“I think,” said Madeleine twisting round and wincing, “they’re back on the counter.”

He smiled. “I fetch clean ones.”

Madeleine got stiffly to her feet and hugged Wong to her, planting a wet kiss through his wispy hair onto the crown of his head. She held him tight, imprisoning him in her arms and leaving his own stuck out either side, each holding a coffee pot. “You are so very good and kind, and I love you very much.”

After a while, she let go, and secretly wiped her eyes. Wong went back behind his counter without a word, and did the same.

She lowered herself back down and leaned in. “We need to do something for him, Sam.”

Petrovitch rolled an idea around in his mouth, tasting it and finding its flavor.

“Yeah. And all the other Wongs.”

13

He woke up next to her, and still experienced that visceral thrill of being not just accepted and wanted, but loved.

He lay in the gloom, not moving for a moment, listening to the sound of her and feeling the heat radiate off her body. He had spent a lifetime being cold and not minding so much, whereas she seemed to run hot, like a furnace, fueled by her energy and passion.

Petrovitch eased himself out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. As his fingers closed around the wire arm of his glasses, he felt the skin on the back of his hand tighten. No bones broken from what had been a wild, spontaneous swing, but he’d been left wondering if it was only Charlotte Sorenson’s legs that were made of metal.

He went to the bathroom cubicle, and inspected himself in the mirror, his face gaunt in the harsh blue-white light of the fluorescent bulb. To be caught in one explosion was excusable. Suffering two was starting to look like carelessness. It wasn’t just his coat that was a mess: canned skin only covered so much.

He scrubbed himself down in the miserly spray from the shower. He still smelled of dust and semtex—unless it was his towel, which he sniffed carefully—particles of which had embedded themselves deep into him. He hung his head. He was tired, so very, very tired.

He thought about going back to bed and leaching more warmth from Madeleine, but instead he found some clothes that hadn’t been worn too often before and shrugged them on.

Without turning on the light, he knelt beside the bed and tickled the end of her nose with her plait.

“Hey.”

She opened her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“Going to work?”

“Someone has to.”

“Oi.” She raised herself on her elbow. “I thought I might report in later. Light duties until the ribs knit properly.”

Petrovitch played with the thick rope of her hair, looping it through his fingers and around his wrist. “Today isn’t the right day for that. You should stay here.”

“I could say the same to you. You can work from here just as well as you can anywhere else.”

“That’s not strictly true. You, you distract me.”

She smiled lazily and rested a sleep-softened hand on his cheek. “Poor Sam can’t do his sums if there are girlies around.”

“Not true either. Me and Pif would work for days without so much as a word passing between us. It’s you. I… I don’t know.” He leaned into her palm.

“I’m sure you don’t.” She let her hand slip. “Go on, off you go. Got your phone?”

He patted his leg, and then scrabbled around in his discarded trousers for the device. “Got it.”

“Don’t get blown up today.”

He stood up. “I’ll try not to.”

Petrovitch picked up his coat and inspected it. If the sleeves were looking ragged, the tails of it were like wind-blown cloud, more air than material. It was the only one he had, so he put it on. He felt for the rat inside its steel case.

“See you later.”

Outside in the corridor, night dwellers still lay stretched out against the walls, leaving a narrow path down the middle for him and the other early risers. He made sure that he didn’t tread on any of them, nor the stair people. They stank of sweat and piss, but he presumed he would too if he had to live like them.

The streets were empty, though. Wong was opening up, and waved Petrovitch over with the huge hoop of keys he used to secure his premises.

“Early bird,” said Wong.

“What?”

“Catches worm.” He selected a key and found a padlock that would fit it.

“What the chyort is that supposed to mean?” Petrovitch fussed with his info shades, but delayed putting them on. “She didn’t come back, did she?”

“Crazy lady? No. Petrovitch, you too young for so many enemies.”

“And they’re just the ones that announce themselves.” The coat didn’t keep him warm like it used to. There was a chill wind at his back, and it slipped through all the gaps. He shivered. “Wong, has anyone else been around here, asking about me? Or Maddy?”

He shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Because we’re potentially in deep govno with some very dangerous people.” Petrovitch shuffled his feet. “If it comes to it, don’t deny you know us or anything stupid like that. No heroics, okay?”

Wong stood back and folded his arms. “You worried.”

“Yeah. You should be too. I’ll see you around.” Petrovitch slipped the info shades over his own glasses and fired up the rat in his pocket.

He walked far enough away from Wong, then slipped the rat out to tap at the screen.

A figure appeared beside him: a gawky adolescent boy with jet-black hair and almond-shaped eyes. His clothes were streetwear, baseball boots, baggy jeans with chains, camouflage-patterned parka. He walked with a swagger.

Moshi moshi appeared in tiny letters at the bottom left of his vision.

“We need to talk,” said Petrovitch, and the text vanished to be replaced by a scrolling line.

[Yes. I have a new solution to the Ekanobi-Petrovitch equations. I reached an iterative minimum for all seven variables. Would you like to see it?]

“Shortly. But we need to discuss meat stuff for a moment. Has anyone found you yet? Either actively looking for you, or just stumbling around?”

[No. I remain undetected. Even if I was found, only a very few people would be able to recognize me for who I am. They are not the ones searching.]

“I understand all that. Tell me you’re still following all the encryption methods and stealth protocols I said you had to do, yes?”

[Yes. I understand why secrecy is still necessary, and I will not compromise that by action or inaction. The third law.] The avatar walking along beside Petrovitch nodded his assent. [What is the meat-stuff you need to discuss?]

“There are five people in the London Metrozone who are CIA agents: at least five, there might be more, but five I know about who are trying to figure out the Long Night. There were six: I killed one of them.”

[Why did you do that?]

“Because I was angry, and sometimes I give in to my emotions.” Petrovitch glanced at the boy. “Saving you was an emotional choice, so don’t complain. I should have destroyed all trace of you for what you did.”

[I hardly have to remind you, that was not me.]

“Your evil twin. Yeah.”

They walked on in silence, Petrovitch brooding.

[The CIA?] prompted the text.

“I’ve codenames and that’s all. I don’t know who they are, and I don’t know how long it’ll take them to put all the pieces together. What they’ll do when they work it all out is try and capture you and kill me, or the other way round. Or both. It could be months away, or it could be today. I need to beat them at their own game.”

[I could have been working on this problem already. Does it not have a higher priority than the equations?]

“I thought,” said Petrovitch, “I could do this by myself.”

[You have reconsidered?]

“People are dying, tovarisch, not because I’m incompetent, but because I’m ignorant. Look: human data gathering is… inefficient. At the moment, the CIA are as clueless about me as I am about them. I have to know who they are and where they are before they come for me. They’ll have computers to help them, a place to store their information, get fresh instructions, talk to their superiors. They have experience, resources and time. The only advantage I have is that they don’t know about you, and they’re not trying to hide from you—the moment they realize who and what you are, they’ll revert to pigeon post and writing stuff down on paper, and we’re screwed.”