"Do you want me to agree or disagree?" Josh pulled his phone out of his pocket. "The boy's still missing and I'm sorry, but if I continue to spend time on it then eventually something will… There."
Blue lights flashed one at a time, chasing each other in a loop around his phone display. He placed the phone face-up on the desk.
"Your spycams" – he gestured at the ceiling corners, at one of the African masks – "are now showing static. What's the procedure? Do your men burst in after–?"
The door clicked open. The assistant who stood there was dressed in a good suit, his haircut expensive. Plus, his knuckles were swollen and hard, and his gaze was flat.
"Everything's hunky-dory," said Broomhall.
"Sir."
The man backed out and closed the door once more.
"I presume," said Josh, "that a different phrase, like 'Everything's fine,' would have caused him to make a move?"
"What is this? I want to know what the bloody hell you're doing to find my son. If you're just here to milk me for more money, then I suggest you fuck off now. In fact you're fired, so get out."
"The security company is professional, coming up with the code phrase. Probably they gave you a button or pad to press, something out of my sight, maybe even inside your shoe."
Broomhall's blotched face altered, his mouth coming open, then closing.
"It's a good setup, outside and in," Josh went on. "And I like the camera-in-the-mask thing, rather classic. I'm interested in Africa, so why don't you tell me about it?"
Now the blood drained from beneath Broomhall's skin, leaving only a spiderweb of alcoholic's veins around his nose, like a dried-up river delta somewhere in Africa, where neither rain dances nor silver iodide cloud seeding had any effect, for there were no clouds any more.
"Get out, or I'll–"
"Something happened to your son in Africa. I'm wondering if you even know that, and what exactly you and Tyndall Industries were up to." Josh gestured towards the door. "Why those guys out there? A fallingout between good buddies? Are you really a long-term rival of Tyndall? Or was it all a cover until now?"
"What happened to Richard? What do you mean?"
Josh looked at him, wishing he could see with Suzanne's eyes.
"He has a fear of scalpels, hence all blades. Also, his teachers at school failed to tell you about the knife duel he was due to fight, or the bullying that made his life a suffering hell, or hadn't you noticed?"
"I–" Broomhall's mouth worked. "Scalpels. And… the school?"
"Your trip to Tyndall's virapharm labs in Africa. Richard got lost, and saw some nasty stuff. What I wonder is, why was he too frightened to tell you about it, Broomhall? Was it because he knew you were a sick bullying bastard, someone who didn't care what happened to a bunch of helpless kids, far away from European law?"
Finally Broomhall's face hardened. He used his hands to push himself to standing.
"I didn't see any kids but I worked out they were there, which is why I've done everything I can to take down that bastard Tyndall, for all the good it's done me. And now I'm going to lose the lot, so what does it matter?"
"You're not working with Tyndall Industries?"
"I was until I realised how they operated, then I severed every connection. And Richard saw–? Why didn't he tell me?"
Josh saw misery, Broomhall's sudden insight into his depth of failure as a parent. Yet Josh's own situation was worse than Broomhall's, because Sophie was gone but Richard Broomhall might be saved. Did that mean fighting the father or saving him as well? That was not yet clear.
"Do you talk much to your son?"
"Well, of course we… Maybe. Maybe not." Broomhall lowered himself back into his chair. "If you've not found anything, at least Richard is probably… I mean, the worst hasn't happened."
"Whether you fire me or keep me on," said Josh, "I'll be invoicing you up to and including yesterday, no more, because I'm focused on results."
"I'm not going to– Oh."
"That's right. Result."
Everything about Broomhall's face and body changed. "Yo
u've found him!"
"He's safe, well, and I have him protected."
"I need to see–"
"No, you don't," said Josh. "Not if you have enemies watching. I'd expected you to be the target of corporate manoeuvring, not physical danger. Richard's well away from this, and you don't want to lead people to where he is."
"They wouldn't harm him. They're not monsters."
"Aren't they? You've hired these guys for a reason. Something frightened you."
"Oh, my God."
"Your opponents think you're cracking up, which is why they're moving against you, subverting your shareholders and mounting takeover bids. Am I right?"
"Just who are you, Mr Cumberland?"
"Perhaps one of your security folk can tell you about Ghost Force, and the kind of people it turns out. I mostly do corporate training, including system security, not hunting for runaways."
"My friend Adam recommended your associates, but how can I know whether to trust them?"
By associates, Broomhall meant Geordie Biggs and his freelancers.
"This Adam was the person who introduced you to Dr Duchesne?"
"That bitch. Yes."
It would be better for Josh's plans to say nothing about Suzanne, for Broomhall to assume there was no connection between them. That would be good strategically. But the battlefield was one thing; how he felt about Suzanne was something else.
"She gave Richard confidence to leave a bad situation. She probably saved his life, since he was about to go up against a blade. In St Michael's, I mean."
"But the school… No, they wouldn't allow it."
"Don't you remember being a kid?" said Josh. "How much of what went on around you was hidden from teachers and other adults? How much, Broomhall?"
"I… Christ. Oh, Jesus Christ."
Josh smiled. "I believe your son is an atheist. Did you know that?"
"What do you mean? He's too young to have any… Oh. Are you a father, Mr Cumberland?"
A stillness curled around Josh; a silence coalesced.
"My daughter's lying brain-dead in a hospital bed. Your son is safe. Don't think you're the worst parent in the world, Mr Broomhall, because you're not."
Josh hadn't expected to reveal anything about himself. That was not how the game was played.
"I'm sorry." Broomhall rubbed his eyes, then held out his hand. "My name's Philip. Pleased to meet you."
It took a moment.
"I'm Josh." He reached out. "Good to finally meet you, Philip."
"Just don't ever call me Phil. I hate that."
"I promise I won't."
The physical attack had been a botched kidnapping, not an assassination attempt, and it had taken place near Moscow. Josh had known something must have happened, and that was it: a failed snatch on Russian soil. But the problem had not been local.
"I've done nothing to piss off the Russians," Philip told Josh. "If anything, I'm making a great deal of money for everyone."
"No victims? No one losing their jobs, their land polluted by waste, compulsory purchase orders on their homes so someone can build corporate premises?"
"Actually no. Not as far as I know, and I do investigate."
"So you think it was someone employed by Tyndall, taking you out on foreign soil?"
"It would be the final straw. My whole group of companies would collapse, while Tyndall and his friends would plunder the remnants."
"You'd never prove a connection," said Josh. "There'd be so many corporate layers and cutouts, the trail would break long before you could prove that Tyndall said something to someone that resulted in a criminal act."
"That's what Adam told me."
"This Adam, do you trust him in your gut? I mean, free of doubts, straight from instinct?"
"Yes."
"All right. Without Dr Duchesne's help, I could never have found Richard. If you agree he's unharmed, I want you to drop the lawsuit action."
"I… She helped?"
"If Richard needs saving, she's the one to do it."
"Christ." Philip curled his lower lip beneath his top teeth. "So my atheist son needs saving. You want to know something funny?"
"What?"
"I thought of going to see her myself. You know, making the appointment for Richard, but then I would show up myself. Because ever since Elena died… Well."
"Maybe you can do that later."
"Yes, maybe." Philip looked down, then up at Josh. "You didn't like it that I insulted Dr Duchesne, did you?"
"No."
"All right. So you think I shouldn't see Richard. But I want to talk to him."
"Of course." Josh reached inside his pocket, and pulled out another phone. "We'll call you on this."
"Look, Mr… Josh. I believe you have Richard and he's safe, although exactly why I believe you, God knows. But why keep him away? This place is a fortress."
"Yes, and inside it all alone, you could easily be cracking up, hitting the booze and going nuts, worried about your missing son."
"That's not far from the–"
"Or you could clean up your act and mount a little counteroffensive, all from inside these walls, with no one to observe."
Philip was very still. His smile began slowly, like the shoot of a new plant.
"What kind of counteroffensive? These are security guys, not an army."
"I mean your kind of warfare. The kind with accountants and lawyers, balance sheets and contracts. Alliances and plots with employees, associates, clients, suppliers. Whoever."
Now the smile grew.
"I'll need to work round the clock," said Broomhall. "Talk to people very privately, all sorts of people, especially key shareholders."
"The kind of thing a distraught, drunken father couldn't manage?"
"Exactly that kind of thing."
"Good," said Josh. "Then we're getting there. That's your part settled."
"My part?"
"I can't let you have all the fun."
"Your job is to guard Richard."
"His street friends call him Richie. I wonder if it'll stick."
"Street friends?"
"One of whom is in hospital now, badly injured, because she wanted to protect him."
"My God, just how did you find him?"
"He'd moved into a squat, joined a community, and believe it or not they look out for each other. He did have some nights sleeping rough, but after that he was pretty well looked after."
Philip shook his head, as if trying to shuffle information by physical movement. "You'll call me? So I can talk to him?"
"Yes. From a friend's place, where he's safe."
"Thank you."
"You're very–"
"But you haven't told me what you're up to. I can save my companies from Tyndall, and by God I will."
"And what about Billy Church, our wonderful prime minister?"
"The PM? The government supports Tyndall, because Zebediah's been around a long time and knows everybody. I happen to believe that most civil servants are honest, and some goodly percentage of politicians. But between Tyndall and Church's cronies, an awful lot of dirty work gets buried away. More than you'd imagine."
Ever since Yukiko had shown those pictures of Knifefight Challenge, and Josh had thought about the blatant manipulation of public sentiment, the coincidental timing of the
Knife Edge
final and the general election, with Billy Church linked to the sporting event… ever since then, a part of him had been searching for a target, someone or something to take down, some way to destroy the corruption that appalled him.
"So there's your answer."
"What do you mean?" said Philip.
"You're going to save your companies from the Tyndalls. I'm going to save everyone else."
"How can you possibly do that?"
Josh felt his mouth pull back, his voice go soft.
"Violently."
[ TWENTY-FOUR ]
At night St Thomas's looked bleak. Some twenty minutes before visiting hours were due to end, Josh wheeled into the car park, and found a space. A few drops of rain spotted the tarmac and his clothes as he crossed the open space. Inside, the receptionists were helpful, and told him he needed Springfield Ward. After he had ascended two floors, a nurse pointed him in the direction he needed. When he reached Springfield, Suzanne and Richard were still there. She was at the foot of the bed, while Richard stood at the side, gazing at Opal's bandaged face.
"Hey," he said, keeping his voice low. "How's everything?"
Suzanne probably saw how tightness spread through him. How he had to struggle to look at the girl in the bed.
"Opal was talking earlier."
Right now the girl's eyes were shut, bruised purple. Tubes and bandages were everywhere. No twitch of movement from her hands. Yet somehow – from the rise and fall of her chest, from the colour of her skin – she transmitted a sense of impending animation, a potential for health and aliveness. Not like Sophie, whose form held absence, not promise.
"She was talking coherently?"
"Yes. And she can wiggle her fingers. Oh… Look."
Richard had reached forward to hold Opal's hand. He remained there, not even blinking, his face intent as though trying to force telepathic healing into her.