In the conference room, Makin stood facing them and rapped on the glass.

‘Two minutes, Mike.’

Bryant leaned down to one of the mikes and pressed trans. ‘Be right there, Nick. Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen.’

He slipped the baseball bat off his shoulders and leaned it in a corner. Chris put a hand on his arm.

‘Mike, you saw his face when we ran it by him on Thursday. You were there. He resented the change of tack, and he made damned sure it blew up in our faces. He handed up Diaz so we’d have nothing else to work with, and you know it.’

‘And nearly blew out his own account? Cost himself maybe thousands in lost bonuses, come quarterly. Chris, come on. It makes him look bad. Why would he do that? What’s in it for him?’

Chris shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but—‘

‘Exactly.’ Mike gripped his shoulders. ‘You don’t know. I don’t know either. There is nothing to know. Now let it go.’

‘Mike, I’ve got no axe to grind here. I came—‘

Another sharp rap on the glass. ‘Youah cutting it fine, Michael.’

‘I only came on board to help you, and I’m—‘

The shoulders, squeezed tighter. Mike met his eye. ‘Chris, I know that. And I’m grateful. And I’m not blaming you for what happened. But you’ve got to let it go now. Get back to Cambodia. Start worrying about your own quarterly review.’

‘Mike—‘

‘I’m out of time, Chris.’ He squeezed once more, then darted for the door. Chris watched through the glass as he zipped into the seat next to Makin and settled, instants before the uplink chimed.

One thing that every Conflict Investment client Chris had ever dealt with had in common was their love of developed world technotoys. It was basic CI wisdom, handed down from partners to analysts everywhere in the trade. Don’t stint on toys. At the top of every hardware gift list, you placed your state-of-the-art global communications gadgetry. That, and personalised airliners. Then the military stuff. Always that order, it never failed. Echevarria’s uplink holocast was razor-sharp in resolution, and came with about a dozen attached display screens.

Chris knew his face, of course, from the HM files and occasional newscasts from the ME. Still, it had been a while since he’d seen Echevarria for real. He leaned in close to the glass wall and focused on the sagging, leathery face; the pouched eyes and clamped mouth, the scrawny neck, held ramrod straight, disappearing into the neck of a dress uniform laden with medals and awards. The peripheral display screens fanned out behind him unignited, like a black halo. The hands resting on the holocast table top looked bloated.

‘Ah, General,’ said Bryant, with plastic charm. ‘There you are. Welcome.’

Echevarria raised one hand to his lips and looked to his left. The uplink chime sounded again and about a metre down the table, a second holocast image blipped and fizzled into existence.

‘My son will be joining us for these proceedings.’ The dictator smiled, showing brilliant white teeth, clearly not his own. ‘If you gentlemen don’t object.’

The irony was heavy, but worse lay behind it. Francisco Echevarria was currently in Miami, Chris knew. And the speed with which the holocast had come in past Shorn’s databreaks, uninvited, suggested a level of intrusion equipment beyond that usually on offer to guests at the Miami Hilton.

He’s with the fucking Americans. Rimshaw or Meldreck, got to be. Chris scrabbled for a hold. Most likely Rimshaw. Lloyd fucking Paul. Calders aren’t usually this flamboyant.

The new holocast settled down. Francisco Echevarria emerged, darkly handsome in one of his habitual Susana Ingram suits. His face was already flushed with anger looking for discharge.

Mike Bryant took it and ran with it.

‘Of course. We are delighted to have Senor Echevarria with us as well. In fact, the more varied the input at a time—‘

‘Hijo de puta,’ spat Echevarria junior without preamble. ‘The only fuckin’ input I have to tell you is that if my father was not so sentimental about old attachments, you would be drivin’ for tender tomorrow. I am sick of your Eurotrash duplici—‘

‘Paco! Please.’ There was a light amusement in the father’s voice. His English, Chris noticed, had a mannered southern-states drawl to it, at odds with the Miaspanic rhythms of his son’s speech. ‘These gentlemen have an apology to make. It would be rude not to hear them out.’

So.

Chris saw how Makin tautened. He wasn’t sure if the father and son noticed.

‘Certainly,’ said Mike Bryant smoothly. ‘There has been a serious misunderstanding, and I do feel that the responsibility is ours. When my colleague brought our files on the rebels to your attention, he perhaps did not stress enough that we were concerned—‘

Echevarria junior rasped something indistinct in Spanish. His father looked in his direction and he shut up. Bryant nodded grateful acknowledgment to the father, and picked up the threads again.

‘Were concerned that perceived instability was going to draw new and less scrupulous investors than ourselves.’

Hernan Echevarria smiled bleakly from around the globe.

‘This instability you speak of has been dealt with. And you’re right, Senor Bryant. That was not how your colleague presented the matter.’ One of the peripheral screens woke into static prior to transmission. ‘Would you like to see the message?’

Bryant raised a hand. ‘We’ve all seen the message, Colonel. I don’t propose to take up any more of your valuable time here than absolutely

necessary. As I said, it was a case of poor communication, for which we take full responsibility.’

He looked pointedly at Makin.

‘General Echevaia.’ It sounded as if the words were being ripped out of Makin with pliers. ‘I apologise. Unconditionally. For any. Misunderstanding I have caused. It was never my intention to. Suggest that we would be intested in dealing with your political enemies—‘

‘The enemies of my country, senor. The enemies of our national honour, of all Colombian patriots. Condemned, you will recall, by the Catholic church and every other symbol of decency in the Americas.’

‘Yes,’ said Makin stiffly. ‘As you say.’

‘I have something here.’ Bryant came to his rescue. ‘Which you may be interested in.’

One of the recessed screens flickered to life, and Chris knew that on the other side of the world the Echevarrias were watching the image emerge from somewhere over Mike Bryant’s shoulder.

‘This is some of the primary documentation you received from us in its original format,’ said Bryant, steering the control mouse with one casual hand. ‘As you’ll see from the blow-up, it is not a document originating from Shorn. In fact, this, as I’m sure you’ll recognise, is the logo of Hammett McColl.’

It could have been computer-generated fakery, and everyone in the room knew it. But Echevarria had invited HM out to the NAME himself the year before, and he knew it fitted.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.

‘From a source.’

Echevarria junior erupted again in mother-related Spanish insults. Bryant waited him out. The father silenced the son again, this time with an irritated gesture.

‘What source?’

‘At this stage,’ said Bryant carefully, ‘I am not prepared to reveal that information. A source is only useful so long as it remains secure, and this link-up is not. However,’ He caught the son’s bristling and moved to beat it. ‘In a genuine face-to-face situation, I would be happy to discuss all and any details pertaining to this matter. I feel that we owe you a certain candour after the weekend’s confusion.’

‘You are suggesting I fly to London?’

Bryant spread his hands. ‘In your own time, naturally. I am aware that you have a number of pressing engagements at home.’

‘Yes.’ Echevarria smiled again, with about as much warmth as before. ‘Notably clearing up the mess created by one of your agents.’