The Industry (14 page)

San Ignatius hospital was a vast, gleaming structure with its name stamped proudly across it in giant blue letters. It was four in the morning by the time Desmond halted the car in its visitor parking area and gazed up at it, as though trying to decipher from the outside which room Mai was in.

‘Thought you told Viera we weren't going to break her out,' Kirra said after what felt like ten minutes of solid staring.

Desmond didn't even look at her as he released his seatbelt from its clasp.

‘You lied though,' Kirra muttered unhappily, reluctantly releasing hers as well.

‘Without Mai, without her information and her expertise,' Desmond said as they marched towards the entry, ‘I can't ensure my Extraction of Aguilar. If we don't extract Aguilar, then we don't extract Milo. So you need Mai as much as I do.'

‘I know,' said Kirra.

‘Good. Now, it's the middle of the night, so this should be relatively easy. If anything goes wrong, though, get yourself to Vienna.'

Kirra stopped between a ticket machine and a purple four-wheel drive. ‘Vienna?'

‘Yeah. Take a train or a bus or something.'

He pressed fifty Euros into her hand and strolled into the foyer. He held a hushed conversation in Spanish with a tired-looking man behind the reception desk, then led Kirra down a hallway and into an elevator. Instead of going up, they went down a floor, to the basement.

‘Quiet now,' Desmond said as they entered a darkened, low-ceilinged area. ‘And stay here for a moment.'

He turned a corner, into an office of some sort, and Kirra lost sight of him. She stood very quietly next to a row of cabinets and a trolley holding packaged gauzes and disposable bedpans, until she heard a short yell of surprise and a heavy thud.

‘Okay, Kirra,' came Desmond's voice.

She hurried into the office and gasped. A security guard was lying on his back, motionless, and Desmond was standing over him, gun in hand.

‘I just knocked him out,' he said when he saw the shocked look on Kirra's face, plucking something from the guard's chest. ‘He'll wake up soon and have no idea what happened.'

Kirra looked closely at the guard but could see no wound on him. Desmond turned to a control panel and fiddled with it until he brought up a security feed on a television on the desk. He flicked through several
channels, waiting patiently as the feeds changed angles, until he found a man sitting by an elevator. Kirra wasn't close enough to get a good look, but this image apparently meant something to Desmond. He fiddled some more with the control panel; he seemed to be disabling some of the cameras.

‘That should do it,' he said, and ushered her back into the elevator. They shot up several floors to where Kirra guessed the intensive care unit must be. Before the elevator doors had opened all the way, Desmond snaked his gun out into the corridor and shot someone, though there was no bang. Kirra gasped.

‘Just put him to sleep again,' Desmond said, indicating a slumped policeman in a chair by the elevator doors. He again plucked something from the man's chest, something Kirra failed to get a look at before it disappeared into Desmond's pocket.

She decided not to badger him about it just now, and instead followed him down the corridor. Kirra hadn't spent much time in hospitals, but she'd always had the impression they were bustling and full of action right round the clock. Apparently she was wrong. The whole place seemed very much asleep, except for the occasional faint beep or buzz of a machine, a low light here, a far-off voice there.

Desmond, who was a little way ahead of her, fired the silent gun once more. Kirra rounded the corner to see another policeman crumpled on the floor by a door. Desmond hauled a chair over to him and Kirra helped heave the man into it.

‘They'll be furious at each other for falling asleep on the job,' Desmond said happily, stuffing another
something in his pocket and taking the man's keys. ‘They never suspect. That's why it pays to do these things in the middle of the night. Fatigue is the number one cause of Extractions.' He laughed at his own joke.

Kirra looked at the officer. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, along with all the patients in the ward. She could hear the faint tinkling of voices now and see the light of a nurses' station right down the end of the corridor, thankfully far enough away so that no one had spotted them.

Desmond tilted the policeman's head forward so his chin was resting sleepily on his chest, and opened the door. Kirra followed him inside.

There they found Mai, lying propped up in a bed of white sheets, hooked up with tubes to a dozen machines, and her arm bandaged up. Her other arm was handcuffed to the steel bed frame. Upon first glance she looked dead.

‘Mai,' Desmond said softly, touching her hand. She stirred and peered at them through tired, unfocused eyes. She was as white as the sheets she was lying on.

‘It's been hours,' she said groggily. ‘Was there traffic?'

Desmond gave a tight smile as he used the policeman's keys to release her wrist from the handcuff.

‘You're as high as a hot-air balloon,' he said, helping her to sit up. ‘How much morphine have they got in you?'

‘The correct amount,' she murmured, a very faint grin on her face.

Desmond rolled his eyes and began removing a drip attached to a pouch of blood from Mai's arm. Then he unhooked her from all the other machines, pressing
buttons on them first to ensure no alarms went off. Kirra fidgeted by the door.

Mai tried to push herself up, but faltered halfway and dropped back onto the pillows.

‘Is there an Industry-friendly hospital anywhere nearby?' she asked.

Both she and Desmond seemed to realise that she still required medical assistance. The bandage on her arm was bleeding through.

‘No,' Desmond said, thinking hard. Then his face lit up. ‘No … but there's an Intensive not too far from here.'

‘Even better,' she mumbled, putting her feet on the ground.

Desmond helped her out of the hospital gown and reached for her clothes, stored in a plastic zip-lock bag in a drawer by the bed. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she was only wearing underwear. After several moments of quiet negotiation with her limbs, he finally helped her to slide her injured arm into the sleeve of her jacket.

Mai wobbled dangerously when she got to her feet, but Desmond took her by the shoulders and guided her to the door. Kirra wanted to say something, but it seemed Mai had passed out. He gave her a worried look, and lifted her easily into his arms.

They rode the elevator back down to the basement, right past the sleeping security guard, and to a service exit that took them out into the fresh air. Desmond obviously thought they might draw attention if they were seen carrying an unconscious patient through the foyer.

Desmond placed Mai in the back seat of the car, where she lay deathly still, and drove them quietly away. Kirra turned to look back at the hospital, simultaneously horrified and impressed with what they'd just managed to pull off. It seemed the staff at San Ignatius had no idea what had just happened.

Twenty minutes later, Desmond turned into an almost deserted car park in one of the most derelict areas Kirra had ever been in. The streets were lined with litter and graffiti, and most of the buildings looked abandoned, with windows smashed in and decaying wooden doors. One building, however, looked strangely new. It reminded Kirra of the fancy new complex that had been built the previous year at Freemont Grammar, paid for with the bequest of a wealthy alumnus who had died of avian flu whilst wintering in Vietnam. She glanced at the GPS on the dashboard of the car. According to it, they were at the Cabrera International College. Unlike San Ignatius, nearly all the building's lights were on.

‘An international college?' Kirra asked.

‘Yeah,' said Desmond. ‘You know … where expats send their kids.'

‘That's not what it really is, though, is it?'

‘Not even a little bit.'

Mai hadn't regained consciousness so Desmond carried her into the complex. There was a man standing straight as a board just inside the door, holding a gun, but Desmond said something to him and he let them through without question.

A young woman padded past them a way down the corridor, her hair wet and a toothbrush in hand.

‘Excuse me,' said Desmond. ‘Would you be able to point me in the direction of Mr Marquison?'

The woman stopped, a smile she seemed unable to control coming over her face. ‘Upstairs,' she said, hardly batting an eyelid at the bandaged, bleeding deadweight that was Mai. ‘He'd be in his bureau by now.'

‘Thanks.'

Desmond hoisted Mai higher in his arms and ascended the stairs three at a time. The next level up was a bit livelier, with a few people hurrying around, most of them looking as though they'd only recently fallen out of bed. None of the girls wore a skerrick of make-up and all the boys had tousled hair, sticking up just the way Milo's did after he'd tossed and turned at night. The words ‘The Marquison Training Intensive, Est. 1973' were stencilled upon a wall in red, and beneath them was the slogan ‘No Opportunity Wasted'.

Desmond passed through a set of double doors and vanished into a large office, Kirra trotting to keep up. The office space was filled with many desks in rows, but Desmond ignored them all and made his way to an enclosed room at the end, his pace becoming more urgent.

Kirra knocked on the door for him.

‘Coming, coming,' piped an ancient voice.

A little old man with a speckled bald head peered out at them. He blinked tiredly for a moment, his face white and fatigued.

‘Oh, hell! Desmond?' he said. ‘Is that you?' He put on his glasses and squinted at Mai. ‘Oh, dear.'

He hit an intercom by the door, looking oddly delighted. ‘Be so kind as to get a stretcher up here,' he
said cheerfully. ‘And get the infirmary up and running. Make sure Caroline's awake. She has herself a patient.'

In about thirty seconds a young man and a young woman rocketed into the office carrying a thin plastic stretcher. They helped Desmond lay Mai upon it then wasted no time in whisking her away. Mai's bandage was sodden with blood and she still looked quite dead.

‘Always have state-of-the-art facilities at Intensives,' Mr Marquison commented proudly. ‘Don't know why any of us bother with hospitals, even the Industry-friendly ones. You and I seem to be the only ones who still know that, right, Desmond?'

Desmond smiled, looking utterly relieved to have Mai taken care of.

‘I'd love to speak with you, sir,' he said. ‘If you're not busy.'

‘Busy? I'm nothing but busy with this lot to run around after.' Mr Marquison jerked his wrinkly little head back towards the corridor. ‘But you know I'll always spare a moment for you, Desmond. Would your friend care for something to eat?' He turned to Kirra. ‘They're serving breakfast in the cafeteria if you're interested.'

Now that she thought of it, Kirra realised she was starving. She glanced hopefully at Desmond.

‘You can if you want,' he said. ‘This place is secure.'

Mr Marquison laughed. ‘Secure? This place is a fortress,' he said. ‘Off you go then.'

Kirra, happy for something to do, made her way out of the bureau. As she went she heard Mr Marquison say, ‘Have you heard about Gervis Morris-Daley, Des? Just got promoted to Senior Associate with the Greenfield mob.'

‘Aren't they Assassins?' Desmond asked.

‘Yes, yes,' said Mr Marquison airily. He had clearly missed the hateful tone in Desmond's voice. ‘Gervis studied here with you back in the day, didn't he? Or was he the year before?'

‘The year after, actually,' Desmond said. ‘Anyway, sir, I wondered if I could discuss something with you …'

Kirra was out of earshot by this stage and not of a mind to linger and eavesdrop. She went in the direction Mr Marquison had indicated, and followed the sound of tinkling cutlery and the smell of rich coffee to a round room, smaller than she'd anticipated, jam-packed with
chairs and tables. A counter ran across the front, full to bursting with trays of delicious-looking breakfast food, and people were roaming about, pouring juice and selecting cereals. The room was hushed and the lamps gave off a warm glow. Kirra supposed it was too early for bright lights and rigorous conversation, though a tall blond boy a little way off proved her wrong.

‘I know something you don't,' he said happily to a dark-haired boy sitting at a table closest to the buffet. He slammed his tray down and took a seat opposite the boy. Kirra guessed they were both about seventeen.

‘Bullshit,' said the dark-haired boy.

‘I do!'

‘Go on then.'

‘Okay. I just heard …' He paused for maximum effect. ‘… that there's a Spencer Translator.'

Kirra tensed by a tray of fresh chocolate croissants.

‘No way,' whispered the dark-haired boy. ‘Are you serious? Where?'

‘They say she's here in Madrid.'

‘She? The Spencer Translator's a
girl
?'

‘Yep. It's a secret though, so don't tell anyone. No one knows where she is or even who's got her.'

‘Course they don't, otherwise the Cautlifs would've jumped on her already.'

‘Right. But how cool is that? A Spencer Translator.'

‘That's crazy. I wonder how she does it …'

‘She'd have to be mad. To be able to do a thing like that you'd have to be crazy.'

‘Yeah,' the other agreed. ‘Tried these eggs?'

‘Yeah, they're awesome.'

‘Best I've had since Seoul.'

Kirra scooped a bit of French toast onto her plate and turned around to find a table. There wasn't a single empty one.

‘Spot here, if you like,' called the dark-haired boy she'd been listening to.

‘Yeah, plenty of room,' said his blond companion and pulled a chair out for her.

Kirra panicked for a moment. The room was filling fast and there wasn't a quiet spot anywhere. As long as she didn't say anything, as long as she didn't give herself away, Kirra supposed she could eat at their table. She took a deep breath and sat down, though in a seat several chairs away from the one the blond boy had indicated.

‘New?' asked the dark-haired boy, immediately scooting closer and bringing his tray with him.

‘Um …' Kirra had no idea what to say.

‘First Intensive?' said the other, also moving closer. He spoke very quickly. ‘You'll be right after you settle in. How good are the donuts? Have you given the berry muesli a go?'

‘Not yet …'

‘Which room are you in?'

‘I'm not —'

‘Where are you headed next?'

‘Next?'

‘Yeah, where's your next Intensive? Santiago or Tehran?'

‘I d-don't … I'm not sure,' Kirra stammered, suddenly wishing she'd just stayed back in the bureau with Desmond.

‘Only booked in for the one? Our bosses signed us up to as many as possible. Two weeks here, four weeks there,' said the blond. ‘We've been on about five together this year. Name's Lev Langston.'

‘Bronson Miller,' said the other boy.

‘So, you don't stay here?' Kirra asked, snaking her way around telling them her own name.

They looked at each other, then at her.

‘Nope, they hold them all over the place, so you get used to travelling and picking up languages and stuff,' said Bronson. ‘You're not in training, are you?'

‘No,' she said, deciding not to lie. ‘I'm here because my … my friend needs help. I'm not … I'm just normal.'

They both looked mildly sympathetic.

‘That's too bad,' said Bronson.

‘But you'd have to be part of the Industry,' disputed Lev. ‘They wouldn't let you in here otherwise.'

‘My friend is,' Kirra said hurriedly. ‘He knows Mr Marquison.'

‘Oh. Fair enough then. You know, you should join.'

‘I'm a bit young.'

Lev snorted. ‘I was picked from a group home last year. Never too young.'

‘Picked?' Kirra asked.

‘Yeah, by my boss. He was looking for an apprentice to learn his business, join his team. Good thing too, otherwise who knows what might have happened to me. I might've had to become a Decoy.'

Bronson pulled a face. ‘A Decoy … how dismal,' he said.

‘Decoys have just given themselves a bad name,' Kirra heard herself saying. ‘They don't really deserve it.'

The two boys nodded, half-confused, half-impressed that she seemed to know what she was talking about. Kirra cast around for something else to say.

‘So … so your boss,' she asked Lev, chewing a bit of the French toast. It was delicious. ‘What does he do?'

‘Field Intelligence,' Lev answered proudly.

‘To give to places like the MIO?' Kirra asked, fascinated despite herself.

They both frowned.

‘Not part of the Industry, you say?'

‘No.'

‘You know a fair bit about it, don't you? Sure you're not?'

‘Positive. Anyway, you said you were picked from a group home. How were you picked?'

‘My boss and his wife just came and told me. Nicer people you wouldn't find. They treat me like their grandkid.'

‘They just
told
you?'

‘Well, they always ask you first. They sit you down in private, all formal, and give you a choice. But my time was running out at the home, and who's gonna say no anyway? I mean, really. And I reckon I really belong here.'

‘I know I do,' said Bronson through a mouthful of crisp bacon. ‘When Imogen came and —'

Lev gave a longing moan at the mention of her name.

‘Oi! That's my boss you're fantasising about. Show some respect,' Bronson said, even though he too was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Anyway, my boss Imogen came and asked me if I'd be interested in a career in Diverting. I said yes — not just because she's hot, but because I really
wanted to — and she took me from my house that night.'

Kirra had no idea what Diverting was, but that wasn't what made her mouth fall open.

‘Your house?'

‘Yeah.'

‘But what about your —'

‘Oh, she told my folks some fib about me going to some youth leadership school — something weird for smart, eager kids,' he said casually. ‘They believed her, even though I was an idiot at school, because she had all these pamphlets and it all looked really legit. 'S'not hard to fool them, though,' he said, his face suddenly grim. ‘They hardly ever think too hard about anything but themselves. They'll realise something's up sooner or later, but Imogen will have some fib ready to feed them then too. She says I might have to go back for a bit, pretend I'm on holidays or something, so they don't get too curious, but I won't have to stay for long. Soon they'll get so used to it I won't have to visit at all.'

He pushed a bit of sausage around the side of his plate. Kirra watched him for a long moment, wondering how on earth it was possible for someone to visit their own home.

‘But …' She was almost lost for words. ‘Don't you miss them? Don't you wish they knew the truth?'

‘Not really. It's been the best since Imogen offered me the job.'

‘Apprenticeship,' Lev corrected derisively. ‘You don't have a job yet. You're good, but you're not that good.'

‘Yeah, well, that's not what your mum said to me last night …'

They both burst out laughing.

Kirra gave a weak smile. She was sure she was missing something with these two boys. They couldn't possibly
want
this kind of life. It was absurd to say the least.

She looked around the cafeteria. There was a table of girls in one corner, all laughing loudly and shovelling down toast, bleary-eyed and croaky-voiced. At the next table, a skinny boy was holding a spoon extremely awkwardly and trying to grip his bowl of cereal. There appeared to be something wrong with his fingers.

‘He's new,' the boys at Kirra's table said together.

‘And a first-timer,' said Bronson.

‘He looks a bit miserable, doesn't he?' said Lev.

‘He does. We'll talk to him after breakfast. What do you say?'

‘Yeah, why not?'

The spoon slipped from the skinny boy's fingers and clattered into his bowl, milk splashing up all over him. He tried to rub it from his eyes with his fingers, but winced and used the backs of his hands instead.

‘Here ya go, buddy,' called Lev, tossing a wad of napkins onto his table. The boy smiled gratefully, took one and began dabbing the milk off his T-shirt.

‘Poor bugger,' said Bronson softly. ‘Should've asked him to our table. It's crap being new. His parents only dropped him off last night.'

‘His
parents
?'

They nodded, looking confused again.

‘Sure,' said Lev. ‘I think they were both CIs.'

‘Huh?'

‘Corporate Invaders.'

Kirra had no idea what that was either, but didn't want to ask.

‘So, exactly what do you do here?' she asked.

They grinned.

‘Learn the life of a Contractor.'

‘So … a criminal?'

They shook their heads.

‘We don't like that,' said Lev.

‘No,' agreed Bronson. ‘Sounds too …'

‘Petty?' said Kirra. ‘Yeah, I know. But how do you get picked? How did your boss —'

‘Imogen,' Bronson offered.

‘Yes. How did Imogen know where to find you?'

They both cracked wide smiles.

‘Gotta show some potential, that's the thing. Only you don't know you're showing it, do you?' said Lev, suddenly looking thoughtful. ‘'Cos you don't even know what the Industry is yet.'

‘Potential?'

‘Sure. It all depends on the sorts of things you're already good at. Some stuff you can't be taught.'

They both spoke as though convinced they were making complete sense. Kirra, however, wasn't following at all.

‘What do you have to be good at to be an Extractor?' she asked.

‘Evasion,' they both said immediately.

‘You must be adaptable,' Lev added, ‘and have good instincts.'

‘To be an Analyst?'

‘Gotta be perceptive, I guess,' Bronson told her.
He nodded to a table where two neat-looking boys sat across from a girl with braces. The three of them were conversing quietly. ‘They're training to be Analysts. I think you have to be great with numbers and puzzles and have a photographic memory or something. They're insane. You ask them anything and they have the answer ready to go.'

‘What about Assassination?' Kirra asked after a moment. ‘Who's training for that?'

The question was met with silence. They both looked stunned.

‘The Marquison Training Intensive doesn't run classes for training Assassins,' Lev said quietly, as though worried someone might overhear the indecent topic of their conversation. ‘But there's only really one trait required for Assassination.'

‘What?'

‘To be able to kill people — lots of people — in cold blood …' Bronson said. ‘You have to be unfeeling, I guess. How could you be anything less?'

They both looked uncomfortable. Feeling awkward, Kirra asked, ‘What about you two? What are you good at?'

It was Lev who answered first, looking cheerful once more. ‘I'm neat and thorough,' he said. ‘I like to order things and keep track of them. When I was younger I started to collect newspaper clippings, a sort of weird hobby. I liked to follow stories on investigations and whatever and save all the articles in a folder so I could piece it all together once it was resolved. Like a jigsaw puzzle. Kept me busy, I guess. When I started to dig
through stuff on the internet, my boss and his wife showed up. Wondered if I wanted to get into Intelligence, you know, collecting and organising info.'

‘Right,' said Kirra.

‘And Diverting is all about being good at deception, really,' Bronson told her. ‘Lying and document fabrication, that sort of thing. I used to be great at lying. Best in my class, and great at forgery … used to write my own notes from my mother and fake all my report cards, 'cos I was crap at school, you know. Anyway, I got in a bit of trouble for telling pretty big lies and faking important people's signatures … something about fraud … then Imogen heard about it, turned up and nabbed me. Says I'll be great once I know a couple of languages. I guess having a bit of bad in you helps too. You're no good to anyone if you're all good; then again, you're no good if you're all bad either.'

Kirra ate the last of her French toast, working very hard to understand that last comment.

‘They just know, don't they?' Lev mused, after downing a glass of chocolate milk in one go. ‘Somehow they just know.'

‘They do,' agreed Bronson with a nod.

‘Know?'

‘Yeah, they just know where you are.'

‘And,' said Lev, his voice suddenly shrouded with significance, ‘where you're
meant
to be.'