“I’m glad you find it funny,” said Petrovitch. “Zhopu porvu margala vikoliu.” He stabbed down with his finger. Hijo had gone from the inside of the domik. But not from inside his head.

He dialed again.

“Chain,” said Chain.

“It’s Petrovitch. I’ve something to show you. Meet me outside the south entrance to Regent’s Park in half an hour.”

“Very nice to hear from you again, Petrovitch. As much as I like you, I can’t drop everything just because you call.”

“It’s about the Oshicoras.”

“Half an hour, you say?”

“Yeah. Thought that might get your interest. I’m not walking, so bring your car. And body armor and a kalash. Better still, bring two sets. We’re going to need them.”

“We? What is this, Petrovitch? You planning on starting a war?”

“For a dubiina, you catch on quick. Be on time.”

16

An old, stooped woman, head wrapped in a blanket, knocked on the side of Chain’s car. Chain raised his eyebrows and waved her away. Her tapping became more insistent.

“It’s me, you blind old kozel. Open up.” Petrovitch moved the blanket aside far enough to reveal his ice-blue eyes.

Chain sighed and sprung the locks. Petrovitch heaved the car door open and slipped inside, bundling the blanket into the backseat. He pulled the door shut again, and looked around.

“Guns?”

“I have one. I’m the police, remember: we don’t go handing out weapons to members of the public.”

“Funny how they seem to get hold of them anyway.” He reached behind him and pulled out a pistol from his waistband. It was tiny; Petrovitch could conceal it in the palm of his hand.

“I’m disappointed,” said Chain. He turned the engine over and waited for it to catch.

“Yeah. My yelda’s much bigger.” He made the gun disappear again. “How about the armor?”

“That I can let you have. You will have to sign for it, though, and according to the form, account for any damage it might suffer while in your care.” Chain cocked an ear at the rattle coming from under the bonnet, then decided it was no worse than usual. He pulled out into the traffic without warning.

When the sound of horns had died down, Petrovitch put his feet up on the dash and leaned back against the headrest. “Nice car.”

“You’d better not be wasting my time. I will charge you if you are.”

“Yeah. Course you will. Don’t worry, it’ll be worth it.”

“So: are you going to tell me where we’re going, or should I just drive around for a while?”

“My lab. You know the way.” Petrovitch took his glasses off and held them up to the early morning light. They weren’t quite as filthy as Chain’s car. “While we’re on that subject: if you ever, ever try and plant one of your stupid little bugs on me again, I’ll cut you like I’m butchering a svinya and turn your guts into sausage. You got that?”

Chain tutted. “Wrong side of the bed, was it?”

“Any bed would have been nice. The only reason I’m talking to you is because I can use you. The moment that becomes unnecessary is the moment I dump you like govno.”

“Your turn of phrase is as poetic as ever.” The car jerked to a halt. The lights strung across the road were green, but they were going nowhere. “What the hell is the matter with the traffic now?”

Chain reached forward and fetched his satnav a couple of hefty blows with his hand. The screen flickered but refused to indicate an alternative route.

“You could always put on your blue light,” said Petrovitch.

“Ha. Ha. It’s been like this since midnight. Random, local gridlock, coming and going. Disappearing in one area only to appear in another.”

Petrovitch scratched his ear. “Has it got worse in the last thirty minutes or so?”

Chain looked across at his passenger. “Why would it?”

“Possibly because there’s a massive bot-net trying to take down the Oshicora servers. If that was the case, there’d be a lot of extra load flowing around the Metrozone. It might interfere with the traffic management. Just saying.” Petrovitch stared studiously out of the window.

Chain shook his head. “Are you going to tell me what all this is about?”

“No. You’ll have to see it for yourself.”

“Maybe you should’ve let me see it before you started screwing about.” The lights cycled to red without them moving. “Can this get any worse?”

The first raindrop left a dusty circle on the windscreen. It was there long enough to ball and run down the glass to the bottom before the clouds opened and rain drummed against the roof.

“Clearly it can,” said Petrovitch. The car in front edged forward half a length, and Chain claimed the space as his own.

The rain continued to blatter down, hard enough to make it seem like there was boiling water rising from the ground. The pedestrians either took shelter where they could, or hunched their shoulders and accepted the indignity.

Chain put his wipers on, smearing the grit and grease in two arcs. “I can remember when rain—any rain—meant danger. Everyone would listen to the weather forecasts and sirens would sound in the streets.”

“Yeah, pretty much the same,” said Petrovitch. “Except we didn’t have satellites or sirens. We just got wet and took iodine pills when we could.”

“This isn’t meant to be a game of ‘my life was worse than yours,’ you know. And your country never got bombed.”

“All we had to put up with was your fall-out; nuclear and economic. You had food relief; we didn’t. You had rebuilding projects; we didn’t. You had someone to blame; trivial, really, but we didn’t. Everyone looked after poor Europe, and we were left swinging in the wind.”

“Surprising,” said Chain, gazing out at the traffic lights as they went from amber to green, “how much damage a handful of madmen can do. Why aren’t we going anywhere?”

“You want to get out and walk? Or do you want to shut up?”

Chain sighed and scrubbed at his cheeks with his hands. They sat in silence, watching the rain fall.

“You heard from Sorenson?” asked Chain.

“Not since I warned him he might have carried your bug into the heart of Oshicora’s operations.”

Chain pulled a face. “Did I tell you about his father?”

“What about his father?”

“His old man was political—Reconstruction to the core—assassinated six, seven years ago. Case is still open. All the fingers pointed at Junior, but no one could pin it on him. Apparently, sniping’s not his style. Explosives are, though.” Chain leaned forward and set the wipers to double-time. Despite the deluge, people were getting out of their cars and walking toward the front of the queue. “What? What are they doing?”

Petrovitch reached behind him for his blanket. “There’s only one way to find out.” He pulled the material over his head again and opened the car door. The rain poured in, and within seconds he was soaked.

Chain turned up his collar and joined him—making sure to lock the car behind him. The crowd was uncharacteristically quiet; hushed enough to hear the soft roar of the rain, the scrape of boots on tarmac.

As they walked forward through the stalled lines of vehicles, they could see a line forming across the junction, deepening as more people joined it. Chain used his badge and his elbows to work his way to the front, and Petrovitch tucked in behind.

When they got there, they found the cross-wise street devoid of traffic: on the other side of the junction was a similar mass of onlookers. The lights were red in every direction.

“That’s not right,” said Chain.

Petrovitch tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. “Neither is that.”

A solid phalanx of cars was crawling down Gloucester Place in the direction of the river. Every lane was taken up, four abreast, rolling slowly in a perfect line. Chain was about to step out and demand an explanation when Petrovitch touched his shoulder again.