Market Forces (28 page)

No point.

He circled the wreck warily, Nemex held low in both hands, as Mike had shown him. He blinked rain out of his eyes.

The other driver had the door open, but it looked as if the whole engine compartment had shifted backward with the impact and the steering column had him pinned back in the seat. He was young. Not out of his teens, by the look of it. The unhealthy pallor of his skin suggested the zones. Chris stared at him, Nemex down.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing back there?”

The kid’s face twisted. “Hey,
fuck
you.”

“Yeah?” The anger came gushing up, the memory of the attack suddenly there. He sniffed the air and caught the scent of gasoline under the rain. “You got a cracked fuel feed there, son. You want me to
fucking light you, you little shit
?”

The bravado crumpled. Fear smeared the kid’s eyes wide. Chris felt a sudden flush of shame. This was some carjacker barely out of diapers, some joyrider who

just happened to jack an unnumbered crash wagon? Some joyrider who just happened to be cruising a motorway ramp an hour out of town? Who decided to take on an obvious corporate custom job whose proximity alarm
just happened
to fail? Yeah,
right.

Chris wiped rain from his face, and tried to think through the adrenaline comedown and the drenching he was getting.

“Who sent you?”

The kid set his mouth in a sullen line. Chris lost his temper again. He took a step closer and ground the muzzle of the Nemex into the boy’s temple.

“I’m not fucking about here,” he yelled. “You tell me who you’re a
sicario
for, I might call the cutters for you. Otherwise, I’m going to splash your fucking head all over the upholstery.” He jabbed hard with the gun, and the kid yelped. “Now
who sent you
?”

“They told me—”

“Never mind what they told you.” Another muzzle jab. It drew blood. “I need a name, son, or you’re going to die. Right here, right now.”

The kid broke. A long shudder and suddenly leaking tears. Chris eased the pressure on the gun.

“A name. I’m listening.”

“They call him Fuktional, but—”

“Fuktional? He a zoner? A gangwit?” He jabbed the gun again, more gently. “Come on.”

The kid started to cry out loud. “He run the whole estate man, he’s going to—”

“Which estate?”

“Mandela. The crags.”

Southside. It was a start.

“Okay, now you’re going to tell me—”

“STAND AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE.” The sky filled with the metal voice. “YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED ON THIS STRETCH. STAND AWAY.”

The Driver Control helicopter swung down from the embankment where the Saab had wound up and danced crabwise across the air to the median, ten meters up. Chris sighed and lifted his hands, Nemex held ostentatiously by the barrel.

“STAND ASIDE AND PLACE YOUR WEAPON ON THE GROUND.”

The kid was looking confused, not sure if he was off the hook yet. He couldn’t move enough to wipe the tears off his face, but there was an ugly confidence already surfacing in his eyes.

Well, whoever said a good driver had to be smart as well.

“I’ll be talking to you later,” Chris snapped, wondering how the hell he was going to ensure it happened. Estate ganglords had a nasty habit of disappearing their
sicarios
when they became a liability, and he didn’t have much faith in the regular police’s ability to keep undervalued zone criminals alive in custody. He’d have to call a contractor, get private security onto the cutting crew, and trace the kid to whatever charity cleanup shop they dumped him at. Then talk to Troy Morris about the southside gangs.

He backed off half a dozen steps, bent and placed the Nemex on the ground, then straightened up and spread his arms at the helicopter.

“RETURN TO YOUR VEHICLE AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.”

He went, arms still raised just in case.

He was about halfway back when the Gatlings cut loose.

The sound of whining, whirling steel and the shattering roar of the multiple barrels unloading. He hit the asphalt facedown a pair of seconds before the realization hit him, that they were not firing at him, could not be because he was still alive. He lifted his head a cautious fraction, craned it to look back.

The helicopter had sunk almost to asphalt level and swung around nose-to-nose with the wrecked car. Later he guessed the maneuver was intended to keep him out of the field of fire. The zone kid must have gotten it head-on, the full fury of the Gatling hail as it tore through the windshield and everything behind it.

The tank went up with a dull
crump.
Chris clamped his hands over his head, face to the road. An insanely calm part of him knew there wouldn’t be much shrapnel off a vehicle that armored, but you always had glass. He heard some of it hiss past.

The Gatlings shut off. In their place there was a greedy crackling as the fire took hold in the wreck. The departing throb of the helicopter. He lifted his head again, just in time to see it disappear over the embankment the way it had come. Flames curled from the strafed car, bright and cheery through the rain. Thinking about getting up, he heard a sudden ripple of explosions and flattened himself to the asphalt again. Slugs in the abandoned Nemex, he guessed, cooked to ignition point by the backwash of heat from the fire. He stayed down. The fucking Nemex. He found himself grinning.

Louise will be pleased.

Finally he judged it safe and picked himself up. He lifted his arms wide and stared down at himself. His shirt was sodden and grimed from contact with the road, but there was no blood that he could find. No pain but the faint sting of abrasions on his palms and a couple of numb spots on hip and knee. He couldn’t tell if he’d done any serious damage to the suit trousers, but he guessed they were as soiled as the shirt.

In the wreck, the rain was already beating out the flames.

T
HE INQUEST WAS
held, in stark corporate style, around a huge oval table in Notley’s penthouse conference room. Shorn had given the public sector three days—
overly generous in my opinion,
was Hewitt’s comment—and now it was smackdown time.

The conference room was an apt arena. The walls were full of violent commissioned art from the new brutalist school, solid blocks of primary color dumped amid vague scattered scrawls that might have been writing or crowds of tiny people. Obvious videoscan units gleamed beadily from the ceiling, but there was a standard forty-second delay on the recording system, and two Shorn lawyers sat in to make sure anything potentially awkward got stopped before it was halfway said. In the run-up, Chris and Mike both got repeated briefings from the legal team until they were coached almost to a line. Louise Hewitt and Philip Hamilton joined Notley to form an operational quorum, though everybody on the corporate side of the table knew no serious decisions would be taken at this particular meeting. This was noisemaking. Shorn was coiled up like a rattlesnake, signaling loud offense. Any genuine strike would come later, when no one was around to take notes.

Across the table from Chris sat the crew of the helicopter and the Driver Control duty officer from the day of the duel. They were recognizable by their suits—you could have bought any three of the outfits they wore for the price of Jack Notley’s shoes.

Between Notley and the duty officer sat the assistant commissioner of traffic enforcement and the district police superintendent for London South Nine. Holographically present at the opposite end of the table, the current minister for transport floated like an apologetic ghost.

“What remains most disturbing about this matter,” said Notley, as the recriminations began to run down, “is not the
type
of response elicited from Driver Control, but the rapidity of that response. Or should I say the
lack
of rapidity.”

The duty officer flinched, but stoically. He’d already had a pretty rough ride and was learning not to react. Any attempt at defense from the public sector players around the table had led to a shredding at the hands of the Shorn partners. Hewitt led, wet razor swift and slicing; Hamilton provided soft-spoken, insolent counterpoint; and Notley came in behind, picking up the points and swinging the mace of Shorn’s corporate clout. There wasn’t a person in the room, the minister included, whose job was secure if Notley decided the time had come to slop the coffee cup hard enough.

The assistant commissioner, nobly, essayed a rescue. She’d been working salvage throughout the meeting. “I think we’re agreed that the response team would have been scrambled earlier if Mister Bryant’s original emergency call had been supported by Mister Faulkner’s responses to radio communication. The recording shows—”

“The recording shows an angry executive, acting unwisely,” said Louise Hewitt, with a thin smile in Chris’s direction. “I think we can all understand how Chris Faulkner felt, but that does not mean he reacted correctly. He was, shall we say, overwrought. As duty officer, with the advantage of a detached view, it was your job to realize that and react accordingly.”

The duty officer met her gaze bravely. “Yes, I appreciate that. I should not have allowed an executive to override my professional instincts. I shall not let it happen again.”

“Good.” Hewitt nodded and scribbled on her display pad. “That’s noted, and appreciated. Superintendent Lahiri, can we go back to the matter of the criminal who, according to Chris Faulkner’s testimony, was responsible for hiring the
sicario.
”

The superintendent nodded. He was a wiry, tough-looking man in his fifties, an obvious holdover from the autonomous days. He had kept quiet for most of the proceedings and watched the interplay with shrewd attention. When he spoke, it was with the precision of a man who measured and cut his sentences before uttering them.

“Khalid Iarescu, yes. He has been arrested.”

“Has he confessed?”

Lahiri frowned. “He is a career criminal, Ms. Hewitt. Simply arresting him has caused serious injury to three of my men. We are unlikely to extract a confession.”

“Can’t we put pressure on his family?”

“Not without further large-scale incursions into the southside, and that I would not recommend. The populace is already stirred up more than we’d like. And Iarescu has unchallenged control of the Mandela estate, as well as agreements with the ganglords in neighboring areas. His immediate family are doubtless already well hidden and protected. And his lawyers are now attempting to have him released under the Citizen’s Charter.” Lahiri spread his hands. “I can have him charged with resisting arrest, maybe with one or two outstanding drug offenses, but beyond that, I am not hopeful. Even
within
that framework I am not hopeful that we can secure a conviction. Khalid Iarescu is a well-connected man.”

Bryant snorted. “He’s a fucking gangwit, is what he is.”

Notley cut him a sharp look. “The name, Superintendent. It’s what, Hungarian?”

“Romanian. That is, his father was a Romanian immigrant. His mother is Moroccan.”

“Can we threaten him with expulsion?” Notley had shifted focus. The question was addressed to the minister.

The holo shook its head regretfully.

“No, I’ve examined the files. Both parents were naturalized. He is, in technical terms, as English as you or I.”

Notley rolled his eyes.

Hamilton made a sleepy gesture. “Just a thought. The boy who actually stole the car. He had family?”

“Yes.” Lahiri looked down at his notes, did not look up again while he spoke. “The Goodwins. Mother and father, two brothers, and a sister. They’ve been evicted. As per policy.”

“Yes, good.” Hamilton reached for his glass of water and sipped at it. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance that this Iarescu will be seen to associate with them. Offer them succor, so to speak. Solidarity from the estate patriarch. The, uh,
big man
ethos.”

Lahiri shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that, sir, outside the movies. Iarescu is a
successful
criminal. He knows the ropes both within and without the zones. If anything, he will distance himself from the whole affair. In fact”—a hesitant look at Chris—”I’m afraid there really is nothing substantial to make the connection in the first place.”

Chris held down his temper. They’d been around this block before. “I told you what I heard, Superintendent. I didn’t imagine it. The boy named the estate, and Iarescu.”

“Yes, I understand that, sir. But you must see that this in itself is not evidence. No, please.” He raised a hand. “Hear me out. In gang culture, status is accorded by association. The boy may have believed that by naming a major player as his sponsor, he could protect himself.”

“Fascinating,” murmured Hamilton. “Almost talismanic, isn’t it. Almost tribal.”

Lahiri’s lip almost curled. “Moreover, the tag
Fuktional
is close to generic. In the southside zones alone, you have gang leaders styling themselves
Fuktion Red, Sataz Fuktion, Fuktyal, Fuktyal Bass.
The list goes on. Gang culture is mimetic, imaginative only within very limited given parameters. To my ears, what you heard has the ring of stock response.”

Chris shook his head.

“Do you have something fresh to add, Chris?” Louise Hewitt asked sweetly.

Silence. Some shuffling from the duty officer. The minister’s holo checked its watch, surreptitiously. Jack Notley uncapped an antique fountain pen with a loud snap.

“Well, then,” he said briskly. “If we can proceed to recommendations.”

“M
OTHERFUCKING WHITEWASH
bullshit.
” Chris wasn’t sure if Mike’s place was secure or not; pre-Vasvik, he’d never even have given it consideration. Now he just didn’t care. The long squeeze of keeping to the Shorn script had festered in him for too long. “Fucking lies and shit-mouthed expediency from end to motherfucking end.”

“You think so?”

Mike leaned across the kitchen table with the Rioja and topped up his glass. Behind the gesture he raised his brows at Suki, who shrugged and went on sculpting roses into the carrot sections on her cutting board.

Chris missed it. “Of course it was. Stock response, my fucking ass. That kid was hired by Iarescu to grease me, and someone hired Iarescu to get it done. Someone with money.”

Mike was silent.

Chris gestured with his wineglass. “You heard what Lahiri said. Iarescu’s connected, in the zones and out. This is corporate, Mike. This came down from on high.”

“Chris, you realize how paranoid you sound?”

“I was there, Mike. They blew that kid away to stop him talking.”

Bryant frowned and leaned back in his chair. “The report says he went for a weapon.”

“Oh, Mike.
He was pinned in the fucking wreckage.
” Chris caught Suki’s glance at the ceiling. She’d only put Ariana to bed an hour ago. He lowered his voice. “Sorry, Suki. I’m just. Upset.”

“We’re all upset, Chris.” Mike got up and prowled the kitchen. “Obviously. I mean, yeah, we can’t have just anybody on the roads, raging without authorization. The whole damn system’ll collapse.”

“That’s what I’m telling you, Mike. This
wasn’t
just anybody. This was allowed to happen. They didn’t scramble the heli until they knew I’d driven that little shit off the road. They did what they were told, and they
let it happen.
I mean, why’d you think no one got sacked? The heli crew, the duty officer—”

“Come on. They all got reprimands. It’ll go—”

“Reprimands?”

“—on their file. Christ, the duty officer got three months’ suspension without pay.”

“Yeah, and did you see how happy he was with that? He’ll be taken care of, Mike.”

“I think,” Bryant said somberly, “that he was happy because he still has a job to go back to. Notley could easily have kicked him into touch.”

“Exactly. So why didn’t he? Someone’s got dual control here, Mike, and you know it. Someone’s cranking Notley’s cable.”

This time Mike Bryant laughed out loud.

Suki frowned at him. “Michael, that’s not very nice. Chris is upset.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just the thought of someone cranking the cables on Jack Notley. I mean come on, Chris. You know the man. Suki, you’ve met him. He’s not exactly malleable.”

They both looked at Chris. He sighed.

“All right, maybe not Notley. Maybe not that high up. Maybe Hewitt, she’s never liked me. Or. Listen, maybe it’s as simple as Nick Makin looking for payback on that punch I landed.” This time he caught the exchange of glances between husband and wife. “All right, all right, I know. But I’m not paranoid, Mike. Someone tampered with my proximity alarm.”

“The report said it was the rain, Chris. You saw that crack.” Bryant turned to include Suki. “The mechanics at Driver Control found a leak in the access paneling on Chris’s security masterboard. It shorted out the whole alarm system.”

“Oh
bullshit,
Mike. Carla checks those panels every—” He gestured, suddenly unnerved by his lack of certainty. “I don’t know, every week, at least. She would have spotted it.”

He didn’t tell them that he’d had a screaming argument with Carla when the preliminary results of the Shorn investigation came in. That he’d jumped automatically toward blame and belief in what Mike obviously still believed, that Carla had missed the leak.

It had taken her more than an hour to talk him down.

I know what I’m fucking doing,
she told him grimly, when the fight had burned itself out.
If there was a crack in that paneling, someone fucking put it there, and not that long ago.

“Carla knows what she’s doing,” he said, staring into his wineglass.

Nobody answered him. The silence started to creak under its own weight. Chris stared at the tabletop, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound deranged.

“You really believe this, don’t you Chris,” said Suki. It didn’t come out as supportive as she was obviously trying to be.

Chris shook his head. “I don’t know what I believe. Look, Mike, is it possible this is something to do with the NAME contracts? Somebody outside Shorn, I mean. Maybe I was tagged getting in and out of Panama.”

Bryant gestured. “You said you were careful.”

“I was. But something is going down, Mike. I can feel it.”

Sure something’s going down. You’re about to sell out your colleagues for a public sector sinecure with the bleeding-heart UN leech gang. That’s what’s going down, Chris.

And maybe someone knows that.

The paranoia made icy tracks down his spine.

“Okay.” Mike sat down again. He steepled his fingers on the table. “Tell you what. We’ll look into it. Unofficially, I mean. I’ll talk to Troy, get him to ask around. He’s got friends in the southside zones. We’ll see what he turns up. Meantime, we’ve got other stuff to worry about. Echevarria—”

Chris groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“—flies in
Tuesday,
Chris. And we’ve got Barranco arriving right behind him. Not even two full days between.”