13

Petrovitch dressed—was dressed—in the back of Valentina’s car. It might have been funny; all the awkwardness, the fumbling, the myriad opportunities for an inappropriate hand to fleetingly rest. But he wasn’t in the mood, and his black cloud was contagious.

They hid up a side street, squeezed in between two town houses, in amongst the pristine refuse bins waiting for their new owners. Valentina had the window open a crack, and at one point she heard a convoy of cars.

“So it begins,” she said. She glanced into the rearview mirror, eyes wide in the gray morning light.

“Sonja hasn’t got the manpower to search for us.” Petrovitch was between Tabletop and Lucy, twisting and straining to adjust his clothing into something that might become comfortable. “She’ll set up static checkpoints using her own employees, and attempt to resurrect what’s left of the CCTV system.”

“Evasion is not our problem. Becoming outlaws is.”

“Yeah, well. We’ve all been there before.”

“So.” She turned in her seat now that he had at last become still. “What do we do?”

“I take it you heard me and Maddy?”

“Hmm. It was difficult not to.”

“The priest is the link between the Jihad and me. We need to find him.”

“Is big city. Which church would he call home?”

Petrovitch shut his eyes. “It’s somewhere in Belgravia, not far. He won’t be there, though.”

“No?”

“No. Would you be if you thought Maddy was going to kick your door down?”

“If I wanted to pretend that everything is normal, perhaps.” But she conceded the point.

Tabletop drew a pattern in the condensation on the window. “Sam? You sure about this Father John? What if you’re wrong?”

“If I’m wrong, I’ll still put a bullet through his head.” He reached into his pocket for his gun. “If I’m right, he’ll be grateful when I do.”

“Don’t like him much, do you?” said Lucy.

“No. No, I don’t. Can’t say I ever did.”

“Maybe when you find him, you’ll change your mind about killing him.”

“Then again,” and he flicked the safety off and on again. “Why don’t we make a start?”

Valentina started the engine, and listened to its tone. “So?”

“Mount Street,” said Petrovitch. “I want to find out how far this has gone.”

“What is there?” She tapped her satnav.

“A Jesuit mission. It’s where the Inquisition’s staying.”

“I thought you were never going to talk to them,” said Lucy.

“This isn’t about Michael. This is about me.”

“Just thinking ahead,” said Tabletop, still drawing on the window with the tip of her fingernail. The pattern in the moisture had grown in size and complexity. “If Oshicora comes looking for you there, how do you intend to escape? It’s not like going over the rooftops is an option anymore.”

He looked down at his arm and snarled at it. “Should have… pizdets. I’ll get a drone in the air. It’ll give us a couple of minutes’ warning if nothing else.”

“You have to start thinking, Sam, because you’re going to get caught otherwise.”

“Okay, okay. Look: I’ll try and find a couple of cars to block the ends of the street. Sonja’s private army drive cars with a manual override, so I won’t be able to stop them, but I can take a moment to put a trace on their transmitters. That’ll tell me where they are. Also, her lot are info-rich, so I should be able to track them if they come in on foot. I can blind and deafen them so that no orders can get in or out if I need to. I can get virtual agents to monitor the digital traffic, too, and look out for key words.” He scratched the bridge of his nose. “Better?”

“Yes.” Tabletop sat back and stared at what she’d drawn. “I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s a Shaker tree-of-life. If you want I can show you the picture you’ve taken it from.” Petrovitch leaned back in his seat. “Come on, Tina. Let’s go.”

She pulled out into Curzon Street and took an immediate left to take her off the main road. “There is a back entrance. We should use it.”

“Can you really show me this?” Tabletop was watching the buildings pass behind her window.

“Sure.” He hacked her stealth suit and flipped her an image of a colored print that hung in thousands of American homes.

Tabletop looked intently at the screen on the inside of her wrist. “I don’t remember it. Why can’t I remember it?”

“Because they scrubbed your mind with your consent? Maybe the patterns are still there, you just can’t access them. Like you’ve still got the data but the filenames have gone.”

“How do I get them back?”

“I don’t think you can. I think they’re lost forever.” Petrovitch grimaced. “Sorry. Bedside manner’s a bit abrupt.”

She sighed and wiped the image away, both on her suit and on the window. “I hate this. But I hate them more.”

Valentina threw the car around another corner and stamped on the brakes. She looked out and up at a honey-colored stone end-wall that butted up exactly with the later buildings on either side. The rose window was missing a few panes of glass, but the rest of it looked solid. “This is it.”

“Not quite.” Petrovitch pointed to the dark wooden doors recessed in an alcove to the right of the church. A security camera pointed down at the pavement outside. “That’s it.”

“How long will you be?”

“Minutes. I’ve tried waking some cars up, but it’s been a year since they were started. They all need new batteries, much like me.” He leaned over Tabletop and popped the door. “Wait for me, say, there.”

Opposite the church was the entrance to an underground car park. The shuttered doors were locked, but the building still overhung enough to hide them.

“Should I come?” asked Lucy.

“No one’s coming. And this time, you’re not going to argue.” He climbed across Tabletop and jumped down into the road. “Bag.”

They passed it out and he threw it around his neck and over his shoulder. Part of the strap caught on his metalwork. That it took moments to free it wasn’t the point; that he had to do it at all made him grind his teeth.

Then he looked up at the three faces staring out at him. “Why the chyort do you put up with me?” He looked left and right, even though he knew nothing was coming, and that the Oshicora guards were still back at the hotel. Someone was watching.

The camera above the Jesuits’ door was aimed directly at him. By the time he walked across the street, the heavy oak door was ajar. He put his hand on it and hesitated briefly, glancing up in time to see the camera’s lens wink and whirr.

If they’d been waiting for him, he was in danger of becoming predictable.

“Five minutes and I’m out of here,” he said, and shoved the door aside.

Sister Marie caught the swinging door and stopped it from crashing into the plasterwork. “Welcome,” she said. “No Madeleine?”

“Not this time. Maybe not ever.” His face twitched. “Where is he?”

“The cardinal? Down here, on the left,” she started, but Petrovitch was already stalking down the narrow white-washed corridor, checking each door in turn before shouldering one open.

“Doctor Petrovitch,” said the man behind the desk. Two words, and already his midwestern accent had got his guest’s back up.

Petrovitch kicked at the chair facing the desk and fell into it. “His Excellency Cardinal James Matthew Carillo, Society of Jesus, Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Now we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, where the fuck is that lying priest you’ve been milking for information about Michael. I’d like a word with him.”

The cardinal tugged at the sleeves of his black cassock and reached across the desk to where a silver teapot sat steaming on a tray. “Shall I pour?”

“Stop stalling.” He reached into his bag, and he felt, rather than heard, Sister Marie stiffen. He pulled out the bottle of vodka and slammed it down on the polished wood. “I’m quite happy to turn the whole of the Freezone upside down looking for him, but I’m kind of assuming you know exactly where he is and would very much like to save me the trouble.”