Market Forces

‘Do you think you were typical?’

Liz held down more smoke. Frowned, then let it up. Shook her head. ‘Globally? No. I heard a lot of nasty stories coming out of Costa Rica and Thailand. Still do. But you don’t need me to tell you about that, Chris. This is what you do for a living. Enterprise zones, political instability. Market forces, weak governmental structure, the poor get fucked. Literally, in this case.’

‘Oh, right.’ The casual way she’d said it stung, made him snappish. ‘So everyone you worked with was smiling and happy were they?’

She plumed smoke, looked at him quizzically.

‘No. Even in Copenhagen, you’ve got some fucked-up girls working the trade. That blonde I was with in Do

‘But you need to smoke that stuff to talk about it.’

The quizzical look again. ‘Chris, you need to get a grip. You’re telling me you’ve really got some kind of moral problem with my career as a porn doll a decade ago? For a man who works in international finance, you’ve got some fucking nerve.’

‘I don’t have a problem with it. And I didn’t think you had a problem with what I do either.’ Spite gleamed through. ‘In fact, I thought it got you off’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What?’

‘Sure. You fucked Mike Bryant, now you’re fucking me. Spot the co

She sat up abruptly, flicked ash off the spliff. ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea, Chris. Let’s be honest. If you had a problem with me, you could have left me well alone.’

‘Left you alone?’ The injustice of it staggered him. It was like fighting with Carla, all over again. An opening well of curdled hurt. ‘You came on pretty fucking strong to me, as I recall. At Troy’s party. After the party, at Regime Change. You called me for that one.’

‘Oh, yeah, well maybe you shouldn’t have sent me a copy of your wife’s flight times to Norway, then. Because you know Chris, as invitations go, that was pretty fucking blatant.’

Shock held him unstirring for a moment. She caught it, coiled back on the bed, face still tight with anger.

‘What?’

‘I. Liz, I didn’t send you anything.’

‘Right.’

‘No, fucking listen to me.’ He reached out for her with both hands. She gestured him away. Stared out of the window. ‘I didn’t send you that stuff. I didn’t even know Carla was going to Tromso until about an hour before you called me. I. Someone’s fucking with us, Liz.’

Her gaze tracked warily back to him. She didn’t turn her head. Her whole body was closed to him again, limbs folded defensively.

‘I’m not a drive-site groupie, Chris.’

‘Okay.’ He held up his hands, palms out. ‘Okay, you’re not a drive-site groupie. Whatever you say. But I’m telling you, I never sent you those flight details. And you’re telling me you didn’t send me Do

And he got her back. Limb by limb, line by line, the softening stole through her. The place in Carla he could no longer reach, the point of reconciliation abraded by years of impact along the same emotional front. She opened a little, turned to face him. Nodded.

A tiny shard of hope spiked him, unlooked for. A prickle across the underside of each eye and a sudden surge in the empty space he’d excavated in his own chest.

This time. He promised himself silently. This one, this time, this woman. I will not fuck this one up.

But the hyena was still out there, still prowling in silhouette on the sunset horizon of his thoughts. And would not shut up.

Chapter Forty-Two

He got to work early, ru

‘For fuck’s sake.’ He hit reply, and listened to the dial.

‘Da?’

‘Listen to me, you stupid fucking natasha. I do not need your whore’s services, now or ever. Just leave me the fuck alone.’

There was a pause, during which he nearly hung up. Then the accented voice came back, icy with controlled rage.

‘Just who fucking you think you are talking to? Fucking suit cowboy, think you will talk to me like this. I am Captain Irena Renko, commander of free sub freighter Kurt Cobain talking to you.’

‘I’m. Sorry?’

‘You should fucking be sorry. Fuck your mother! Four days I am here in Faslane, awaiting second loading. Four days! My crew drunk in Glasgow bars. What for you waste my time like this?’

‘I. Wait. The Cobain?’ Chris flailed across the desk and hit the datadown deck. Details fled up into a new window. ‘You’re loading for the NAME? Military hardware.’

‘No,’ purred the woman at the other end. ‘I am not loading, because I’m waiting four fucking days for cargo. Port Authority know nothing. I call Lopez, he also knows nothing. Normally, Cobain, she sails and fuck you all if this happens. But Lopez tells me, call you. You are sympathetic, he says. Not like other suits. Perhaps I have wrong man.’

‘No, no. Captain Renko, you have the right man. I, I apologise for my tone earlier. There’s a lot going on at this end.’

‘Well, at this end is nothing going on. No delivery, no data about delivery. And mooring charge is costing me—‘

‘Never mind the mooring charge. I’ll cover that, plus ten per cent for your inconvenience. Go get your crew, I’ll get back to you.’

He cut the co

‘Yeah, Bryant.’

Mike, listen, we’ve got a problem.’

‘I’ll say. I would have called you earlier, but I didn’t see the Saab. Didn’t know you were in.’

‘It’s still at home. I haven’t been back for it yet.’ A chilly quiet back down the line. ‘Mike, I just heard from our couriers to Barranco.’

‘We haven’t got time to worry about the NAME right now, Chris. Didn’t you catch the news this morning? Fuck, last night even.’

‘No, last night I.’ I was kiss-and-make-up fucking your ex-mistress. ‘I went to bed early. Headache. And I’m coming from the hotel in cabs at the moment, I don’t get the radio either. What’s going on?’

‘Some fucking junior Langley aide just came down with a bad dose of conscience. He’s promised covert reports from the last two years to ScandiNet and FreeVid Montreal.’

‘Oh, fuck.’

‘Yeah. What I said.’

‘Cambodia?’

‘We don’t know yet. This gutless wonder at Langley worked archive, so could be the Phnom Penh stuff is too recent to show up. But we can’t rely on that. There’s no telling what he’s going to give them.’