Europe in Winter (The Fractured Europe Sequence)(104)

“Surely not twenty.”

Dariusz shrugged. “So much has happened in the interim. The world has changed beyond recognition. Perhaps it just seems like a long time.”

“A lot has certainly happened,” Rudi said. “In the interim.” He looked around the room again. From the other side, Seth caught his eye. He shook his head fractionally and Seth went back to letting a plump babcia Rudi vaguely recognised practice her English on him. Gwen, standing beside him, waved hello; Rudi waved back.

“I’m to tell you that it’s over,” Dariusz said, lowering his voice further so that Rudi found it hard to hear him.

“How can this be over?” Rudi asked. “It’s not a football match. People have died.”

“It’s certainly not a football match,” said Dariusz. “There are no winners and losers, only survivors. You appear to have survived. Congratulations.”

Rudi wondered where the decision had come from. The prediction engine in Dresden-Neustadt? It was hard to be certain who was running the world any more, although obviously it wasn’t the people who thought they were. “Has there been any word,” he asked, “from Crispin?”

Dariusz smiled. “I have no idea who that is.”

“Of course not.” The initial shock and awe of the Heathrow Event – the authorities hadn’t even bothered to try to suppress or conceal it, there was just no point – had settled, as Rudi had suspected, into a prolonged bickering between England and the Community about what to do with the transposed territories and people. A surprising number of people who had been at Heathrow wanted to remain in the Community. The Community didn’t want them, they didn’t want to leave, there had been a riot. There was talk, according to the media, of the transplanted Heathrow declaring itself an independent nation within the Community. It was problematic.

Even more problematic, but just as hard to suppress, was what had happened to the Line, most of its rolling stock, and all its citizens. Nobody seemed certain whether or not to claim its territory, which was considerable. No one wanted to take up the Line’s track, with its peculiarly unhelpful gauge. The consensus seemed to be wait and see. There was no percentage in purposely antagonising an organisation which was capable of rewriting worlds. If it was an apocalypse, it was a discreet one. The world went on pretty much as it always had. More than anything, Rudi found himself disappointed. One always wants the great events of one’s life to mean something. Certainly something more than very wealthy people doing what very wealthy people always do, which is protect their own interests.

“I would like to see what he’s doing over there, though,” Rudi added. “One day.”

Dariusz drained his glass. “The only thing we can be certain of is that there are trains there.” He held out his hand, and after a moment Rudi shook it. “What will you do with the restaurant?”

“I don’t know. The news is still... new.”

“I’ll come round in a week or so, see if you’re still here, and we can discuss your subscription.”

The subscription prevented Weso?y Ptak from torching the restaurant. “Who’s paying it at the moment?”

Dariusz made a dismissive gesture. “Call it a payment holiday.”

Rudi looked at him, remembering when the little mafioso had seemed powerful and quite scary. “Out of interest,” he said, “who told you to recruit me, back then?”

Dariusz smiled. He clapped Rudi on the arm. “We’ll talk about the subscription.” And he turned and walked away into the crowd of mourners.

After Dariusz had gone, Rupert eased his way over to the table and looked down at the arrayed food. “This is... disappointing,” he said.

Rudi sighed. “I know.”

“Problems?”

Rudi looked in the direction Dariusz had disappeared in. “Business as usual.”

“Problems, then.”

Rudi chuckled. “I think we’ve been parked, for the moment. Eventually someone will decide we’re of some use; then they’ll be in touch.” He picked up a chicken drumstick and bit into it. He scowled and put it back on the serving platter. “This is a disgrace,” he muttered.

“The Directorate already want to know what Crispin’s up to,” Rupert said.

“Of course they do.”

Rupert seemed about to try some of the food, then decided against it. Life in Europe had spoiled him; there was a time when he would have made a spirited attempt to clear the table, all on his own. “I was checking my drops in Prague yesterday,” he said. “There was a note from Michael. Sorry to bother you, but we were wondering... blah blah blah.”

So far, all Rudi – all anyone, as far as he was aware – knew was a name. It was still a shadow, a possibility, floating somewhere below the surface of the great lake of rumour and supposition and straight-out bullshit that sloshed back and forth across Europe. The name of a fabled land beyond the sunrise. It was not a name, he knew with some certainty, beyond the capabilities of the Community’s intelligence officers to discover.

“Did you reply to their request?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Rupert said. “Fuck ’em.”

Rudi nodded and sipped his drink. “Fajnie,” he murmured. There was a sense he had gained, travelling around Europe for the past few months, of a pause, a break while everyone got their breath back and took stock and tried to work out what to do next. As far as he was concerned, that could last as long as it wanted.