Part 15 (2/2)

”Is that legal?”

”Not in the slightest.”

From the driver's seat in front of the plexigla.s.s part.i.tion, a big hand waved in greeting.

”He's a friend,” Josh added.

”If the police check his video log,” said Suzanne, ”he'll be in trouble.”

”Actually, there'll be a perfectly good-looking record of someone making this journey, with the correct background showing through the windows and all, but it won't be us. Two other people, having a harmless conversation, and the lighting on their faces just right, matching the light from outside.”

She did not really know this man. Perhaps it was worth remembering that.

”So are we going to see someone called Petra, or is that more subterfuge?”

”That's real. She's a police officer, and she can help us. But not by staying inside the rules.”

”Oh.”

”Her being a career police officer and all, she might be reluctant. Maybe someone who understands people really well can persuade her to slip a querybot into the system.”

”Was that persuade persuade as in as in manipulate manipulate?”

”Surely you wouldn't act unethically, Dr d.u.c.h.esne.”

”Huh. So that's the only reason you wanted me along.”

”Well.” There was something about the muscles in Josh's face that made his smile compelling. ”What other reason could there be?”

She smiled back.

It was half an hour and one traffic jam later when they stood outside the railway arches, watching the taxi drive off. Rain from an earlier shower was dripping from Victorian archways; their brickwork thrumming with the sound of electromag trains sliding overhead. Broken furniture, rusted junk, and dark-stained weeds were prevalent. Welcome to Wandsworth: so near to MI6 HQ, that severe and glistening fortress, and yet a world away.

Perhaps it was Josh's past that had her thinking about the intelligence services; in any case, when he knocked four times on a metal door thump, thumpthump, thump she had to fight down a giggle.

”Don't tell me it's a secret signal.”

”Just don't knock it.”

Was that a pun? She might have asked, but a small hatch sc.r.a.ped back, something silver shone checking out with a mirror, not exposing an eyeball then the hatch clunked shut, and the door swung inward.

”Petra teaches paranoia.” Josh's tone lightened, but not in humour. ”The kind that keeps you alive when they're really out to get you.”

”Oh. That kind.”Inside, old khaki mats stretched across a stone floor. Battered-looking punchbags hung from chains. In front of the cla.s.s stood a lean, fit-looking woman wearing old sweats, her hands wrapped in stained pink bandages.

”See Petra's hand wraps?” Josh kept his voice low. ”As dainty she gets.”

The stains looked to be old blood. Petra's, or other people's? Petra's, or other people's? Two rows of men and women in pyjama-like white outfits stood ready, intent on Petra. Two rows of men and women in pyjama-like white outfits stood ready, intent on Petra.

”Why isn't she dressed like her students?”

”Actually” Josh pointed to one corner where a smaller number waited, in tattered shorts and T-s.h.i.+rts ”they're the regulars.”

Also, they were smiling. In front of the others, Petra was talking with hands clasped behind her back.

”So in your dojo” she nodded to the black belts in the group ”you teach, what do you call it, focused awareness.”

”Zans.h.i.+n.”

”Right. While on the street, awareness is your first weapon. Run if you can, fight if you have to, in which case fight to win.”

The black belts nodded first, then the others. Beside Suzanne, Josh was failing to stop his grin widening.

”And then there's distancing and timing, right? What do you guys call them?”

”Ma-ai and” and”

”YAAHHH!” She whipped something silver against a black belt's throat. ”You're f.u.c.king dead.”

Then she had spun away and was standing beyond kicking range, blade held high.

Baise-moi.

It was rare for Suzanne's thinking to be shocked back into French.

”Ah, Petra.” Josh shook his head, teeth bared in a fighter's smile. ”You're good.”

The karate guys looked pale.

”We do street shotokan,” said Petra. ”No white gis gis, no tag-you're-it play-sparring. This is the real tradition, people.” She threw the knife thunk thunk into pockmarked chipboard. ”And next time someone's holding a weapon and giving you the soothing verbals, you'll know precisely what they're f.u.c.king up to, won't you?” into pockmarked chipboard. ”And next time someone's holding a weapon and giving you the soothing verbals, you'll know precisely what they're f.u.c.king up to, won't you?”

Nods, and acknowledgements sounding like ”Uss.” Another j.a.panese word.

”All right, partner up.” Petra pointed. ”Every visitor with one of my gang. One-step drills, coming up. And... go.”

<script>