House of Dust (16 page)

“Nox?” I said, chewing my lip. “Nox means ‘night' in Latin, doesn't it?” I glanced round at the Mist and registered the release of tension in the skin of her heavy face.

I held my peace and let her imagine that I didn't have any other ideas about the significance of those three letters.

“It's a miracle.”

I was standing in the corridor outside the operating theatre. “There's no serious damage?” I said in disbelief.

The surgeon shook his head. “The shard of metal entered about half an inch beneath the eye. There's some damage to the cornea from smaller fragments, but I don't expect any sight impairment. As I said, it's a miracle.”

“I won't tell the Council you described the injury in that way.” I smiled at the wizened medic. He was an auxiliary and auxiliaries have to swear an oath of atheism. Belief in miracles didn't exactly comply with that, though it was fair to say that Edinburgh needed a miracle to save it from the youth gangs – and from the current Council. “So she'll be up and about soon, will she?”

The surgeon nodded. “You know the guardian, citizen. She'll need a day or two to get over the immediate effects of the trauma, but I won't be trying to keep her on her back for long.” He was too old and straight for innuendo, otherwise I'd have wondered if he had a fancy for his directorate chief.

“You'll arrange for her to see her daughter when she comes round,” I said.

He nodded. “The nursing auxiliaries have that under control. Goodbye, Citizen Dalrymple.” He turned to go then spun back to me. “Get whoever's behind this,” he said, his breath on my face. “People can't be allowed to shoot at guardians.” He stepped back, his head twitching. “What's the city coming to?”

I'd asked myself the question often enough in recent years, but I didn't have an answer to give him.

“Dalrymple?” The voice emanating from my mobile was a combination of sharp and oily.

“The same.” I wasn't going to give the senior guardian the satisfaction of acknowledging his rank.

“You know who this is,” he said, refusing to play the game. “Where are you?”

“On my way out of the infirmary. I've just been checking on the medical guardian.” I paused for a moment. “Are you interested in your colleague's condition at all?”

“I know how the medical guardian is, Dalrymple. It's not your job to tell me. Why aren't you looking for Lewis Hamilton's killer?”

“What makes you think I'm not?” I walked into the courtyard and towards the Land-Rover containing Davie.

The senior guardian gave that a couple of seconds' thought. “I want you in my office at six o'clock. I've called an emergency Council meeting for seven and I want you to brief Administrator Raphael and her party before it. Out.”

There wasn't much of the afternoon left. I didn't intend waiting till six to see the Oxford delegation.

“Where's the Mist?” I asked.

Davie pulled on to Lauriston Road and headed for the castle. “Gone off to see the senior guardian, she said.” He turned and grinned at me. “Not planning on following her, are you?”

I shook my head. “Act your age, big man. Can you check out the command centre for any surveillance shots they might have overlooked – anything from yesterday evening to the opening ceremony?” I glanced at him. “Especially in the vicinity of the Skin Zone.”

He nodded. “Okay, but I'll be surprised if they've missed anything. They're very careful with those new machines.” He peered ahead as we approached the Museum of Edinburgh. “Christ, look at those idiots,” he said, stopping at a pedestrian crossing.

A male-female couple dressed in silver suits passed in front of us: silver suits as in single-breasted lounge suits made of silver material, not spacemen outfits.

“Pilots,” I said. “From that Oxford contraption. I wouldn't fancy going up in that, my friend.”

Davie laughed. “Chicken. I'd love it. I've never been in an aircraft.” He'd been a kid in the years leading up to independence, when the first drugs gangs started taking out civilian planes with black-market Russian missiles and the travel industry took a major nosedive.

“Believe me, it's nothing to write home about,” I said, recalling sweaty trips with my classicist parents to archaeological sites in Italy and Greece when I was a kid. “The pilots were pissed half the time. Then there were the poisonous food and drink that they had the nerve to make you pay for, the stewardesses with stiletto eyes and the overflowing bogs. Forget it.”

“You mean they have toilets on board planes?” Davie said slowly.

“Of course they . . .” I caught the creasing of his eyes. “Screw you, pal. Where did you learn to be such a smartarse?”

“University of New Oxford correspondence course,” he said, glancing at me as he swerved on to the Royal Mile. “If I'm checking the surveillance, what are you doing, Quint?”

“So suspicious,” I mocked. Then I remembered what I was planning and got serious. “I'm going to pay Administrator Raphael a surprise visit.”

“Oh aye?” Davie raised an eyebrow. “Take a look in her bath before you get stuck into high tea.”

The look I gave him got lost in the gloom between the narrow buildings on Castlehill.

I asked the senior of the three guards on the door to the VIP accommodation in Ramsay Garden if the Oxford group were in situ.

“Aye, Citizen Dalrymple, they're all up there,” he replied, his expression as impassive as a statue's.

To keep Slick and the Mist off my back, I had a simple choice. I could either act the tough guy and wave my authorisation at the guard squad leader: it guaranteed me co-operation without approval from guardians, but that didn't mean guardians weren't to be advised if I appeared at a secure location; or I could appeal to the auxiliary's sense of irony: though that had its own risks. I made up my mind and noted his barracks number.

“Could you help me out, do you think, Scott 247?” I moved closer. “Only, the Mist seems to have developed a worrying interest in my groin.”

The squad leader's face remained set in stone for a long time, then he gave me a thin smile. “Bad luck, citizen. I've heard she's a real ballbreaker.”

“What a surprise,” I said in an undertone. “So can you let me know if she shows up?”

He nodded. It looked like Scott 247 was no more of a fan of the acting public order guardian than I was. I reckoned I'd bought myself at least half an hour.

Inside I felt my boots sink into the thick pile carpet and breathed in the inert atmosphere of opulence. The corridor leading to Administrator Raphael's apartment was dead quiet, as silent as a barracks hall during morning inspection. I disturbed the serenity with a series of raps on the thick door panel.

For what seemed like a long time nothing happened. Then the door was opened, not more than a couple of fingers' width.

“Yes?” came a fierce voice. “Who is it?”

I put my eye up to the gap and clocked Doctor Verzeni. “Relax,” I said, taking in the sweat on his face. “It's me, Dalrymple.”

“What do you want?” he demanded, his tone no less hostile.

“I want to speak to the administrator, please,” I said evenly. “There have been developments in my investigation.”

The academic stared at me. “Wait.”

The door closed and I stood picking my nails, wondering if Raphael was calling the senior guardian for confirmation. Fortunately the chain rattled before she could have managed that.

“Citizen Dalrymple.” This time the administrator herself was at the door, her eyes glinting under the artificial light and her tall form bending towards me. “What a pleasant surprise. Come in.” The woman's aura – controlled but curiously seductive – began to work on me immediately. There was something odd about her, but I wasn't about to try putting my finger on it.

I followed her into the plush room. Verzeni, Yamaguchi and Raskolnikov were seated at the dining table, their heads bowed. At first I thought it was some kind of weird ritual; then I noticed they had their miniature computers on the surface, their fingers running over the tiny keys.

“Sit down, citizen,” said Raphael, lowering her frame gracefully into an armchair.

“Call me Quint.” I paused for a moment to show that I didn't jump to her every command then sat down on the Walter Scott sofa, sinking into
The Black Dwarf
.

The administrator ignored my attempt at informality. “My colleague mentioned developments,” she said with what sounded to me like a fair amount of eagerness. “What are they?”

I raised my hand. “Wait a minute. First tell me what you've heard in the last hour or so.” I wanted to find out how closely she was being kept in touch by the Edinburgh authorities – i.e. Slick. Setting up an exchange of information at least gave me a chance of getting under her guard.

She looked at me steadily then nodded. “I was told by the senior guardian that his medical colleague was injured when the bullet taken from Lewis Hamilton exploded.” Her eyes were still on me. “Exploded? Is that correct?”

I got the impression that the projectile was much more interesting to her than the state of Sophia's health. “The medical guardian was lucky. Her eyes escaped serious injury and she's not in danger.”

Administrator Raphael's breath was expelled slowly, making an extenuated hissing noise. “Yes, I understand that, citizen. I asked about the bullet. Did it really explode?”

I felt my heartbeat speed up. Like a fisherman in a deep fjord, I'd got the faint tug that told me I'd hooked something big. “Oh yes, administrator, it exploded all right. I was about a yard away at the time.”

“I see you escaped injury as well,” she said lightly. “So the bullet was destroyed, was it?”

I leaned forward. “No. Not as destroyed as it might have been.” I gave her a tight smile. “Back to the drawing board for whoever inserted the anti-tamper mechanism, I'd say.”

Raphael's breathing remained steady but her eyes were locked on mine. “What have you found, Citizen Dalrymple? I can see you're bursting to tell me.”

“You're right,” I said, nodding. “I am. Administrator Raphael, can you tell me how a bullet made in New Oxford ended up being fired into an Edinburgh guardian?”

Now the apartment was as silent as a cemetery at midnight.

While the three academics were making their way towards us in response to the administrator's command, I feigned indifference and looked out of the leaded windows. To the north-west the city was shrouded in low cloud, the lights of the luxury hotel at the end of Princes Street glowing like a convention of will-o'-the-wisps.

“The citizen has made a very interesting discovery,” Raphael said, eyeing her acolytes impassively. She gave them no encouragement to sit down. “He thinks the bullet taken from the public order guardian's body came from our home state.”

Raskolnikov gave me a smouldering glare, while Professor Yamaguchi let out a string of high-pitched laughs – until he saw Raphael's expression. Verzeni was the only one who seemed capable of speech.

“What do you base this . . . this position on, Citizen Dalrymple?” the Italian asked in a low voice.

I smiled at him; he was hunched up like a cobra about to strike. “Can I have a look at your nostrum, doctor?” I asked.

He glanced at the administrator then handed over the small metallic device.

The screen was blank. “Turn it on, please,” I said.

Verzeni spoke a few words in his native tongue. The grey panel lit up immediately and several rows of letters appeared. Most were blue, but it was the red ones at the top that I was after: I'd noticed them when I'd first seen Raphael's nostrum.

I spelled out the letters. “N . . . O . . . X.” I looked round at the delegation. “Am I right in thinking that's an abbreviation of New Oxford?”

“No, citizen,” the administrator replied, a thin smile flickering briefly on her lips. “But you're on the right lines. It's actually an abbreviation of Nova Oxonia.”

“Pardon my Latin,” I muttered. “What is it? A trademark?”

“Something like that,” Raphael said. “Am I to infer that you found the mark on the bullet? You said it was destroyed.

I took in the three academics before I answered. Raskolnikov was still glowering at me, his brow furrowed. Yamaguchi, his head bowed over the sofa, seemed to have acquired a major interest in upholstery. Again, it was only Verzeni who was inclined to talk.

“Yes, citizen,” he said quietly, “surely the bullet was destroyed when you tried to take it apart.”

This was getting interesting. Raphael and her team seemed to have made the assumption that the bullet had disintegrated, which suggested that they knew exactly what its capabilities were. I suddenly wished that I'd brought Davie along as back-up. It looked like I'd have to proceed with extreme caution.

“The bullet blew up into a lot of very small pieces,” I confirmed. That didn't make them look much more cheerful. “However, two larger fragments were found. One ended up—”

“In the medical guardian's face.” Raphael completed my sentence with unusual impatience, her serene expression absent for a few seconds. “There was another?”

I nodded, watching as Yamaguchi looked up and gave the administrator a wide-eyed stare. “There was indeed. And on it were the letters—”

“N . . . O . . . X.” This time it was the Japanese who supplied the conclusion.

“So what's going on?” I demanded, dispensing with caution. I'd had a sudden flash of the damage to Sophia's face and her desperation as she said her daughter's name. “Did you bring a gunman with you on that flashy helijet, Raphael?”

Raskolnikov stepped forward, his fists clenched. Although he was a lot older and skinnier than me, I still felt a tremor of concern.