The Industry (13 page)

‘Got everything you need?'

‘Just about,' Desmond told her. ‘I'll be talking to you shortly, I imagine.'

‘I'm counting on it,' she said.

Desmond crossed to the elevator and pressed the button. As the doors flew open and Kirra stepped inside, Lettie called Desmond's name. She spun her computer monitor around so they could see a live video feed of the inside of the elevator.

‘That's how I knew,' she said gleefully.

‘Knew what?' Desmond asked.

She tilted her head gracefully, her full lips transforming into a dazzling smile. ‘That you weren't Spanish,' she said, spinning the monitor back around. ‘We have eyes and ears everywhere.'

Desmond gave an appreciative half-smile. ‘That you do,' he said as he stepped into the elevator beside Kirra.

 

‘Desmond …' Kirra began once they were back in the car and driving away from the underground office. Desmond glanced at her and seemed to know what she was going to ask before she did herself.

‘Don't worry about it too much,' he told her. ‘Those people spend far too much time sifting through the world's demons. They're scared of everything.'

Kirra suspected Desmond was just saying that to make her feel better. It had been an incredibly unsettling experience to have people recoil from her with varying degrees of distress on their faces.

‘It's only because you're valuable,' he continued. ‘They're worried you'll bring a string of enemies to their door, and not without cause. By the way, you can no longer use the name Kirra Hayward. It's far too dangerous to just throw around. If you have to, use the name Katherine Hammond.'

Kirra stared at him.

‘Remember it,' he said. ‘You'll need it for later.'

‘Katherine Hammond,' Kirra echoed, unsure as to what ‘later' meant. Did it mean later tonight or years from now?

‘What was that place, anyway?' she asked.

Desmond checked the name of a street before turning into it. ‘An intelligence office,' he told her absently. It began raining outside, the soft rumble of thunder reaching Kirra's ears.

‘Is it a government thing?'

Desmond looked at her, his face horrified.

‘What
is
it with you and the government?' he asked. ‘The government doesn't have to be involved in everything! In fact, it might shock you to know how little the government
is
actually involved in.'

Kirra frowned. ‘But then —'

‘You know, I really don't think you have an appropriate appreciation of the scope of the Industry. It's organised. It's old. It has regulations, rules, traditions and resources. We need no one but ourselves.'

‘So that place —'

‘Was the MIO — one of
our
intelligence offices,' he said, his eyes flitting between the silent GPS sitting on the dashboard and the rainy road ahead. ‘They sift through police radio transmissions, media broadcasts, even the odd newspaper, to collect as much information as they can on any event or topic of interest that might be of use to the Industry. They also liaise with intelligence agents stationed around the city. They'll tell you everything you need to know about anything — for a price, of course. Extremely useful.'

‘Is it legal?'

‘How is it any different from a really informative news program?' he asked.

Kirra shrugged. ‘Because they deal with Contractors?' she guessed.

‘Exactly,' he said, giving her a pleased look. ‘They don't question their clients or the information they're seeking. They just hand it over quietly and they never take sides. It's not up to them to determine who's right and who's wrong. Their only business is the sale of information. They're very covert agencies. You can't really stumble across them; you have to be told where they are.'

‘Who told you?' she asked.

Desmond focused on the road ahead for a moment.

‘A member of the Cautlif family,' he said, his voice oddly discontented. ‘But that's generally how all of us find out.'

Cautlif? Marron and Desmond had had a short, tense conversation regarding these Cautlifs and whether or not they should be called to take Kirra away.

‘Who are they?'

‘People,' he said unhelpfully. ‘Bad ones. Remember that always, Kirra. Very bad people.'

Sensing that Desmond had little else to say on the matter, Kirra fell silent. She glanced up at the high-rise buildings, then at the faint lights of a jet flickering through the heavy clouds, a great flying ghost over the city. A thought suddenly occurred to her.

‘How come Latham can fly around in his jet undetected?' she asked. ‘How come he hasn't shown up on … on some sort of radar or … or something?'

‘He does show up,' Desmond said. ‘Only he operates beneath a cover occupation.'

‘A what?'

‘He has the credentials to prove that he's a remarkably successful executive consultant. He flies around the world visiting his “clients”.'

‘An executive consultant? What does that even mean?'

‘Well, absolutely nothing, but that's not the point. The point is that it sounds legitimate. It's the same with my Extraction business. For external purposes, we're an IT company specialising in firewall software and installation.' Desmond smiled. ‘And I happen to have it on good authority that the Estate, for official purposes, is a private college for gifted classical music students.'

Kirra looked at him sharply. ‘Should I know what the Estate is?'

‘No,' he said. ‘In fact, I'd be worried if you did. Secrecy is their speciality.'

The address Viera had supplied to Desmond brought them to a leafy part of Madrid, where the roads were wide and the houses grand. Desmond stopped the car outside perhaps the oldest house they'd passed, and drew Kirra towards a high rose-coloured concrete wall. He stabbed the doorbell next to an iron gate and waited. An age seemed to pass before a gravelly voice rang out.

‘¿
Sí
?'

Desmond pressed the intercom button and stated his business (whatever it was) in Spanish. At first he seemed to be met with resistance, but then they were unexpectedly buzzed into the front garden. A marble path lined with potted cherry-red cyclamens brought them to the front door, which was already standing ajar, light spilling out into the darkness.

‘Good evening,' uttered a throaty, weathered voice. ‘Please, come in.'

A small, round woman stood at the foot of a narrow staircase, her hair swept up in a bun, her face festooned with wrinkles, her speckled hands clutching a knobbly wooden walking frame. She looked a bit like an overgrown, ageing owl, though the effect was not altogether unpleasant. She hobbled over to Desmond, the walking frame creaking as she moved, and gazed into his face.

After glancing at the three thickset men positioned menacingly around the hallway, Desmond adopted a stance of polite inquisition. ‘Gaspara Pueyo?' he asked.

‘
Sí
,' the woman replied. ‘They tell me you are Desmond Rall, no?'

He nodded.

Gaspara barely even looked at Kirra. It seemed she had eyes for no one but Desmond. ‘You prefer to converse in English?' she asked.

Desmond shot a glance at Kirra. ‘Please.'

Gaspara nodded graciously and ushered them into a sitting room furnished with couches and bookshelves that looked as old as she was. The smell of dust and ash tingled in Kirra's nostrils. Gaspara, it seemed, was a fan of macabre interior design: Gothic candlesticks lined the mantelpiece, black velvet curtains framed the front window, and a thick layer of dust covered most surfaces. Once they were seated the old woman offered them drinks, all the while looking intently into Desmond's scarred face.

‘Ah … no,' Desmond said at the proposal of beverages. ‘No, thank you. We're alright. We're here on an urgent matter regarding a Decoy.'

Gaspara blinked and said nothing. ‘Ah … around quarter past ten,' Desmond continued, ‘there was a break and enter near the Ruiz bar and —'

‘
Sí,
I know,' she said serenely.

‘Yes … we need to speak with that Decoy. It's important. I'm willing to pay for the privilege.'

Gaspara's gaze finally flicked over Kirra and hovered there for a moment.

‘This can be arranged,' she said slowly. ‘Though no payment shall be accepted.'

‘No …?'

‘No. I will not accept payment from you, Desmond Rall. It shall be my pleasure. Please, wait here. We shall return before long.'

With that she heaved herself off the couch, muttered with her three men, and set off with two of them, the other left to make his intimidating presence quite conspicuous in the hallway. The sound of car doors closing and a powerful engine starting filled the sitting room, and then Gaspara was gone.

Kirra didn't know which question to ask first, but after a warning look from Desmond she kept her mouth shut. They sat together in tense silence for almost ten minutes before the front door slammed open with an almighty crash and a tirade of croaky screams reached their ears.

‘
¡SUÉLTENME! ¡MAL NACIDOS! ¡SUÉLTENME! ARRRGGHHH!
'

Suddenly, what appeared to be a long bag of potatoes was thrown into the sitting room, landing with a thud at Kirra's feet. Desmond had Kirra up off the couch and into the corner before she realised that the bag was actually
a teenage boy dressed in the dirtiest clothes she'd ever seen. He scrambled to his feet, his skinny, lengthy limbs more of a hindrance than a help, and threw himself at the door with unashamed desperation. Two of Gaspara Pueyo's men caught him and hurled him back into the room. Gaspara stayed comfortably out of reach behind them, resting on her walking frame and watching the scene between their elbows.

‘
¡No he hecho nada!
' the boy yelled. ‘
¡Dejénme!
'

‘
¡En inglés!
' Gaspara snarled.

The boy glared at her, practically frothing at the mouth. His face, like the rest of him, was long and pale, and his short hair was pitch black.

‘
¿Inglés?
Yes! Why you take me? Why? Let me go! I did nothing! LET ME GO!'

‘
¡Sí, sí!
We'll let you go, but first you must answer some questions.'

But the boy took no notice. Instead, he spotted the window, bolted towards it and hurled himself straight through the glass pane and into the front garden.

Kirra clapped a hand over her mouth, stunned, as glass burst everywhere. Desmond stood stock-still, staring into the front garden as though he couldn't believe what had just happened. Gaspara Pueyo merely rolled her eyes, as though teenagers regularly threw themselves through solid window panes in her presence.

Some rustling, some cursing in Spanish, a thud, a moan of pain and the crunching of glass floated in through the window. There was also what sounded like one of the cyclamen pots shattering before another of Gaspara's men brought the teenager back through the sitting room
door. He deposited the boy by the couch and placed himself in front of the now obliterated window to act as a human barrier.

The boy stumbled into the centre of the room, his eyes darting around. He seemed surprisingly uninjured from his hazardous escape attempt. His arms were scratched and small shards of glass glittered in his hair, but that was all.

‘You are the
Señuelo
named Tavio?' Gaspara asked.

The boy cast around, panting, searching for another way out. He sized up the two men at the door and seemed to decide against trying his luck with them; a wise move, Kirra thought, as they were both six or seven times his weight. Instead, he lunged at the man at the window. His arms clawed at the velvet curtains before he was thrown effortlessly back onto the couch, which upturned with his weight and slammed with a heavy clunk against the floorboards.

‘Tavio!' Gaspara bellowed.

‘
¡Sí!
' he yelled wildly, fighting with his gangly limbs to stand. ‘I am Tavio,
si
! Now let me out! I am good! I am good!
No Señuelo
!'

‘We know you are a Decoy. We
know
this!'

But Tavio didn't seem to be listening. Instead he busied himself with the task of running at the men at the door, apparently throwing caution to the wind and trying his luck with them anyway, massive though they were. One grabbed his arms, the other his legs, and both drew him back towards the couch. Tavio flailed about madly in their grip, snarling and spitting insults. Finally, he was set upright and, after receiving a terrorising look
from the men, he quietened down. Desmond approached him cautiously.

‘Tavio, you are in no trouble, I promise. I have come looking only for the one who hired you tonight.'

‘I am no rat!' Tavio spat out. ‘I shall not betray!'

He then walloped Desmond around the face with his fist. Desmond staggered slightly, seemingly more from surprise than anything else, and brought his thumb to his chin, dabbing at it gingerly. Tavio shot well away from him and latched onto a tall bookcase, upturning it between them as a protective barricade, sending books tumbling across the room. The two men at the door rushed furiously at Tavio.

‘No!' Desmond held up his hand. ‘No, it's alright.'

Tavio was eyeing Desmond worriedly, kicking books away from his ankles. ‘I shall not betray!' he declared, sweat gathering on his forehead. ‘I shall NOT!'

Desmond blinked. ‘I didn't think Decoys harboured any particular loyalty to their employers,' he said in Gaspara's direction.

‘They don't,' she confirmed from behind her blockade of men. ‘He's merely stalling. He suspects he's going to prison tonight.'

At this Tavio buried his hands in his grubby hair. He hopped on the spot for a moment, looking terrified. ‘No prison! I won't go, I won't!'

‘No one is going to prison this evening,' Desmond said firmly. ‘I am a Contractor. I am on your side.'

Tavio's head snapped up. ‘
¿La Industria?
' he whispered.

Desmond nodded. ‘Yes. The Industry.'

Tavio's shoulders relaxed slightly. ‘And the girl?'

He stared at Kirra, who stared back, transfixed.

‘No,' Desmond said. ‘She does not belong in the Industry.'

‘Then she is not to be trusted!' screamed Tavio.

‘She is a
ciudadana
,' Desmond insisted. ‘A citizen who is no threat.'

Tavio glared at Kirra, his top lip curling. ‘
¿Ciudadana?
So, why are you here then, girl? Why? Wanting to make the switch? Want to join
this
?'

He jabbed his thumb at his filthy coat. Kirra could only stare at him, confused.

‘Do you like what you have been shown?' he continued venomously. ‘Do you still want to switch
now
?'

He seemed enraged by Kirra, as though her presence amongst so many Industry professionals was somehow highly inappropriate and offensive; and as he crept ever closer, Kirra couldn't help but back away, despite Desmond's reassuring presence between them.

‘
La Industria
does not seem so pretty now, does it, girl?
Does it
? But you can still run home, where it's safe. Always safe. We are stuck here, stuck here always.'

His unwashed face was sneering at her, his crooked teeth bared. Kirra swallowed nervously, horrified to be so singled out.

‘You think you can look at me this way?' he hissed, his black eyes gleaming crazily. ‘You think you can look down at me?'

He seemed to be speaking mostly to himself now, muttering quietly in the centre of the room, his grimy fingers tangled in his even grimier hair.

‘She is not looking at you,' Desmond said diplomatically. ‘Down, up or otherwise. She is a friend of the Industry.'

Tavio did not seem convinced, though he thankfully ceased his demented muttering.

‘I will pay you for any information you have regarding your most recent employer, the one who commissioned you to break into that house tonight,' Desmond said.

Tavio visibly perked up at the sound of payment.

‘
Sí
,' he said brightly. ‘I will tell you all.'

Kirra thought she heard a small noise of disapproval from between the two men at the door.

‘What was your employer's name?' Desmond asked.

Tavio giggled. ‘Name? No, no. There is never a name.'

Desmond let out a huff. ‘Was it the Assassin known as Latham?'

Tavio chewed his tongue for a moment. ‘All I know,' he said, ‘is that this man was a
bebé
. Very young.'

‘How young?'

‘How am I to know?' Tavio shrugged. ‘I do not know him, so how can I be sure? He is just young. He is anxious, also … and beaten badly. He says, “Make disturbance here,” and he points to a map. He is angry, very angry. Then he calls someone and says to them, “She is at a bar named Ruiz. Bring her to me alive,” and then hangs up. He gives me my money and goes away. That is all.'

Desmond stared at Tavio for a long moment before handing him a thick slab of Euros. Tavio hugged them to his chest.

‘Thank you, Tavio,' Desmond said.

‘
Sí
, my pleasure,' Tavio said earnestly. He peered hopefully at Gaspara.

‘You may go,' she rasped.

With a last lingering sneer at Kirra, Tavio scooted past the man, stepped carefully out through the smashed window and stalked off into the night, tucking his payment deep into his pockets.

The two men at the door broke away, and Gaspara hobbled into the room, tossing books out of her way with her walking frame.

‘
Señor
Rall,' she said, ‘are you satisfied?'

‘Yes, thanks,' said Desmond, looking a touch uncomfortable beneath her intense gaze. ‘Very satisfied.'

‘I am glad. You must know I am a supporter of your cause,' she said. ‘And I wish you success in your endeavours. Please understand that you are always welcome here.'

Kirra knew she was again missing something crucial, but Desmond merely smiled.

‘I appreciate it,' he returned.

 

‘Well,' he said to Kirra, after they'd bade Gaspara farewell and climbed back into the car. ‘That was a colossal waste of time. I thought we'd get a name at the very least.'

Kirra shrugged. At least they weren't any further from finding out who'd attacked them at the bar.

‘Decoys,' she began curiously. ‘You can hire them to make a scene prior to an ambush?'

‘Prior to anything really. An Assassination, a Retrieval, an Extraction.'

‘To distract the police?'

‘Distract, or at least keep them busy before and during an assignment in the same area. It's only the police in the same area that you have to worry about, really. The ones who are likely to respond fastest to the sound of gunfire or to an emergency call.'

‘It's that easy to distract them?'

‘No.' Desmond grinned. ‘Not always. Sometimes we're under surveillance, though we can shake off officials fairly easily in a few days. For much bigger jobs, we have other methods of distractions. Decoys, though, are a seriously undervalued minority within the Industry. They've given themselves a bad name over the years, but, you know … they don't
really
deserve it.'