With tireless effort and irresistible charisma Tye cajoled his way into the limelight, landing himself a role co-starring alongside Gary Oldman in a film that rapidly became an internationally acclaimed classic. La Nuit Desòlée. He was thirty.

A new trend in the movie-making industry was the use of the digital techniques to place actors in scenes that were dangerous or difficult to film. Tye Brody took this trend and made it into an art form – for himself. He took film after film into stratospheric heights of success. Moviemakers began clamouring for what Tye Brody could offer: people wanted to watch him, even though they knew he was not even really there. He built an empire out of his own image and voice, yet barely acted a scene.

Tye and Vanessa moved out of their one room dive above an all-night Pizzeria and rented an apartment in central Los Angeles; and Tye bought a daughter. This was not a stunt void of compassion for the PR Department; Vanessa was physiologically incapable of bearing a child. Also Tye wanted a daughter. What Tye wanted, he invariably got. A very specific type of daughter; a jewel for his eye to behold; something he could pour himself into like any loving father: a vessel for his ego.

Dorgan swung the Audi onto the hard shoulder chewing up dirt and bits of roadside debris as she stamped the brakes. Emotions were cramming up behind her eyes and wanted to cry and scream out the pain she carried inside. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands she made animalistic sounds, gritting her teeth and narrowing her eyes until the tears went away.

After a while she bowed her head and closed her eyes.

The village was another thirty kilometres away.

She looked up and stared out at the countryside around her. To either side were flat fields of wheat. On her left was the village of Ravel, and higher up, overlooking and dominating the scene, was a medieval castle; huge cylindrical towers jutting up from the rich woodland that covered the hill.

Dorgan sniffed, blinked, wiped her palms and fingers across her face, smearing away stray tears; she checked the traffic, took a deep breath, saw a space, then pulled out and resumed her journey, and her thoughts.

Tye Brody's marriage to Vanessa soured rapidly.

Vanessa was left alone to look after Dorgan whilst Tye played publicity events across the globe; rumours of his endless infidelities percolating down to her like a bitter slow-killing poison. She sank into alcoholism. She started having her own affairs, yet she lacked the discretion of her husband and they became luridly publicised, creating further embarrassment on top of the drunken stupors that always had her ear-marked by the media at parties. She took out her aggression on Dorgan.

The scandals, the cruel mind-games, the personality shifts, the emotional torture, all these taught Dorgan to hate her adopted mother.

At every available chance, when schooling permitted, Dorgan would fly by Lear-jet to join her father wherever he was in the world; usually wherever one of his films was being promoted. She met famous people, she met powerful people, film stars, entrepreneurs, world leaders, they treated her like a princess; but more importantly her father loved her. Her father worked hard; he had to work hard because his wealth did not match his vast popularity. He cultivated every contact, he charmed, he flattered, and he spent money, lots of money. Yet despite the workload, he always found time to spend with her.

It seemed he did not care about his estranged wife's infidelities. The marriage dragged on until Dorgan was eighteen. By that time her father had already shifted his residence to Lausanne, Switzerland, and was living with another woman: her name was Dana Rotherscholm and she was royalty, or as good as.

That was when Dorgan began to notice changes in him.

Tye and Dana became Monsieur and Madame, and a new protocol began to emerge. Meals became more formal. Dorgan's visits now had to be scheduled in between other visitors. Fine etiquette seemed proof of the integrity of any houseguest, and certain kinds of wealth were accepted as direct evidence of character, especially ‘Old' money.

Tye divorced Vanessa, the woman who had been biologically unable to bear his children; a year later his first blood-daughter was born: Katterina.

Tye was forty-two and had enjoyed fourteen years of glory. Then came his first flop. What else could it be? Tye could never do something that was just mediocre. In the grand tradition of the man even the scale of his failure was formidable. Of course after so long waiting, the jackals were ready to pounce. The critics and the rivals; to them Tye was an aberration, a false-god, a puppet to industry advertising. They wanted to end his domain, smash away his pedestal and show the people that this `god' was mortal.

It was like watching a swarm of angry hornets trying to bring down King Kong. Noisy, painful and scary to watch but ultimately Tye swatted each one of them. Yet damage was done.

Once again as in the old days, Tye Brody found himself fighting to be listened to. For a few nerve-wracking weeks it seemed that his entire reputation had been shattered by one bad movie: the offers stopped coming in overnight.

Prior to the calamity Tye had signed a lengthy lease on a nineteenth century landmark on the shore of Lac Léman, a formal, very imposing structure in stone, with three stories, including the servants quarters and servants outbuildings. It was a huge place to run, with gardeners and groundskeepers, maids, a chef, the chauffeur and his wife, a valet and secretary; it was costing him over a million Euros a year just to maintain his residence. The pressure on Tye during those weeks and for months afterwards was immense.

Dorgan suddenly found herself the brunt of her father's aggression. Perhaps it was her age, she was approaching adulthood; or maybe it was because Tye now had a real daughter to cherish. The impact on Dorgan was character shattering; here was her god rejecting her.

She had always skimmed the seedy side of life in the Industry: drug taking, petty crime and turbulent relationships with scandalous personalities, the media had documented it all. Her father's personal attacks pushed her over some inner line. Dorgan dropped bodily into the churning currents of the underworld. The parties were now at places where people got stabbed in the toilets; where the drugs were not a risky novelty or an amphetamine crutch for shallow egos; where unaccompanied strangers would disappear: raped, mutilated or murdered. The big cities she had visited as a princess all had their fringes full of violent gangs and social rejects. Dorgan found she had the hard edge to survive this environment.

The skills and implants her father had paid for were turned to crime. She stole aerodynes, she flew them in illegal races where she would lose them or win and sell what was gained.

Dorgan set her course for total burn out: she became dependant on a synthesised drug called Pentathene IV, known on the street as Penthouse due to its cost and typical class of user. It was a physiological addiction with the conclusive side effect of eroding her synaptic network. She literally fried her nervous system. Flying the aerodynes through the neural interfaces in her wrists became like running too much voltage through a frayed fuse wire. In an ordinary world Dorgan would have spent the remainder of her life as a cripple, confined to a hover-chair with a mini-sewage treatment system strapped to her underside. Dorgan's world was far from ordinary and when she finally collapsed into a coma, her father had her flown to a clinic in Singapore. There began the tortuous and astronomically expensive process of recovery. The medical technicians injected her with `programmed' cell-composites grown from DNA samples; they literally regenerated a new nervous tissue within her, nurturing it like a delicate vine growing through a fleshy substructure.

It was the final act of love he would ever commit to.

Dorgan focussed on the traffic ahead of her; the Audi bumped and shook over the small road leading into the village. She left her thoughts of her father for another time.

Vollore-Ville was a small village. A collection of modest houses set on a gentle rise, surrounded by open fields and clumps of woodland. There was a Chateau there, the Romanesque keep of an old fortress built in the XIIth century by the ancient Vollore family; it always reminded her of her father's chateau by the shore of Lac Léman, although this was centuries older and carried far more culture.

Dorgan passed through the village and swung the Audi up onto the narrow road that would take her close to the base of the vast grey mountains that dominated the skyline ahead.

It took less than ten minutes to reach the gravel road that led to Philippe's place.

The house was pastoral; two stories of old stone and timber covered in climbing vines. The windows were very small and Dorgan remembered how it always seemed to be perpetually like dusk inside.

Philippe was standing there waiting for her. His arms were folded confidently across his chest; he still had that navy-blue sea sweater.

Bastard, Dorgan thought, he probably wore it today on purpose; he must have saved it for a day like today. She felt herself slip into the overwhelming warmth of fond memories; realising, as she pulled the car off the road, that she was smiling with tight, trembling lips.

She had forgotten how French he looked. Of all the European nationalities, French was the most obvious in appearance. His hair was a dark chestnut brown, long and naturally wavy, pulled back into an unruly ponytail with rogue strands hanging down to border his unshaven face. His eyes were sumptuous orbs of rich mahogany above broad lips that were for now, smiling. He stepped forward and opened the car door.

‘Natalya, ça faisait si longtemps! Tu es toujours aussi belle.'

He had told her she was still beautiful after such a long time. Her reply was warm and relaxed, ‘Et toi, toujours aussi charmeur.' She told him he was still a charmer.

His smile broadened. He reached in and popped the lock for the rear door. His scent rolled in on a current of body heat. The same smell she had drowned in those years ago, hugging that same sweater, wanting to cry but feeling nothing, only the cold logic of knowing what she was doing back then, walking away, was right.

She had walked away. She had left him, her perfect lover and friend; and the only reason she could think of was the need to feel free. Her happiness had become a suffocating trap. All the lonely days she had spent missing him, tormented by the desire to pick up a phone and call him yet fearing to do so in case the act of making contact dragged her back to where she had started, in love with him.

So here he was, one arm resting on the frame of the open door, standing over her and beaming with the sort of happiness that has been brewing for years and never gone bad.

‘What am I doing here?' Dorgan looked up at him quizzically.

Philippe gave a slow lop-sided shrug, it appeared he was amused by the situation. He licked his lips as he prepared his answer. ‘Maybe,' his English was laced with a heavy accent, ‘I think you have missed the French countryside.'

Dorgan gave a ponderous nod, ‘So I'm not here to see you?'

‘No.' He grinned wryly.

Dorgan climbed out from the car and stood up in front of him. They were very close. He did not step back, he did not try to give her more room. She looked at him, and he read her need for distance in her narrow eyes. Smiling, he nodded slowly and took a step away.

 

 

 

‘So what do you think they are?' Philippe referred to the mound of red crystals lying on the grey foam bed of the courier case.

‘I really don't know,' Dorgan replied, gazing pensively at the case where it lay open on the wooden table in Philippe's kitchen.

Philippe pulled two small white ceramic cups from the Braun espresso—maker and handed one to Dorgan who was sitting on a high stool beside where he stood. The kitchen was cluttered with hanging brass-bottomed pans and earthenware jars with cork stoppers.

Dorgan lifted the cup to her lips, blew and sipped. She did not take her eyes from the case; she could feel Philippe watching her.

‘So how do you think I can help?' he asked; ‘Why do you think I would help you?'

Dorgan wanted the case to disappear. She wanted to be here without the need to think about the case. She wanted to lose herself in Philippe's low murmuring voice with its exquisite accent, she wanted to take his hand and lead him upstairs. She turned her head and looked at him, ‘Because you still love me.'

Philippe blew out through puffed-cheeks, stepped back and half-turned away rubbing a hand across the stubble of his jaw.

‘You left me,' he said neutrally; ‘You walked away from me, and for no reason.'

Dorgan looked down at the thick black liquid in her cup. ‘You were suffocating me. I felt as if I was losing myself. I would have lost myself, if I'd stayed.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘It would have died if I had stayed,' she reaffirmed then spoke without recrimination, ‘It was always about what you wanted Philippe. You were happy. That's all that mattered.'

Philippe shook his head. ‘I was happy but I was sad too. I also lost myself. I started to lose my confidence. I hated your friends because they always acted so superior. I was convinced you were seeing someone else and it tore my character apart.'

‘I was,' she reminded him.

‘I know,' he said then stopped, caught on a breath, ‘But that didn't matter.'

Dorgan sat up straighter, ‘How can you say that? If me fucking out on you didn't matter how can you say you loved me?'

Philippe shrugged, ‘How could you say you loved me whilst you were seeing another?'

‘Maybe I didn't love you. Maybe I just thought I did. Maybe I just wanted to have my cake and eat it.'

‘Then why are you here?' There was an edge of anxiety in his voice, a tangible frustration as if the reality of their encounter was not matching his expectations.

‘Because I need your help.' Dorgan climbed down from the stool, walked over and placed her hands on the open case. ‘I've lost out big time here.'

Philippe kept the conversation on his own track, ‘I have slept with women far more attractive than you.'

Dorgan turned round slowly, ‘Thanks a lot, you shit.'

‘None of them have ever compared to you,' he said passionately. Dorgan walked back over to the stool and sat down, shaking her head. ‘They meant nothing to me. Because I did not love them the way I loved you.'

‘Stop it,' Dorgan said.

‘The way I love you,' he said then paused; ‘I love you.'

Dorgan made an incredulous sound, ‘How can you say that?'

‘How can I not say it when it is what I feel? When my heart is screaming the words.' He stepped forward, his arms hanging down but parted slightly, ready to embrace her if she reciprocated the signal. Dorgan knew she could not reveal the slightest glimpse of how much she felt for him. She shook her head again; she looked him straight in the eyes.

Philippe seemed to be suddenly struck by the reality of the situation. His gaze dropped to the floor, embarrassed. Dorgan felt terrible. She reached out to touch him but pulled back. Philippe moved his head slowly from side to side and studied both his hands. He sighed heavily, then looked up at her with a brave face, ‘I am sorry. I wanted....'

Dorgan put a finger to her lips; when she saw he was ready to listen she said, ‘You've got nothing to be sorry about.'

They studied each other for a moment.

Philippe shrugged, stepped away, moved over to the case and patted it, ‘So! We must discover if these are worth anything!'

Dorgan knocked back her expresso in one movement, twisted round and put the cup down on a chopping board. She climbed down from the stool and explained, ‘I've told you all I know. Can you find out from Akinola-Odusola or Rollello who these were being delivered to?'

Philippe stepped past her, smiling smugly. He picked up her empty cup from the chopping board and used the palm of his hand to wipe away the faint circular stain of coffee left behind. ‘I can try.' He placed the cup in the sink along with his own. ‘Is there anything else?'

‘Yes,' Dorgan admitted and ruefully rubbed her short hair, ‘Is it okay for me to stay here for a couple of days?'

Philippe turned round and wiped his hands together. His face beamed with pleasure, ‘Of course.'

 

 

END OF EXCERPT

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