Rule 34

“Kemal? You’re on the BABYLON roster. Can you get me a picture of John Christie? That’s—”

“What I’ve been trying to tell you,” he says, a tad waspishly, and chucks a tag at your glasses. You zoom it into a window next to your lifelog video and bite your lip.

“Fuck.” You take Dickie off hold. He’s ranting already, but you ignore him: “John Christie was recorded entering the university building at exactly the same time Kemal and I were leaving. It’s in my lifelog. I didn’t recognize him”—because you’d never met him—“is it MacDonald who’s dead?”

“You dinna recognize him,” Dickie snarls.

“Neither did Kemal. Save it for the inquest, Dickie. Have we nailed Christie yet?”

“Get your sorry ass over to Appleton Towers.” Dickie’s voice has gone flat, over-controlled. Anger is probably a good sign, with Dickie: It means he isn’t bottling it up for a future explosion. “DI Terry is on her way there to take over. I’ll be along after I finish explaining your little blind spot to the commissioner. You can walk me through your interview at the scene. Seeing you’re the last folks wha’ saw MacDonald alive.”

He hangs up.

“Shit.” You put your phone back in your pocket, trying to still the shaking in your hand.

“Well, Inspector?” Kemal asks. His expression is hard to read. Is that sympathy? Defensive distance?

You draw down a deep breath. “Let’s take a ride.” To Moxie, you add: “I want a deep trawl on Mr. Hussein. Home address, family, relationships, anything that’s available. Bounce it to me, highest priority.” Then you’re out the door like a demented groundhog, blinking in the unwelcome daylight again.

“Is that necessary?” Kemal trails you towards the garage. “I thought Dr. MacDonald was a higher priority.”

“Oh, it’s necessary alright.” To the desk sergeant: “I need a car, urgent, case BABYLON.” To Kemal: “Dickie wants us to go to Appleton Towers and identify the victim, so we’ll go. But I’m not planning on staying for long . . .”

ANWAR: Toymaker

You are behind the bathroom door, trying to figure out how to flush the bucket of fermenting nanotechnological bread mix down the toilet, when the doorbell buzzes.

The bread mix makes you sick, with its strange chemical smell and iridescent bubbles. There’s a permanent scummy skin floating on top of the bucket, and whenever you stick a pencil in to lift it off, more skin forms; it forms a brownish rope, very like nylon. At first it’s sticky—it sticks to anything it touches like Superglue—but it dries rapidly to a soft and stringy finish. You twist some of it up and it really does form a rope, stronger than seems possible. You’re afraid that if you chuck it down the loo (after the stomachful of vomit you ejected right after you zipped the horrid thing back into the suitcase), it’ll gum up the pipes. And then what? If you call out a plumber, they might report you to the police—and then, and then—your mind shies away from the consequences.

What did that fellow on the phone, Bhaskar, have to say? A major international criminal investigation, a material witness, and you with the suitcase in the attic full of forbidden horror belonging to Colonel Datka’s man. And Bibi knows. And, and. The smell from the bread mix makes your stomach churn. It’s sickening. So you’ve got the bucket down to the bathroom, next to the toilet, and you got the bog brush and dipped it in the bucket and now you’re slowly winding a shitcoloured caul of scum around the brush, twirling it as it dries in sheets and fibrous ropes.

And what is this stuff for, anyway?

(There’s such a lot of it.)

You’re about to give up when the doorbell rings. A couple of seconds later, it buzzes again, shrill and insistent.

You clench your teeth, ignoring it. No good can come of answering: I’m out, nobody home. Who could it be? The police? Colonel Datka’s man? Uncle Taleb? You don’t want to see anyone. Nothing to see here, nobody home. The ropey brown tape-string dangling from the bog brush in skeins is on the floor. It’s tangled, and there’s too much of it to keep dipping and twirling. You step on it, experimentally, and tug on the brush handle. The rope tightens, peeling away reluctantly.

The door slams closed downstairs, and you jerk upright, ears straining. They’ve got a key! Then you remember yesterday’s request—before you knew about the contents of the suitcase—with a shiver of revulsion. You left a spare set of keys at the office. It might be Bibi or Uncle Taleb, but it’s probably not.

You pick up the bucket and advance on the door to the landing with hatred gnawing a hole in your immortal soul. On the threshold, you pause. What if it is Bibi? Mortification and shame claw at your liver and lights. But there are footsteps, and they sound wrong. No, not Bibi. You yank the door open.

Your nightmare is standing on the landing. He stares at you placidly with eyes like the thing in the suitcase.

“Mr. Hussein. I hope I’m not interrupting?”

The bucket dangles uselessly from your limp left hand. “Interrupting ?” you echo, dully.

Peter Manuel, John Christie—whoever he is, he’s Colonel Datka’s man—is taller than you are. Stronger, too, probably. “What is this?” you demand, raising the bucket and giving it a shake. “What is this?”

You see his nostrils flare as he inhales. Then he stares at you. “Feedstock. From the bread mix. I see you’ve activated it. Who told you how to do that?”

You clutch the bucket in both hands: “None of your business!” you snarl. “I’m resigning. I don’t represent Issyk-Kulistan anymore. You’d better get out. You’re trespassing, you know!”

Christie’s lip curls. “You have my luggage,” he points out. “And you’ve taken that without paying.” He points at the bucket.

“What is it?” you demand.

“The double-domes worked out how to brew spider-silk in a bucket. Nanotechnology.” He looks amused. “It’s feedstock for fabbers. Tougher than steel, when it sets. The US military invented it, to make it easier to repair equipment in the field. This is a pirate copy.” He reaches out a hand. “You’d better give me that. If you dump it down the toilet, it’ll block the pipes.”

You hand the bucket over without thinking. Christie takes it, and before you quite realize what’s happening, he grabs your left wrist and slides a foot forward to block the door. You pull your right fist back to punch him, but he’s no longer holding the bucket: Somehow, your fist misses his face, then the big man’s got you by both wrists. He must be used to fighting, you realize numbly. Then he’s got both your wrists caught in one big fist, and, as you’re trying to bring a knee up to kick him, he punches you, and the world narrows to a diabolical pain in your chest and a desperate need to breathe.

By the time you get some air into your lungs, you’re lying on your side in the bathroom with your arms behind you. Christie is sitting on your legs. He’s got about half a roll of duct tape wound around your wrists, and now he’s working on your ankles. You try to writhe, but he just leans on you, as calmly and unemotionally as a farmer dealing with a chicken. “Where is my luggage?” he asks.

“I threw it out!” You lie wildly, hoping he’ll believe you. For a wonderful moment you think it worked—then he shoves a hand between your thighs and squeezes your balls.

“I don’t think so,” he says, as you jack-knife like a gaffed fish. “I think you opened it. Had a little look inside, didn’t you?”

You can neither confirm nor deny: All you can do is scream, but he sees it coming and shoves a roll of toilet paper in your gob as you draw breath.

“I think you hid it somewhere.” He keeps hold of the toilet roll, and now you’re panicking, finding it hard to breathe. “I’m going to remove this,” he says. “Don’t scream, or I’ll put it back.” Air hits your mouth, cold air in your lungs, crushing pain between your legs: You inhale, shuddering, sobbing. “Now you’re going to do exactly what I