by Ian Whates
“Good.” With that, she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t forget to call.”
He could still feel the ghost of her lips as he went after Pelquin, who was in the process of entering the right-hand door with his new friend. So, the trio of doors were definitely not dummies, or at least not all of them were. In a way this made it easier. Knocking and entering with an apology for being late dispensed with any pretext and made it very difficult for Pelquin to deny him.
The door wasn’t far, but crossing the now crowded room without bulldozing through conversational knots, bumping into people’s backs or colliding with liveried waiters bearing platters of canapés required more patience than he cared to spare. To make matters worse, he was halfway to the door when a voice said, “Mr Drake, isn’t it?”
Drake knew at once that he had never previously met the speaker – a man somewhat shorter than him, his head barely reaching Drake’s shoulder – though he was able to deduce several things immediately. This was an individual of some considerable means – the suit was handmade and expensive, though over-elaborate for Drake’s taste, with stitching forming an intricate filigree pattern on the lapels. Here was somebody who didn’t shirk ostentation. And he wasn’t a native of Brannan’s either, at least not a sedentary one – accent and dusky skin tone gave that much away – while he had recently been on New Sparta; his shoes bore the subtle but distinctive emblem of a fashionista designer Drake knew well, a woman who was very much ‘this season’. In addition, his naturally tanned complexion was washed with the indefinable pastiness bestowed by a good deal of time spent away from the natural light of any sun, while it also showed the smooth tightness of multiple rejuves, so he was by no means a young man.
All of which led Drake to conclude that their bumping into one other was anything but a coincidence. Since he had been a last minute addition to the guest list, very few people would know the banker’s identity and even fewer would be interested; only someone paying keen attention to Pelquin’s presence was likely to have noted such a detail. Recent events narrowed the field down to just one likely candidate.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Falyn de Souza…”
“And you work for the Jossyren Mining Corporation,” Drake finished for him. “Clearly in an executive capacity, so perhaps it would be more appropriate to say that a good portion of Jossyren Mining works for you.”
De Souza blinked several times, obviously taken aback, but to his credit he recovered quickly, giving an appreciative chuckle. “My, my… That is impressive.”
Drake said nothing, but he’d stopped walking. He felt torn between the need to find out what was going on between Pelquin and the stranger and a desire to discover what this de Souza wanted with him. In the end, expediency dictated the latter take priority.
“It’s a pleasure to discover that at least some of First Solar’s representatives live up to their reputation.”
“I wasn’t aware that any of us had a reputation to live up to.” At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder which of his colleagues had failed in that regard.
“You do, Mr Drake, you very much do. Should you ever tire of living off the scraps First Solar pay you and want to earn some real money, come and talk to me.”
Drake smiled. “I’ll bear that in mind. In the meantime, flattering though all this might be, I very much doubt you’ve engineered this meeting merely to bolster my ego.”
“Indeed not. And I do so appreciate directness.”
Though generally, Drake suspected, only when de Souza himself was the one being direct.
“I know why you’re here, Mr Drake.”
If so, it would be interesting to hear, since Drake didn’t yet know himself.
“And I know where you’re going,” de Souza continued.
Again Drake said nothing, though de Souza paused as if waiting for a response. “My point is that Captain Pelquin intends to double cross you,” he said. “That won’t come as a shock, I’m sure. You’ve had ample opportunity by now to see that he’s not to be trusted. I’m sure you’ve already discovered that the good captain has been less than honest in his submissions to your employers, withholding vital, pertinent information. First Solar would never condone such an operation if they knew all the facts, not officially. But then that’s where you come in, isn’t it, Mr Drake? I understand that you representatives are granted sufficient… shall we say ‘discretion’… to bend the rules a little when in the field, to sanction things that First Solar can later deny all knowledge of. Am I right, Mr Drake? Of course I am.”
Drake sipped his champagne and remained quiet; he’d realised a while ago that he didn’t need to contribute much to the conversation. De Souza was perfectly content to speak for both of them.
“I won’t detain you any longer, Mr Drake, but I do hope you’ll think on what I’ve said before you find yourself in too deep. My ship is in port for another couple of days, berth 56. Why not drop by so that we can continue this conversation in private? I’m confident it would prove beneficial to both of us.”
As de Souza moved away, Drake saw the door that had been his intended destination open, to admit first Pelquin and then the other man back into the main room. Damn! He would now be forced to rely on whatever Pelquin chose to tell him about the brief meeting, and then decide how much of the captain’s account to believe.
The old maxim about keeping your enemies close had never seemed more appropriate. Pelquin might easily have brought Bren along to tonight’s reception – in fact that had been his original intention – but he’d decided to invite Drake instead and was now glad that he had.
Drake seemed a little uncomfortable in this social setting, which surprised Pelquin. He would have expected the banker to feel perfectly at home here, given his position with First Solar, but apparently not. Pelquin, on the other hand, was having a ball. He took quiet pleasure in seeing the banker marginalised by the flow of conversation. Drake drifted away towards the edge of the room like flotsam discarded on the beach by a discerning tide. More than one bright young pretty thing seemed impressed by Pelquin’s colourfully embellished anecdotes and having the dour banker at his elbow would only have cramped his style. He could even hope that, with Drake at a slight remove, he might yet manage to arrange alternative sleeping arrangements that would force him to send his ‘plus one’ back to the ship alone.
Throughout all the flirtatious chatter, however, he kept half an eye on the slightly portly, mutton-jowled figure of Olly Webster. He had moved mountains to secure an invite to this shindig, calling in favours from people who would never talk to him again, and he was determined not to waste the opportunity. Pelquin was probably the last person Olly would expect to see here, and as yet he didn’t appear to have noticed him. Which was fine: it would make the surprise all the more enjoyable. Finally he saw his chance as Webster stepped away from two men he’d been deep in conversation with. Breaking off in mid-story and excusing himself, Pelquin abandoned his own small audience and moved across to intercept Webster.
“Hello, Olly.”
For an instant Olly looked puzzled, as if trying to place who this was, but the look of shock that followed was a pleasure to witness. “Pelquin!” He spat the word out, as if he couldn’t wait to eject its foul taste from his mouth. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
A distinguished-looking woman in sequinned gown turned round sharply, clearly shocked to hear such language.
“Olly, it’s good to see you too,” Pelquin said, all smiles. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“That’s Senator Webster to you; and we were never friends.”
“Olly, how can you say that, after all that we’ve been through…? Successful business partners, at the very least.”
“That’s enough! I’ve no idea how you blagged your way in here, Pelquin, but whatever you’re after I’m not interested.”
“Oh I think you are, Olly. Trust me, you can’t afford not to be.” He dropped
the smile. “Is there somewhere a little more… private we can talk?”
Pelquin watched panic, anger, and calculation play across the man’s face. For a moment he feared that Olly might yet have him thrown out and damn the consequences, which would be unfortunate; especially for Olly. In the event, though, common sense prevailed. “Five minutes,” Olly said. “Then you leave.”
“Five minutes will do just fine.”
Senator Webster produced a broad smile of his own, flashing it to all and sundry. At the same time he muttered, “Come with me.”
It was too early to feel triumphant – the hard part was still to come – but Pelquin was enjoying himself; not least because he knew Drake was a little behind him, chatting to that red-headed starlet. A striking looking woman, one he wouldn’t have minded knowing better himself. He resisted the temptation to look round as he followed the senator, not wanting to give the banker an excuse to join them. He suppressed a smile, knowing full well how vexed Drake would be.
Olly led the way to the rightmost of the three doors in the far wall, opening it and ushering Pelquin inside. Only once the door shut firmly behind them did Olly turn to face him.
“That’s your first minute gone crossing the room,” he said. “You’ve got four left.”
The noise from the party had dropped away instantly the door closed; all that now reached them was a muted murmur. Unruffled, Pelquin smiled and stepped past Olly, to glance around at the room, which was clearly modelled on the drawing room of some old colonial manse. “Nice place,” he said. “Who’d have thought you and I would ever be allowed into somewhere like this, hey, Olly? But then you’re a senator, now, aren’t you? I was delighted to hear how well you’re doing for yourself these days, by the way.”
“I’ll bet. Three and a half minutes.”
“So very different from when you and I knew each other…”
“Get to the point, Pel. It’s your own time you’re wasting.”
“We’re both businessmen, Olly. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t be where you are now without the profit made from our former ventures.”
“That’s all in the past. I’m a changed man now.”
“No argument from me; I’m sure you are… Which is why it would be such a pity if any of those dirty little dealings came to light, don’t you think?”
“I wondered how long it would take you. So, it’s blackmail.”
“Such an ugly word; I’d like to think of this more as a business arrangement, one that we can both benefit from.”
“Both?”
“Of course ‘both’. You enjoy the benefits of my silence. The last thing I want to do is undermine all the good work you’re doing with the Xters and everything… which brings us, of course, to your side of the deal. I want a permit.”
“What? You’re joking.”
Pelquin smiled. “No. I really admire the way you’ve championed detente between us and the Xters – it’s been your road to success, eh, Olly? I need to go into Xter space and you’re the man who can ensure that I do so legally. So… a permit.”
“It’s called a Sanction, not a permit. And no fucking way!”
“Do you remember that old warehouse you used to have in the industrial sector over on the Eastside, what I used to deliver there?”
“That was all a long time ago. I was young… The foolishness of youth…”
“Of course, Olly, I know that. Let’s just hope your colleagues and those nice people in the media see it the same way. Everything’s documented, of course; photos, recordings…”
“You really are a complete bastard, aren’t you, Pelquin.”
“So they tell me. Here are the details of what I need.” He handed across a scrap of paper – old style, the one system of messaging guaranteed to leave no electronic footprints. “We’ll meet again tomorrow, midday, outside the warehouse – for old time’s sake.”
“You’re mad; that’s impossible. I can’t organise a Sanction that quickly, even if I wanted to.”
“Of course you can, Olly, if you put your mind to it. I’ve got every faith in you.”
“There are procedures in place, protocols to follow…”
“Circumvent them, Olly, circumvent them. Now, perhaps we should get back to the party before someone misses us; well, you, no one’s going to miss me.” Pelquin gestured towards the door. “Don’t let me down, Olly.”
“You bastard!”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
SIXTEEN
Alexis Chapel felt that she had finally found her niche. Oh, she knew she was nothing special. That particular facet of reality had been drummed into her from an early age. If you were to take all her education reports and ask a computer to assess the contents and produce a one line summary, the result would most likely have been those very words: Nothing Special.
This wasn’t something she felt any great bitterness about. Alexis was a realist who entertained few illusions regarding herself, either flattering or derogatory. She accepted who she was and knew it to be better than many: not bad looking – face a little too angular, nose a little too prominent to be considered ‘beautiful’ perhaps, but she could pull off ‘cute’ when she wanted to and she’d never lacked for male attention; she wasn’t stupid, either – though she could never claim to have been a high flyer academically. She’d landed a good, solid job – which was more than some of her old school friends could say – even if she’d had to sit and watch on more than one occasion as other, brighter prospects were promoted over her head. She was a decent enough person as well, though sainthood was definitely beyond her reach. Alexis had never stolen anything in her life – apart from a friend’s boyfriend in an isolated incident which had been fully merited retribution for a particularly catty insult. She had now been married for nearly four years and had only cheated on him once; well, half a dozen times but with the same man, so that still counted as once in her book. And in any case, she’d ended it months ago. Her marriage was a happy one. There were no children as yet, but all in good time. Maybe.
No, Alexis knew full well that in many ways she was doing okay; it was just that she’d never excelled at anything… Except perhaps at art, and her mother had put paid to any ambitions in that department. Not deliberately, of course – far from it. Her mother, Emalia Chapel, had always been encouraging, in that reserved, aloof manner which had always been her default setting when dealing with her daughter. Emalia’s attention was invariably focused elsewhere: on her own art. And that was the problem. Alexis’ mother had been an outstanding artist, celebrated in fact; the single most famous artist on the whole of Brannan’s World, or so it had seemed to her daughter. How could Alexis ever compete with that? Her mother painted, too. Really painted, using oils, watercolours and acrylics, rarely dabbling in the digital forms that had opened art to so many. Emalia could create more emotion with a single stroke of a brush than any of her contemporaries could with a glut of pixels.
The teenage Alexis had felt awed, humbled, embarrassed by her own efforts, and so her burgeoning talent had gone unrealised, and she backed away from art entirely, despite the encouragement of others. To her mind, the prospect of being forever dubbed ‘The Daughter of’ was far worse than not being known at all.
She hadn’t attempted anything artistic in years.
And then of course there was her husband, Joe. He’d never been remotely interested in art; maybe that was one of the things that first attracted her to him – he represented an escape. Between them they made a comfortable living. Joe was in haulage, while the security services provided her with an adequate income; and Alexis knew that her superiors valued her – they had told her so more than once. ‘Dependable’; that was the praise most often heaped upon her. It was why she was chosen for this particular operation, ensuring the safety of a roomful of government ministers and VIPs at a swanky function. It was also the reason she was stuck inside a dimly-lit, claustrophobic cubbyhole of a room staring at a bank of screens depicting the input from assorte
d micro-cameras rather than out there on the floor mingling. Still, as Alexis had told Luke, one of her colleagues who had been tasked with working the room that evening, in her opinion chef-devised canapés and chilled champagne were highly overrated. Particularly when she was denied the chance to sample them.
Alexis had devised various means of entertaining herself – an essential undertaking, otherwise monitor duty made her feel like a voyeur at the most unexciting orgy in history. Initially it wasn’t too bad – she occupied the time by zooming in on the gorgeous dresses and fabulous jewellery worn by the assembled women and no few of the men, trying to work out which celeb was wearing which designer, and how many years’ worth of her own salary a given outfit was likely to have cost. Once she tired of that she turned her attention to spotting who was having a surreptitious word with whom and predicting which exchanges were likely to be political, which commercial, and which were of a more intimate nature.
She smiled at seeing one particular minister, who had narrowly survived a recent scandal that saw the media daub him ‘Randy Reggie’, whisper a few brief words to a strikingly pretty starlet half his age. Whatever it was he said – his face was at the wrong angle for the lip-reading software to be of any use and there was too much background hubbub for sound enhancement to help – earned him a quick smile and a shallow nod of response, after which he moved away to rejoin his wife, who was laughing with forced enthusiasm at some comment made by the Aleuthian ambassador.
Next she saw two notoriously bitter political rivals talking and smiling like the very best of buddies, and a supposedly gay actor clearly hitting on the same starlet the minister had whispered to a short time before. Alexis shook her head. There was a fortune’s worth of potential revelation and scandal unfolding before her very eyes. It was almost a pity she valued her job so much.
The door behind her opened, startling her, but it was only Luke. He edged into the room, balancing a flute of what had to be champagne and a plate of half a dozen mouth-watering canapés.
