“How intriguing. Where did you get it?”
“That’s my business,” Michael admonished. “He’s a mage, as it happens. Freelancer. Get some more data on him later. Has some interesting friends in occult circles, according to this. Enough to keep us interested, I should think.”
“So what’s he doing in the residence of the Tuscan attache?” Geraint asked.
“Good question,” Michael replied. “Hopefully, I should have the answer to that shortly. We really should have done more homework on our friend Seratini before we went trick or treating, I think. Oh look,” he added, as an updated message came pouring onto the screen, “Good news. Our troll friend will be fine, which will save you a bundle. And our chappies have subcontracted the work of finding Seratini to some of their mates, who are on their way to collect him from somewhere in Brent.”
“Brent?”
“Yes, it’s rather down-market, isn’t it?” Michael agreed. “Well, anyway, we’ve got him and if we want to go and talk to him, we can.” They exchanged glances.
“Are you tired?”
“Absolutely exhausted, old boy, but I think we’d really like to know as soon as possible how our Italian friend comes to know a French mage who can blow half a house up even as he’s popping his clogs.”
“Won’t the police be keeping a watch on us now?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Geraint said. “It cost a lot of favors, but, no, they won’t. Not unless we do something terribly similar all over again.”
“Well, hardly,” Michael protested. “I mean, all we’re going to do is go and talk to someone. We can hardly end up in a pitched battle doing that, can we?”
Geraint had already gone to get his coat for another evening excursion. Had he known how totally, horribly wrong Michael was, he would have thought twice about tempting fate so blatantly.
7
They parked the car a safe distance from the Brent address they’d been given and, pistols in pockets, walked quietly across the concrete parking lot. It was still night, with the promise of a morning chorus just beginning to insinuate itself, though it was yet to grow light. The street lights were erratic here, as much because of vandals as because the power company wasn’t always supplying juice. The local council was notoriously adept at misplacing public money, and not even street lighting could be taken for granted.
“Are you sure about this?” Michael said for the fifth time.
“I checked with Jim twice. He’s not a man you slot off by asking three times,” Geraint replied tartly.
“It’s a housing project,” Michael said dubiously.
“What did you expect? A mansion? Have you ever been here before?”
“This is a part of London I was never in the habit of frequenting,” Michael said. “Seems incredibly down-at-heel for a cultural attache.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it? A safe bolthole where no one would go looking for it?” Geraint said.
“I suppose so.” Michael still seemed dubious. They walked across the concourse toward the looming concrete monstrosity, which betrayed rather less concrete-rot and acid corrosion than might have been expected. Unlike many of the surrounding edifices, it didn’t look in danger of imminent sudden collapse, but then appearances were definitely deceptive in this instance. The only human decor in sight were a couple of junkies splayed around in the entrance doorway of one of the smaller satellite blocks, a small pool of already half-clotted blood testifying to their nocturnal habits of despair.
The elf slid silently out of his nonexistent cover. Even in the erratic lighting, there seemed to be nowhere anyone could hide, but he’d managed it.
Goes with the training, Geraint thought once his first instinctive alarm subsided. Might as well get that if you pay what I did for these guys.
“There’s been a slight cock-up,” the elf said quietly.
“Oh, wonderful,” Geraint sighed, “Tell me about it. At least there hasn’t been a firelight, since everyone’s sound asleep hereabouts.”
“Dead drunk, more like!” the elf chuckled sarcastically. “Well, you’re going to owe us blood money.”
“What?” Geraint was astonished.
“Jim’s throat was cut from ear to ear. Cheesewire and strangulation,” the elf said with a slight hint of disturbing relish. Geraint guessed he hadn’t liked the team’s leader all that much.
“What the hell-”
“There were some visitors ahead of us,” the elf said. “Jim must have surprised ‘em. He weren’t expecting any grief, so he went in while we covered him. Forgot basic routines, though I did warn him.”
“You said you had Seratini,” Michael groaned.
“I said no such thing. Jim told you we were on our way. We didn’t know someone would be lying for us. By the way, Gungrath’s waiting for an order to let those hostages go. They’re just office grunts-secretaries and clerks-and they don’t know anything.”
“Okay, okay, let them go then. You saw who did it? Here, I mean?” Geraint demanded impatiently.
“Sort of,” the elf said.
“Sort of?”
“Look, the bastard was bloody fast,” the elf shot back. “Ran like a Derby winner on methoxy. Seemed like he knew his way around. He went ‘round the corner and next thing I heard was a bike heading off south. Must’ve been him.”
“What did he look like?”
The elf shrugged. “It’s dark, chummer. And he was wearing a long black coat and you might as well ask what the ace of spades looks like down a mine shaft at midnight on a moonless night. But the troll had a little run-in with him.”
Ah, the troll, Geraint registered. No love lost here. At least Jim was Jim, even though this one doesn’t seem to care that he’s dead. But the troll-well, he’s obviously just “the troll”.
“Cut him,” the elf said with a grin of relish. “Slashed him in the side with his knife. Got him on head cam. No way the troll could have followed him, of course. He’s far too slow and there wasn’t a blood trail to follow. Could have used IR on his footprints, but he still couldn’t have kept up with him.”
Geraint hadn’t even noticed that the troll samurai had cybereyes. Behind them, implanted inside his skull, was a tiny camera that would have recorded the events of the struggle.
“Downloading it right now, back in the van,” the elf said.
“What about-”
“Your Italian term? Dead, Your Lordship, dead as a dodo with its giblets in an oven-ready pack.” The elf grinned. “Throat job, just like Jim. The bugger must have been inside the apartment when we arrived. Nice work, too. Very professional. A trained professional, you know what I mean?”
Geraint looked at him hard. The elf was saying that this was not even an ordinary hit-man; this was military work. When an ex-SAS man called someone a “trained professional” that’s what he meant.
“What if this was down to his dabblings in the illegal art trade?” Michael asked Geraint.
“Hardly.” The Welshman’s mind was racing. Something important was going on out of the frame, something that had led to a very professional assassination of a man who’d been tracking him, and maybe had a magical assailant invading his home that very night; and Geraint didn’t like that. He was too used to being in charge, of calling the shots himself.
“Wanna take a gander?” the elf said, his South London accent seeming to get broader with every minute. “Scene of the crime? Make sure all those heavy nuyen you paid were earned?”
“What if the police arrive?” Michael said anxiously.
“Frag me, what a spoilsport,” the elf spat out with an expression of barely contained disgust. “Look, do you wanna see the stiffs or don’t you?”
Geraint’s mouth felt dry, and he badly wanted a cigarette, but this was hardly the time or place. He nodded assent and they entered the building through the stark, bare foyer and approached the elevator. To his amazement, it was working, and the smell of urine inside stopped just short of overwhelming, which was a bonus.