Greg looked down on the architectural shambles from an office on the top floor of Event Horizon’s glass-cube administration block, and wondered how many times that cycle would turn down the centuries. Hopes and aspirations of each new age lost under the weight of human frailties and plain bloody-mindedness.
The airport’s ancient hangars were dilapidated monstrosities, corrugated panels flapping dangerously as they awaited the reclamation crews. Next to them were six modern cargo terminals made from pearl-white composite; a constant flow of Dornier tilt-fans came and went from the pads outside. Black oval airships drifted high overhead.
He could see an old An-225 Mriya at the end of the barely serviceable runway. The Sanger orbiter he’d returned in yesterday had been hoisted on top by a couple of big cranes. The configuration was undergoing a final inspection before flying back to Listoel.
He heard Philip Evans’s querulous voice behind him, and closed the grey-silver louvre blinds which ran along the window wall, shutting out the sight of the tilt-fans hovering outside. The glass was sound-deadened, blocking the incessant high-frequency whine of their turbines.
Only Morgan Walshaw and Victor Tyo were in the office, sitting in hotel lobby silicon-composite chairs at a big oval conference table. There was a large flatscreen on the wall at the head of the table, showing Julia and Philip Evans in the study at Wilholm. Julia’s hair was tied back severely, and she was wearing a double-breasted purple suit-jacket over a cream blouse. Going for an executive image. It didn’t quite come off; her face, despite its current solemnity, was far too young. People would underestimate her because of that, he knew. He had.
But it was Philip who worried him. The old man looked just awful; a heavy woollen shawl wrapped round his thin frail shoulders, eyes that were yellow and glazed. His deterioration even over the five short days since the dinner party was quite obvious. He seemed to be having a great deal of trouble following the proceedings, his attention intermittent.
Julia shared Greg’s opinion, judging by her expression. Her pretty oval face was pale and drawn, crestfallen. It looked as though she hadn’t slept for days, her big tawny eyes were red-rimmed, never leaving her grandfather. He wondered if he’d asked too much from her, especially at this time.
“It was Kendric di Girolamo who organized the spoiler operation,” Greg said. “The evidence which Julia has unearthed for us puts it beyond doubt.”
The corners of her lips lifted in acknowledgement.
“My girl,” Philip rumbled.
“We had two problems arise out of what we discovered,” said Greg, “which when taken together cancel each other out. We already knew that with his control of High Shunt, Kendric could divert the memox crystals from the waste dump. But that left us with the question of how he could get hold of a Sanger to bring them back down to Earth. At five hundred million Eurofrancs each, it’s too expensive for him to buy one, besides we’d know if the di Girolamo family house owned a spaceplane. And to hire one from a legitimate spaceline he would’ve had to list the cargo manifest, both for the operator and the spaceport authority, It would’ve been impossible for him to explain where the memox crystals originated from. Oh, he might’ve been able to do it once, or even twice. But not on a regular basis. The space industry is close knit, it knows itself. If he was bringing down three flights of memox crystals a month, the pilots and payload handlers would’ve started to ask questions.
“Then we have the second problem: why did he bother with the monolattice filament when he’d already corrupted the memox-furnace operators? Julia found the answer to that.”
“After I found High Shunt was owned by the di Girolamo house, I took a closer look at all the other companies working up at Zanthus,” she said, reading from her cube. Her voice was like a construct, level and droning. “The clincher was a company called Siebruk Orbital. It’s the smallest one up at Zanthus, consisting of a single standard microgee module staffed by two technicians. They’re listed as a research team investigating new vacuum-fabrication techniques.”
“So?” Philip asked.
“Fabrication techniques,” Greg said. “I think they’re turning the monolattice filament into small re-entry capsules inside that module. Then they fill them with memox crystals and hand them back to High Shunt for a waste dump, retroburning them so they fall into the atmosphere.”
“Siebruk Orbital belongs to Kendric?”
“Siebruk Orbital is registered in Zurich, which gives total anonymity for the owner,” said Julia. “But the Sanger which launched the module was a Lufthansa charter. It was put up ten months ago, which, incidentally, fits the timing perfectly. Payment for the flight came from Siebruk Orbital’s company account at the Credit Corato bank in Italy. All perfectly legal and above board. However, the di Girolamo family finance house has a thirty-five per cent stake in Credit Corato. It’s supposition, of course.”
“Has to be,” Philip said softly. He was looking at something off screen, wistful.
Victor Tyo activated the terminal on the table in front of him, the cubes lit. “After Greg came to me with this, I ordered a review of data from our Earth Resources platforms, specifically the oceans under Zanthus’s orbital track. There are three designated areas for waste dumps, all over water in case burn-up isn’t complete. Two over the Pacific, one over the Atlantic.” An image formed in one of the cubes, a white dot on a blue background. The dot began to move, trailing a white line behind it. After a minute the centre of the image was a near-solid blob of white. “What you’re seeing is a movement record built up over the last two months of a ship in the Atlantic, two hundred kilometres east of the waste dump area. As you can see, it stays within a patch of ocean about fifty kilometres in diameter. We did a computer simulation of a non-lifting-body profiled descent trajectory, two hundred kilometres is well within the established criteria. I believe the ship is Mr di Girolamo’s recovery vessel.” The cube display changed, showing an overhead view of a ship at sea. “This was taken at first light this morning with a platform’s high-definition photon amp.” The angle of the cube image shifted in increments until the ship appeared to be leaning over at forty-five degrees. The name Weslin was visible on the side.
“According to Lloyd’s data core, Weslin is owned by MDL Maritime,” Julia said. “MDL Maritime is another Zurich-registered company. Credit Corato handles its account.”
“Bingo,” Morgan Walshaw said quietly.
Philip’s eyes found the camera, looking down at Greg. Confusion distorted his enervated features. “Why?” he asked. “Kendric di Girolamo has a large legitimate financial interest in Event Horizon through his family finance house. He was hurting himself with the spoiler.”
“The spoiler made him forty-eight million Eurofrancs; and as to Event Horizon’s suffering, he wouldn’t lose a thing, not in the long run,” Greg said. “You see, he wasn’t looking to make a killing from the crystals directly, they were a means. With Event Horizon’s declining profits on top of your health situation he would have gained enough leverage with the other members of the backing consortium to have himself appointed to the board of trustees you’ve arranged to run Event Horizon until Julia comes of age.”
“It’s a reasonable enough request,” Julia put in reluctantly. “The consortium are entitled to a representative. I doubt we could keep their nominee off. Not legally.”
Philip nodded slowly. “The consortium has mentioned it…Someone…to oversee their interests.” His voice sounded terribly weak. Julia was looking at him, almost in pain with what she saw. His head turned from the camera again. Greg thought he was looking out of the study window. “Then what?” he whispered.
“This is just theory, you understand, based on what you told me about Kendric trying to muscle in on the management side of Event Horizon. But after Kendric landed his boardroom seat I’d say that he simply planned to close down the spoiler, bringing Event Horizon’s accounts back to their usual profit level. He’d disguise the link of course, make it an issue; shu
ffle personnel, target resources at the furnace maintenance division, but that kind of high-profile result would guarantee him the chairmanship. Now, because Event Horizon is a family company, he can never own it. But as chairman he could oversee a massive asset-stripping raid, presumably by his own front companies. That sort of money he is most definitely interested in. Julia and the consortium would be left with nothing.”
Julia had listened raptly the night before, after she’d pulled the information about Siebruk Orbital for him. “So simple,” she’d said, when he’d finished explaining. “I had all the pieces before you and I didn’t put them together. If you hadn’t had your suspicions that the memox crystals were being brought down, we would never have uncovered Kendric’s involvement.”
It was his intuition, of course. A foresight equal to everyone else’s hindsight. He hadn’t told her that. Let her go on thinking he was a magician. Event Horizon might have a few more jobs coming up, and they paid bloody well.
“I see,” said Philip. “Either way, Kendric wins. How typical.”
“What are we going to do about di Girolamo?” Victor asked.
“The options are regrettably limited,” said Walshaw. “Our respective Scottish operations are almost fully integrated. We can hardly untangle them now, certainly not with the Scottish PSP so close to falling. A replacement for Kendric would be hard to find.”
Julia cleared her throat. “The ship in the Atlantic.”
“Yes,” Walshaw said. “I can arrange a hardliner assault. We might even retrieve some more of our memox crystals.”
“See to it,” said Philip. “You’ve done some good work for me here, Greg, I won’t forget. You too, boy.”
Victor ducked his head.
Julia took her grandfather’s hand, steadying the shaking fingers. “That’s enough, Grandee.”
“I’ll get back to you later,” Walshaw said.
Julia gave him a vaguely remorseful nod before the image blanked out.
Greg spent another ten minutes filling in details for Walshaw before saying goodbye. He’d been away from Eleanor for too long.
“There’s a permanent job for you at Event Horizon if you want it,” the Security Chief said as Greg reached the door.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Greg said. He didn’t even have to think about it. Office hours, suit, tie, the same people day after day. He had wanted something regular, but not regimented. “I’m not ready for that yet.”
The nineteen-fifties Rolls-Royce was waiting for him on Stanstead’s buckling grey concrete as he came out of the administration block, chauffeur already opening the door.
Philip Evans died two days later. His funeral was the biggest civic event to be held in Peterborough for two generations. The Prime Minister and two senior royals were in respectful attendance.
His will named Julia Hazel Snowflower Evans as his sole beneficiary.
CHAPTER 13
Julia watched the crackling life of the night-time city through the Rolls-Royce’s tinted windows, impatient for the ride to be over, the drama she’d conceived to unfold. She could almost believe they were driving through some German metropolis. Peterborough’s New Eastfleld district possessed the same frantic pace and power, the strut that came from being number one.
Its buildings were post-Warming, laid out in a precise geometrical array, like Manhattan before the Anarchy March. They were foreign funded, a thorn in the side of the PSP, physical evidence the Party couldn’t fulfil its promises. All of them followed the same palaeo-Spanish theme, six-storey, marble or cut stone, with long balconies that sported a profusion of greenery and flowers. Smart-uniformed doormen stood outside the gingery smoked-glass lobbies.
Wealth was everywhere, in clothes, jewellery, salon beauty; in the absence of bicycles and graffiti.
The road was clogged with traffic: gas-electric hybrid BMWs and Mercs cruised up and down, their headlights and tail-lights two contrasting severed ribbons of light. The folksy tables of pavement cafés were spread out under brightly striped awnings, alternating with arched entrances into small arcades of exclusive shops. Brightly lit windows full of designer-label clothes and esoteric gear silhouetted the fast-moving pedestrians, painting their faces in cool neon tones. Soft warm rain had fallen earlier in the evening, its residual sheen reflecting gaudy biolum ads in long wavering flames from walls and paving slabs.
But the prosperity was only a few blocks across. A ghetto of the rich. She remembered Grandpa saying that New Eastfield was a seed, that in a proper economy this kind of life style would spread out like a microbe culture, consuming and changing its surrounding neighbourhoods, right out to the city boundaries. He’d wanted the New Conservatives to build cores like it in every English city, showcases for a top-led society, the acceptable face of capitalism.
Good old Grandpa. An eternal optimist. But there were a lot of people enjoying the balmy evening street life.
“Are you sure Bil will be there?” Katerina asked.
Julia turned away from the window, back to the subdued oyster shade inside the car. Her friend was wearing a skintight black tube dress; a slash down the front was loosely laced up, showing the deep cleft between her breasts. Brazen, but Julia was forced to admit she looked wonderful. Her hair was a fluffy gold cloud.
“He was invited,” Julia said tonelessly. Bil Yi Somanzer: the hottest, meanest rock and roller in the history of the world, ever. Even Kats would look ordinary around his groupies. She smiled in the shadows; Kats had only agreed to come after she’d promised her Bil would be there.
“Well, Julie, dear, anyone can invite him. Having him turn up is different.”
“He’ll be there. Stars and the media, they need each other. Feed off each other. And media doesn’t come any bigger than Uncle Horace.”
Kats wasn’t convinced, fuchsia lips screwing up petulantly, but Adrian nudged her quiet. He was wearing a white jacket, black bow tie, a red rose tucked into his buttonhole. Stunningly handsome. And he’d silenced Kats from spouting off inanely because he knew she was still supposed to be shaken over Grandpa’s death. Her feelings mattered to him.
The Rolls dipped down into the giant Castlewood condominium’s underground garage. Horace Jepson had his own private park on the second level. Thick metal doors swung open as the chauffeur showed his card to the lock.
Steven Welbourn and Rachel Griffith, Julia’s two bodyguards, hurried out of the trail car as the little convoy came to a halt. Both of them were wearing formal evening dress, Steven in a dinner jacket, Rachel in a long navy-blue gown. Their alert faces scanned the stark, brightly lit concrete cave. They needn’t have bothered, two of Horace’s own security staff were waiting for them.
There was a distinct air of farce about the entire scene. But Julia was careful not to show disapproval. Steven and Rachel were just doing their job, and she got on quite well with them. Steven had been with her for years, almost since she came to Europe, a twenty-seven-year-old with sandy hair that she teased him was already thinning. He was sympathetic about her circumstances, and his discretion had been demonstrated time and again, considering the schoolgirl truancies which he could have told her grandfather about. Rachel had been with her for about a year; a twenty-two-year-old with neat close-cut mousy hair; she came across as a mix of big sister and maiden aunt. Courteous, but an absolute stickler for security protocol, always checking the toilet cubicle first, which could get embarrassing. Of course, one day she might be very glad of them. Besides, any complaints would find their way back to Morgan Walshaw. And then there’d be another bloody lecture.
The five of them squeezed into the penthouse lift. Kats and Adrian didn’t notice the press, lost in a private world of furtive smirks and hungry looks. Julia gritted her teeth.
The lift opened straight into the vestibule of Horace Jepson’s suite. Music and conversation hit them as the doors slid apart.
On her previous visits, the centre of the penthouse had been divided up into various function areas by hand-painted J
apanese silk screens depicting scenes from mythological battles, samurai and improbable creatures. Now the screens had all been folded back against the walls leaving one big open space. Coloured jelly-blobs of hologram light swam through the air, wobbling in time to a loud acid-thrash version of ‘Brown Sugar’. Bodies packed the black-tiled dance floor, a rainbow riot of frantic movement; older sweating men with younger energetic girls. More people lined the vestibule walls under the umbrella of fern fronds; drinking, chattering excitedly. She recognized a lot of faces from the channels.
Trust Uncle Horace. There was nothing refined about this party, it was deliberate Dionysian overload without a refuge, forcing you to enjoy. She wondered if he’d have a topless model bursting out of a cake at some point. More than likely.
Horace Jepson broke free of the crowd, shooing away a girl who had the glossy vibrancy and dazzling pout of a Playmate. He was smiling warmly at Julia. A genuine smile, she thought. Then it flickered slightly as he took her in, as though she’d come in the wrong sort of dress, or something. But she’d chosen a five-thousand-pound Dermani gown, pale pink silk with a mermaid-tail skirt; nothing like as tarty as the rest of the girls she could see, so that couldn’t be it.
His smile had mellowed by the time he reached her. He took both her hands and gave her a demure peck on the cheek.
It was almost saddening. He used to give her big bear hugs and a huge slobbery kiss. Funny, she’d always hated them at the time. Now they were a part of an old familiar world, lost and gone for good.
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