Rule 34

Silence. You realize you’re clutching the phone like it’s turned into a gold brick between your fingers. “President of Issyk-Kulistan?”

“No; President of Kyrgyzstan. Issyk-Kulistan is a wholly-owned subsidiary operated by a shell company, if you prefer a business metaphor. Felix’s job is to keep IRIK running for as long as we need it.”

Now you cringe and start looking round. But not for snoopers; you’re more worried about assassination drones cruising overhead, looking for a lock on your skull. “Why are you interested in me?”

“Because you’ve been approached by a highly questionable business man working for a foreign private-equity organization. They’re not angel investors so much as fallen angels—please stop looking around like that, you will only attract unwanted attention—and it is important to us that this business man should not be frightened away or prematurely introduced to the police—yes, I said prematurely. Mr. Hussein, are you paying attention? Hello?”

There’s a stream of traffic flowing along Bank Street, and you’ll only get yourself run over if you try and dash across it. The crawling sensation in the small of your back won’t go away, but the fire in your lungs is growing, so you stop, bent over, wheezing (so out of shape! Bibi will scold you!), and hold the phone to your ear again.

“Hello? Hello?”

May you come to the attention of important people: Supposedly it’s an ancient Chinese curse, but the modern Kyrgyz version has got you bang to rights. “I’m here.”

“Excellent. Listen, Mr. Hussein, Anwar—may I call you Anwar? This is only for the next day or so. You have heard of, ah, sting operations? A sting is in progress, and your consular post is part of the bait. We would like you to continue with the job and comply with any of John Christie’s requests—if they remain reasonable, of course—while we gather evidence against his associates. For whose arrest there will be a generous reward, incidentally. Colonel Datka assures me that this fellow is the key to a major international criminal investigation, and he will see to it that Europol treat you as a material witness when—”

“What about the bread mix?” you burst out.

“The what?”

You have never heard a president sound confused before. (Not that you’ve ever knowingly spoken to a president before—it’s not like they’re on Facebook, sending friend requests —but it’s not what you expect from seeing them on the political blogs.)

“The bread mix,” you repeat. “INSECT-FREE FAIR TRADE ORGANIC BREAD MIX BARLEY-RYE, Produce of People’s Number Four Grain Products Factory of Issyk-Kulistan. That I’m supposed to give samples of to visitors, and never put in a bucket and ferment with a special extra ingredient.”

There’s noise on the line, as the president speaks away from his headset, his tone rising imperiously: “Felix, what’s this I hear about our consulate receiving bread mix?” There is a delay. “Oh, I see. Mr. Hussein, you are not to worry about the bread mix. Apparently the—criminals—we have been investigating have parasites. They’ve been using your consulate for drop-shipping contraband, but you should not worry about this. It is minor, and if you play your part for just a little while longer, we will arrest them all. Including this Christie person. I will ensure that you are well looked after, you have my word on the matter. If you’ll excuse me, I must go now. Just remember: Play for time. Good-bye for now!”

Your phone goes dead, and you blink at the screen. It is, indeed, in flight mode. Then you look up. High above the roof-tops, twenty or fifty metres up, the grey discus of a surveillance drone ghosts past the elaborate columns and stone railings and domes of the former bank headquarters.

Blink and it’s gone: But the sensation that you are being watched remains.

DOROTHY: Rewind

Flashback:

The door opens. You take a step forward into Liz’s open arms, and her friendly face and welcoming hug is just too much. You tear up as you slump chin first onto her shoulder. She tenses up for a moment, then relaxes. “Oh hell. Let’s get you inside.” Two steps forward, the door closes, and you find a futon behind you. You crumple slowly backwards on it.

Gentle words: Liz fusses around, offering tissues, tea, and sympathy. But, inevitably, the question you’ve been dreading arrives: “What happened?”

You open your mouth and find the words have gone missing. I don’t know.

Liz squats in front of you. Takes your right hand in her own, strokes the back of your wrist. She looks—intent. Focussed. You try to speak again, but end up shaking your head.

“Is it the stalker?” she asks.

“I—” You’re appalled at your inarticulacy. “I don’t know. Didn’t think so. Not sure now. I’ve been so stupid.” Sniff. Is this self-pity or anger, filling the spring of tears? Which is it? “I, uh, I wasn’t telling the truth the other night. When I said Julian was in Moscow.”

“No?” She’s waiting, hopeful and loyal and . . . just being there. You don’t deserve this.

“He dumped me a couple of months ago,” you mutter, not meeting her eyes. “I’m not myself right now.”

“What happened?” she asks, gently stroking your wrist and watching you with inquisitor’s eyes, not accusing, mildly curious.

You tell her. Then, when she doesn’t explode in a fiery octopus of molten blame, you tell her some more. Being conflicted. Wanting a casual pick-up. Dinner with Christie, and dessert, and, and.

She listens quietly until you get to the way he chucked you out, and what you thought, the safeword. “Did he rape you?” she asks, gently enough. But you can feel the tension in her fingertips, rubbing.

“No. Yes. Maybe: I’m not sure.” You take a deep, ragged breath. “I . . . it was regrettable sex. I shouldn’t have done it and felt really bad afterwards, kind of sick . . . I think he might have raped me, if I’d wanted to stop short. But we didn’t go there. Not at that time.”

“At. That time.” Her finger motion stops, leaving your wrist limp and open to the air. She’s pulled completely away, withdrawn without your noticing. “What happened then?”

You take a deep breath. “That’s when it got weird. I went back to my room, wedged the door. Then there was a work email.”

“Work.” You’ve been avoiding eye contact up to now, afraid of seeing what your confession is doing to her. But you force yourself to look up. To your surprise, she looks thoughtful. There’s no contempt or anger or hatred; she looks almost . . . business-like? “What kind of work?”

“Head office wanted a special type of assessment performing, a sociopathic disorder assessment on a named executive. It was him. Liz, I should have seen it coming before—I mean, I was just stupid. John Christie is a narcissistic psychopath—”

“Who did you say?”

You flinch. “John, uh, Christie? He said he got picked on at school for it, sharing a name with a murderer —”

“No, wait. Stop right there.” Liz is looking at you with a very odd expression on her face. “Would you mind describing him? I mean, how tall is he? How old? How much does he weigh—”

Now you’re on the receiving end of an inquisition—but it’s not at all what you expected. Part-way through, Liz reaches for a pair of specs and switches them on. She seems to be looking something up. Then she takes them off again, holding them carefully, as if afraid they might explode in her hands.

She stares at her specs. “Jesus, Dorothy.”

“I’m—” You lick your lips. “You don’t hate me?”

Her gaze flickers across you, sweeping you from top to toes. She looks profoundly disturbed: stunned, even.