The Administration Series (146 page)

"Right," Toreth said. "Something else, then?"

"Oh, very definitely yes, something else."

"What?"

Warrick rolled onto his back and looked up at him. "Make me an offer."

Toreth considered. Something good, because it was the last time for a while. Also something not at all like the suspension fucks, because he didn't want Warrick fantasising about furniture while they were fucking. Not that he had any evidence that Warrick ever did, but he didn't like to dwell on the possibility.

"Sixty-nine?"

"Mm." Warrick smiled, reaching for him. "Sold."

Slight taste of oil, but mostly salt and sweet, unmistakably Warrick. Toreth always started off with the resolution 'perfect timing — we'll come together'. He liked the challenge of coordination, but not as much as he liked the feel of Warrick's mouth, sucking him. It was easier with other men. But with Warrick, when he could feel him, smell him, taste him, it was somehow too much. Minutes would pass and he'd keep the intention clearly in mind. Then he'd forget, remind himself, forget, remember again, and then finally forget for the last time, far too busy feeling to think of anything.

Not coming together, but it didn't matter. Him first this time, arching back, letting go of Warrick, and it was so good . . . so
good
.

A minute or so's blissful haze, sliding dangerously towards sleep, before a gentle nudge against his lips reminded him of the job in hand. As it were.

It was no hardship. Toreth loved the slide of satin-smooth skin over his tongue. He played for a while, teasing, showing off his technique, keeping it going until he got what he wanted.

"Toreth . . . please.
Please
."

His favourite word, delivered with the kind of feeling that deserved a reward. He tightened his mouth, letting Warrick press deeper.

Warrick gasped, his fingers digging hard into Toreth's hips, then all in one breath he said, "Christ yes that's it don't
stop
," his voice rising as he came.

Rearrangement of bodies, and then a warm, contented silence.

Toreth listened to the rain against the window. It had been nothing special. That was the strange thing. Nothing special, just another Sunday fuck with Warrick, and it was still wonderful. Very occasionally, Toreth wondered why it was so different with Warrick. Or how. Any of those short, difficult question words, none of which he could answer. Then he would give up and not think about it again for a while.

Two weeks. At least two bloody weeks until he'd even get a
chance
to wonder again.

"I'm going to miss you," Warrick murmured into the pillow beside him.

Mind-reading again.

"You said before." Actually, he hadn't, quite. But Toreth felt too thoroughly satisfied to stop himself adding, "Me too."

Toreth strolled through the Int-Sec check-in point at the Athens airport, waving his ID over the scanner. 'Ports all over the Administration were much the same in Toreth's experience. There wasn't much about this airport that said 'Greece'. A statistically more Mediterranean cast to the faces and a less frenetic pace than the vast New London terminals.

Toreth should've been hard for the promised I&I escort to miss, being blond and dressed in black. No one in the crowd seemed to be looking for him, though. He stood in the arrivals area for fifteen minutes, wondering if Sara had got the details right. Silly idea — of course she had. Sara being Sara, it was a hundred times more probable that the fuckup was at this end.

Just as he'd decided to give it five more minutes and then find a taxi, he caught sight of an I&I uniform. A few seconds later, the man noticed him and raised his hand in greeting. Toreth studied him as he strode over — classic dark Mediterranean, wearing the uniform well. The prospects for the fortnight were picking up already.

The man offered his hand with an easy, apologetic smile. "I'm Senior Para-investigator Dimitri Karteris. You must be Senior Para Toreth."

"Nice to meet you."

Close up, he was older than Toreth expected, giving the impression of youthful good looks slipping into a debauched middle age. Toreth began to appreciate Carnac's idea of picking an attractive liaison. Especially when here, as with Carnac's visit to I&I, it was in his host's interest to keep him happy.

"I arranged for your bags to go straight to the hotel," Karteris said as they walked to the exit. "We picked you out a comfortable one. So if it's okay by you, we'll go to the division."

The division head kept him waiting for three-quarters of an hour, which more than cancelled out the positive benefits of meeting Karteris and driving through the warm, sunny city. Toreth had been at the New London I&I office at seven that morning, finishing work on his active cases. Combined with the flight over, it left him impatient to start and annoyed to have yet more of his time wasted.

It turned out that the man wasn't even in his office. He finally appeared at nearly three o'clock, carrying a battered brown leather briefcase and obviously only just returning from lunch — or conceivably even arriving for the first time that day. Vassilakis looked younger than Toreth knew he was, fit, tanned and unexpectedly blond. A man who didn't stress himself out over his job, or probably anything else.

"I was delayed, I'm afraid. Glad you got here safely. Come in, come in. Coffee's on its way."

When they were seated in the comfortably furnished office, Vassilakis asked, "Do you sail?"

Toreth blinked. "No."

"Pity. Ah well, I'm sure you'll find plenty to keep yourself busy."

Sheer perversity, and lingering irritation at the wait, put a touch of disapproval into Toreth's voice. "I'm here to do a job, not for a holiday, sir."

Vassilakis stared for a moment, then nodded quickly. "Of course. I meant — Ah! Coffee!"

While the coffee was served, Toreth inventoried the room more carefully. Vassilakis had the cleanest senior management desk Toreth had ever seen. Possibly the cleanest full stop. Subtracting the family photographs, a wooden model of a yacht and a bronze inkstand, the only thing left was the screen, currently switched off.

He focused on the inkstand. A group of dolphins carried between them a beautifully realistic boy, dead or unconscious. Waves curled round the base, the details so fluid that they virtually seemed to move. The patina suggested, in Toreth's limited experience, a genuine antique. Probably worth a fortune, and at the New London I&I Vassilakis would've been lucky if it stayed on his desk for a week.

"Sugar?" Vassilakis asked.

Toreth looked up. "No thanks."

"Now." Vassilakis settled back in what was definitely not a standard issue chair. "How have you found the Athens division so far?"

"Quiet." He expanded his hand screen. "Have you read the report?"

A flicker of distaste crossed Vassilakis's face. "I have. I cannot say that I agree with it. Particularly the conclusions. I strongly refute the idea that any of my sections are ineffective, Political Crimes especially."

Strong protest or not, his voice never wavered from its relaxed drawl.

"Nevertheless, sir, there is a problem here that someone felt was worth setting up an external review for."

"Vassilakis, please. Or I shall be forced to address you by rank, Para-investigator."

"You don't think there is any cause for concern?"

Vassilakis waved his hand dismissively. "Forgive me, Toreth, but New London is a long way from Athens. They don't understand the situation here, or the culture. Athens — Greece as a whole — is a very different place to the busy north and west. Not rich, by Administration standards, but the poorer classes are relatively not so poor. Crime is lower too, compared to other regions of Europe. Why would the citizens here want to rebel against the Administration?"

"Why do they ever? Idealists aren't logical, at least as far as I've ever been able to see."

"But resister activity here in Athens is — " He snapped his fingers. "We haven't had so much as a demonstration in two years. We haven't had a bombing, a shooting, any kind of serious incident, in four. It makes no sense for them to send you here."

"The point is that I have a social dynamics report saying that correlating resistance activity and informant reports to Political Crimes with final arrests and convictions leaves — " Toreth flicked to the introduction to the report. "A significant statistical anomaly."

"Statistics." Vassilakis sighed, then reached out and repositioned the yacht slightly to catch the sun. Miniature brass fittings, presumably perfectly scaled, glittered. "Well, as I'm sure you know, Toreth . . . "

"There are lies, damned lies, statistics, and directives from the top levels of I&I to look into all three of them before Internal Investigations start taking an interest."

Vassilakis laughed. "Not quite as I remember the quotation."

"Do I have your cooperation?" Toreth asked directly.

"Of course you do, man." The surprise seemed genuine enough. "As you said, you're hardly Internal Investigations. We have nothing to hide here, certainly not from our own."

As far as you know, Toreth thought. He wouldn't put money on Vassilakis knowing what went on anywhere in the building outside this office.

"Well, sir, I won't take up any more of your valuable time." He couldn't help the sarcasm, but the division head seemed quite unruffled.

"You've met Senior Para Karteris? Good. He'll make sure the rest of Political Crimes do everything they can to help. Anything you want, he can provide." Vassilakis poured himself another coffee. "Good luck, Para-investigator. And — " He smiled. "Enjoy your stay."

When he left the office, Karteris was waiting for him, chatting to the admin and looking about as energised as Vassilakis. However, he stood up quickly enough.

"What now?" Karteris asked.

"Tour of the place?" Toreth suggested.

"Sure. No problem."

The security in the building appalled him. He'd been surprised to find the main doors standing open when they first arrived, but he hadn't thought much of it. However, the slackness seemed pervasive. They strolled through most of the building with a minimum of card access doors; most of those seemed to have the lock deactivated anyway, as they opened without a card. Only the entrance to the detention and interrogation levels had the kind of security he was used to.

Still, the building seemed to be rather older than the I&I headquarters in New London, so perhaps there were some excuses. Or maybe the rest of the staff were as confident as Vassilakis that resister activity was non-existent.

Detention and interrogation themselves were reassuringly busy. Of course, that only pointed up the difference in performance between Political Crimes and other sections. He wondered if that had been the stimulus for the internal review; the original trigger was one thing the otherwise comprehensive report didn't mention.

Karteris seemed to know everyone they met, and introduced people readily. Toreth's presence produced a polite level of curiosity, but nothing more. Political Crimes was a different story. The staff were all there, and the offices hummed with studious activity. However, the paras and investigators hung back, avoiding meeting his gaze, until Karteris sought them out. Not that it necessarily meant anything was wrong — Toreth would've reacted in much the same way to an external review at the General Criminal section.

The friendliest by far — which wasn't saying much — was a pasty-faced, slightly overweight young man called Manos Priftis, who turned out to be Karteris's junior. He was clearly under orders to be pleasant to the visitor, but he still departed with speed when dismissed.

The only person missing was the Political Crimes head of section.

"Oh, George," Karteris said when Toreth asked about his absence. "He'll be around later in the week, I expect. I did remind him you were coming, but he went up north for a long weekend, skiing. Mind you, he doesn't usually make it on Mondays anyway. Or Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays can be iffy."

Toreth blinked, wondering if he was taking the piss, and Karteris grinned. "He had a family promotion — somebody or other's nephew. Things run more smoothly when he isn't here."

Once the idea sank in, Toreth could see the advantages. If only Tillotson were someone's nephew. That led to the rather distracting thought that Tillotson must have parents. Parents who had, somehow, slipped through the genetic screens to produce him.

"Now," Karteris said when they'd met the last Political Crimes staff, "what about an office? There's one empty if you'd like it, but there's a spare desk in mine, might be friendlier. As you prefer, of course."

The offer surprised him. Toreth had been considering taking a leaf out of Carnac's book of tricks and asking to share, as much to see what Karteris's reaction would be as because he wanted to. The pre-emptive offer had ruined the tactic, but Toreth decided that sharing still made sense in terms of getting to know the section quickly.

As the office already had two desks, moving in was easy. They made a leisurely start, sorting out which cases Toreth would review. To Toreth's relief, Karteris admitted that the lack of resister activity had rendered Political Crimes, if not negligent, then possibly less than diligent, and also seemed genuinely willing to consider ways to remedy the situation. 'Seemed' being the important word. After only a couple of hours in the man's company, Toreth recognised a kindred spirit and therefore set a large question mark beside anything Karteris told him.