‘In that case, given Vasili was actively working towards change, surely Borges would make a good suspect for his murder?’
‘Our mutual cup overflows with potential suspects, wouldn’t you say?’ she said.
‘That’s why I’m going to need full access to Vanaheim’s security records, Miss de Almeida.’
She stared at him like she hadn’t quite heard him right. ‘You’re not actually serious, are you?’
‘Quite serious. I need access to any and all data relating to the movements of everyone in Vanaheim over, say, the last few days – and preferably the last several weeks. I also need access to the personal records of everyone on the Council.’
She laughed disbelievingly. ‘And you really think I would give you that much?’
‘If you don’t,’ he said, ‘I don’t see how I’d be able to do my job properly. I can’t possibly make an accurate assessment regarding Vasili’s murder until I first have a good idea of the circumstances and events surrounding his death. Without that context, how can I possibly clearly identify a motive that might give you the identity of his killer? And everything you’ve just told me makes it clear that there’s a lot I still don’t know.’
Anger flashed across her face. ‘I’ll take the idea under consideration,’ she replied, her voice clipped. ‘But any specific information you need I can get for you immediately, upon request. You don’t need direct personal access.’
‘Without it, I’m flying blind,’ he countered.
But he was still too afraid to ask that question.
‘Here’s what I
‘Won’t a request like that make him suspicious? What if he tells someone else about it, and Father Cheng finds out you’re carrying on your investigation in defiance of his orders?’
‘I told the Ambassador it was all part of an overall review of our security measures in the wake of Vasili’s murder. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just someone who works for me, period. He knows nothing of your background, or why you’re really here. But it’s also a chance to find out why he met with Antonov. In the meantime,’ she added, ‘I want you to go home and wait there until you hear from me.’
‘I understand,’ Luc replied wearily, but even before he had finished his reply she had cut the connection. The last of his words echoed dully inside the tiny cubicle, back in Ulugh Beg.
TEN
Over the next few days, Luc dreamed of other faces he had never encountered, and of places he had never visited.
As he woke each morning, he felt sure that Antonov’s ghost, lurking within his skull, had whispered secrets that, however hard he tried, could not be recalled. Even when awake, he fell from time to time into a kind of trance, sometimes lasting for several minutes or even longer. He cradled a glass of hot kavamilch one morning, then found once he brought it to his lips that it had turned cold; more than half an hour had passed without his being aware of it.
And then there were the occasional bouts of excruciating pain, each one longer than the last. He barely managed to stop his house from contacting the medical services during one particularly bad episode: just because one hospital’s neural scanner had failed to detect his lattice didn’t mean another would.
He waited to hear from de Almeida, desperate for her to work her magic on him, but no word came and, as she had left him no way to contact her directly, there was little for him to do but wait.
Eleanor got in touch, but despite his yearning for her company, he avoided her. He didn’t know what she might do if he had another seizure while she was around him. Even so, the wounded tone in her voice whenever she left another unanswered message for him tore a hole in his heart.
It took an effort to force himself back out of his apartment. The headaches and fevered dreams of the past few days had left him exhausted, and he found he had little energy for anything more than spending time within the arboretum on the roof of the Archives building, where he could at least enjoy the company of Master Archivists who were now his equals in rank. There, he not only found Offenbach, but also Hogshead, Benet, and even old Kubaszynski, long since retired but on a brief visit from his home on Novaya Zvezda.
He listened to their conversation as it turned to heroic Archivists of old: men such as Gardziola, who had tracked down Samarkandian census records believed destroyed during the Mass Deletions. He heard again the story of Justin Krumrey, who forced the Grey Barons of Da Vinci to relinquish private collections of 21st and 22nd century media, also thought lost forever. He heard tales of Panther Wu, the wrestler-turned-theoretician who first instituted the system of Master Archivists, and whose statue stood wreathed in dark green ivy at the heart of the rooftop gardens amongst which they idled.
He listened to their tales of epic adventure, laughed at their jokes, and returned to his apartment filled with ideas for future research projects and exploratory fieldwork. But when he caught sight of the White Palace floating far above the city, he was reminded that his days might very well be numbered for reasons that remained far from clear. All his plans seemed suddenly worthless, since there was no way to know whether he might live long enough to implement them.
He went to his bed that night filled with a sense of dread that kept him awake through the night, leaving him
