The Mandel Files (121 page)

“I’ll come straight to the point,” Julia said as she left her big breakfast cup of tea to cool on the desk. “As you can tell from the priority I’ve assigned this meeting, I’m extremely interested in acquiring atomic structuring technology. Nicholas here is full of praise for its potential.”

Eduard Muller’s eyes flicked to an embarrassed Nicholas Beswick, then back to Julia. “We had every confidence you would be. Obviously we are strongly in favour of an association with Event Horizon, your size and technical ability would make you a perfect partner to help us exploit this technology. A partnership would be most rewarding for both of us.”

“You are envisaging a fifty-fifty split?” Julia asked.

“Yes, although we would expect you to perform most of the final development stage given that we have provided a theoretical framework for you to work from. Your solid-state research division is second to none, whereas it is no secret we lack in that direction. After that, production and marketing would be a joint effort, perhaps handled by a newly created subsidiary, with Event Horizon and Mutizen each holding fifty per cent of the stock.”

“So far all you have shown us is a sequence of interesting equations. I shall require far more substantial data before I can even begin to make a decision.”

“What sort of data were you thinking of?” Eduard Muller asked.

“Your complete research findings on the practicality of a nuclear force generator.”

“It is within my brief to offer you such additional data in return for a certain level of commitment visible on your side.”

“Good,” said Julia. “Because unless we see some proof that the force generator is theoretically possible, there can be no deal.”

“The data we have assembled concerning the force generator does indicate that it is possible to construct one. It can be made available, providing Event Horizon deposits two hundred million New Sterling in a neutral account as a guarantee of confidentiality. Please understand, I do not ask this lightly. But I’m sure that by now you appreciate the implications of this techuology. It is quite capable of instigating a profound revolution in the pattern of our lives. Its defence applications alone would bring in a revenue far in excess of Event Horizon’s annual turnover.”

“Oh, yeah,” Julia drawled. “I’m aware of the implications. So aware I’m surprised you’re prepared to share atomic structuring with anyone.”

Eduard Muller was good, she had to admit that. His face could have been machine-milled steel for all the expression he showed.

“As I said, we have the theorists, you have the facilities; strengths and weaknesses corresponding, the basis of all mutually profitable ventures.”

“Hmmm.” Julia sipped her tea. She’d been expecting Eduard Muller to spring something like the deposit. A standard business tactic. Mutizen would want to know exactly how keen she was to acquire the atomic structuring technology.

“I will give you an answer in two days,” Julia said.

Eduard Muller inclined his head, the first hint of emotion he had betrayed. “Of course.”

“Providing you do not make a similar offer to anyone else during that time. You will thumbprint an agreement to that effect before you leave.”

“Ah.” He offered a reluctant smile.

“It will give my assessment team time to draw up a full report based on the data they already have. That’s reasonable, surely? Two days isn’t going to make any difference to a project of this undertaking. Besides, it will take that long for you and Peter to thrash out the confidentiality clauses; even I don’t put two hundred million on the line without reading the small print first.”

“Very well, Ms Evans. I think Mutizen can agree to that.”

“Odd,” Peter Cavendish said after Eduard Muller and his two assistants had left.

“Yes,” Julia agreed. “They produce a few giga-bytes of data, and we embark on an open-ended research project for them.” There was something else, the way Eduard Muller had been wanting a decision straight away. Even if he had wanted it, he shouldn’t have shown her that he did. Either he wanted her to know, which made even less sense, or he was under a great deal of stress. Whatever the answer, she had more cards to play with than she’d started with.

She got up and walked over to the window. The mist had melted away under the first rays of the sun, exposing the chocolate mud of the quagmire. Tepid oil-rainbows shivered across its surface. “He was right about one thing, though. I can’t afford not to be involved.”

Peter Cavendish rose from his seat. “You think they have solved the generator problem?”

“No. At least, nothing past a fundamental theory, a notion how it might be built; that’s why they want to bring in Nicholas and his team.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I’ll need you to draw up two sets of contracts. The worst case, where we have to agree to Mutizen’s current terms. The second, I want Mutizen paying half of the development costs with us, and Event Horizon owning fifty-one per cent of the marketing subsidiary stock.”

Peter Cavendish let out a whistle. “Do you think you can get them to agree to that?”

Julia abandoned the view of Prior’s Fen Atoll. If she closed her eyes she could see hologram-colour data streams like arched fairy bridges looping around her. She was woven into the web via her implant nodes, digesting and contributing, but never controlling. The topography of the global data net had long left human understanding behind.

The key to the modern world is retrieval, Royan had told her. All the answers you could possibly want exist somewhere within the world’s data cores.

She didn’t know what questions to ask. The glowing data web was contracting. Smothering.

Julia opened her eyes, seeing Peter Cavendish’s concerned face.

“We’ve got two days to find some leverage,” she said. “In the mean time, I’ve got a speech day to attend.”

CHAPTER 8

Greg slipped his leather jacket over a sky-blue sweatshirt. The black leather was thin enough to move easily, thick enough to shield him from the chill of early morning. It had been a present from Eleanor a couple of years back when his old one had finally torn.

“You’re going to wear that in Monaco, are you?” Eleanor asked. She was sitting on the edge of their bed, wrapped in a quilted housecoat. Hands fidgeting in her lap, knotting and unknotting the belt.

Greg glanced at himself in the bedroom’s antique full-length mirror. Flat stomach, sideburns frosted with grey, a hint of excess flesh building up on his neck. Not bad for fifty-four. He managed to get down to the gym in Oakham twice a week, the fitness bug was something he’d caught during his Army days. After surviving the war in Turkey and the street violence in Peterborough, it would be silly to succumb to clogged arteries and wasted muscles.

“I thought it was all right,” he said. “Fits the image of an English gentleman farmer.”

Eleanor tsked in disapproval.

“It’s not as if I’m going to a social function with the Prince.”

“Don’t I know it,” she mumbled.

Greg went and sat beside her on the bed, his arm going round her shoulders. Eleanor’s head remained bowed, focusing on her hands.

There was none of the old pre-mission exhilaration that used to fire his blood. He’d thought there might have been, the one final deal, proving he could still hack it. He knew plenty of married officers in the Army, combat deployment was something their wives accepted. But family had come after that stage of his life, there was no way the two could be reconciled now.

“If you don’t want me to go, then I won’t,” he said.

“That’s blackmail, Greg. Putting it off on me. You know you have to go.”

“Yeah.” He kissed her on the side of the head, tasting hair.

“And you behave yourself around that Suzi.”

Greg laughed and gave her a proper kiss.

Eleanor responded hungrily, then pushed him away. “Don’t, you know where that sort of thing leads.” She looked down at her belly, smile fading.

“Tell you, it’s funny,” he said quietly. “Even five or six years back I would probably have pleaded with Julia for the chance to do this. I mean, Royan missing, in trouble. What could be more important? But now... I resent it, this being ruled by the past. And I think Suzi does, too. That was a nice girl she’s living with. Pregnant, as well.”

“Suzi?” Eleanor exclaimed.

“No, the girl, Andria. Not that Julia and I were actually told. But you can’t hide that from a psychic.”

“Oh. That ought to be interesting. Suzi, a parent.”

“Yeah.” He went over to the dresser and picked up the Event Horizon cybofax Julia had given him yesterday. “For your own safety,” she’d said. “It’s got a locater beacon for the security crash teams to keep track of you. If you need hardline help, just shout, they’ll be there in minutes. And I’ve loaded one of my personality packages into the memory. You never know, I might actually be of some use to you.”

Greg slipped the palm-sized wafer into his breast pocket. God alone knew what else her security division had squeezed into its ‘ware.

He drew back the honey-coloured curtains. Cool early morning sky, halfway between grey and white. A narrow spire of smoke rose from the dead ashes of the Berrybut estate’s bonfire on the opposite shore. Heavy dew coated the grass of the paddock. The pole jumps for Anita’s pony made sharp splashes of colour among the pale blades. They wanted a fresh coat of paint, he saw, and the grass was too long.

“I’d better get off,” he said. “This is going to be a long day.”

Rutland Water’s high-water level was marked by a thick band of quarried limestone blocks thrown round the entire shoreline to prevent erosion when the reservoir was full. But it had been a hot summer, the farms and citrus groves of the surrounding district had siphoned off a lot of water for irrigation. The vertical water level was already two metres below the bottom of the limestone; on the Hambleton peninsula that produced a broad expanse of mudflats which had dried as hard as concrete under the relentless sun.

Greg and Eleanor walked down the slope from the farmhouse to the limestone, and stood on the top of the crumbling blocks. The travellers’ camp was just beginning to stir.

They heard a shout as Christine came running down the slope after them. “Dad, you were going to leave without saying goodbye,” she accused.

Greg saw the Event Horizon Pegasus hypersonic sink out of the wispy cloud band and skim across the reservoir towards him.

“I’ll only be gone a couple of days, at the most,” he said.

Christine threw her arms round him and gave him a wet kiss. Eleanor’s peck on the cheek was more demure.

The three of them watched the arrowhead-planform Pegasus slowing; a hundred metres from the shore its nose pitched up. Slats opened in its underbelly, venting the compressor fans’ efflux straight down. The undercarriage unfolded, and it settled on the rusty-coloured mudflats in a swirl of dust. A flock of swans drifting on the water behind it rose into the sky, wings pumping frantically.

Greg gave Eleanor a final kiss, and clambered down the nettle-swamped limestone.

There were two security division hardliners waiting for him at the bottom of the hatchway stairs. Pearse Solomons and Malcolm Ramkartra; depressingly young, healthy, and respectful.

“Good morning, sir. We’ve been instructed to provide you with backup should you request it,” Pearse Solomons told him.

Greg’s espersense picked up a hint of resentment in the man’s mind. Not a total cyborg after all, then. He went up the stairs in an improved frame of mind.

The windowless cabin had fifteen seats, a compact rosewood cocktail bar at the rear, and a flatscreen on the forward bulkhead beside the door into the cockpit.

Suzi and Rachel Griffith were sitting at the back. Suzi lounging lethargically in her chair, dressed in a dark purple shellsuit. Her mousy hair had been given a crew cut. At least she didn’t dye it mauve these days.

“Christ, you look keen,” she said.

Greg sat in the seat beside her. “You know me.”

“Yeah. Me too. I feel like I’ve been press-ganged.”

Greg gave Rachel an apologetic shrug.

“I gave up hardlining ten years ago,” Rachel said. “Exec assistant suited me just fine.”

“Just point her out to us,” Greg said. “Your job ends there.”

“Yes,” Rachel said; she looked troubled.

Pearse Solomons and Malcolm Ramkartra came up the stairs and sat in the front two seats. The belly hatch slid shut.

Malcolm Ramkartra picked up a slim phone that was built into his armrest. He turned to Greg and Suzi. “Is Monaco still the destination?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “And tell the pilot to put the nose camera image on the screen after we lift.”

“Yes, sir.” Malcolm Ramkartra spoke briefly into the handset.

“We travel on these planes when we go on holiday with Julia,” Greg said. “I never can get used to not having a port. I grew up with aircraft that you can see out of.”

There was a gentle whine from the fans as they spun up. The deck tilted back slightly.

Suzi grunted. “Didn’t know you went on holiday together.”

“Sure. The kids are all big mates. And I sometimes think Eleanor and I are the only ordinary people Julia knows.”

“You’re ordinary, huh?” Suzi grinned evilly.

“More than you, dear, that’s a fact.” He felt a press of acceleration as the Pegasus surged upwards. The flatscreen lit up, showing blue sky, splashes of white cloud piling up in the south, and a big pink-gold sun lifting over the horizon.

“It was bad at the start,” Greg said. “People thought we were an easy route to her. The rich and the social climbers. We couldn’t move for presents and invitations. The way they behave, it’s ridiculous, disgusting really. Say hello to one, and you’re a lifelong friend. They don’t know what shame is. One birthday the drive looked like the end of a car factory production line; Jags, Ferraris, Lotuses, MGs. Two of them had a ribbon tied round, for Christ’s sake. I sent them all back to the garages. That type just don’t know when to give up. And I couldn’t count how many times I’ve been asked to be a non-executive director—” He became aware of Suzi’s silent unsympathetic stare.