Which is exactly what he is.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he said guardedly.

Vasvik shrugged. ‘I should thank you. You are taking a far greater risk than I.’

‘Really?’ Chris tried to ignore the jolt Vasvik’s comment delivered to his stomach. The set-up had left him jangled and twitchy. A shrill part of him wondered if the ombudsman was trying to psych him out. ‘I would have thought we’d both be arrested pretty fucking rapidly.’

‘Yes, we would. But your government would be forced to release me intact. That much power we still have. The police might work me over a little while they have me, but it’s unlikely to be worse than some other close encounters I’ve had.’

‘Hard man, huh?’

Another shrug. Vasvik looked around the workshop and spotted an ancient steel bar stool shoved against one wall. He went to fetch it. Chris mastered his irritation and waited for the Norwegian to come back. Again, he couldn’t be sure if Vasvik was doing it deliberately or not. The ombudsman’s detached calm was impenetrable.

Out in the rest of Mel’s AutoFix, tools whined and screeched. The noise raked along his nerves. It hadn’t been easy, finding a safe place to meet, and even now he wondered how far he could trust Carla’s boss.

‘Well.’ Vasvik dragged the stool under the jacked-up Audi Mel had left on the lifter, and seated himself. ‘Shall we talk about extraction?’

‘In a minute.’ Chris prowled the space beneath the Audi. Extraction. The way the word hung there was another jolt in itself, like walking up to Louise Hewitt at the quarterly and asking her out loud if she wanted to fuck. ‘I’m still getting used to this. Maybe I still need to be convinced.’

‘Then we’re wasting each other’s time. I’m not here to talk you into something, Faulkner. We can live without you at UNECT.’

Chris stared at him. ‘Carla said—‘

‘Carla Nyquist cares about you. I do not. Personally, Faulkner, I don’t give a shit what happens to you. I think you’re scum. The ethical commerce guys would like to hear what you have, that’s why I’m here, but I’m not a salesman. I don’t have to reel you in to get my name up on some commission board somewhere, and frankly, I have a lot of better things to do with my time. You come in or you don’t. Your choice. But don’t waste my time.’

Chris flushed.

‘I’m told,’ he said evenly, ‘that UNECT recruit people, scum, like me for the ombudsmen. That’s important, because I need a job. Now. Have I been misinformed?’

‘No. That’s correct.’

‘So we could end up colleagues.’

Vasvik looked at him coldly. ‘It takes all sorts.’

‘Must be hard,’ Chris taunted. ‘Working alongside people that disgust you. Putting up with such a low grade of humanity.’

‘It’s good preparation for undercover work. Living with the stink.’

The workshop Mel had lent them had been swept for bugs an hour ago, and there was too much metalwork going on in the other shops for exterior scanning to be possible. Still, there seemed to be an audience waiting as the pause smoked off Vasvik’s words. Chris felt his fists curling.

‘Do you have any idea,’ he said, ‘who the fuck you’re talking to?’

The other man’s grin was a baring of teeth, a challenge. ‘Why don’t you enlighten me.’

‘I have treated you with respect—‘

‘You’ve got no fucking choice, Faulkner. I’m your escape hatch. You want out so bad I can smell it on you. Your shrivelled little soul has finally got tired of what you do for a living, and now you’re looking for redemption with no drop in salary. I’m your only hope.’

‘I doubt you earn what I’m used to.’

‘Doubt away.’

‘Oh yeah? Blow it all on clothes, do you?’ Chris stabbed a finger at the Norwegian. ‘I know your sort, Vasvik. You grew up in your cosy little Scandinavian nanny state, and when you found out the rest of the world couldn’t afford the same propped-up artificial playgroup economic standards, you never got over it. Now you’re out there sulking and throwing moral tantrums because the world won’t behave the way you want it to—‘

Vasvik examined the palm of one hand. ‘Yeah, but on the other hand I didn’t watch my mother die of a curable illness and—‘

‘Hey—‘

‘And then go to work for the people who made it happen.’

It was like a lightning strike. The slow burning anger sheeted to split second fury, and Chris was in motion. Attack raged at the edges of his control. A Shotokan punch to the temple that would have killed Vasvik, had it landed. Somehow, the ombudsman was not there. The stool staggered in the air, tumbled sideways. Vasvik was a whirl of black coat and reaching hands, off to one side. Chris felt his wrist brushed, turned in some subtle way, and then he was hurled across the workshop on the wings of his own momentum.

He crashed into the bench, hands trying to brace. A sound behind him and something hooked his legs out from under him at the ankles. His face smashed the bench surface among scattering drill bits and bolts. Something sharp gouged his cheek in passing. He felt Vasvik’s weight on him and tried to kick. The Norwegian locked his arm up to the nape of his neck, grabbed his head by the hair and rammed it back down on the bench sideways.

‘Mistake,’ he gritted in Chris’s ear. ‘Now, you going to behave, or am I going to break your fucking arm?’

Chris heaved up once against the weight, but it was useless. He slumped. Vasvik let go suddenly and was gone. Somewhere behind him, Chris heard the ombudsman picking up the stool. When he got himself upright and turned, Vasvik was seated again. There was a faint beading of sweat across the pale forehead, but otherwise the fight might never have happened.

‘My mistake,’ he said quietly, not looking at Chris. ‘I shouldn’t have let you get to me like that. In a Cambodian enterprise zone, that kind of giveaway’d get me a bullet in the back of the head.’

Chris stood there, blinking tears. Vasvik sighed heavily. His voice was dull and weary.

‘As an operational ombudsman, you’ll earn approximately a hundred and eighty thousand euros a year, adjusted. That includes a hazardous-duties bonus, which you can reckon on getting for about sixty per cent of the work you do. Undercover assignments, swoop raids, witness protection. The rest of the time they keep you on backroom stuff. Admin and forward planning. That’s so you don’t burn out.’ Another deep breath. ‘Housing and schools for your kids are free, accommodation and expenses while on assignment, you claim. I’m sorry for that crack about your mother. You didn’t deserve that.’

Chris coughed a laugh. ‘Told you I made more than you.’

‘Yeah, well fuck you then.’ Vasvik’s voice never lifted from the tired monotone. His gaze never shifted from the corner of the workshop.

‘Do you like it?’ Chris asked him finally.

The ombudsman looked at him. ‘It matters,’ he said, pausing on each word as if English were suddenly difficult for him. ‘You’re doing something that matters. I don’t expect you to understand that. It sounds like a bad joke, just saying it. But it means something.’

They faced each other for a while. Then Chris reached into his jacket and pulled out a plastic sheathed disc.

‘This is a breakdown of the accounts I service for Shorn. There’s nothing here you can use, but anyone who knows the ground will be able to work out what I know. Take it back and ask them if I’m worth extracting. I want the package you just talked about, plus a million-dollar or -euro equivalent payout on extraction.’

He saw the look on Vasvik’s face. He heard his own voice harden.

‘It’s not negotiable. I’m losing heavily if I pull out now. I’m plugged in here. Comfortable. Stock options, executive benefits. The house. Industry rep, client connections. All of that’s worth something to me. You want me, you’ve got to make it worth my while.’

He tossed the disc across. Vasvik caught it and examined it curiously. He looked back up at Chris.