“Say something,” the man told the quivering girl.
“Say what?” She had her hands folded tight across the front of her paper gown, clutching her sides in pain.
“Oh... That you’re fine, unharmed...” He smiled coldly, the smile lifting his thin lips at one corner. High cheekbones framed his deep-set eyes and a pointed chin. His face would have been rat-like but the expression was too self-confident. Maybe he was a weasel, thought LizAlec. Wasn’t that one social step up from a rat?
“Do it,” the man said, “And talk direct to the camera.”
LizAlec did. “I’ve been kidnapped by two gorillas,” she said coldly, staring straight at the little satellite. “Sexually molested by a moron...” That was all she had time for before a second punch dropped her back to her knees.
She wiped her lips with the back of a hand and spat into the dirt. Sweet from blood and sour from vomit, her mouth was turning into a regular Chinese meal. “Well,” LizAlec gasped, when she stopped heaving. “That should convince them everyone’s behaving.”
“Jesus,” hissed the man. “You really are a poisonous little shit...” He clicked his fingers at Laughing Boy. “You, hold the bitch still.”
LizAlec felt vice-like fingers tighten on her shoulders and pull her upright. It hurt, but LizAlec reckoned it was still an improvement on the tall man’s method. For a second, it looked as if the suit was going to punch her again, but he didn’t, which was interesting in itself. LizAlec knew all about deferred gratification. Instead the man dipped his fingers into the side pocket of his immaculate jacket and pulled out a smallish silver ball.
“Do you know what this is?”
LizAlec didn’t, but she had a nasty feeling she was about to find out.
“Should I?” she said coldly.
Fingers brushed her cheek making her shiver, and the man smiled. “You know what?” he said softly.
The girl shook her head.
“Maybe we’ve all got it wrong,” said the man, sounding amused. “Maybe culture really is more important than race...”
LizAlec just looked blank.
“You’re really very like Lady Clare. And believe me,” he added quickly, “that isn’t intended as a compliment...” He took the silver ball and held it close to LizAlec’s face. “This is an unhatched worm. You have heard of bioSemtex?
Of course she had. Semi-intelligent explosive. It was what the Vernacular Front had used in London to take out the orbital ring of high-rise slums, back before she was born. It was what fundamentalists in Megrib had used more recently to blow out the glass-roofed souk at M’Dina, killing thousands.
“Good,” the man said watching her eyes. “I wouldn’t want you to remain ignorant. You,” he nodded at Laughing Boy, dipping his fingers into his pocket again, “you know how this works?”
The fat man nodded and held out one podgy hand. He took a heavy black ring from the tall Frenchman and slipped it onto his own little finger. Then held out his hand for the bioSemtex ball.
“Prime it,” the Frenchman said, and Laughing Boy pressed his black ring into the silver ball’s soft surface.
“Try to run away,” said the tall man, keeping his voice so politely matter-of-fact he could have been standing in the crush bar of the Paris Opera discussing Verdi, “and you’ll be...”
“Dead?” LizAlec asked, her voice as polite as his, her accent if anything even more polished. She could do that shit if she had to. The tall Frenchman flushed.
One to me, thought LizAlec. He might be psychotic but he was also a raving snob. Which might be useful, if only she could work out how. But LizAlec never got the chance. She was still trying to suss out who might want to kidnap her when the Frenchman made his move, suddenly grabbing her neck with one hand to press his thumb in against an upper vertebra, half paralysing her. His other hand dipped down, pulling the edge of LizAlec’s paper gown away from her thin buttocks.
“You just don’t learn, do you?” The man nodded over her shoulder at Laughing Boy. “Do it.”
“No,” LizAlec’s voice was almost a howl. But he still understood what she said.
“Oh yes,” the man said softly. “We’ve got to get this worm into you somehow. And we can hardly hang it on a chain round your neck, can we?” At her back, LizAlec could feel Laughing Boy begin to push the wriggling worm hard between her buttocks.
LizAlec screamed, hard and long. A real scream this time, one that burnt the air with its noise as she twisted desperately away from Laughing Boy, pulling free from the other man’s grip on her neck. Frantically, LizAlec kicked at Laughing Boy’s fingers, sending the wriggling worm into the dirt.
“Shit.” Laughing Boy was on his knees now, scrabbling along the cell floor to grab the silver worm which was trying to slither away, collecting a caddis-shell of grit as it went. Wiping the worm against his shirt, Laughing Boy stilled it, watching as the worm flowed back into a liquid silver ball. “Mouth,” he suggested sullenly. “Or nose. They’re both easier. More effective, too.”
Even LizAlec could see the tall Frenchman didn’t like being questioned, but in the end he just shrugged. “Whatever...” And before LizAlec could protest, Laughing Boy had slammed one arm round her neck and had his other hand over her nose and mouth.
“...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...”
LizAlec gulped air as Laughing Boy released his hand on twenty, and froze in horror as she felt the worm slither up her nose. She did the obvious, screaming as she clawed desperately at her own face, but it was already too late. The worm was settling inside her, curled up in a sinus cavity.
“500 paces,” the Frenchman said shortly. “More than that and the worm will crack your head open.” He pointed to the ring nestling around Laughing Boy’s little finger. “As for closing the circuit, touch that with the worm still in your head and...” The man paused and ruffled LizAlec’s filthy black curls. “You can kiss all this goodbye.”
LizAlec shuddered. She was still shuddering when the man left her cell, opening the door with a simple touch of his hand to let himself out of her life.
He would kill the girl, of course, once he’d got what he wanted. And then an S3 sweeper would go in to clean up Laughing Boy and Mickey. Lazlo Portea smiled, a grin so wide it almost split his face. The man was pleased with life and with the success of his plan, but most of all he was pleased with himself. All his life he had lived on the edges of real power. Sterling silver to Lady Clare’s gold: never quite handsome enough, adept enough or rich enough to catch the eye of the Prince Imperial.
Well, that was going to change. In fact, a lot of things were going to change. Starting with who ruled Paris. If Lady Clare wanted that little half-breed back she’d have to do what Lazlo demanded. And she would. Lazlo knew that. Everyone had a weakness and where Lady Clare Fabio was concerned it was her dangerously sentimental sense of duty.
Paris or that little bitch. It was an impossible choice and with any luck deciding would kill her.
Chapter Seven
Ein SchattenKönig
The wolves came down from Scandinavia. Screaming newsfeeds said hunger had driven them in from the wild Asiatic steppes but that was so much cack. There’d been wolves in Hungary and Poland for as long as anyone could remember. Wolves in Latvia and Finland, too. It was only Western Europe that wasn’t used to having beasts that slunk like grey shadows through city streets, scavenging for food. And it wasn’t hunger that drove the largest pack into Paris: it was the Reich moving westwards again, like a black stain across the map.
Wolf skins made excellent rugs, their bristling tails streamed banner-like from the whip aerials of a hundred APVs, and the hepmann shot them down for sport, with delicately balanced Ruger .722s. And by the time the Azerbaijani virus ate out the springs of the APVs and trashed ninety per cent of the Rugers it was already too late. Paris had been under siege for three days and the wolves had reached the Champs Elysees.