‘Okay,’ Tango Two says.
‘At least you don’t make noises when you eat,’ Safa says after a few seconds of being unable to stay quiet. ‘Harry does. He’s a squelcher. Hate squelchers. Ben’s not too bad.’
‘The doctor looks like a squelcher,’ Tango Two says, risking an observational comment.
‘Fuck yes,’ Safa says with a snort of humour. ‘Mr Squelchy Face, like yamyamyam, with all liquidy noises. I’d actually shoot him at mealtimes and use the time machine to go back and get him if I could.’
‘Gross.’ Tango Two smiles while noting the things said. Mealtimes. They eat together. The time machine is normal to them. How long have they had it? How long has Safa been here? Where are Bertie and Roland?
‘Is that girl okay?’
‘Which one? Ria?’ Safa asks.
‘I don’t know her name,’ Tango Two lies. ‘She was crying when we came through . . . Her mother?’
‘Yeah, her mum got stuck in the house,’ Safa says, quite emotionlessly too, which is also noted. ‘I think she’s okay. Her and Bertie aren’t here now. Miri took them somewhere after you were sedated.’
‘Oh,’ Tango Two says, amazed at the information flow.
‘And that twat’s gone too.’
‘Er, who, sorry?’ Tango Two asks.
‘Roland.’
‘Oh, right, not a nice man then?’
‘He’s an idiot,’ Safa scoffs. ‘Did you see him run past his own kids and wife trying to get out? Complete coward, and totally out of his depth with all this.’
Tango Two pauses for a split second at the information coming from Safa. She considers a counter-bluff. That Safa is giving what she has been told to give. It doesn’t feel like that. It feels normal. Like chatting. ‘Roland is Bertram’s and Ria’s dad? Is that right?’
‘Bertie. He doesn’t like being called Bertram. Anyway, stop cultivating me.’
‘Sorry, I was just . . .’
‘Yeah, he is their dad. I’m glad he’s gone, personally. Ben is too. Miri is cool. That’s the last of the fruit anyway. Miri and the doc are going out for supplies later. You allergic to anything?’
‘Er, no. No, I don’t think I am.’
‘Not peanuts? I can get some peanut soup if you are.’
Tango Two smiles, sensing the joke within the threat. ‘Er, no . . . but, er . . .’
‘What?’ Safa asks as the agent trails off.
‘I am allergic to strawberries. Fresh strawberries.’
‘Are you?’ Safa asks, amazed that anyone could be allergic to strawberries.
‘Oh, yes,’ Tango Two says seriously. ‘Really very allergic. Especially when they are served with fresh cream . . . and chocolate. I’m very allergic to chocolate.’
‘Dick,’ Safa tuts, shaking her head, but smiling all the same.
‘Strawberries,’ she chuckles to herself as she walks down the corridor back to the main room. She hasn’t had either for a long time. Safa isn’t bothered about food, and only really views it for the nutritional content, but right now she really wants some strawberries and chocolate. She considers the prospect that she has been cultivated, and dismisses it almost instantly. She couldn’t give a shit if she is cultivated. She’d beat the shit out of the woman without blinking.
She pushes in to see everyone standing round one of the tables and Miri holding the notepad that now seems to be glued to her hand.
‘We should get strawberries,’ Safa says, lifting an eyebrow at Ben and Harry who both turn to look at her.
‘Strawberries?’ Ben asks.
‘Yeah, and chocolate. Prisoner just said about strawberries and chocolate, and now I really want them.’
‘Not cultivated then?’ Ben asks.
‘You didn’t even know what cultivated meant until Miri explained it to you,’ Safa says, walking over to dump the tray on the big table. ‘We’re running out of stuff, Miri.’
Miri pauses from writing on the pad to look up.
‘Just saying,’ Safa says, joining them at the table loaded with belt kits, holsters, pistols, magazines and new radios with earpieces. ‘We should just get Malc and Kon back. They were good at getting the pens.’
‘We cannot get them back,’ Miri says, placing the notepad down. She lifts one of the belts up and loops it round her hips, ready to fasten.
‘Why not?’ Safa asks, taking her own belt that she starts feeding through the loops on her trousers.
‘I have told you why not,’ Miri says.
‘No, you went waffle waffle, blah blah while Ben looked all serious and creamed his pants.’
‘Safa,’ Ben laughs, his belt secured on his waist. He takes a pistol and starts checking it through, ignoring the looks from Safa and Harry. ‘How is our prisoner anyway?’
‘Malc and Kon, Miri,’ Safa says, ignoring Ben.
‘No.’
‘We’ll get them back. I’ll do it. Outside the warehouse, right? I’ll be back in, like, five minutes . . . How do you use that thing?’
‘No.’
‘The encrypted thing,’ Safa says.
‘No.’
‘The tablet thing,’ Safa says, looking at Miri with a smile. She takes a pistol and starts the same checks that she taught Ben.
Miri speaks slowly. ‘M and K do not have a suitable point at which they can be extracted. Taking them from any point will take them away from you before I arrived, and taking them from outside the warehouse doesn’t happen because it would have happened and it did not happen.’
Safa nods, narrows her eyes and makes a sound, as though in agreement. ‘That a no then?’
‘It’s a no.’
‘We can’t just leave them dead,’ Safa says, pushing a magazine into her pistol. ‘I bet they’re bored shitless.’
‘What?’ Doctor Watson asks, looking over the table after watching them all getting ready.
‘Me and Harry were bored shitless when we were dead,’ Safa continues. ‘Weren’t we, Harry?’
‘Aye.’
‘You’re in a good mood,’ Ben remarks.
‘Yep. I am. So we’ll get them back,’ Safa says confidently. ‘You and Ben work it out, and me and Harry’ll go get ’em. Anyway, why were they trying to kill her? You figured it out yet? And where are we going?’
‘Multiple questions elicit multiple answers,’ Miri says. ‘A police officer should know that.’
‘A police officer should know that,’ Ben says, smiling at Safa.
‘I’ve told you, I was a shit copper.’
Miri sighs, checks her pistol, fits the magazine, pushes the weapon into the holster and looks at Safa with a glint in her cold grey eyes. ‘Do you know what smurfs are, Miss Patel?’
‘Smurfs? The little blue things?’
Thirteen
‘ARE YOU A SMURF?’ Safa demands, twisting the grip on his wrist harder. He yelps and cries out. Pleading in his eyes. ‘I SAID, ARE YOU A SMURF?’
Organised crime works on many levels. Prostitution. Drugs. Gambling. Craps games in basements. But all of those things generate cash. Some is put through business to be laundered. Some is spent. The vast bulk is paid into domestic accounts, then moved to offshore accounts in countries that don’t ask questions.
‘What?’ the man says, stammering in fright.
America is an advanced country. Even in 1998, the banking system will trigger if consistent large cash deposits are made.
‘Don’t what me. Are you a fucking smurf?’