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'Of what?' Both dogs are growling now, but I stay standing. I am righteous indignation personified. I am the wrath of the falsely accused.

'You violated Communique's trust, your contract.'

'Please. Where's this evidence?'

'You aided a terrorist.'

Fuck. Still, not like I wasn't expecting this one. I shake my head in pained disbelief and sit down with a sigh. 'These are pretty hectic allegations, Jane. Where is this proof?'

'Are you denying them?'

'I want to know where your proof is. You're accusing me of… insane stuff, conspiracy against the company, corporate sabotage, and as for terrorism! That kind of crap could lead to serious jail-time, disconnect.'

'Execution even.'

'I'm sorry?'

'We're thirty-two storeys up.'

There are employee suicides, occasionally. Wall Street Crash syndrome, even though those reports of executives throwing themselves lemming-like from tall buildings in 1929 were apparently severely exaggerated. Today, it's usually because someone can't hack the pace, typical burn-out, but sometimes it's because they've realised there's no get-out-of-jail-free card when they get bust siphoning off funds or selling proprietary information to a competitor. But then, windows in skyscrapers are usually designed not to open. Jane catches me looking.

'You have to break through. Hell of a momentum required. Sometimes we toss a chair through first.'

'I want a representative.'

'Would you like to see–'

'A lawyer? Yes. I would, actually.'

'No. The evidence.'

She picks up a remote control for the wall2wall display, taps it against her lips.

'You sure you want to go here? It's not too late.'

'No, no, I want to see.' How bad can it be? How much can they have? I wrap my hands around my knees and lean in. I am the anticipation of vindication.

She hits the button. The wall powers up on a folder system I recognise immediately as our central home™ cache, accessed remote. I relax imperceptibly. I'm careful about cleaning up, about auto-deleting, running shells and reroutes. If this is all she has… but then she clicks through to another folder entirely, her stash of Mexican soap operas. Episode 212 of Ángeles de la Calle. Which is not, when she presses play, the story of love and life and death and betrayal in the favela. It is a recording of every transaction I've ever performed on my cell phone, which means they chipped it, downloaded it direct, every message, every time I connected to the triplines, probably every one of my calls. Jane smirks.

I have nowhere else to go.

'You've been an awful bitch to live with, you know that?' She blinks, and I lunge to the attack. 'You're boring. You're anal. You have no imagination and almost no talent to speak of. This…' I waft a hand at the dogs, the man with the semi-automatic. 'Why doesn't this surprise me?'

'You're not taking this very seriously, Ms. Mazwai.'

'You're a pathetic gutless bureaucrat who couldn't hack it in the real world, Jane. I always wondered how you got to this level. Are you even genuine Internal Affairs, or just some nasty little snitch spying on your colleagues? And cut the "Ms. Mazwai" crap. I've shared a bathroom with you for over eight months.'

'This isn't helping you.'

'Get me your superior officer. Now.'

'We've been watching you.'

'Who is it? Rathebe? Mogale? Give me a name.' I pull out my phone. The man with the gun shifts behind me, causing the dogs to stir. She makes an impatient placatory gesture, waiting me out.

'How do you think you got away with this?'

'This is bullshit. This is not company policy. This is fucking intimidation. Give me a name.'

'You think you're that good?'

'Fuck this. Fuck you, you crazy bitch.' I speeddial reception thirty-one floors down, entertaining visions in my head of someone, anyone charging upstairs to my rescue.

'Did you really think we wouldn't notice?'

'Thembi? Hey, it's Lerato. Can you put me through to Internal Affairs? Someone