“Dr Petrovitch. I have a job to do. An important job given to me by my government, one they trust me to do to the best of my abilities. I do not intend to make them ashamed of me.”

“Yeah, okay. Maybe we’ve got off to a bad start. I blame Auden: seeing him enrages me in a way few others can manage. Welcome to the Metrozone, Joseph Newcomen. You’ve read the Fed’s files on me, right?”

“I’ve read the briefing notes,” said Newcomen. Even as he said it, Petrovitch could see him trying to put names to the three women behind him.

“Chyort. They’ve told you jack shit, haven’t they? I’m guessing that out of the whole Bureau, they’ve picked the one guy who’d never even heard of me before.” Petrovitch blinked. “Is that why you bought a copy of Fodor’s Guide to the Metrozone two days ago?”

“I had heard of you before, sir!”

“So who’s that?” He pointed at Madeleine.

“That’s… your wife?”

Madeleine’s fingers flexed in a way that appeared both casual and menacing. Petrovitch looked back at her. Two metres tall, lean in a way that a tigress was lean, hair caught up in an intricate mathematical plait that coiled over her shoulder. If she wanted to rip someone’s head off, he wouldn’t stand in her way. He’d even enjoy the show.

“Assuming that you’re not so stupid as to walk into this situation blind, I have to believe you’re willing to learn.” Petrovitch stood aside. “In order, my wife, Madeleine Petrovitch, Valentina Pavlichenko, hero of the second battle of Waterloo, and Tabletop. Whose reputation, by the look of you, precedes her.”

While he was addressing Petrovitch, Newcomen had gained a small measure of confidence. He lost it all again. They weren’t dressed at all how women in America dressed – demurely. They didn’t seem to know how they should behave, or how they should look at a man. To Newcomen’s mind, they looked like ferals. They were all ferals. Especially that last one, the one with the crazy name. The ex-CIA traitor.

“Uh, ladies.”

Tabletop stalked up to Newcomen, the heels of her boots clacking against the hard floor. She stared at his shiny leather shoes and the length of his bristly blond hair, and everything in between.

In return, Newcomen tried to look away from the bright pink ponytail, the lean – almost hungry – face, and the curve of her neck where it shadowed into the collar of her flying jacket. Tried, and couldn’t.

She dismissed him with a flick of her hair. “I don’t trust him,” she said. “Get them to find someone else.”

“It’s him they sent,” said Petrovitch.

Tabletop turned her back on them and walked to her pillar. “So why him?”

“She’s got a point, Newcomen. Why you?”

The agent didn’t respond, so Petrovitch kicked him, not gently, to get his attention away from Tabletop.

“Why’d they choose you? Plenty of other people they could have picked. You’ve no experience of Alaska, no experience of missing persons, you’re pretty junior, never had any real responsibility before. In fact, could they have picked anyone less suited for this?” Petrovitch pursed his lips. “Yeah. That’ll be it, then.”

“Is insult,” said Valentina, whose accent came to the fore when she was angry. “Americans do not care, do not see why we should care. Bastards all.” If she’d had her favourite Kalashnikov, she would probably have shot Newcomen where he stood. As it was, she put her hands on her hips and looked sour.

“I,” said Newcomen, beginning to bluster, “was chosen. Selected. I’m good at my job.”

“You have not done job long enough to find out if good, bad, or merely competent.” Valentina sneered at him. “We ask for help, and we get you.”

“Dr Petrovitch, can’t you control…”

Madeleine’s timely hand on Valentina’s shoulder cooled the temperature just long enough for Petrovitch to steer Newcomen away and down the concourse.

“Yeah, look. I know how it is in the USA, but over here? Men don’t control everything, and especially we don’t control women. I know that’s what you’re used to. You’ve lived your whole life thinking it. But if you want to survive more than five minutes in the Metrozone, then you have to realise a woman will not defer to you just because you’ve a pair of yatzja.” He pressed his fingers to his temples. “If that’s too much conditioning to break, treat them all as honorary men. Chyort, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

Newcomen’s luggage dogged their footsteps slavishly, but the agent still glanced around.

Petrovitch realised he wasn’t checking where his spare pants were. He was stealing another look at Tabletop.

“Where are we going?” asked Newcomen.

“I said I’d look in on a friend. Couple of friends, really. We can do one on the way to the other.”

“Just you and me?”

“Why? My company not good enough?” Petrovitch kept his eyes on the exit, but hacked the security system and windowed an image of the three Freezone women back at the gate. They stood close together but ignored each other, full attention focused on him and the American.

“I thought…” said Newcomen. “I thought we’d be straight back on a plane. What with your daughter missing.”

“Plane tomorrow.” The rotating doors swallowed him up, spat him out on the roadside. Newcomen more-or-less successfully negotiated the same route and joined him.

“I don’t understand,” said Newcomen. “I’m your escort. You were waiting for me, and now we’re out here.”

Petrovitch ignored both him and the few taxis waiting for a fare, and walked between them to the open road. A car pulled out of the February mist and drew up alongside.

“In you get.”

Newcomen opened the back door with a sigh and heaved his luggage on to the seat, then slid across next to it. He’d opened his mouth to greet the driver when he realised there was no one else with him.

Petrovitch walked around the front of the car and dropped behind the steering wheel, which was on the other side to the one he was used to.

“Close the door. And stop drooling like an idiot. I’m likely to make assumptions.”

“But.” Newcomen pointed back down the road.

“All the cool kids can do it. Now shut the yebani door and we can get going.”

Newcomen eventually leaned out and pulled the door shut. Petrovitch frowned at him in the rear-view mirror as they pulled away. Petrovitch’s hands were firmly in his lap.

“How do you do that?” blurted Newcomen.

“I am the New Machine Jihad,” said Petrovitch with a lupine grin. “They made cars smart enough to drive themselves, and eventually they did. Well, I let them, and they like me, so they tend to do what I ask them to do. I know there are laws against this sort of thing, but I have diplomatic immunity pretty much everywhere I go, so I tend to ignore a lot of small stuff. And the big stuff. You’ll have to get used to that.”

“I thought the Jihad was that computer.”

“The computer has a name. Michael. Remind me to introduce you sometime. But no, the Jihad was originally its evil twin.” Petrovitch twisted in his seat to see Newcomen hunched up on the back seat, his knees almost up around his ears. European cars were usually smaller than their steroidal American counterparts. “You could have sat in the front.”

“I didn’t know.”

“There’s an awful lot you don’t know, Newcomen. I need to work out whether that’s deliberate, as Tina says, or just that you’re ignorant. I mean that in a good way.”

One thing that Newcomen hadn’t remembered was they were driving on the wrong side of the road. Another car passed them on the right, and he flinched.

Petrovitch settled back in his seat, a slight smile on his face, ready to enjoy the ride.

3

Petrovitch kicked the door open again when the car had come to a halt. It was parked, two wheels up on the kerb, next to an extravagant length of corroded iron railings. Just ahead of the bonnet was a set of ornate gates hung between two blackened stone pillars, each topped with a chipped obelisk.