They ran into a crowd of men and women waiting for them just outside the door. The men were all old, some very old; they all wore black cassocks tied at the waist with a red sash, and red skull caps balanced on their mostly hairless heads. The women were younger, vested in habits and wimples; hidden underneath was impact armor and Vatican-approved handguns.

Petrovitch closed his eyes. There wasn’t enough morphine in the world to give him that sort of hallucination, so he supposed it had to be real.

“If,” he started, then changed his mind. “No, scratch that: I made it perfectly clear to Father John that I do not want to talk to you. I have no idea how you persuaded the hospital to let you in, or who you bullied into telling you where I was: when I find out, I’ll be kicking those responsible right up the zhopu.”

He opened his eyes again. They were still there, ten of them, six cardinals and four Joans. They didn’t look like they were going to go away just because he wanted them to.

“Can I introduce…” said the oldest man, his face lined and dark like a walnut. As he leaned forward, he met the barrel of Valentina’s rifle coming the other way.

The Joans did their job quickly. The cardinal was dragged back behind them and they presented a solid wall to the threat. One of them thought about reaching for her gun. In the subtle coded way of the order, the decision was made together that it wouldn’t be necessary.

“No, you cannot. You’re a distraction, all of you. I’m not going to give you a moment of my time. Not now, not ever. Do not ask again. I don’t need to know who you are, what you want, or how you think you can help me. You are simply irrelevant to me.” Petrovitch adjusted his arm pointedly. “I’m guessing we’re not going to have a firefight right here, though a hospital is as good a place as any—better in lots of respects—so if you’ll excuse us, I’m sure you can see yourselves out.”

The Joans didn’t move, mainly because Valentina was still aiming her kalash at the head of the man she thought might be the Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. They didn’t wear name badges, making it difficult to tell.

“Tina, knock it off and get me out of this freak show.”

Valentina managed to convey her reluctance by the slowness with which she lowered her gun, and Tabletop coughed politely to open up a way through.

“Watch your toes, your worships,” she said.

“It’s Eminences,” grunted Petrovitch as he sailed between the phalanxes of black, white and crimson. “For all I care.”

The corridor was necessarily long, and the lifts were at one end. All the way down he could feel eyes boring into the back of his head. And then they had to wait: unheard of, because a networked Petrovitch would have summoned the elevator cars beforehand and made certain that one would be ready with its doors open.

While they waited, one of the Joans came to speak to him—whether she was sent or a free choice, he didn’t know. He did notice that she was the prettiest, even though it was supposed to be impossible to tell beneath the uniform. She wasn’t the youngest, but she had smiling eyes and a French Canadian accent, and not being the youngest meant little as there were few old Joans. The attrition rate was alarming.

“You married Sister Madeleine, didn’t you?”

Petrovitch looked up at her looking down. “Yeah.”

“Is she around?”

“That depends. Look, your Vatican mind-tricks won’t work on me. The only reason I’m giving you the time of day is because you’re a Joan and I have grudging respect for the order. Say what you want to say and don’t piss me about.”

She raised a half-smile. “I was your wife’s sponsor.”

He had to trawl manually through his memory. Everything, even that, was quicker when linked up.

“Marie. Sister Marie Clemenceau.” He glanced around her to the dark cloud of priests still outside the physio room. “How come you’re with those clowns now?”

She didn’t rise to the insult. “They needed someone with experience of the Metrozone. They asked me.”

The elevator arrived with a ping. The doors opened and Valentina scanned the space inside almost at the same time as Sister Marie. They swapped a flicker of mutual recognition.

Tabletop pushed him forward, and Valentina placed her booted foot against the door jamb. Petrovitch was turned around in the confined space so he could see out, could see the nun framed against the pale green wall behind her.

“No excuses, then. You knew what you were getting into, Sister.”

She looked solemnly at him with her laser-corrected eyes. “Yes, but it seems nothing could quite prepare us for the shock of actually meeting you.”

Despite the broken arm, and the pain, and the worry, and the urgency, the doors slid shut to the sound of Petrovitch laughing like a madman.

9

Why can’t I go to bed?” asked Lucy. She hauled on the door handle and kicked her way out into the freezing night air.

Petrovitch reached for his seat belt. “Because if we don’t find the bomb before it goes off, you’ll be worrying about more than your yebani beauty sleep.” The belt retracted on its reel, snagging in the metalwork of his right arm. “Pizdets. This whole thing is pizdets.”

He freed himself and went for the door on his side of the pickup. As he reached for it, motors whirred and pistons breathed. In the corner of his eye, he’d installed a power meter to tell him if he was in danger of overloading his arm, and a little battery icon so he could check if he needed recharging.

His fingers tangled with the catch and he pulled. The door popped open, and he smelled mud and rust and winter. Valentina and Tabletop were already out, advancing on Container Zero, lit from behind by the vehicle’s headlights. A group of Oshicora guards shivered in the midnight air, but grew more purposeful as the women approached. Politely, and with deep regret, the leader of the squad informed them they could go no further.

Petrovitch lowered himself stiffly to the ground and stalked over.

“Hey. There a problem?” He scratched at his nose. He still missed his glasses.

“Petrovitch-san, we have strict instructions,” pleaded the guard’s leader.

“I know. Which is why we’re only going to be five minutes. I need to check something.” He studied the man’s face. “Takashi Iguro, isn’t it?”

“Petrovitch-san, please. Miss Sonja was quite explicit. Only authorized personnel are to be allowed inside Container Zero.” The man looked as if he was in pain at denying his hero, and started backing toward the closed doors of the domik. “Unless you are authorized, I cannot permit you to get closer.”

Petrovitch nodded. “That’s okay, Iguro. I’m not here to get you into trouble.” He raised his right arm and patted him on the shoulder. His hand stayed there, effectively trapping him. “Sonja said ‘inside the container,’ right?”

“Yes, Petrovitch-san.”

“That’s going to be a problem. I lost something when I was here before. I think it was stolen, but I need to check.” Petrovitch appeared to think about a way around the impasse for a moment, and drew the guard irresistibly toward him. “Why don’t you go inside and look for it, and we’ll look outside. We’re not breaking any rules if we just search around the container. And on top of it.”

“We both know that you are,” whispered the man.

Their heads were very close together.

“Do you know what was taken from here?” asked Petrovitch.

“I have heard… rumors.”

“We both want what’s best for the Freezone and for Miss Sonja, Takashi Iguro. Right now, that means you’re allowed to enter Container Zero and search for my little computer, and me and my friends can take a look around outside.” He blinked slowly and deliberately. “Right?”