The Nano Flower Part 12

The windowless cabin had fifteen seats, a compact rose-wood c.o.c.ktail bar at the rear, and a flatscreen on the forward *bulkhead beside the door into the c.o.c.kpit.

Suzi and Rachel Griffith were sitting at the back. Suzi lounging lethargically in her chair, dressed in a dark purple sheilsuit. Her mousy hair had been given a crew cut. At least she didn't dye it mauve these days.

'Christ, you look keen,' she said.

Greg sat in the seat beside her. 'You know me.'

'Yeah. Me too. I feel like I've been press-ganged.'

Greg gave Rachel an apologetic shrug.

'I gave up hardlining ten years ago,' Rachel said. 'Exec a.s.sistant suited me just fine.'

'Just point her out to us,' Greg said. 'Your job ends there.'

'Yes,' Rachel said; she looked troubled.

Pea.r.s.e Solomons and Malcolm Ramkartra came up the stairs and sat in the front two seats. The belly hatch slid shut.

Malcolm Ramkartra picked up a slim phone that was built into his armrest. He turned to Greg and Suzi. 'Is Monaco still the destination?'

'Yeah,' Greg said. 'And tell the pilot to put the nose camera image on the screen after we lift.'

'Yes, sir.' Malcolm Ramkartra spoke briefly into the handset.

'We travel on these planes when we go on holiday with Julia,' Greg said. 'I never can get used to not having a port. I grew up with aircraft that you can see out of.'

There was a gentle whine from the fans as they spun up. The deck tilted back slightly.

Suzi grtinted. 'Didn't know you went on holiday together.'

'Sure. The kids are all big mates. And I sometimes think Eleanor and I are the only ordinary people Julia knows.'

'You're ordinary, huh?' Suzi grinned evilly.

'More than you, dear, that's a fact.' He felt a press of acceleration as the Pegasus surged upwards. The flatscreen lit up, showing blue sky, splashes of white cloud piling up in the south, and a big pink-gold sun lifting over the horizon.

'It was bad at the start,' Greg said. 'People thought we were an easy route to her. The rich and the social climbers.

We couldn't move for presents and invitations. The way they behave, it's ridiculous, disgusting really. Say h.e.l.lo to one, and you're a lifelong friend. They don't know what shame is. One birthday the drive looked like the end of a car factory production line; Jags, Ferraris, Lotuses, MGs. Two of them had a ribbon tied round, for Christ's sake. I sent them all back to the garages. That type just don't know when to give up. And I couldn't count how many times I've been asked to be a non-executive director-' He became aware of Suzi's silent unsympathetic stare.

'It's a hard life, isn't it?' she said.

The Pegasus flew at an alt.i.tude of twenty kilometres, turning south above the North Sea and pa.s.sing over the English Channel at Mach two. They hit Mach four heading into the Bay of Biscay, then went subsonic to cross the Pyrenees.

Greg watched their approach to the tiny coastal princ.i.p.ality on the bulkhead flatscreen. Circles predominated below, almost as if some weird genealogy of symmetrical aquatic creatures was surfacing to storm ash.o.r.e. The pink rings of the tidal turbine lagoons, flat dusty-grey field of the airport. Then there was the Monaco dome itself, a faintly translucent golden egg that had driven itself into the cliffs. Two thirds of it extended out into the rich blue water of the sea, radiating white jetties like wheel spokes. He could just make out shaded rectangular outlines through the monolattice sh.e.l.l.

The Peg~ius settled on to the airport island. Over half of the parked planes were similar white arrowhead executives, the pa.s.senger jets were long flattened cones with narrow fin wings.

Pea.r.s.e Solomons and Malcolm Ramkartra stood as the belly hatch popped open.

'Are you carrying?' Greg asked the hardliners as he came forwards.

'Yes, sir,' Pea.r.s.e Solomons said. 'A Tokarev IRMS7 laser pistol.'

'OK. Load up with a second, and come with us. Malcolm, you stay here, and maintain constant contact.'

117.

'I've got a Browning, fifty-shot maser,' Suzi said as she slung a canvas Puma flight bag over her shoulder.

'I sort of took that for granted,' Greg said.

It was hot outside, the expansion joints on the concrete ap.r.o.n creaking in protest, barely audible over the ever-present piccolo hiss of compressor fans. Greg slipped on a pair of Ferranti sungla.s.ses.

Commissaire Andre Dubaud was waiting at the foot of the stairs, Monaco's deputy police chief.

'Trust him,' Victor Tyo had told Greg. 'He's good at his job, and he understands the politics involved with corporate cases. He's also totally paid for, so there shouldn't be any trouble.'

They shook hands, and Greg introduced Suzi and Rachel. Commissaire Dubaud was in his mid-forties, wearing an immaculate black uniform with a peaked cap.

'Mr Tyo informs me you are looking for a girl,' he said.

'That's tight,' Greg said. 'We don't know her name, but she was definitely at the Newflelds ball three days ago.'

*'May I enquire why you are hunting her?' Andre Dubaud nodded pointedly at the Pegasus. 'This seems rather a large operation to track down one good-time girl.'

'Certainly. She was in possession of a certain item which interests us. We'd like to ask her a few questions about it.'

Andre Dubaud glanced at his polished shoes. 'Very well. Are you intending to extradite her?'

'No. She will answer everything I ask her.'

'So?'

'No messing,' Greg said.

They drove into the dome in Andre Dubaud's official car, a black Citroen with fold-down chairs in the rear. Greg thought it was the kind of limo a head of state would normally ride in.

He looked hard at a thick white pillar sticking out of the water halfway across. It was made of metal, topped by a petalsegment composite hemisphere. There was another one five hundred metres past the first, heat distortion above the sea made it impossible to see if there was a third.

'What are they?' he asked.

'Tactical defence lasers,' Andre Dubaud said. 'If Nice comes knocking again, those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds will wish they hadn't. The princ.i.p.ality is impervious to all forms of attack now, from rioters with stones all the way up to KE harpoons. It has to be done, of course. Our inhabitants are the natural targets to certain kinds of diseased minds. But they're ent.i.tled to live like anyone else. Inside our dome civilization is total. The one place in the world where you can walk down any street at any time, and never have to look over your shoulder.'

'It sounds as if your department is doing an excellent job,' Greg said. He glanced at Suzi, but she was hunched down in the Citroen's leather seat, staring out of the tinted window, her size making her appear like a sulking child. She hadn't spoken since being introduced to the Commissaire. They were total opposites; Greg reckoned Dubaud knew it as well. If she hadn't been operating under Julia's aegis, he doubted Suzi would even have been allowed to land at the airport.

'There is a degree of fraud perpetrated by our financial community,' Andre Dubaud said. 'But physical crime - property theft, the act of violence - that is unheard of.'

By banis.h.i.+ng the poor, Greg thought, the people who commit robbery and muggings. Monaco hadn't solved crime, they'd just dumped the problem on someone else. Not even New Eastfield in Peterborough went that far. He could sense the stubborn pride in Andre Dubaud's mind, mingling with a trace of what seemed suspiciously like paranoia. He held back on the urge to inject some sarcastic observations. Maybe that's why Suzi had kept silent, instinctively recognizing the futility. Trying to reason with someone like Andre Dubaud about basic human dignity would be like p.i.s.sing in the wind.

The covered bridge from the airport island dipped down, and the Citroen drove through an arch in the base of the dome, coming out on the perimeter road. Clean, that was the impression he got from the tidy rows of white buildings bathing under a tangerine glow, clean verging on sterile.

'Where's the casino?' Suzi asked.

Andre Dubaud pointed to a cl.u.s.ter of white-stone buildings on the cliffs. She peered up at them curiously.

119.

The Citroen took them right up to the marble front of the El Harhari. A footman opened the door for Greg, and he followed Andre Dubaud up the stairs into the lobby.

A troupe of cleaners were busy inside, polis.h.i.+ng the mirrors and dark wooden furniture, drone vacuums moving up and down the carpet. Claude Murtand, the hotel security manager, met them under one of the chandeliers. With his handsome face and perfect hair he looked like a channel star, dwarfing Suzi.

'A picture of a girl?' he asked after Andre Dubaud explained what they wanted.

'Yeah,' Greg said. 'She was here for the Newflelds ball, name unknown. Attractive, early twenties, short fair hair, wearing a dark-blue gown, possibly silk. We think she's on the game.'

'This is Monaco,' Claude Murtand murmured. 'Who isn't?'

Andre Dubaud scowled at him.

The El Harhari's white-tiled security centre had a long bank of monitor screens along one wall relaying scenes from around the hotel. iWo big flatscreens showed the floorplans, red and yellow symbols flas.h.i.+ng in rooms and corridors. There were two island consoles, with three operators each. Claude Murtand had a small gla.s.s-walled office at the back.

'We compile a profile on each guest,' Claude Murtand said as he led them in. 'In so far as we can, just what is available in public memory cores. Obviously it's only a secondary precaution. Customs and Immigration filter out anyone genuinely dangerous.'

'That true?' Greg asked Andre Dubaud.

'Certainly,' the Commissaire said. 'Our pa.s.sport control is the most stringent in the world. n.o.body with a criminal record is allowed in.'

'You and the wife must get lonely here all by yourself,' Suzi said in an undertone.

Rachel smiled faintly. Greg shot Suzi a warning glance. 'What about the Newflelds guests, did you put together a profile on them?' he asked Claude Murtand.

'No. We have a complete list of those who originally 120.

bought tickets. But unfortunately tickets for these events change hands all the time, especially when someone like Julia Evans is attending, there's no way of knowing in advance exactly who's going to turn up.'

'OK.' Greg switched a finger at the monitor screens. 'Did you record the ball?'

'Of course.'

'Right. We'll start with the lobby camera memory for the night.'

There were six cameras covering the lobby. Rachel chose the one giving a head on view of the door; Greg watched over her shoulder.

He recognized the people coming in, the category, not the names. The type that used to pester him and Eleanor during the first years after their marriage. Anybody over twenty-eight had their facial structure frozen in time with annual trips to discreet clinics, until they reached fifty-five, then they were allowed to age with virile silver-haired dignity. Appearance wasn't just important to them, it was everything.

He watched Julia make her entrance a quarter of an hour after the official start. The jockeying to greet her. One statuesque redhead beauty in a s.h.i.+mmering black dress quite deliberately screwed her stiletto heel into the foot of a rival to be sure of being on the front row as Julia walked by.

The faces blurred together. Beauty was a quality which ebbed when it became monotonous, and none of the women lacked it. He concentrated on the dresses, looking for blue.

'That's her,' Rachel Griffith said, Greg halted the memory playback. The girl had sharp cheekbones, broad, square shoulders held proud. Judging from her build she could have been a professional athlete, except... lie stared at her. An indefinable quality. Something lacking, perhaps? Rachel was right, she was a pro.

Suzi whistled softly. 'Some looker.'

Greg restarted the memory, and watched the girl walk down the lobby towards the ballroom. He stopped the memory again when she was just under the camera. The 121.

white flower box was clasped in her hand. 'Bingo. Can you get me a better shot of her face?' he asked Claude Murtand.

'Certainly.' The security manager slid on to a chair beside Rachel. He checked the memory's time display, and began to call up corresponding memories from the other lobby cameras. He found an image of the girl staring almost straight into one camera above the reception desk, and squirted it into Andre Dubaud's cybofax. The Commissaire relayed itto the police headquarters central processor core.

'Two minutes,' he said proudly. 'We'll have her name for you.'

'The name on her pa.s.sport,' Suzi said.

'Madame, n.o.body with a false pa.s.sport enters Monaco.'

Greg reversed the memory, watching the girl walk backwards to the door, halted it. She seemed to be by herself. 'Can I see the memory of the outside camera, a couple of minutes before she comes in, please?'

The girl was the only person to get out of a dark green Aston Martin.

Andre Dubaud's cybofax bleeped. He began to read the data that flowed down the wafer's little screen. 'Charlotte Diane Fielder, aged twenty-four, an English citizen, resident in Austria. Occupation, art student'

Greg felt a grin tugging his face. Suzi was chortling.

'She checked in to the Celestious at four-thirty p.m. three days ago,' Andre Dubaud continued. 'Then checked out at nine-forty p.m. the same evening.'

'What time did the Newfields ball end?' Greg asked.

'Julia packed up around one o'clock,' said Rachel. 'It was still going strong then.'

'Most had left by four,' said Claude Murtand. 'There was a party of about thirty who stayed on to have breakfast. That would be about seven o'clock.'

Greg closed his eyes, sorting out an order of questions. 'Andre, would you find out if she's still in Monaco for me, please?'

'Of course.' The Commissaire began to talk into his cybofax.

'Rachel, would you and Pea.r.s.e review the lobby door 122.

camera memory for the rest of the night, please. I'd like to know what time Charlotte Fielder left the hotel. And whether she was alone.'

'Sure thing,' said Rachel.

'What about me?' said Suzi.

Greg grinned. 'You come with me to the Celestious. Make sure I don't get into any trouble.'

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks,' Suzi muttered.