Carillo passed Petrovitch an empty porcelain cup before taking one for himself. Petrovitch unscrewed the bottle and splashed some in the bottom of each.

“Chtob vse byli zdorovy.” The cardinal raised his teacup and drained the contents. Petrovitch followed suit, then launched the fragile china at the empty fireplace.

“Force of habit. Are you going to tell me where this Father John is, or am I going to have to break something else?”

“It may not surprise you to learn that I’ve been around the block once or twice myself, Doctor Petrovitch.” Carillo cleared his throat noisily. Whichever block he’d lived on, it hadn’t involved knocking back neat spirits at six in the morning. “Or can I call you Sam?”

“No, let’s keep this professional. The priest: where is he?”

“Surprisingly enough, we don’t put electronic tags on the clergy. That’s a Protestant thing.”

Petrovitch turned his head. “Sister? Could you hold this for a moment?” He dipped into his bag for his automatic, remembering to hold it by the barrel as he brought it out.

The nun took the gun. “Because?”

“Because otherwise the temptation to shoot this obstructive wanker in the face will prove too much, and I don’t want to be in a position where you and me end up in a firefight. Now,” and he twisted back, “where is he?”

The cardinal steepled his fingers. “You seem very anxious to find him, and not in a partake-of-one-of-the-sacraments sort of way. Are you intending to visit violence upon his person?”

Petrovitch leaned forward and stretched out his left arm. “It may not be very grown up of me, but he started it.” He used the same arm to sweep the desk of everything on it. The teapot, tray, jug, sugar, bottle, papers, lamp, statuette of Ignatius Loyola: all ended up jumbled, shattered or dented, and the small book-lined room now smelled like a distillery.

He heard the sound of a gun slide being pulled behind his ear, and he ignored it. He leaned back and laid his arm in his lap.

Carillo wiped a fleck of milk from the back of his hand. “I’ll take that as a yes. We have our own procedures to deal with any specific allegations you’d like to make against a particular priest. We’re quite rigorous when we investigate, but I’m sure you appreciate that just giving you Father Slater’s address isn’t an option here.”

“And I’m sure you appreciate that, what do you call it, breaking the seal of the confessional means that our beloved John Slater is going to get his bollocks ripped off by the Pope himself.” Petrovitch let that sink in, then brushed away the gun barrel that was tickling the side of his neck. “All the information you’ve got about Michael is from my wife, via that little wooden box in his church.”

“That’s,” and Carillo paused, “a very serious accusation to make, Doctor Petrovitch.”

“If that was all the arsehole had done, I’d go round and just give him a good slapping. He’s in league with the New Machine Jihad—who suddenly think they’re nuclear-capable. We’re in Armageddonist territory here, Your fucking Excellency, and if I don’t have some answers soon, it’s going to be too shitting late to do anything about it.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not used to swearing in English, but I’m making the effort because you’re a Yank, and it’s important that you understand just how trouser-pissingly scary this all is.”

“There’s a bomb? In the Metrozone?”

Petrovitch didn’t bother to correct him about either the nature of the weapon or its location. “In about ten minutes, maybe less, the Freezone is going to declare a city-wide state of emergency. Sonja Oshicora thinks I took the bomb, and she won’t balk at sticking red-hot pokers up my arse if she thinks I can tell her where it is. My problem is that only someone who knows my life inside out could make her believe that. Two people have access to that level of detail. One is my wife, the other is her confessor.”

The cardinal would have made an adept poker player. His face betrayed almost no emotion at all. “How can I contact you?”

“You don’t. I’ll give you a couple of hours and I’ll call you.” Petrovitch stood up. “We understand each other here, right?”

“I am aware of what is at stake, Doctor Petrovitch.” Carillo extended his hand warily. “Thank you for your candor.”

“Yeah. Is that what they call it now?” He met the cardinal’s gesture. “I’d call it being a foul-mouthed, bad-tempered little shit, and sooner or later I’m going to have to do something about that.”

“But not now.”

“I’m just a little busy here.” Petrovitch retrieved his gun from Sister Marie and put it back in his bag. He looked at the pile of broken china and sodden paper. “Sorry about your stuff. I hope none of it was valuable.”

“Do not store up treasures for yourselves on earth, where moth and woodworm destroy them and thieves can break in and steal.” Carillo made a dismissive wave. “Only things.”

“Zatknis’ na hui, you pious perdoon stary. Go and talk to who you have to.” Petrovitch glanced at the clock in the corner of his vision. “Time I disappeared.”

“Sister Marie will show you out.” The cardinal was already tugging at the landline phone’s cable, pulling it out from the mess on the floor.

They swept back down the corridor, and Petrovitch called ahead to Valentina.

“Everything you said,” asked the nun of his back. “Was it true?”

“If I lied to him, I’m going to lie to you.” He put his hand on the door to the outside. “Why don’t you find a news feed? It might help you decide.”

“Good luck,” she said. “God speed.”

“You know I don’t believe any of that govno, don’t you? Fate is what you make it.” He could hear Valentina’s car right outside.

“It won’t stop me from praying for you, Samuil Petrovitch. I think you need all the help you can get.”

14

They sat around a flickering screen, watching Sonja’s broadcast. None of them felt the need to speak during it—it was self-explanatory. When she’d finished, she took a moment to stare into the camera and straight into Petrovitch’s soul, trying to communicate just how very disappointed she was with him.

Petrovitch turned off the video feed and unplugged the lead from the screen to the computer strapped to his body. He threw the loose end snaking across the floor and looked sour.

Lucy got up from her fold-down chair and switched the white noise off, then just stood there like a little girl lost.

“What happens now?”

“I’m going to try and find a kitchen. Come on.” Tabletop stood at the door to the waiting area and scanned the overhead signs to see if there might be a clue. Obstetrics, Oncology, Medical Imaging, yes—all the equipment was ready and waiting for doctors and patients—but a strong cup of morning coffee still eluded her.

Petrovitch was left with Valentina.

“You must tell Sonja,” she said. “Even if she does not believe you, she will doubt herself.”

“Tabletop was right. I should have said something earlier.” He cupped his face with his hands and dragged them down his cheeks. “I’ve made it even more of a pizdets than it should be.”

“You were not to know.”

“I’m supposed to know everything.”

She moved along the row of seats, still covered in plastic wrapping from the supplier. She sat next to him and drew her legs underneath her.

“You are not God.”

“Not yet. I will be one day, if I live that long. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen a hundred years ahead, but I can’t tell Lucy what happens next.”

If she thought his hubris worthy of comment, she chose not to. “Call Sonja. Explain to her you have nothing to do with New Machine Jihad. That you are both victims. She will listen to you.”

“Yeah, I know she will. But this will be the first time that it won’t make a difference. We’re running out of options here. Whoever’s done this has got it nailed down tight.”