The Mandel Files (8 page)

“Kendric also used to make himself a tidy profit while he was arranging the exchange,” Julia put in coldly.

“I would’ve thought you could have arranged the exchange by yourself without any trouble,” Greg said.

“Nothing is ever simple, Greg,” Philip replied. “Kendric’s management of the exchange was part of my original arrangement with my backing consortium. I needed a hell of a lot of cash to fund Listoel, and I didn’t have the necessary contacts with the broker cartels back in those days, not for something that dodgy. Kendric did. His family finance house is old and respectable, well established in the money market. And he offered me the lowest rates, a point below the usual interest charges in fact. We got on quite well back then, despite his faults he is an excellent money man. The trouble is, he’s been getting a mite uppity of late, thinks he should have a say in running Event Horizon. Involve the consortium with the managerial decision process. Bollocks. I’m not having a hundred vice-presidents sticking their bloody oars in.”

“So why are you still tied in with him? You’re legitimate now.”

“Scotland,” Julia said bitterly.

“Fraid so,” Philip confirmed. “The PSP is still in power north of the border so my arrangement with Kendric is still operating up there. Our respective spivs are virtually one group now, they’ve worked together for so long. It’d be very difficult to disentangle the two, not worth the effort and expense, especially as the Scottish card carriers aren’t going to last another twenty months.

“And of course the di Girolamo house has an eight per cent stake in Event Horizon’s backing consortium. And guess who their representative on the board is.”

“I still don’t get it,” Greg complained. “Why should a legitimate banker offer an illegal operation like yours a low rate in the first place? At the very least he should’ve asked for the standard commercial rate. And there are enough solid ventures in the Pacific Rim Market without having to go out on a limb here.”

“It’s the way he is, boy,” Philip said quietly. “He doesn’t actually need to get involved in anything at all. The family trust provides him with more money than he could ever possibly spend. But he’s sharp. He sees what happens to others of his kind—they party; they ski, power glide, race cars and boats, take nine-month yachting holidays; they get loaded or stoned every night; and at age thirty-five the police are pulling them out of the marina. Half of the time it’s suicide, the rest it’s burnout. So instead of pursuing cheap thrills, Kendric gets his buzz by going right out on the edge. He plays the master-class game, backing smugglers like me, leveraged buyouts, corrupting politicians, software piracy, design piracy—I bought the Sony flatscreen templates Event Horizon uses from him. It’s money versus money. His ingenuity and determination are taxed to the extreme, but he can’t actually get hurt. I might not like him personally, but I admit he’s been mighty useful. And he’s exploited that position to grab his family house a big interest in Event Horizon. Clever. I like to think I’d have done the same.”

“I’ll get rid of him,” Julia whispered fiercely. Her tawny eyes were burning holes in Kendric’s back as he chatted up a brace of glossy starlets.

Philip patted her hand tenderly. “You be very careful around him, Juliet. He eats little girls like you for breakfast, both ways.”

Greg could sense her raw hostility, barely held in check by her grandfather’s cautionary tones.

He sat next to Dr Ranasfari for the meal, an exercise in tedium; the man seemed to be a sense of humour-free zone. Ranasfari’s doctorate was in solid-state physics, and his conversation was mostly of a professional nature; it all flew way over Greg’s head. Although, curiously enough, Ranasfari loosened up most when he was talking to the ever-jovial Horace Jepson.

In the event, dogged perseverance finally enabled Greg to check him out as clean. He couldn’t believe Ranasfari even knew what duplicitous meant. The Doctor had a very rarefied personality, perfectly content within the confines of his own synthetic universe. A genuine specimen of a head-in-the-clouds professor. Whatever project Philip Evans had him working on it was completely safe.

CHAPTER 5

Wilholm’s library was a long, airy room on the ground floor, its arched ceiling painted with quasi-religious murals in rich, dark reds, greens, blues, and browns. Below this unchristian pantheon, glass-fronted shelves ran the length of the walls, illuminated from within by tiny biolum strips; there were matching marble fireplaces at each end of the room, an oriel window giving a view out across the rear lawns. Three tables spaced down the centre had genuine nineteenth-century reading-lamps at each seat. The air-conditioning was set to keep it degrees cooler than the rest of the manor. It was the room Julia preferred to work in: bringing Event Horizon data into her bedroom always seemed intrusive somehow. There had to be some distinction between private and working life, especially as she had so little of the former.

She sat in a plain admiral’s chair behind a polished rose-wood table, wearing a hyacinth cardigan over a peach chambray button-through dress, watching interviews on a big wall-mounted flatscreen. The image was coming over the company datanet from Stanstead.

Morgan Walshaw had commandeered a whole floor in the company’s airport administration block, using it to keep the furnace operators in isolation while they were processed.

He and Greg were doing the interviews in a modern office with a window wall overlooking the giant new freight hangar which Event Horizon used. Both of them sitting behind a chrome and glass desk, Morgan Walshaw in his usual suit; Greg in a red and white striped shirt with braiding down the placket, a black and white mosaic tie.

It was a tedious way to spend the day, but she persevered. A penance for her earlier misdemeanour, that and a refuge, occupying her mind so that memories of Adrian couldn’t encroach in that sneakily persistent way they did whenever she had a spare moment. He’d left this morning, together with Kats, the pair of them driving off on his Vickers bike, holographic flame transfers sparkling along the chrome gearmounting. Julia had watched them go, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel as they zoomed off down the drive, hard rock blaring from the speakers. It looked like a lot of fun.

Now monotony and responsibility had closed in on her again. Alone in a room with a thousand leather-bound books, not one of which she would ever read. Neither would Grandpa, come to that. They were just part of the ritual of being rich. Put into warehouse storage abroad while the PSP ruled, and brought back here for glass-shelf storage. The tangibility of money. Stupid.

Greg and Morgan Walshaw were stretching in their swivel chairs as they waited for the next furnace operator to come in. Julia poured herself another cup of tea from the silver service on the table, and munched a Cadbury’s orange cream from the plate of biscuits. She’d never really paid much attention to Event Horizon’s security division before, it was an alien sub-culture with its own language and etiquette and violence. Too much like an elaborate lethal game, freelance tekmercs and company operatives playing against each other at the expense of their employers. One of her bodyguards, Steven, had told her that once you were in security you never came out.

She’d secretly hoped to see a bit of action, a few sparks fly, in addition to learning more about the investigation procedures Morgan Walshaw used. But the interviews Greg had been running seemed to be fairly straightforward:—Name—Sorry to interrupt your furlough, but it is urgent—We’re reviewing the contamination losses of memox crystals—Do you have any idea why it should be so high?—Have you ever been approached by anyone who wanted you to act against the company? Seven or eight questions then he’d say OK and Morgan Walshaw would dismiss them. So far they hadn’t uncovered anyone involved with the spoiler operation.

The impression Julia got from the screen was remoteness. Greg never smiled, never frowned, his tone was scrupulously impartial, he hardly appeared to be aware of the interviewees. She wondered what she’d feel if she was sitting there in the office with him. A tingling in her head as his espersense teased apart her emotions for examination? Her grandfather had said he couldn’t read individual thoughts. Julia wasn’t sure, he seemed so judgemental.

Julia sipped her tea as the next furnace operator came in. The woman was the fifteenth to be interviewed, a forty-three-year-old called Angie Kirkpatrick, wearing a khaki sports shirt and Cambridge-blue tracksuit trousers; medium height, fit-looking, self-assured—but then all of them were.

Angie Kirkpatrick sat on the other side of the desk from Greg and Morgan Walshaw, her expression of polite expectation carefully composed. Julia knew something was wrong straight away. Kirkpatrick probably wasn’t aware of it, she had nothing to compare her interview to. But Julia could see Greg was sitting straighter, more attentive. Morgan Walshaw had picked up on Greg’s state, too. Julia studied Kirkpatrick closely, still unable to see any evidence of culpability.

“We’re investigating the high contamination level of memox crystals coming out of Zanthus,” Greg said. “But then you guessed that, didn’t you?”

“The contamination has been quite high,” Angie said.

“Wrong answer,” said Greg. “How long have you been working the spoiler?”

“What?”

“The whole eight months?”

“I don’t know—”

“Seven months?”

“Listen!”

“Six?”

“Hey, you can’t just—”

“Five?”

“Start accusing me—”

Greg leaned back in his chair and smiled. Julia was very glad she wasn’t receiving that smile, it was predatory.

“Five months,” said Greg, a simple statement of fact.

“This...What is this?” Angie demanded. She was looking straight at Morgan Walshaw.

“It’s word association,” Greg said. “I say a word, and I watch to see how your mind reacts. Is there stress and guilt, or is there merely innocent confusion? It doesn’t matter what your verbal answer is, your thoughts don’t lie.”

Julia almost felt a pang of sympathy for the woman. Betrayed by her own soul. Greg’s ability was eerie, silent, unfelt, and devastatingly accurate. A whole heritage of fear was built around people who could divine thoughts. Quite rightly, surely everyone was entitled to some core of privacy. She pulled her cardigan tighter over her shoulders.

“Stress and guilt, that’s what peaked at five months,” Greg said.

“You’ve got a gland,” Angie said. Her defiance had gone.

“That’s right.”

She flushed hard. “I...I hadn’t got any choice. They knew. Things. About me. Christ, I don’t know how they found out.”

“Just give us the details,” said Walshaw, sounding bored, or perhaps weary.

“What’ll happen?” Angie asked.

“To you? We probably won’t prosecute, if you’re being truthful about them blackmailing you. But you won’t ever work in orbit again, not for anyone, we’ll make quite sure of that.”

“I didn’t have any choice!”

“You could’ve come to us, we could’ve set a counter trap.”

“I don’t know. There’s no difference between you, any of you. People like me, well, it’s not fair.”

“Never is,” Walshaw muttered.

Watching Angie hunching in on herself, Julia realized the woman had already submitted, the fight had gone out of her. She was going to do exactly what Walshaw told her to. What an awesome reputation psychics had, that even their presence could sap the will like that. No wonder the PSP had been so troubled about the animosity of the Mindstar Brigade veterans.

“How did they turn you?” Greg asked.

Angie flinched when he spoke. “Are you still looking into my mind?”

“Yes.”

She nodded reluctantly. “OK. I was doing some uppers. Zanthus, it gets to you, you know? Four months in a dormitory can, everyone crammed together at night, recycled piss to wash with, can’t taste your food. It just gets to you. It’s no High Frontier dream, only sounds that way from down here. Anyway, it gets to the stage where you’ve really got to force yourself to turn up at Stanstead at the end of your furlough. I’ve got two daughters, see, they’re beautiful kids, really—smart, happy. I take care of them when I’m on furlough, my ex has them when I’m up there. I hate the idea of him having them at all, but some choice, right? So seven years of this shit is too much; my eldest, she’s fifteen, she’s got a boyfriend, she’s got exams this year. I should be there. Saying goodbye, it hurts like hell. So six months ago I’ve got to take something to ease the pain.”

“What about your pre-flight medical?” Waishaw asked. “You must’ve known the drugs would show up.”

“Maybe I wanted it to,” Angie said. “Deep down. You know how strict Event Horizon is about narcotics abuse. Give Philip Evans that, he wants us healthy. Others have been caught, they got transferred, they were given therapy, kept their pay grade. We get a good medical cover deal, you know? But they found me before the furlough ended.”

“Names?” Greg asked.

“Kurt Schimel. But he didn’t talk with a German accent.”

“That’s all?”

“No, there were a couple more with him, a man and a woman. No names.” She began to describe them.

Access Company Personnel File: Kirkpatrick, Angie. Zanthus Microgee Furnace Operator.

Julia stopped listening: Angie’s file was unfolding in her mind. A data profile of names, dates, figures, promotions, training grades, personal biography, medical reports, biannual Security reviews, her ex-husband. Her daughters were called Jennifer and Diana, there were even pictures. Ordinary, she was so ordinary. That was what struck Julia most. It was a big disappointment, she’d wanted to understand the woman, her motivations. Knowing the enemy. But now she didn’t know whether to hate the she-demon who’d tried to wreck everything her grandfather had built, or pity the pathetic woman who’d screwed her own life beyond redemption.

“They offered to flush my blood system clean,” she was saying. “There’d be no trace of the drugs left when I went for the medical. They also smoothed out my bank account so the balance wouldn’t show all those cash purchases when security ran its six-month review. And I’d only have to fox the crystal furnace ‘ware for a year; their money would’ve been enough to let me get out afterwards. Just me and the girls, go and live quietly somewhere. God, you don’t know what kind of deal that was to me.”