puff of his machines.
“What?”
“Elizabeth Bakker. Did you visit her?”
“Yes.” I wrenched my gaze from Sinclair and forced myself to meet Charlie’s ever so slightly feral gaze. “I saw her.”
“Did you kill Khay?”
“No.”
“But… he is dead,” said Charlie, in the strained voice of a clever man trying to work out something obvious.
“I didn’t kill him… I need to ask you a question.”
“OK. What do you want to know?”
“Two things. First – I’m mustering allies in the old Kingsway Exchange. We’re going to fight Guy Lee.”
He laughed. “Perhaps Harris Simmons will invest in the coffin-making market today and make a huge profit tomorrow?”
“I mean it.”
The humour faded from his face. “Lee has an army of paid and bought troops at his command. And those are just the ones whose breath still condenses in cold winter air.”
“He can’t get support from Amiltech.”
“He doesn’t need support from Amiltech!”
“I’m raising allies against him. I can’t go it solo, not now. I was wondering if you had any friends who might be interested in joining?”
“Friends?” He didn’t understand for a moment; then he let out a long breath and drew his shoulders back. “I see.”
“This is our best chance to break Lee’s monopoly on power in the underworld,” I murmured, studying his face for any kind of reaction. “The Whites are willing to cooperate, the bikers, perhaps the beggars…”
“You want to see if any of my kind will help?”
“It’d be useful.”
“Lee doesn’t bother us. He
“Employs to spy, to cheat, to steal, to kill…”
“We have to survive.”
“This is what Sinclair would want,” I said gently. “This is what he was trying to achieve. I’m just finishing the job.”
His face tightened for a moment in uncertainty, then relaxed. He nodded slowly, fingers loose at his side.
“Second thing,” I said. “You were the closest to Sinclair…”
“
“I apologise – are the closest to Sinclair. That gives you a certain something when it comes to this question.”
“Well?”
“Of all those people Sinclair gathered together to fight against the Tower – the warlocks, bikers, fortune- tellers, religious nutters, mad old women and me – who do you think is most likely to have betrayed us to Bakker? Who do you think told them where to shoot the night Sinclair was hurt?”
His eyes went instinctively to the slumbering form of the big old man, then back; and they were hard and certain. “The woman. Oda.”
“Why?”
“I know nothing really about her. Ignorance might mean there is something to hide.”
“What if it’s not Oda?”
“You know something?” he asked quickly.
“I know something more than I did,” I replied. “Although it didn’t make me happy to find out. Who would be next on the list?”
He thought about it long and hard. Then, “The biker. Blackjack.”
His answer caught me by surprise, but I tried not to show it. “Why the biker?”
“His smell, when we were attacked.”
“His
“Yes.” Charlie’s eyes flashed up to mine, daring me to disagree. I raised my hands and shook my head defensively. His mouth twitched in triumph.
“All right,” I said. “What did he smell of?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“When the first bullets started hitting,” said Charlie, “I could smell the fear on you, the sweat on the warlock, the terror on the fortune-teller, the blood on the hurt men, but on him – on the biker – there was nothing. His skin did not perspire.”
“I see.”
“You do not believe?” he demanded, fingers tightening.
“I believe you,” I said hastily. “I just don’t know what to make of it.”
“Why do you ask now?”
“I’m getting allies together against Lee, just like Sinclair tried to get allies together against the Tower…”
He was nodding already. “You think one of them might betray you.”
“It’s possible.”
“What will you do if they do?”
I thought about it, then smiled. “Absolutely nothing,” I replied. “At least, for the moment. Nothing at all.”
It took nearly thirty-six hours for the first emissaries to arrive. The bikers sent messages out to Birmingham, Manchester, Edinburgh, Glasgow, all the cities frightened of being next hit by the Tower. The Whites sent whispers through the tunnels of the city; the Order cleaned its guns, the beggars skulked and the skies turned. Among so many people, so much preparation, someone would, sooner or later, say something stupid. Sooner or later, Lee would hear of Sinclair’s plans. That was just fine by me.
Necessary things.
They assembled at the My Old Dutch pancake house at suppertime, around a table booked for eight, although we weren’t sure how many would arrive.
The My Old Dutch served massive plates covered with batter, covered in turn with almost anything imaginable. Chicken, ham, bacon, egg, cheese, tomato, salad, chocolate, coconut, cream, lemon, sugar, honey, syrup, treacle – ask, and it would be delivered. I sat with my back to the wall, head away from the window next to Vera and ordered the most sugary, exotic-sounding dish we could find. Vera ordered tap water and a Caesar salad, and flinched at the prices. She wasn’t used to daylight; she especially wasn’t used to being seen through glass.
Oda and Anton Chaigneau arrived together; slipping in behind them came their bodyguards in the guise of an amorous courting couple. Outside, a pair of badly disguised traffic wardens each tried to hide their gun under their bulky black jacket and reflective vest. Neither Oda nor Anton looked happy; but they both sat, and both ordered very dull, very vegetarian salads. His face didn’t bulge as it had at Stansted airport, his hands didn’t tremble; nonetheless he didn’t grace me with so much as a nod of acknowledgement, but sat, when not eating, with his hands folded and his face immovable.
The small talk was not extensive. There were séances with livelier chatter. Oda glared suspiciously at Vera; Vera glared suspiciously at her. I ate pancakes.
“I don’t like having armed men eat in the same place as me,” Vera offered at last.
“I don’t like your manner of dress, your soul, your duplicity or you,” replied Chaigneau. “But that is besides
