Theories of Flight

loud and long right now.”

“If I do anything,” said Chain, “they’ll pull back and have another go with a different team in a month’s time. I need to catch them red-handed.”

“No, no you don’t, you balvan! This is Oshicora all over again, except this time it’s you versus the United States government.” Petrovitch was on his feet, yelling down the phone. “I learned not to trust you last time. Me, Maddy, Pif, Sonja—if you won’t keep us safe, I will. Tell the Yanks to back off, or I’ll find a way to do it myself.”

He ended the call, and for good measure, threw the phone across the room.

He scalded himself on his coffee, forgetting how hot it would be. Pressing his thumb hard against his lips, he felt the heat spread.

Then Petrovitch picked up the phone again and dialed Chain.

“If you wanted something, why didn’t you ask?”

“Because I’m embarrassed,” came the reply. “We employ forensic specialists, we pay them good money to work for MEA, and sometimes, just sometimes, it’d be really great if they actually turned up to do an honest day’s labor. I have the parts we retrieved from the scene before we were chased off by the Outies. They’re laid out in a warehouse, and I can’t get any usable information from it because I don’t know how.”

There was a blister forming, and there was nothing Petrovich could do about it. Ice would be good, but he knew there was nothing below zero in the building other than cryogenic nitrogen.

“I ought to tell you to poshol nahuj.”

“But not today.”

“No. Not today. Where is this warehouse?”

“The old train shed at King’s Cross.”

“And how many people know about this?” Petrovitch picked up his coat and shrugged it on, one arm at a time. “Because if it’s more than you and me, I’d bet my babushka’s life the Yanks know it, too.”

“Maybe half a dozen people. I have a chain of command I have to inform.”

“So we’d better get down there before the evidence disappears. Meet me out front in five.”

Petrovitch sat on the steps, waiting. A huge four-wheel-drive car—more a small lorry than anything a private citizen would think necessary—put two tires up on the curb and the darkened window hummed down.

“Hey. Good to see you still have the coat.”

Petrovitch got to his feet and walked across the pavement. “Grigori? Yobany stos! What happened to the Zil?”

Grigori grinned apologetically. “Comrade Marchenkho managed to get a UN reconstruction contract. We all have these fancy autos now.” He slapped his hand on the outside of the door, leaving his fingerprints in the dirt. “Armored. Very tough.”

“How is the old goat?”

“Better for not having Oshicora around. His blood pressure is much lower these days. The Long Night worked out well for us.”

Petrovitch pressed his fingertips against his chest. No pulse, just the throb of a turbine. The Ukrainian noticed the ring on his finger.

“That?” said Petrovitch. “I suppose it worked out well for me, too. In a narrowly-avoided-death-repeatedly way.” He looked up and down the street. “Look, is this meeting a happy accident, or has Marchenkho sent you? Only I’m expecting Harry Chain any minute now and if he sees me talking to you, he’ll go kon govno crazy.”

Grigori beckoned him closer. “Marchenkho sends his congratulations, and an open invitation for a drink.”

“Yeah. We can swear loudly and point guns at each other in a vodka-fueled frenzy: just like old times.”

“Also a warning. There are people…”

“There often are.”

He shook his head. “No. You must take this seriously. They have been asking questions about the Long Night. They know of the New Machine Jihad, and that the Oshicora Tower was involved. Beyond that?” Grigori shrugged. “We don’t know what went on, only that it involved you.”

“I’d heard someone was taking an interest.”

“Who are they? Union investigators? They do not behave like the Union.”

“No. Not the Union.” Petrovitch’s face twitched.

“Who, then?”

“The CIA. Tell Marchenkho to give Chain a call. And speak of the devil.” A battered gray car rattled up behind Grigori’s behemoth.

Grigori looked at his rear-view mirror. “What do you want us to do?”

Petrovitch pushed himself away from the open window. He could see Chain’s squashed face behind his steering wheel. “Keep an eye on my back, will you? I don’t trust this lot to do anything but stand round and stare at my rapidly cooling corpse.”

“Is done,” said Grigori. “Dobre den, tovarisch.”

The window buzzed upward, and the four-by-four bounced back into the street.

Chain leaned across his car and threw the passenger door open. Petrovitch sauntered over and clambered in.

“What,” said Chain, “did he want?”

“Marchenkho’s invited me around for cocktails one evening. Black tie affair, you wouldn’t be interested.”

“And really?”

“I can easily get back out and do something constructive. Or you can just drive.” Petrovitch tugged at the seat belt to strap himself in, but when Chain muttered something under his breath, he changed his mind and made to get out. “Fine. See you later.”

“Okay, okay.” Chain pulled onto the road without signaling, or even checking it was clear. “Do you have any idea how stressful this job is?”

“No. Neither do I care.” Petrovitch twisted around in his seat and looked out of the rear window. “I have troubles of my own.”

“You could always leave,” said Chain, echoing Sonja’s remark of earlier. “After yesterday, I imagine you could go pretty much anywhere. Take that wife of yours somewhere she’s not going to get shot at.”

“Funny you should say that,” said Petrovitch. There was no one following them. Not that that didn’t preclude the possibility that they were being watched every moment. He turned back and finished strapping himself in.

“Meaning?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. Now, about this prowler.”

“Five minutes ago, you’d never even heard the word.”

“Yeah. And now I’m a yebani expert.” He dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the rat. “Let’s see. Tracked vehicle, roughly pyramidal, sensor array on a central pylon, gyrojet weapons laterally positioned, each with a two-hundred-degree arc of fire, short-range scattergun. Powered by four rechargeable nanotube batteries, EMP hardened electronics. Any of this sounding familiar?”

“Worryingly so.”

“Then you’ve got the genuine article.” He looked up from his screen. They were passing Hyde Park. Empty, now. The last remains of the shanty town were blowing in the wind: torn plastic, loose sheets of cardboard, tatters of cloth flapped against the boards surrounding the park. The bulldozers had moved in, had been moving in for a month now, and the work had stalled. Some Metrozone assemblyman wanted all the bodies that lay on and under the park exhumed and buried elsewhere. “Another thing.”

“Which is?” asked Chain, when Petrovitch didn’t continue.

He tore his gaze from the window. “Self-destruct mechanism. These things are mobile thermobaric bombs. My guess is the MEA grenade pre-ignited the fuel–air mix before it reached its critical concentration. That’s why you’ve got bits left to look at. Another second or so, and you’d have lost everyone and everything, turned inside out