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Protests are scheduled for the day of the TOAN Conference. Anyone with any interest in setting off some propaganda bombs or defacing public property or, say, crashing the conference, should check in with Sabine first.
17: Arrangements
“You look like death warmed up,” Winston Natha said cheerily, as he lowered himself down opposite Sarah’s desk. He set a recyclable coffee cup down on the desk, and nudged it towards her. She took off the plastic top and gave it a sniff.
“Hazelnut?”
“Something godawful like that, yes.” Winston leaned back in the chair, legs crossed. “How long did Faulkner hold everyone, then? We got turned back at the cordon.”
She rubbed her eyes. They felt gritty, despite the drops. She hadn’t gotten much sleep. She’d fielded dozens of calls after the news had gone out. She’d finally collapsed on the couch in her office for a nap at three AM. “About two hours longer than strictly necessary.”
“I hope you spent the time productively.”
“I had a lot to do. They started bloody shooting the place up.” She felt a spurt of anger. “Which they do not have authorisation for. Or so I thought.” And hadn’t that been a fun phone call, with Faulkner grinning at her the entire time? It turned out that authorization had come down from on high in the aftermath, after Faulkner reported that his men had been attacked. Cass’s influence, she thought.
“I told you, things are changing.”
“Yes. For the worse. Still, I made some new friends among the press and the police. Shared hardships and such.” She took a sip of the coffee. “Faulkner thinks it was DedSec.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think it doesn’t matter what I think. Whoever they were, they got away.”
“And made Faulkner look quite a prat in the process.” Winston scratched his nose. “That’s twice in two days you’ve tweaked his nose. I’m surprised he hasn’t bundled you off to one of those illicit black sites the media like to bloviate about.”
“I suspect he needs to warm up to it.” She didn’t smile. There was enough evidence as to the very real existence of those sites that she didn’t find it as funny as Winston did. Most of what Albion did wasn’t funny. “Has Cass been in touch yet?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It seems the Limehouse facility is undergoing necessary renovations and will unavailable for public tours for the foreseeable future.” Winston shook his head. “Albion is closing ranks.”
“Something is up with them. And it has to do with the shootings.”
“A word of advice, Sarah – leave it to CID. Let the Met handle this mess. That’s what they’re paid to do. We’re paid to make speeches and shake hands.” He leaned forward. “Speaking of which – the TOAN protests…”
Sarah grunted. “Yes, I saw that.” The media were having a field day. They’d taken to referring to the conference as “TOAN Deaf”, mostly because of it its wildly inappropriate marketing efforts. Efforts which were having quite an effect, though possibly not the one the conference’s backers – not to mention the government – had hoped for.
The rapid automation of the British industrial sector was a sore point with most, if not all, of the country’s trade unions. Joblessness was on the rise thanks to new technological innovations, and here was a celebration of the same. TOAN Deaf, indeed.
Protests were inevitable. The Met was underfunded and lacked the manpower to tackle what was coming. “I’m sure our friend Nigel Cass has already offered the services of Albion to alleviate some of the pressure on the Met.”
“He claims some experience with crowd control,” Winston said. His smile was grim. “All it will take is some fool throwing a Molotov or a brick, and there’ll be blood on the streets. Worse than the Redundancy Riots.” There was an understandable edge to his voice when he mentioned the riots.
The Riots had consumed the city for several, and nowhere had been hit harder than East London. Too many people already on the edge, and the first wave of automation had pushed them over, and onto the dole. Sarah herself had ridden into office on a wave of dissent. She’d promised to get people back to work. As yet, she had not been able to keep those promises. Initially, she’d hoped Albion would provide the answer.
“I’m sure that’s exactly what Albion is hoping for.” Sarah sighed. “There might be an opportunity there, though. Not just a photo op this time, either. Something substantial. Have you talked to anyone else?”
Winston shrugged. “Most of them are keeping their heads down. The Labour Party is officially noncommittal, and unofficially has its head thrust squarely up its–”
“I get the picture, thank you.” Sarah massaged her temples. She’d had a persistent headache since last night. Faulkner had questioned everyone present in the station at least twice, while his men had scoured the surrounding streets, looking for any signs of whoever had stolen the evidence. If they’d stolen anything at all.
A part of her suspected that it was all a ruse on Faulkner’s part. An attempt to make himself look the hero for his bosses and the media. The man taking charge of an impossible situation. Only the situation was largely of his making. At least that was how it seemed to her. She recalled how he’d reacted when she’d mentioned the mysterious Mr Holden.
Winston cleared his throat, startling her from her momentary reverie. “Do you have a strategy in mind? Besides decamping for Bruges, I mean.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound like we’re facing an invading army.”
“What would you call them? They can now freely use those weapons they like to brandish…”
“Not freely,” she corrected. “Only when attacked.”
“Yes, but who gets to define what is
