Market Forces (21 page)

“My zone origins are mostly, shall we say, artistic license. Exaggerated for exotic effect. The truth is, I grew up on the fringes of Islington, at a time when the lines weren’t as heavily drawn as they are now. My parents were, still are, moderately successful teachers, and I went to the university. There’s nothing that hurts in my past.”

Chris raised his glass. “Lucky you.”

“Yes, that’s a fair description. You weren’t so lucky.”

“No.”

“Yet age nineteen you were driving for Ross Mobile Arbitrage. You were their top-paid haulage operative, until you moved sideways into LS EuroVentures. Two years after that Hammett McColl, headhunted. No qualifications, not even driver’s school. For someone with zone origins that’s more than remarkable, it’s nigh on impossible.”

Chris gestured. “If you want out badly enough.”

“No, Chris. The zones are full of people who want out badly enough, and then some. It gets them nowhere. The dice are loaded against that kind of mobility, and you know it.”

“I know other people who’ve made it out.” It felt strange to suddenly be on the other end of the argument he’d had with Mike Bryant that morning. “Look at Troy Morris.”

“Do you know Troy well?”

“Uhh, not really. He’s Mike’s friend more than mine.”

“I see.” Liz Linshaw lifted her drink in his direction. “Well, anyway. Cheers. Here’s to Conflict Investment. Small wars.”

“Small wars.” But there was something vaguely disquieting in hearing it from her lips. He didn’t like the way it sounded.

She set down her tumbler. Beside it a microcorder. “So. How does it feel to be the rising star at Shorn CI?”

T
HE INTERVIEW WENT
down as smoothly as the Port Ellen. Liz Linshaw had a loose, inviting manner at odds with her screen persona, and he found himself talking as if to an old friend he hadn’t seen in many years. Such areas of resistance as he had, she picked up on and either backed smoothly away from the topic or found another way in that somehow he didn’t mind as much. They laughed a lot, and once or twice he caught himself on the verge of giving up data that he had no business discussing with anyone outside Shorn.

By nine o’clock they were working up to Edward Quain, and he had drunk far too much to be able to drive the Saab safely.

“You didn’t like him, did you.” There was no question in her voice.

“Quain? What makes you think that?”

“Your form.”

He laughed, slurring slightly. “What am I, a fucking racehorse?”

She smiled along. “If you like. Look, you’ve made a total of eleven kills, including Mitsue Jones and her wingmate, plus the Acropolitic driver on the same run. Eight before that. Three at LS Euro, two tenders and one Prom and App duel. Then the move to HM, and out of nowhere you take Quain down.”

“It was the easiest way to get up the ladder.”

“It was off the wall, Chris. Quain was the top end of your permissible challenge envelope. As senior as it gets without exempted partner status. At that level in some companies he
would
have been an exempted partner.”

“Yeah, or out on his ear.” Chris drained his current whiskey. “You want to know the truth, Liz? Quain was a burned-out old fuck. He wasn’t bringing in the business, he drank way too much, he did too much expensive coke, he fucked his way through every high-price whore in Camden Town, and he paid for it all with bonuses taken out of money junior analysts on a tenth his income were generating. He was an embarrassment to everyone at Hammett McColl, and he needed taking out.”

“Very public-spirited of you. But there must have been easier targets on the way up the HM ladder.”

Chris shrugged. “If you’re going to kill a man, it might as well be a patriarch.”

“And what I find curious is the duels after Quain. Four more kills, none of them even close to as brutal as Quain’s, and—”

“Murcheson burned to death,” Chris pointed out. The screams, he did not add, still came back to him in his nightmares.

“Yes, Murcheson was trapped in wreckage. It was nothing to do with you.”

“Hardly nothing. I created the wreckage.”

“Chris, you ran over Quain five times. I’ve seen that footage—”

“What are you, Liz? An X fan?”

The crooked smile again. “If I was, I’d have been pretty unhappy with your performance for the next eight years. Like I said, four more kills, all clean bar Murcheson, who was an accidental burn. And alongside that, another seven inconclusives, including one you actually rescued from wreckage and drove to the hospital. That’s not going to get you an honorable mention on any of the Xtreme sites, is it?”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Relax, Chris. I didn’t say I was an Xer. But when you’re trying to build a profile, this stuff matters. I want to know what you’re made of.”

He met her eyes, and the look lasted. Went on far longer than it should have. He cleared his throat.

“I’m going to go home now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to drive?”

“I.” He stood up, too fast. “No, maybe not. I’ll get a cab.”

“That’s going to cost you a fortune, Chris.”

“So. I earn a fortune. ’S not like the fucking army, you know. I get well paid for murdering people.”

She got up and placed a hand on his arm.

“I’ve got a better idea.”

“Yeah?” Suddenly he was aware of his pulse. “What’s that, then?”

“I live in Highgate. That’s a
cheap
cab ride, and there’s a spare futon there with your name on it.”

“Look, Liz—”

She grinned suddenly. “Don’t flatter yourself, Faulkner. I’m not about to tear your clothes off and stuff your dick down my throat, if that’s what you’re worried about. I like the men I fuck to be sober.”

Unwillingly, he laughed. “Hey, give it to me straight, Liz. Don’t let me down gently.”

“So.” She was laughing, too. “Do we get this cab?”

They ordered the taxi from the same table menu as the drinks. This early in the evening, it wasn’t hard to get one. Liz cleared the tab, and they left. There was frenetic dancing in the Iraq Room, harsh, mindless beats drawn from early-millennium thrash bands like Noble Cause and Bushin’. They ducked through the press of bodies, got to the stairs, and made it out into the street, still laughing.

The taxi was there, gleaming black in the late-evening light like a toy that belonged to them. Chris fetched up short, laughter drying in his throat. He glanced sideways at Liz Linshaw and saw that the hilarity had drained out of her the same way. He could not read the expression that had replaced it on her face. For a moment they both stood there, staring at the cab like idiots, and like a Nemex shell the realization hit Chris in the back of the head. The sardonic amusement on the phone, the maddeningly familiar note in her deep-throated laugh. The sense of recall about this woman came crashing down on him.

She reminded him of Carla.

Carla when they first met. Carla, three or four years back. Carla before the creeping distance took its toll.

Suddenly, he was sweating.

What the fu—

It was the fear sweat, chasing a rolling shudder across his body. A feeling he’d left behind a decade ago in his early duels. Pure, existential terror, distilled down so clear it could not be pinned on any single identifiable thing. Fear of death, fear of life, fear of everything in between and what it would do to you in time. The terror of inevitably losing your grip.

“Oy, are you getting in or what?”

The driver was leaning out, thumb jerked back to where the door of the black cab had hinged open of its own accord. There was a tiny light on inside, seats of cool green plush.

Liz Linshaw stood watching him, face still unreadable.

The sweat cooled.

He got in.

W
ESTWARD
,
THERE WERE
mountains spearing up grimly under gathered blue cloud. Weak ladders of late-afternoon sun fell through at infrequent intervals, splashing scant warmth where they hit. Carla shivered slightly at the sight. There was no darkness yet—this far north, daylight held the sky as it would for another full month, but the Lofoten skyline still looked like the watchtowers of a troll city.

“Cold?” Kirsti Nyquist glanced sideways from the jeep’s driving seat. Her ability to pick up on her daughter’s moods and feelings sometimes verged on the witchy. “We can close the top, if you want.”

Carla shook her head. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“Not happy thoughts, then.”

The road unwound ahead of them, freshly carved from the bleak terrain and laid down in asphalt so new it looked like licorice. There were none of the luminous yellow markings as yet, and they kept passing raw white rock walls that still had defined grooves where the blasting holes had been sunk. A sign said
GJERLOW OCEANIC MONITORING
—15
KILOMETERS
. Carla sighed and shifted in her seat. Kirsti drove the big Volvo All-Terrain with a care that, to Carla’s London-forged road instincts, seemed faintly ridiculous. They’d seen five other vehicles in the last hour, and three of those had been parked outside a fueling post.

“Tunnel,” her mother called cheerfully. “Mittens.”

Carla reached for her gloves. This was the second tunnel of the trip. The first time, she’d ignored her mother’s warning. They were less than two hundred kilometers inside the Arctic Circle, and the weather had been pleasant since she’d gotten off the plane at Tromsö two days ago, but tunnels were another matter. Deep in the mountain rock, an Arctic chill hit you in the lungs and the fingers before you’d gone a hundred meters.

Kirsti flipped on the headlights and they barreled down into the sodium-yellow gloom. Their breath frosted and whipped away over their shoulders.

“Now you’re cold, hey?”

“A bit. Mum, did we really have to come all this way?”

“Yes. I told you. It’s the only chance we’ll get to see him.”

“You couldn’t invite him up to Tromsö?”

Kirsti made a wry face. “Not anymore.”

Carla tried primly not to laugh. Kirsti Nyquist was well into her fifties now, but she was still a strikingly handsome woman, and she changed her lovers with brutal regularity.
They just don’t grow with me,
she’d once complained to her daughter.
Perhaps that’s because they’re all young enough to be your children,
Carla had retorted, a little unfairly. Her mother’s choices often were younger men, but not usually by more than a decade or so, and Carla herself had to admit that most of the options in the fifty-plus male range weren’t much to look at.

The tunnel was six kilometers. They made the other side with teeth chattering, and Kirsti whooped as she drove into the fractured sunlight outside. The temperature upgrade soaked into Carla’s body like tropical heat. The chill seemed to have gone bone-deep. She tried to shrug it off.

Get a fucking grip, Carla.

She was already missing Chris, a lack for which she berated herself because it felt so pathetic alongside her mother’s cheerful self-sufficiency. The anger at him that had driven her out of the house was already evaporating by the time her plane took off, and all she had by the time she arrived in Tromsö was maudlin drinking talk of distance and loss.

Now, out of the mess she had laid out for her mother the night she arrived, Kirsti had snatched the possibility of meaningful action. Carla wondered vaguely what you had to do to attain operational pitch like that—have a child, write a book, lose a relationship? What did it take?

“There it is.” Kirsti gestured ahead, and Carla saw that the road was dropping down to meet one side of a small, stubby fjord. On the other side a huddle of institutional buildings were gathered, lit up shiny in a wandering shaft of sunlight. It looked as if the road ran all the way up to the end of the inlet and then back around to the monitoring station.

“So this is all new as well?”

“Relocated. They were based in the Faeroes until last year.”

“Why did . . .” Carla remembered. “Oh, right. The BNR thing.”

“Yes, your beloved British and their nuclear reprocessing. Gjerlow reckons it’s contaminated local waters for the next sixty years minimum. Pointless taking overview readings. None of the tests they do will stand the radiation.”

Not for the first time, Carla felt a wave of defensiveness rising in her at the mention of her adoptive home.

“I heard it was just heat exchanger fluids—not enough to do much damage.”

“My dear, you’ve been living in London too long if you believe what the British media tell you. There is no
just
where nuclear contaminants are concerned. It’s been a monumental disaster, and anyone with access to independent broadcasting knows it.”

Carla flushed. “We’ve got independent channels.”

“Does Chris buy off the jamming?” Her mother looked interested. “I didn’t think you could do that effectively.”

“No, he’s exempted. Under license. For his job.”

“Oh, I see.” There was a studied politeness in Kirsti’s voice that didn’t quite shroud her distaste. Carla flushed again, deeper this time. She said nothing more until the wheels of the Volvo crunched across the gravel parking lot beside the monitoring station. Then, sitting still in the passenger seat as Kirsti killed the engine, she muttered, “I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

“It was a good idea when we had it on Friday night,” her mother said emphatically. “It’s still a good idea now. One of my best. Now, come on.”

Kirsti’s Tromsö University ID got them in the front door, and a quick search of the building’s locational database at reception told them Truls Vasvik was up on the top floor. They took the stairs, Kirsti leading by a couple of steps on every flight.
Good for the buttocks,
she flung over her shoulder in response to her daughter’s puffed protests to slow down.
Only five levels. Come
on.

They found Vasvik in the staff café. He was, Carla thought, a classic Kirsti type—gaunt and long-limbed, radiating self-sufficiency like the effects of some drug recently injected. He wore a crew-necked sweater, canvas work trousers, walking boots, and an uncared-for heavy black coat that he somehow hadn’t gotten around to removing. The clothes hung off him, incidental drapings on his lean frame, and his silver-threaded black hair was long and untidy. He looked to be in his early forties. As they approached, he got up and offered a bony hand.

“Hello, Kirsti.”

“Hello, Truls. This is my daughter, Carla. Carla, Truls Vasvik. It’s good to see you again.”

Vasvik grunted.

“Have you seen Gjerlow yet?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“Shall we all sit down? There’s machine coffee over there, if you want it.”

“Can I get you one?”

Vasvik indicated the cup in front of him and shook his head. Kirsti went off to the bank of self-service machines across the café and left Carla stranded. She offered Vasvik an awkward smile and seated herself at the table.

“So, you’ve known my mother for a while.”

He stared back at her. “Long enough.”

“I, uh. I appreciate you taking the time to see us.”

“I had to be here anyway. It wasn’t a problem.”

“Yes, uh. How’s it going? I mean, can you talk about it?”

A shrug. “It isn’t strictly speaking confidential, at this end anyway. I need some data to back up a case we’re putting together. Gjerlow has it, he says.”

“Is it a British thing?”

“This time around, no. French.” A marginal curiosity surfaced on his face. “You live there, then?”

“Where, Britain? Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

She bit her lip. Kirsti arrived with coffee cups and saved them both from the rapidly foundering conversation.

“So,” she said brightly. “Where are we up to?”

“We haven’t started yet,” said Vasvik.

Kirsti frowned. “Are you okay, Truls?”

“Not really.” He met her gaze. “Jannicke died.”

“Jannicke Onarheim? Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Truls.” Kirsti reached out and put her hand on Vasvik’s arm. “What happened?”

He smiled bleakly. “How do ombudsmen die, Kirsti? She was murdered. I only got the call this morning.”

“Was she working?”

Vasvik nodded, staring into the plastic-topped table. “Some American shoe factory up near Hanoi. The usual stuff, reported human rights abuse, no local police cooperation.” He drew a deep breath. “They found her car run off the road an hour out of town, nowhere near where she should have been. Looks like someone took her for a ride. Raped. Shot. Single cap, back of the head.”

He glanced up at Carla, who had flinched at the word
raped.

“Yeah. It’s probably good you hear this. Jannicke is the third this year. The Canadians have lost twice that number. UN ombudsmen earn their money, and often enough we don’t get to spend it. From what Kirsti says, your man might not suit the work.”

The implied slight to Chris, as always, fired her up.

“Well, I doubt you’d last long in Conflict Investment.”

The other two looked at her with chilly Norwegian disapproval.

“Perhaps not,” said Vasvik finally. “It was not my intention to insult you or your man. But you should know what you are trying to get him into. Less than fifty years ago, this was still a comfortable, localized, office-based little profession. That’s changed. Now, at this level, it can get you killed. There is no recognition of the work we do—at best we are seen as fussy bureaucrats, at worst as the enemies of capitalism and the bedfellows of terrorists. Our UN mandate is a bad joke. Only a handful of governments will act on our findings. The rest cave in to corporate pressure. Some, like the United States and so of course Britain, simply refuse point-blank to support the process. They are not even signatories to the agreement. They block us at every turn. They query our budgets, they demand a transparency that exposes our field agents, they offer legal and financial asylum to those offenders we do manage to indict. We shelve two out of every three cases for lack of viability and”—he jerked his chin, perhaps out to wherever Jannicke Onarheim’s body now lay—”we bury our dead to the jeers of the popular media.”

More silence. Across the café someone worked the coffee machine.

“Do you hate your job?” Carla asked quietly.

A thin smile. “Not as much as I hate the people I chase.”

“Chris, my husband, hates his job. So much that it’s killing him.”

“Then why doesn’t he just quit?” There was scant sympathy in the ombudsman’s voice.

“That’s so fucking easy for you to say.”

Kirsti shot her a warning glance. “Truls, Chris was born and brought up in the London cordoned zones. You’ve seen that, you know what it’s like. And you know what happens to the ones who manage to claw their way out. First-generation syndrome. If quitting means going back to the zones, he probably would rather die. He’d certainly rather kill. And in the end, we know how closely those two can be intertwined.”

Another smile, somewhat less thin. “Yes. First-generation syndrome. I remember that particular lecture quite well, for some reason.”

Kirsti joined him in the smile. She flexed her body beneath her sweater in a fashion that made her daughter blush slightly.

“Thanks,” she said. “I hadn’t realized it was that memorable.”

It was as if something heavy had dropped from Vasvik’s shoulders. He sat up a little in the molded plastic chair, turned back to Carla.

“All right,” he said. “I don’t deny it. Someone like your husband could be useful to us. The information he has alone would probably be enough to build a couple of dozen cases. And, yes, a background in Conflict Investment would go a long way to making a good ombudsman. But I can’t promise you, him, a job. For one thing, we’d need an extraction team to get him away from Shorn. But, yes, if he really wants out, I can ask around. I can set some wheels in motion.”

It was what she wanted to hear, but somehow it didn’t fill her with the feeling she’d expected. Something about Vasvik’s clamped anger, the news of sudden death, or maybe the bleak landscape outside, something was not right.

And later, when they got up to go and Kirsti and Truls embraced with genuine affection, she turned away so that she would not have to watch.