“But what about—”

“Past’ zebej. Shower, now.” Petrovitch took the jammer with him back into the bedroom and pulled the door shut. He could hear Newcomen’s shoes hit the floor, and the soft rustle of clothing as it fell away.

Time to test the epigram: money talks. He could shout louder than most; not just the personal wealth he’d signed away to the Freezone, but the collective’s entire resources. Even Teddy Logan would be grudgingly impressed.

He didn’t care about that as much as he did about wiping the condescending smile from Logan’s face, the one he used on all his publicity material.

So Petrovitch made a list of things he needed, and sent virtual agents out across the network to find them. They came scurrying back with their results even as he was talking to the hotel’s concierge.

“Yeah. This is going to be a tall order, but I’m prepared to shovel an obscene amount of cash your way if you can make these things happen. Your foyer is about to be besieged by couriers, and I need the stuff they’re carrying bringing straight up to my room. Also, I need a hamper full of buffet-style snacks – you know, finger-food things – and some desserts that won’t fall apart in the back of a limo. And a limo. A bottle of pre-Armageddon champagne, some soft drinks, glasses. Look, you know how to do this better than I do. A picnic for lovers, okay? And I need it in fifteen minutes.”

There was a knock at the door, and Petrovitch opened it. Two men in hotel uniform stood outside.

“Wait there.”

He kicked the bathroom door open, grabbed Newcomen’s suit and shoes, and thrust the bundle into the men’s waiting arms. “Chyort. One more thing.” He delved into the waste bin for the tie, and handed it over. “I need this all back in ten minutes. Do what you can.”

Then came the steady stream of people bearing all the things he thought were essential – that Madeleine thought were essential, because she was telling him exactly what he needed and what would impress.

By the time Newcomen emerged, wrapped in a towel, Petrovitch was dressed in a pale jacket with matching trousers, brown shoes and a white Nehru shirt.

“Not a yebani word, got that?” He held out a new shirt sealed in a plastic bag and a pair of cufflinks in a box. “That’s your size. Get it on.”

“Uh, shorts?”

Petrovitch threw another sealed bag at him. “Socks, too.”

The door rattled again, and he took delivery of Newcomen’s freshly pressed suit and shined shoes.

“You have four minutes.”

Newcomen hurried, and it turned out that he scrubbed up quite well. Petrovitch adjusted the knot on his tie and shook the lapels of his jacket out.

“How did you do all this?”

“By being married to someone who knows what a woman wants, and who is continually frustrated by her husband’s singular inability to provide any of it.” Petrovitch checked the time. “Out.”

He paused only to throw the jammer in on top of the open carpet bag and grab the handles. Newcomen found himself shoved through the barely open door and towards the lifts. One car was waiting for them, because Petrovitch had fixed it that way.

Thirty seconds later, they were in the foyer, being shown through the evening throng by the concierge. “Everything’s ready, Dr Petrovitch.”

“Everything except me. I’ll settle up with you later, but yeah. Not bad for a Yank.”

The concierge tipped his hat and opened the door for them.

A white stretch limo was idling outside, the driver in a dark blue uniform standing beside it.

“Is that ours?” asked Newcomen.

“Yobany stos, man. It’s a wonder you can find your way to the office in the morning. It’s ours, for the evening at least. Now, we’re late, and I’m going to have to do some real-time traffic control in order to get us to the Logans’ on time.”

The chauffeur opened the door to the cavernous interior, and Newcomen climbed in. Petrovitch followed, the cold nipping at his ankles. The clothes he was in felt alien, uncomfortable, stiff. His usual stuff was his by right of conquest, but the jacket felt like it was wearing him, and his shoes were hard and unyielding.

He’d had to put up with worse. It was going to be fine.

13

It seemed to take an age for the chauffeur to walk around the front of the car to the driver’s seat. Finally the engine note changed and the limo pulled away.

“This is all very…” Newcomen huffed. “Kind. But I don’t see how it’s going to get me out of the pickle of having to babysit you all evening when I’m supposed to be alone with Christine. Even if I get her to the restaurant on time, you’re going to have to…” He huffed again.

“What? Sit between you and play gooseberry? Yeah, the ladies love that sort of thing.” Petrovitch watched the lights of Seattle go by as they pulled out on to the interstate. “You can’t go to the restaurant. It’s just impractical. Sorry. I’ve cancelled your reservation, and we’re going with plan B.”

“I’m clutching at straws now anyway.”

“Newcomen, listen. I’d barely turned eighteen when I had to execute a war against two hundred thousand crazed fanatics. And I won. If you think you can come up with something better than I have, then be my guest. As it is, all you’ve done is run around in circles, pulling at your hair. Take what I give you and be grateful.”

“And what is it exactly that you’re giving me?”

“What could be your last ever evening with your fiancée,” said Petrovitch. “Some people don’t get the chance of knowing. You kiss the wife goodbye, you step out of the door, and wham. Someone, something takes you out, and you’ve missed the chance to invest those few moments with meaning.”

“I’m supposed to be grateful?” Newcomen’s voice rose in pitch and volume.

Petrovitch’s reply was matter-of-fact. “Yeah. You were never meant to meet her tonight, if ever. Now you can.”

Newcomen stared and ground his jaw.

“You look like a cow when you do that.” Petrovitch leaned forward, and realised the other bench seat facing him was too far away to reach. “Over there’s a hamper filled with all sorts of goodies. There’s champagne on ice, and I don’t even want to think about how much that’s cost us. There’s two bouquets of flowers: tiger lilies for Mrs Logan and red roses for Christine. You’ve been to Logan’s place: you know the summer house down by the lake. You and her can take the hamper down there and do whatever it is you two want to do, entirely undisturbed. When you’re done, we go back to the hotel. Vrubatsa?”

“But what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”

“I’ll be in the house with Christine’s parents – I’ve checked they’re not going out anywhere – and that should satisfy both you, and the pickiest of tribunals, if it ever comes to it. You’ll be on the same property as me. If I need you, I’ll call for you: barring disasters, I promise I won’t call you.” Petrovitch grimaced. “That’s right. I’m going to spend the whole evening making pleasantries with the man who doesn’t care whether his daughter’s boyfriend lives or dies, and sees me as an aberration before God. I’d rather lie in a bath of broken glass, but there you go.”

Newcomen threw himself back against his seat, and sat upright again as the chair began to massage him. He looked around at it with distaste. “Are you sure about Logan?”

“What? Whether he’s going out or not?”

“No, not that.”

“The other thing? Yeah. There won’t be a paper trail I can follow, he’s far too careful for that: but you know he hates you. You know his wife doesn’t dare say anything to him. The only reason you’ve lasted this long is because Christine genuinely does love you. Then it got serious. You proposed and she accepted. You dared to pick a date and a venue. That was when he started to look for ways to get rid of you.”