Engineman - Eric Brown [52]
Hunter shot the cuff of his silk jacket and glanced at his watch. It was not yet seven. He had another five hours before his meeting with Mirren and the others. He was debating whether to have another brandy when there was a knock on the open door.
Sassoon leaned through, holding the jamb. "We've located a third, sir."
"Excellent! Is it far from here?"
"Clamart, about ten kilometres south-west. Miguelino found it, following up Kelly's information."
Hunter finished his brandy. "Is the car ready?"
"And waiting, sir."
They descended in an ancient, clanking elevator and stepped into the basement of what had once been a spice warehouse. The reek of chilli and petrol fumes filled the air. The Mercedes roadster stood before the elevator gate, doors open and engine running. Hunter slipped into the back seat, Sassoon in the front next to Rossilini.
"Let's hope that this is the one, gentlemen," Hunter said as the car sped from the warehouse. Yesterday they had checked two machines in the northern suburbs, only to find that the first had been cannibalised to repair the second, and that the second was not only unreliable but hardly safe.
He sat back and regarded the passing buildings. They were soon moving through the wide avenues of central Paris, the only road vehicle on his stretch. Overhead, fliers streaked by, tail-lights dwindling, jet engines roaring fit to frighten a less competent driver than Rossilini off the road. They passed the central dome, a giant silver hemisphere surrounded by a fleet of tourist hover-coaches, and then turned south.
Before coming to Paris, Hunter had only ever read about the city, and seen documentaries about it on vid-screen. A great interest in art, which had consumed him for the past five or six years, had contributed to his anticipation of visiting this historic Mecca of so many renowned artists. He had been prepared for a city past it best, living on its reputation - but nothing had quite prepared him for the decrepitude of so much of the place, the apathy of its citizens, and the theme-park tourist attraction it had become.
His wife had been French. In the early days of their marriage he had planned trips to Earth and her native city, but always work out on the Rim had intervened. He had meant to do many things, visit many places, with Marie - and then one day the comfortable certainty of their future together was snatched away, and he faced the galling prospect of empty years alone, with only work to occupy him.
Grief was a strange thing. The old cliché about time healing all wounds was true - over the years the terrible injury of his loss had become almost bearable, but even so, from time to time, memories surfaced and the old wound was reopened.
He wondered whether this was why he resented this changed Paris so much: it was no longer the place of his wife's childhood, the place they had one day planned to visit.
He told himself that once this business was over, and he could relax and enjoy himself, he would become a tourist and visit the galleries and exhibitions under the dome. And, hopefully, by then he would no longer be alone.
He was in danger of becoming maudlin, of dwelling too much on the personal. He returned his thoughts to the business at hand.
"Ah, Mr Rossilini..."
The driver half-turned his head. "Sir?"
"Mirren and the other Enginemen - I take it you've implemented my orders?"
"Of course, sir."
"And everything is running smoothly?"
Rossilini nodded. "Mirren, Leferve, and Elliott are no problem. They live in Paris and rarely venture out of the city. Olafson and Fekete are a bit more difficult. Olafson lives in Hamburg, but I have a private operator trying to trace her, and Fekete has his own security team on the lookout for people showing an interest in him and his affairs. I've put Hassan on him, and he's doing his best."
"And our own operations?" Hunter lived in constant dread that their enemies had discovered what they were doing.
"There's no-one the slightest bit suspicious