The Mandel Files (17 page)

“Julia, please. What is all this Mr di Girolamo? I am Kendric, your friend, your grandfather’s friend.”

“Bullshit. Grandpa tolerated you. I won’t. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re after.”

“After, Julia?”

“Ranasfani’s project. That’s what it was all about, right?”

He smiled a wounded smile. “So much of your late grandfather you have inherited. You are a straight talker. I respect that, Julia. It is a rare commodity. Pleasing in this world of deceit. So in return I too will be a straight talker. You have to tolerate me, or at least my family house. It’s in our contract. Unbreakable.” The smile hardened. “A profitable arrangement all round.”

“I’ve had my financial division draw up a buyout agreement, your house will be well compensated.”

“And you expected our house to agree to this? Julia, you are more naïve than I thought. Multi-billion Eurofranc contracts are not torn up because of schoolgirl temper tantrums.”

“You are the house’s representative in the consortium. Your family will accept your judgement in this matter.”

“And my judgement is no.”

“You won’t like the alternative.”

“Threats, Julia? Has it come to this? And with what will you threaten me?”

“A scandal.” She was disappointed by how hollow it sounded. A whole complex of doubts was rising. She’d banked so much on forcing Kendric to accept the buyout. Never even considered he would refuse. There was no way now she could mitigate failure.

Kendric chortled delightedly. “A scandal. In this world? In this day and age? Scandal is dependent on perspective, Julia. You smuggle three and a half million Eurofrancs’ worth of gear into Scotland every night. Isn’t that a scandal? Everyone knows I am a lovable rogue. Certainly your dear grandfather did. After all, Event Horizon bought all those templates from me.”

“The memox-crystal spoiler.”

“Ah yes, I heard your orbiting furnaces were producing a depressing amount of contaminated crystals. How unfortunate for you.”

“The rest of the consortium would be very upset to hear that you planned to steal Event Horizon’s assets, don’t you think? It might be difficult for the di Girolamo house to find partners after that.”

“Fantasy,” he said. But there was no smile any more.

She let go of the armrests and placed her hands on the table, pleased by how steady they were. “The onus is on proof, of course. Even if I could prove your involvement, the family would simply disown you, claim they weren’t involved, which they possibly weren’t. The house could survive your fall. What the house would not tolerate is for you to drag them down with you.”

“An admirable summary,” he mocked. “So where is this alleged proof?”

She played the terminal keys, squirting data over to the yacht’s gear cubes. “First understand I am not bluffing. See this? It’s Globecast’s Pan-Europe channel schedule for next Tuesday; the Investigator Chronicle documentary is going to be given over to you, Kendric. I’m going to make you a star. All the data my security people turned up on your crystal-spoiler operation was passed on to the programme’s researchers. We even found them a re-entry capsule to show, it wasbobbing about amongst Weslin’s wreckage. You know about those capsules, Kendric, they’re the sort Siebruk Orbital assembled up at Zanthus.”

“No, Julia, I do not know.”

“Wrong.” She called up her ace from the terminal’s memory, core. “Take a good look, Kendric. That’s a transfer order for eight million Eurofrancs to be paid into the account of the newly formed Siebruk Orbital company from your family house, eleven months ago. And, Kendric, it’s your authority code on the order. You own Siebruk Orbital. And the di Girolamo house funded it.” She requested the terminal to show the second transfer order. “Then five months later you went and repaid the money, without any interest. Money you recovered from selling the memox crystals. My money, Kendric. Did they know? Did you tell them you were borrowing family money to finance your own schemes?”

He was hunched over his terminal cube, studying the two transfer orders without a trace of humour left. “Where did you get these?” he demanded. A crow’s feet wrinkle indented the skin on either side of his mouth as his lips compressed.

“The Credit Corato bank, of course.”

“Impossible. They are forgeries.”

Julia felt the tension drain out of her. She leant back into the chair and grinned wickedly at the screen. “No forging involved. Accessing the bank’s records is the president’s prerogative. So is waiving client confidentiality, though I don’t intend to make it a habit.”

“President?” Shock raised his voice an octave.

“I bought it. Well, fifty-three per cent, anyway. Quite a good investment actually, according to my accountants. I’m the di Girolamo finance house’s new partner. How does that grab you?”

“Bitch,” he breathed.

“Careful, Kendric. I might just lower my offer. Schoolgirl temperament, you see.”

“You bought the bank?” He sounded incredulous.

“Yah.”

“You bought the bank just to make me authorize the buyout?”

“Yah.”

He looked from the cube to the phone screen and back again, bewildered. “How much did all this cost you?”

“Plenty, but it was worth it.”

“I don’t believe this. Do you hate me that much?”

“What do you think, Kendric?” she asked, her voice dangerously shaky.

“I think you are impulsive, dear Julia. If you go on frittering Event Horizon away like this there will be nothing left in a few years. What would your grandfather think of that?”

Behavioural Response: Sorrow.

But she didn’t need the reminder, not any more. “He shared my opinion of you,” she murmured.

“Indeed? And if I don’t authorize your buyout offer?”

She shrugged. “The Chronicle people get a copy of the transfer orders. They’ll go ahead and broadcast then. Without them, the programme would be one big libel case.”

Kendric squared his shoulders, clearing his throat, salvaging what dignity he could. “Very well, Julia. If that’s the way you want it.”

His capitulation left her feeling omnipotent. As soon as his image vanished she called Adrian. It was a formality. She knew she was on a winning streak.

Get a grip on yourself, girl, she told herself sternly, you must look barmy with this grin plastered across your face. People would cross the street to avoid you. But the grin remained.

Then Adrian appeared on the screen, and all the wonder blew away in a blast of trepidation, chilling her heart. He’d lost his verve, the chirpy smile and devilish glint were gone. Broken-hearted. Just how hung up on Kats had he been?

“Hello, Julia, nice to see you.” The words said it, but not the voice, that was funereal. Had she called too soon?

“Sorry to bother you, Adrian. I can call back if it’s not convenient.”

“No, please, I’m deep into cell composition right now. God, it’s dull.”

“Oh, well, that’s something. At least I’m more interesting than an amoeba.”

He looked blank for a second, then smiled sheepishly. “That did come out wrong, didn’t it?”

“Not to worry. Look, I wouldn’t have called, but I need this truly enormous favour, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

“What?” There was a flicker of interest.

“Well, there’s this publishing company which is throwing a big book-launch party next weekend. And I’ve got to go, it’s a social obligation. Event Horizon won the contract to supply them with memoxes, you see. Only the embarrassing thing is, I haven’t got anyone to go with. The business keeps me so busy right now, I don’t get to meet people my age.”

He scratched the back of his neck, staring at the floor, looking very unhappy. “I dunno, Julia—”

“I’ve got to find someone, Adrian. People will think I’m funny if I just keep turning up to these events by myself all the time. It’ll only be for the weekend. I could have the car pick you up, you wouldn’t miss any lectures.”

“Oh, I see.” A grin plucked at his mouth. “Well, we can’t have people thinking that, now can we? I’d be honoured.”

They sorted out details, and she signed off glowing. Yes. He’d said yes! Honoured.

CHAPTER 14

Greg had settled comfortably into his morning regimen when the phone shrilled. He was straddling the wooden bench in the lounge, back flat against the chalet wall, lifting the bar smoothly, letting it fall, push again. The exercise was mindless, easing him into a near dream-state. Push. Relax. Nothing to it. He’d rigged the pulley up to a pump which filled the chalet’s rafter tank. Twenty minutes each morning was enough to top it up. It supplied the toilet and shower in the bathroom. The jacuzzi didn’t work any more, there weren’t enough solar cells on the roof to heat that much water. He didn’t mind, showers with Eleanor were more than enough compensation.

She’d blossomed beautifully over the last six weeks, independence giving her a seasoned self-assurance. There was very little left of the timid, uncertain girl he’d seduced that night in the Wheatsheaf. Easy youthful enthusiasms had given way to measured assessments. Eleanor voiced her own opinions now instead of quiescently accepting other people’s, and she no longer watched over her shoulder, fearful of past shadows. If her father ever showed up again, he would be in for the shock of his life. Greg almost wished he would come.

The real foundation of their relationship was the level of trust, which was total. That was unique to Greg. He’d never escaped the habit of letting his espersense sniff out the faults and insecurities of anyone in his presence. It was a behavioural reflex, one of the psychologists assigned to the Mindstar Brigade had told him, establishing your superiority over everyone to your own satisfaction. Don’t worry about it, we’d all do it if we could.

With Eleanor it wasn’t necessary. He knew her too well.

The phone jarred his mind away from introspection. He ignored it. Push. Relax. Perhaps the caller would give up. Push, slop of water overhead. Relax. His belly was like steel now, flat and hard; legs solid, arms powerful. He’d never been fitter, not even as a squaddie. It made him feel good, confident, capable of tackling anything.

The phone kept on shrilling. There was a dump facility in the terminal for messages, but the caller wasn’t using it. Push. Relax. Someone must want him urgently.

He let the bar fall and walked over to the new Event Horizon terminal. The chalet was all kitted out with Event Horizon gear now. And he’d left a whole lot more in the delivery van, there simply hadn’t been room for all the stuff that Julia had sent. Eleanor had had a ball picking out what they could use.

The fee money had been good as well. He’d paid off the outstanding instalments on the Duo, then went to town refurbishing the chalet—new carpets, curtains, restoring the furniture; stripped the roof down and replaced the tiles; tacked on a second solar panel to power the new air-conditioner. There hadn’t quite been enough cash to replace the shaky walls, but the money ordinary cases brought in should see to that before the end of the year. He’d already worked on a couple since the memox skim, both corporate, sniffing out dodgy personnel.

The phonescreen swirled and Philip Evans’s face appeared. “Hello, Greg. I need your help again, boy. Someone is trying to kill me.”

Greg suppressed a smile. Ten years in the business, and nobody had ever phoned in a cliché before. “Bodyguard services aren’t really my field, sir, wouldn’t your own security...” He trailed off and stared at the screen, stared and stared. Small muscles at the back of his knees began to twitch, threatening to topple him.

When he looked back on it, he blamed his exercise-induced lethargy for putting his mind on a ten-second delay to reality, that and intuition. It wasn’t just the voice and image which convinced him, any animation synthesizer could mimic Philip to perfection. But this was Philip Evans, grinning away at the other end of the connection. Both the natural and neurohormone-boosted faculties squatting in his brain forced him to accept it at a fundamental level.

The black-clad funeral procession wending its way through Peterborough’s rain-slicked streets occluded his vision.

“You’re dead,” he told the image.

“Gone but not forgotten.”

That malicious chuckle. Perfect. Him.

“Sorry to give you a shock, m’boy, but I’d never have called unless it was absolutely vital. Can you come out to Wilholm? I really can’t discuss too much over the phone. I’m sure you appreciate that.”

The tone mocked.

Greg’s skittish nerves began to flutter down towards some kind of equilibrium. Shock numbness, probably. “I...I think I can manage that. When?”

“Soon as possible, Greg, please.”

The image wasn’t perfect, he realized. This was a Philip Evans he hadn’t seen before, flesh firmer, skin-colour salubrious. Stronger. Younger by about a decade.

“OK. Are you in any danger right now?” At some aloof level, he marvelled at his own reaction. Treating it as just another prosaic problem. Spoke volumes for Army training.

“Not from anything physical. The manor is well protected.”

Physical. So what was a ghost afraid of anyway, being exorcized? Should he stop off to buy a clove of garlic, a crucifix, a grimoire? “I’m on my way.”

He pulled on his one decent suit, barking a shin on that idiotically oversized bed in the scramble to shove his feet into a pair of black leather shoes. Thought about taking the Walther, and decided against.

The Duo bounced along the estate’s gravel track and lurched on to the road. He set off towards Wilholm Manor coaxing a full fifty-five kilometres per hour from the engine, rocking slowly in the seat. The Duo had thick balloon-type tyres, made out of a hard-wearing silicon rubber. They were designed to cope with the country’s shambolic road surfaces without being torn to ribbons. A typical PSP fix, he thought, adapting the cars to cope with their failure to maintain the roads.

There was a white watchman pillar standing outside Wilholm’s odd cattle grid. He wound the side window down, and showed his card to it.

“Your visit has been authorized, Mr Mandel,” a construct voice said. “Please do not deviate from the road. Thank you,”