The Mandel Files, Volume 1

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘You mock me, Mandel. You speak of the Lord, yet you carry no reverence in your heart. You speak of blasphemy, and you revel in its execution.’

  ‘Which would you prefer to do, kill Kitchener, or erase his work?’

  ‘A computer is a tool, it can be used or misused. In itself it is unimportant.’

  ‘Secondary then, but knocking it out would be a good idea, you would try and do it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you ever nervous when you murdered those people in Newark?’

  Bursken’s throat muscles tightened, his thought currents spasmed heavily, thrashing about like wrestling snakes. Loathing predominated.

  Greg allowed a smile to play on his lips. ‘You were, weren’t you? You were frightened, trembling like a leaf.’

  ‘Of being discovered,’ Bursken spat. ‘Of being stopped.’

  ‘Did you take precautions? Did you clean up afterwards.’

  ‘The Lord is no fool.’

  ‘You followed his instructions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To the letter? Right afterwards, I mean the minute after you had spread those lungs, you would start cleaning up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No hesitation? No gloating?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘During, what about during? Did you take care then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was hard work, bloody work, and there was always the danger someone might stumble in on you. The fear. You’re seriously telling me your concentration never wavered?’

  ‘Never,’ Bursken said gleefully. ‘The Lord cleansed me of mortal weaknesses for my task. My thoughts remained pure.’

  ‘Every single time?’

  ‘Every single time!’

  ‘The police found some skin under Oliver Powell’s fingernails. Your skin. You missed that, didn’t you?’

  ‘They lied. There was no skin. Powell was struck from behind. He cried out but once before I silenced him. A plea. In his heart he knew his sin, he did not attempt to thwart the Lord’s justice.’

  Greg could read it from his mind, the supreme pride in what he had done. The glowing sense of accomplishment, a kind Greg had encountered before in sports tournament winners, someone receiving favourable exam results. Healthy dignity. ‘Jesus!’ Stupefaction pushed Greg back in his chair. Staring in bewilderment at the creature opposite, it had flesh and blood and bone, but that wasn’t enough to make it human, nowhere near. ‘He’s not fucking real.’

  Stephanie exchanged an embarrassed glance with one of the guards and made a cutting motion across her throat.

  ‘Was there anything else, Greg?’ she asked.

  Greg shut down his gland secretion. Defeated, soiled and shamed by having been privy to Bursken’s thoughts. ‘No. Absolutely nothing.’

  The lunatic sneered contemptuously as the guards led him away.

  14

  Julia’s Rolls-Royce passed under a broad stone arch, watched by a pair of silent moss-laden griffins perched on either side. The wrought-iron gates swung shut as the car sped down the long gravel drive.

  Even with the new year’s punishing weather, Wilholm’s grounds were maintained in pristine condition. Formally arranged flowerbeds alternated with cherry trees along the side of the drive. Broad lawns dotted with dumpy cycads rolled away to a border of glossy shrubs; behind them a thick rank of Brazilian rosewoods completed the shield against prying eyes. The Nene was a couple of kilometres away to the south-east. In the summer she could look out of the manor’s second-storey windows and watch the little sailing boats cruising up and down the river, dreaming of the freedom they possessed. But this time of year always saw the valley floor flooded by the monsoon rains, the boats safe on dry land. The water was deeper each year as more and more soil was washed away by the powerful current. Further down, between the A1 and the tail end of the Ferry Meadows estuary, it became a permanent salt marsh, fetid and inutile.

  But the secluded Wilholm estate remained a passive refuge, protected from environmental ravages by a wall of her money, changeless apart from the spectacular cycle of flowers which varied from month to month. Philip Evans had bought it as soon as he returned to England, paying off the communal farmers who had occupied it under the PSP’s auspices. Landscape teams had laboured for months, returning it to its former splendour. Actually, it was probably a lot better than it used to be, she suspected, especially after she saw how much it had cost. Grandpa hadn’t cared, he wanted elegance, and by God that’s what he got.

  It was worthwhile, though. Wilholm was easy on the eye, time flowed just that fraction slower across its trim lawns and through the sumptuous interior. The fact that she never, but never, used it for business of any kind helped strengthen the sensation of relief she always experienced when she crossed that invisible, and ultra-secure, threshold. Wilholm was for parties and lovers and friends. Today counted as friends, the Kitchener case was too intriguing to be classed as work.

  She pursed her lips in self-chastisement; calling the murder intriguing in front of Cormac Ranasfari would never do.

  Royan Access Request.

  Expedite, she told the nodes.

  Hi, Snowy.

  She grinned broadly. On the jump seat opposite, Rachel gave her an expectant look then went back to the view across the lawn. A black-furred gene-tailored sentinel panther was just visible loping along the grass in front of the shrubs.

  Royan was the only person to call her that. It was her middle name, Snowflower, bestowed by the American desert cult with which she had spent her childhood. She never used it, but there was no unit of data on the planet Royan couldn’t access.

  Hello to you, she answered. Talking to Royan was always a real opiate. He had taught her all sorts of programming tricks. Thanks to him she could write better hotrod software than half of England’s professional hackers. She wasn’t sure what he got in return, probably just the satisfaction of having someone outside his concrete eyrie who would listen. That and the fact she was the Julia Evans. Whatever, they had been firm friends ever since Greg’s first Event Horizon case. He was another of those rare people who was honest with her.

  Eleanor has been to see me.

  I don’t know. All these girlfriends.

  I like Eleanor.

  All you men like Eleanor.

  Jealous jealous jealous. Is what you are.

  Certainly am, all I’ve got is money.

  How is Patrick?

  Fine, I suppose.

  Oh, Snowy, you haven’t finished with him already? You only met him five weeks ago.

  Don’t you start, I get quite enough of that from Grandpa and Morgan and Greg.

  They care. I care, Snowy. It’s nice to have people who care.

  Yah.

  I saw you on the channels this morning.

  Did you now?

  Yes yes yes. Would you like me to put out a snuff contract on Jakki Coleman?

  I would truly love you to put out a snuff contract on that bitch.

  Really?

  The only trouble is, everyone would know I was behind it. Lord, I hope nothing does happen to her! I never thought of that before. The way conspiracy theories are flying round at the moment …

  Guilty guilty guilty. Chuckle. Serves you right.

  Yes. Well, you would spring me from jail, wouldn’t you?

  For a price.

  Thanks a bunch, some friend you are.

  Seriously, I could glitch her ’cast something chronic. How about superimposing a blue AV recording? Give the porno starlet her face.

  Julia had to rub her hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh. Rachel didn’t look this time, she had probably guessed what was going on.

  Don’t tempt me! Julia implored. I’ll get that Coleman slag, one day. You see if I don’t. It won’t be public, but she’ll know and I’ll know. And that’s what truly counts.

  Let me know if you need a hand.

  Yes, I will. Thanks.

  I’ve been going through the L
aunde Abbey security ’ware for Greg and Eleanor.

  Yes, and …?

  You were really looking out for Kitchener, weren’t you?

  Not me, I didn’t even know a thing about him until two days ago. Apparently Cormac Ranasfari insisted on upgrading the security at the Abbey. He’s always been concerned that Kitchener didn’t have adequate protection, and this was a perfect opportunity to insist.

  Oh. Well, that security system your people installed is top grade. The guardian bytes are hot hot hot stuff.

  You can’t melt through?

  Didn’t say that. I could. And possibly another five or six people in the country could. But it’s tough.

  Oh, so that takes the tekmerc penetration mission out of the possible, and into the improbable.

  Looks like it.

  Thanks for telling me. Do you want to sit in on the conference?

  Yes yes yes.

  Wilholm itself was a splendid eighteenth-century manor house. A broad grey stone façade with pink and yellow roses clotting the sturdy trelliswork on either side of the overhanging portico. The long windows were fitted with silvered glass against the heat. Julia saw a hundred tiny reflections of herself climbing out of the Rolls. Lucas, her butler, was walking down the steps to greet her.

  There were a couple of other cars parked outside. Morgan’s caramel-coloured Rover and a cobalt-blue Ford which she guessed was Ranasfari’s.

  ‘A pleasant morning, ma’am?’ Lucas asked. He was in his mid-sixties, wearing a tailcoat with bright brass buttons, wonderfully dignified. The PSP had kept him on the dole for ten years, saying personal service was a humiliating anachronism, and they’d find him proper employment. The day after Philip Evans bought Wilholm he had cycled out from Peterborough and asked for a job. The manor functioned so smoothly under his supervision; and he’d never attended corporate management-training courses.

  She handed him her raincoat and boater. ‘Let’s say, I covered a lot of ground.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Yes, ma’am. Mr and Mrs Mandel have just passed the gatehouse, they will be here shortly.’

  ‘Great. Show them up to the study as soon as they arrive.’ She raced up the steps and through the big double doors. Most of her major friends together, working on a problem, and including her. It looked like being a great afternoon.

  The study was on the first floor. Julia took her deep-purple blazer off as she went up the curving staircase. She was still undoing her slim bow tie as she barged into the study. Morgan Walshaw and Cormac Ranasfari were waiting, along with Gabriel Thompson.

  Gabriel was the only person Julia knew who was ageing in reverse. The woman was another ex-Mindstar officer Greg had introduced her to. Her gland had been taken out two years ago, the precognition faculty it educed having brought too many psychological problems. Seeing into the future, Gabriel lived in perpetual fear of watching her own death drawing steadily closer. After leaving the army she had gone to seed, badly.

  Now, with the gland out, she was taking care of her appearance again; she watched her diet, kept up her health, and was beginning to expand her interests. After starting out as a dowdy spinster who looked about fifty-five, she had worked her way down to become a pleasant-faced forty-five-year-old, with a pretty brisk attitude to life. Although Julia had detected some brittleness on more than one occasion.

  Officially Gabriel was acting as adviser to Event Horizon’s security division while Morgan set up a team of psychics – Greg had refused the assignment point-blank. The two of them had moved into the same house eighteen months ago.

  ‘Hello, Gabriel,’ Julia said brightly. She gave Morgan a quick peck on the cheek as she carried on down the long oak table which filled the centre of the study. ‘Thank you for coming, Cormac.’

  Cormac had half risen from his own armchair; he ducked his head before reseating himself.

  Julia plopped down in the hard chair at the head of the table, and activated the terminal in front of her. ‘I asked Royan to attend, is that all right?’ she asked Morgan. He didn’t strictly approve of Royan.

  ‘Certainly.’

  Her fingers pecked at the terminal’s keyboard, loading the familiar code. Above the stone fireplace, the flatscreen she used for videoconferencing flickered dimly.

  PLUGGED IN, it printed in bold orange letters.

  Royan always refused to use a vocal synthesizer; the closest he came was the silent speech when her nodes were interfaced with the ’ware stacks in his room. Eleanor had described him to her once. Ever since, Julia had experienced a subtle guilt at her relief that she would never actually have to meet him. Although a bleak presence always seemed to float on the periphery of their electronic link, as if he was struggling to project himself through at her.

  You’re paranoid, girl, she told herself.

  Another code and Grandpa was there, plugged into the study’s systems. She talked banalities with the three of them as the first raindrops of the afternoon began to speckle the lead-framed windows. Sluggish grey clouds lumbered over the Nene valley, making the oak-panelled study seem funereal. Wall-mounted biolum globes came on, giant luminous pearls on curving tubular brass arms.

  Lucas’s unmistakable soft knock sounded on the door. He ushered Greg and Eleanor in.

  Julia listened to their résumé of the case, trying to conceal a shudder when Greg ran through his interview with Liam Bursken. She could see he was still wound up about it, and it took a lot to affect Greg. Whenever she glanced at Cormac, he had the same politely attentive expression in place.

  Can’t fool me, Cormac, she thought, not any more. His aloofness was a defence against the craziness and stupidity of the world, as much as his physical retreat into his laboratory complex. But now the world had pierced clean through and bitten him.

  With some surprise, she realized she was actually feeling sorry for him.

  After Eleanor finished talking Julia asked Greg to squirt all the police files stored in his cybofax into the NN core. ‘Grandpa can run correlation exercises for us,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right, bloody skivvy I am,’ Philip muttered. ‘Nice to know why I was invited.’

  Greg smiled thinly and aimed his cybofax at her terminal. Eleanor added the bytes she’d built up.

  ‘So it’s definitely not one of the students,’ Gabriel said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure they didn’t kill Kitchener,’ said Greg. ‘Although how my opinion would stand up in court, I’m not so certain about. But the physical evidence does tend to corroborate my interviews. Besides, none of them had a mind anything like Bursken’s.’

  ‘Your opinion is good enough for me,’ Morgan said.

  ‘Even your new friend Rosette Harding-Clarke is in the clear,’ Eleanor flashed Greg a spartan grin. ‘Her family is very rich, and according to Julia’s legal office the child wouldn’t get a penny out of Kitchener’s estate. If the Harding-Clarkes were poor, Rosette might have been able to apply for a maintenance order against the estate. However, the question doesn’t arise.’

  ‘Then it must have been a tekmerc snuff,’ Morgan said.

  YOUR SECURITY GEAR PROTECTING LAUNDE ABBEY WAS THE BEST. NO ONE ON THE CIRCUIT HAS HEARD OF ANYBODY WANTING TO BUY THE KIND OF PROGRAMS WHICH COULD BURN THROUGH.

  Morgan turned his head to look at the flatscreen. ‘How reliable are your sources?’

  VERY VERY VERY.

  ‘Somebody got in.’

  ‘I still maintain it would be difficult for anyone to get in and out of the Chater valley that night,’ Greg said.

  ‘Then who did do it?’ Walshaw asked; his voice had risen a notch.

  Gabriel caught his eye, a silent rebuke.

  ‘Logically, it was a tekmerc snuff,’ Greg said unhappily. ‘Nobody else would have the know-how and operational expertise to get in and out without leaving a trace. That’s what I find incredible. There wasn’t a single trace, not one.’ He shook his head.

  ‘We’re missing method and motive at the moment,’ Eleanor said.


  MOTIVE I HAVE PLENTY OF.

  ‘What?’ Julia asked.

  ACCORDING TO THE CIRCUIT, KITCHENER WAS WORKING ON A BORON PROTON REACTOR FOR YOU.

  ‘Edward was doing no such thing,’ Cormac objected.

  Philip chortled, the sound reverberating out of hidden speakers, directionless. ‘Ah, but it fits, m’boy. Doesn’t it? Kitchener’s speciality was atomic and molecular interaction. A successful boron proton reaction would be almost as worthwhile as giga-conductor. Look at it from an economic point of view, a successful boron proton fusion produces energized helium, that’s all, no pollutants, no radioactive emission. It’s a bloody marvel, or it would be if we could build one. Kitchener is just the kind of man to iron out the bugs involved in getting a smooth fusion process going.’

  ‘It would be a logical assumption,’ Morgan said grudgingly. ‘If someone was aware Kitchener was contracted to Event Horizon, was receiving money from us, they could well think it was for energy research. Especially if they knew it was coming from Cormac’s office, the inventor of the giga-conductor.’

  Eleanor rapped a knuckle lightly on the table, and tilted her head to look at Julia. ‘How are you going to power Prior’s Fen?’

  It took a second for her thoughts to jump between subjects. ‘I’m considering two options. The first is an Ocean Thermal generator system, with floating platforms anchored out in the Atlantic, and bringing the electricity ashore with superconductor cables. Second is to drill a couple of hundred deep bore holes across the Fens basin, then insert direct thermocouple cables down them, siphon energy right out of the mantle. The tower and the projected cyber precincts certainly can’t be powered from existing mainland sources, the capacity simply doesn’t exist. Costwise, direct coupling has the edge, naturally since there are no moving parts to maintain once the holes have been sunk. In engineering terms, ocean thermal is a more mature technology. So at the moment I’m just waiting to see if Cormac makes any significant progress on direct thermocoupling in the next ten months. We don’t have to make the actual selection until the end of the year.’