“Tlaltecuhtli is groaning,” Addario commented. Reston just gave him a curt smile. Perhaps he didn’t believe in dismembered monster goddesses writhing in agony below ground, causing earthquakes and other upheavals. Addario, who had a degree in geology and had written a thesis on plate tectonics, wasn’t sure he himself did.
The tremor faded. Work resumed. Addario noted that Reston hadn’t blanched or betrayed a flicker of anxiety. The Englishman was a cold fish, but nerveless too. He’d been an Eagle Warrior at one time, hadn’t he? Addario had done a fair amount of research into the background of CCMM’s potential new majority shareholder. He knew that Reston had taken the unusual step of submitting himself for national service rather than go to university. Unusual in that he’d been offered unconditional places by both Oxford and Cambridge and because his father, grandfather and great-grandfather had all been graduates. By and large it was the less academically-gifted, or those whose families couldn’t afford the steep exemption fees, who did the mandatory three-year stint with the Eagles.
Reston, therefore, had clearly felt he had something to prove, or else had a bloody-minded streak a mile wide, because not only had he stuck out the three years, he had gone on to serve for another five in the infantry, rising to major. He might well have continued had his father not died, obliging him to quit the army and assume directorship of the family firm.
No mere pampered rich kid, then. And observing him, Addario could see Eagle Warrior discipline in his bearing still. Reston strode with his fists beside his hips as though on a parade ground, and he remained in good fighting trim, judging by his lean cheeks, broad shoulders and narrow waist. By contrast, Addario’s own pot belly and double chin attested to his love of cannolo siciliano and Marsala wine and his aversion to physical exertion of any kind that did not take place in the boudoir.
It would be interesting, he thought, to be answerable professionally to this man. Not always easy, or enjoyable, but there would be no bullshit, that was for sure. With CCMM’s current Italian owners, it was all bullshit all the time. Addario yearned for a straight-talking employer, as a person lost in the desert yearns for water.
“Seen enough?”
Reston indicated that he had, and they returned to the four-wheel drive. On the way downhill Addario didn’t expressly ask for a verdict, but dropped so many hints that only a fool could have missed them. Finally Reston said, “I can’t give you a definitive answer right now. I need to go over the figures one more time. Tell me, are kickbacks involved?”
“In the purchase?” Addario shrugged. “This is Sicily. There are always kickbacks. You can’t even repaint your front door without bribing some official or other. And there are certain other bodies one must always take into account…” He wasn’t going to say the word mafia out loud.
“I thought the Empire had put paid to all that.”
“The Empire likes to think it has. We Sicilians know better. Some of our traditions go back further than the end of Fortress Europe and the installation of the High Priests. Does that change anything?” Addario asked, a little plaintively.
“It bumps up my initial outlay,” Reston replied. “But all said and done, things are looking positive.”
After Addario had seen Reston off at the airport, he headed straight to his apartment in Palermo’s Four Corners district to share the good news with the woman who mattered most to him. Then he went home to his wife.
Signora Addario wasn’t surprised to learn that Reston, in person, was a reticent, tightly buttoned individual. “Didn’t you tell me he lost his wife and child recently?” she said. “You can’t expect a man touched by so profound a tragedy to be overflowing with joy.”
“But they sacrificed themselves to the gods,” said her husband. “Many would consider that a badge of honour.”
Once again Signora Addario was forced to confront the fact that the man she had married was an idiot of the highest order.
“Would you,” she said, “not be distraught if I put myself forward to have my heart carved out by the priest?”
Provided he could find it, Addario thought, but said, “My dear, it would leave me helpless with grief, but I would somehow find the strength to carry on.”
To carry on visiting that trollop you keep in the Four Corners, his wife thought, but said, “There, then. Somehow Signor Reston is finding that strength. Clearly it comes harder to some than others.”
Stuart Reston’s flight home was delayed because the disc had to wait for a VIP passenger whose connecting flight from Tangier was running behind schedule. When the VIP finally stepped aboard, he made his way to the first class cabin without tendering regret or apology to anyone. He swanned through business class with his pair of burly minders as if no one had been inconvenienced here but himself. He was a priest — plainclothes, no robes, but the sacred facial tattoos gave the game away — and other people’s considerations came second to a priest’s. That was just how it was. If you didn’t like it, tough. Take the matter up with the gods.
For the entire hour of the journey, as the disc skimmed over sea and France, Stuart wrestled with his better judgement. It lost, he won.
If an opportunity comes, he told himself, if you think you can get away with it, go for it.
At Heathrow, the priest was first out of the disc and onto the gangway. For him, there would be no standing in line at customs and passport control. International travel was a breeze for the theocracy. Wherever they went, they were just waved on through.
Stuart still got the chance he was looking for, however. No sooner had the priest entered the terminal than he had to answer a sudden, rather urgent call of nature. He scuttled off to the nearest public convenience, minders in tow.
After a pause, Stuart followed.
The minders had taken up position just inside the door to the gents, forming a two-man wall. Both were giants — professional security consultants with necks as broad as their heads and wrists as thick as their fists.
“Sorry, sir,” said one to Stuart. “You can’t use this facility right now.”
“Try somewhere else,” the other chimed in.
Stuart hopped from foot to foot as though his bladder was past capacity. “But I’m bursting.”
“You’ll have to hold it, sir.”
“I’m sure it won’t be long.”
“Who are you guarding, anyway?” Stuart demanded, gesturing past the minders. “Why’s his need more important than mine?”
“I’d advise you to keep your tone civil, sir. You’re in the presence of His Holiness Jasper Marquand, priest of Birmingham.”
“Oh.” Stuart cringed with feigned contrition. “I had no idea. How stupid of me. Of course I’ll wait outside ’til his holiness is finished.”
He turned, and turned again, pivoting on the ball of his foot and swinging his briefcase into the face of the nearer of the two minders. As the man sank to his knees, clutching a shattered nose, Stuart delivered a knife-hand jab to the throat of the other minder, crushing his larynx. He whacked the briefcase against the first minder’s head, knocking him cold. The second was already close to unconsciousness, struggling to draw breath. Stuart locked an arm around his neck and put pressure on his carotid until he fainted.
In all, it took less than fifteen seconds, and was as quiet as it was swift.
Stuart approached the only cubicle with a closed door. From within came the sounds of someone grappling with an explosive digestive disorder.
“Carling, is that you?” the priest called out. “I heard a bit of a scuffle. What’s happened? Has that insolent moron gone?”
“All sorted, Your Holiness,” Stuart said in an approximation of the minders’ gravelly growl. “Nothing to worry about.”