Blind Eye

66

Peterseat Drive was a loop of dirty tarmac on the northernmost edge of Altens. Most of the buildings were new or not even finished yet: warehouses and storage depots. Stacks of offshore containers were locked away behind chain-link fences. Piles of drilling pipe. Huge chunks of metal, painted bright primary colours.

Logan pulled the rattling Fiat up to the kerb and killed the engine, before it died of its own accord.

'Right.' Pirie unfastened his seatbelt and popped the passenger door open. 'Got to have a quick word with my Chiz: find out what he knows.'

Logan clambered out of the car, but Pirie held up a hand. 'You know the rules — total anonymity for all Covert Human Intelligence Sources; my guy sees you, he'll run a mile. Hell, I shouldn't even be talking to this guy without Bain's say so.'

'But-'

'I'll only be two minutes, OK? Just chill till then.' Pirie turned, stuck his hands in his pockets and ambled across the road to a yard full of anchor chains.

Logan slumped against the roof of the car and smoked a cigarette. He was grinding it out on the rusty paintwork when his mobile started ringing. He dug the phone out and grimaced: according the display it was DI Steel. Probably wanting to know where the hell he was. He let it ring through to voice-mail. She was back on thirty seconds later. Logan ignored it.

Down the street, Pirie stuck his head out of a gate and beckoned.

Logan hurried across the road. 'Well?'

'Sort of.' Pirie turned and pointed at one of the brand-new warehouses. It wasn't quite finished yet, the construction sign still up by the wire gates read: 'COMING SOON — RIGSPANTECH DOWNHOLE SERVICES'. Dark blue roof and beige walls, attached to a small office block that hadn't progressed beyond the raw breeze block and hollow window frames stage. No sign of life. 'According to my guy, there was a firm called Kostchey International Holdings Limited doing site security there till about a week ago. You wanna check it out, see if we can get a billing address?'

Logan did.

They abandoned the Fiat where it was and walked down the half-finished pavement in the blazing sunshine. This part of the road was quiet, just the occasional clang of metal on metal, or beep-beep-beep of a reversing forklift truck. A radio somewhere inside one of the yards, playing Northsound 2.

Pirie kicked an empty plastic bottle, sending it spinning down the dusty pavement. 'So… did you really get blown up?'

'That why you're helping me get back into Finnie's good books? Pity?' The further down the road they walked the newer the buildings got, until they were just partially constructed shells.

'Nope.' They'd caught up with the plastic bottle, and Pirie gave it another kick.

Logan's phone started ringing. Again.

'You going to answer that?'

'It'll be Steel, telling me I'm supposed to be in with Professional Standards.'

The ringing stopped, there was silence, and then it started again.

'It's kinda irritating.'

Logan pulled the thing out and switched it off. 'Happy now?'

One more kick and the bottle clattered against the fence surrounding RigSpanTech's almost-finished warehouse. A length of chain was looped through both sides of the gate, but the padlock wasn't shut.

Logan followed Pirie into the building site. They hadn't even started laying the road yet — everything was hard-packed dirt and rubble.

Pirie shaded his eyes against the sun, staring at the half-built office unit and the warehouse beyond. 'Look, over there — black BMW. Least we know someone's about.' He took two steps towards it, then stopped. Logan's pocket was making ringing noises again. 'Thought you switched that off?'

'I did…' And then Logan realized it wasn't his phone, it was the one Kravchenko had given him. He fumbled it out and checked the display: 'NUMBER WITHHELD' His innards clenched. 'I have to take this.'

Pirie shrugged. 'Catch up when you're done then.' He wandered away, whistling Scotland the Brave, and leaving a cloud of pale yellow dust in his wake.

Logan punched the green button. 'Hello?'