No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy. More than one of her patrons had told her that; surprising how many of them were ex-military. And this wasn't something they'd ever have a second chance at. It had to work first time.

It was risky.

Charlotte raised her hand, the bioware sheath was like a two-fingered glove, flesh coloured; there was a constant warm itch underneath. No, she couldn't forget what Nia Korovilla had done, what she'd been ordered to do, and by whom.

She put the seat down on the toilet, sat on it, and unzipped her flight bag. Below the Levi's and neatly folded Organic Flux Capacity sweatshirt was her gold Amstrad cybofax. Heaven alone knew how the wafer had stayed inside her shorts pockets while she was charging around the Colonel Maitland, but there it was, the only possession she had left that was truly hers.

She entered Fabian's personal number, then ran the scrambler program. The Amstrad's screen fuzzed with static, then stabilized to show Fabian's face. He was smiling nervously.

"Crikey, Charlotte, I thought you were never going to call. Anastasia docked an hour ago."

"I've been busy."

"Any sign of the alien?"

"No, none. We're going to go out looking for my Celestial priest in quarter of an hour."

"Oh. Well, good luck."

"Thanks."

"Are we going to do it?"

"Yes, Fabian, we're doing it."

"Terrific! Switch to conference mode and call Kirilov. Have you still got the number?"

"Yes," she said with some exasperation.

She pulled the number he'd given her from the cybofax's memory, and entered it in the phone circuit. The Amstrad's screen split in two, Fabian on one side, the other remained blank.

"Yes?" a male voice asked, a heavy Slav accent.

"We want to speak with Mr. Kirilov," Fabian said.

"There is nobody of that name here."

Fabian flipped his hair aside impatiently. "Rubbish. Tell Pavel Kirilov that it's Fabian Whitehurst and Charlotte Fielder calling."

Names put a coolness in her belly, names meant there was no going back. And she was pretty sure Pavel Kirilov wouldn't be happy discovering his identity was being bandied about.

A man's face appeared on the cybofax screen. She studied him closely. There was nothing exceptional about him, late forties or early fifties, thinning hair, gaunt cheeks, in fact—she almost smiled—the man bore a more than superficial resemblance to Lenin.

Pavel Kirilov gave them a tight-lipped smile. "So, it is you, young Fabian. You've grown, I think, since we met last. And Miss Fielder, of course, I recognize you from your picture. May I say how glad I am you both survived the Colonel Maitland crash. The reports I received on the incident were most confused."

"My father's dead," Fabian said.

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. He was a valued client."

"And I inherit everything."

Pavel Kirilov inclined his head. "Indeed."

"So I want to carry on with the timber shipments, and the ship charters from Odessa. Just like before. The company agents will handle the details."

"That's very astute of you, Fabian. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement with your father's estate."

"Good."

"May I ask you how you escaped from the Colonel Maitland?"

"I have friends," Fabian said. He smirked.

Charlotte hoped Fabian's confidence wasn't going to overload his prudence. Perhaps she should've insisted on dealing with Kirilov by herself. Too late now.

"I see." Pavel Kirilov pulled at his lower lip. "Well, as long as you're safe now."

"I want to do a deal," Fabian said.

"What sort of deal, Fabian?" Pave! Kirilov asked.

"We know where the alien is."

"Which alien is this?"

"Nia Korovilla is dead as well," Charlotte said. She caught Pavel Kirilov throwing a glance at someone off-camera.

"You seem remarkably well informed, Miss Fielder."

"I've picked up a lot in the last few years I've spent working for you, Mr. Kirilov."

She was surprised when all Pavel Kirilov did was laugh. "I'm afraid that I know where the alien is as well. But I thank you for your offer."

"No, you don't," said Fabian. "You just know the contact point is New London. Only Charlotte knows exactly where the flower came from."

"I have all the information I require," Pavel Kirilov said.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Really sure? Remember, we already knew that you know the flower was handed over to me in New London. Why would we phone if that was all you needed? The fact is, you require a lot more data if you want to find the alien."

Pavel Kirilov hesitated. "This additional data, you are offering to sell it?"

"No, we're offering you a partnership."

"In what?"

"In atomic structuring technology. We secure the construction data for a nuclear force generator. You market it to a kombinate as you originally intended. And we take a percentage. Simple."

Pavel Kirilov patted his hands together in front of his face. "My God, a child and a—You really know what you're talking about, don't you?"

"You got it," Fabian said triumphantly.

"Are you interested?" Charlotte asked. She was jamming her knees together to stop her legs from shaking. "If not, we can always call Event Horizon or Clifford Jepson, offer them the generator data."

"What sort of percentage?" Pavel Kirilov asked impassively.

"Five. And as a guarantee, Fabian and I are to be named on the patent application which you and the kombinate file."

"I'm interested. No doubt you have devised a foolproof method of handover."

"Yes. We're up in New London now."

Pavel Kirilov raised his eyebrows. "You have the generator data already?"

"We'll provide it for you," she said. "But it does have to be you, in person. No one else. I don't mean come alone or anything."

"How very gratifying."

"We have our own hardliners with us. So we'll meet here, on neutral territory, and we'll explain how we want to handle the actual transfer." She held her breath.

Pavel Kirilov gave her a reluctant nod. "Baronski would be pleased to see the way you've turned out. You're a credit to him, Miss Fielder, if not to me. Where exactly in New London do you wish to meet me? Should I wear a carnation in my lapel, knot my tie in a certain fashion?"

She tried to ignore the sarcasm, but there was a lot of weight behind it; one of the largest crime lords in Europe focusing on her. Displeased.

"The more important they think themselves, the greater the disdain they feel they must show," Baronski had told her. "They can only intimidate you if you allow yourself to believe in this charade. None of it is real, they are acting. Imagine yourself as a channel critic and watch for the flaws in their performance."

Charlotte said nothing.

"Well?" Pavel Kirilov asked.

He wanted to know, he needed them. God bless you, Dmitri, she wished silently. "Phone me exactly one hour before you dock," she said. "I will tell you where to wait, you may bring up to four hardline bodyguards for your personal safety. But if you phone after you arrive, if you send someone else in your place, if there are more than four hardliners, then the deal is off."

"Very well, Miss Fielder, Fabian. I agree."

"All right!" Fabian grinned.

"But. If you are unable to provide me with the generator data, or if you try and sell the data to my rivals, then you will wish you had stayed on board the Colonel Maitland. Do I make myself clear? This is not a game. If you genuinely know what is going on, you will understand this."

"We understand," Charlotte said.

"Good. I shall make arrangements for a flight, expect me within six hours." His image disappeared from the Amstrad's screen.

Charlotte's muscles felt drained, her palms were damp and sticky.

Fabian was laughing like a mad thing. "What a team! What a team! We did it, we nailed the bastard." His face jiggled about on the screen.