“
Conrad flinched. “It is. Compared with the other matches I make.”
“So these rare cases—your victim is taken away and killed?”
“The body’s still walking around.”
“You know what you are?”
“Yeah yeah: inhuman, a psycho. Call me a bastard to my face, please. This is a tough life, pal. We all do what we have to.”
“No, none of that. I’m beyond insults in your case. You’ve just described yourself. Who would ever notice or care if you disappeared?”
“Fuck you!”
“Okay, we’re almost finished. Who is your client? Who puts in the order for a match?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Does my face match someone who’s kidding right now? Give me the name.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Can and will. Don’t make me ask again.” Yuri watched with cold amusement as the warring emotions played across Conrad’s face. Fear dominated.
“If I do this—”
“When,” Yuri said.
“I’m protected, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Just like doctor-patient confidentiality; I signed the oath and everything. Give me the fucking name, dickhead.”
Boris sprayed the incoming file across his tarsus lenses: Baptiste Devroy.
Yuri got up and walked away without another word, heading for the nearest hub out of the six on the bridge.
“Do you want Conrad’s Connexion account reactivated?” Boris asked.
“Yes. Let him into the hub network again, but have the tactical team intercept him. He is to be dropped on Zagreus today.”
“Confirmed.”
“Then get me a complete profile on Baptiste Devroy, and run a cross-reference with Althaea; I want to know why the fake Tarazzi van went there. When you get that, send the file straight to Jessika; she can start checking it out. Oh, and put another tactical team on standby for me, a dark one. As soon as we have a location on Devroy, they’re to bring him in to the Glastonbury safe house. I’ll talk to him there.”
“Processing now.”
Yuri ducked into the nearest hub and walked around the loop until he came to a major junction. It had a private access to Connexion’s internal network. From there it was five portals until he was walking out of the company’s Geneva headquarters. The heat wave seemed to be Europe-wide; it was just as hot and humid walking Geneva’s streets as it was in London. It took him three minutes to get to the Olyix European Trade and Exchange embassy on the Quai du Mont Blanc. Baptiste Devroy’s file splashed up on his lens within the first twenty seconds. He was rumored to run a crew for the Woodwarde Macros, a south London gang that was rumored to deal in biosynth narcotics. Also rumored to have killed a rival gang soldier two years ago.
“Too many rumors,” Yuri told Boris. “Do we have anything concrete?”
“His criminal activities are coming from the London Metropolitan Police gang intelligence task force files,” Boris replied. “Legally, they cannot confirm his activities without proof. The information they’ve gathered on him has come from informers, and is not admissible in court.”
“Fucking lawyers,” Yuri muttered under his breath. “Do you have a location on him?”
“He has a flat in Dulwich Village. According to his Connexion account, he exited the hub on his road at twenty-three forty-seven hours last night. He has not used the account again so far today, which implies he’s either at home in the flat or within walking distance. The tactical team are en route to Dulwich. Their G7Turing is reviewing local civic surveillance, and they will ping his altme before entering the flat to confirm his location before they intercept.”
“Okay, keep me updated.”
The Olyix European Trade and Exchange embassy was a modern nine-story structure of glass and concrete, facing the Jet d’Eau out in the lake. As well as two armed Swiss diplomatic police outside the doorway, there were twin security pillars who scanned Yuri as he walked past them. The police waved him in.
Stéphane Marsan was waiting for him inside—an elegantly suited Frenchman who served as a technology liaison officer for the aliens.
“Thank you for arranging this at such short notice,” Yuri said as they went through the decontamination suite.
“Happy to oblige,” Stéphane said, pressing his antique black glasses back onto his nose. “The Olyix are sensitive to any abuse of their technology.”
Decontamination wasn’t as intense as Yuri was expecting. A room with big glass doors at both ends was filled with a mist that he had to stand in for two minutes, eliminating the microbes clinging to his clothes—the kind that saturated the city air. Light heavy with UV shone down on him.
On the other side, the temperature was several degrees colder than outside. The embassy had its own life-support mechanism; no alien air was released into Geneva’s atmosphere, and vice versa.