The Administration Series (145 page)

Warrick smiled warmly. "That's all I needed to know." He gestured round the shower. "Are you done in here?"

"Sure."

"Then let's go to bed, shall we?"

He hadn't lost it tonight, Toreth reassured himself as he towelled himself dry. He knew exactly what that felt like. Losing it was white light and noise, and not knowing what the hell he was doing until he saw the blood. Losing it was Jonny Kemp calling Sara a whore. Losing it was seeing the broken cane in his hands and Gee Evans on the floor moaning and clutching his jaw, and not having the faintest fucking clue how either of them had got like that. Tonight he might have been somewhere near that line, but he hadn't crossed it.

And with Warrick, please Christ, he hoped that he never would.

• Prologue
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Epilogue
  

Accents weren't by themselves an automatic reason for suspicion. However, there was a known correlation. An accent meant someone who had been brought up in a household where English wasn't the first language, probably immigrants or traditionalists. And, perhaps, along with a harmless attachment to an old language there might be a less harmless adherence to other old ideas: nationalism, democracy, unionisation, freedom of speech.

Traditionalist, idealist, political criminal — these were points on a sliding scale.

As the secure connection was audio only, the slight accent to the man's voice was reassuring, even though it could be the result of computer manipulation. Member Three of Hellenic resistance cell beta-one-forty-seven didn't recognise his accent, but nevertheless it gave him a feeling of solidarity. A conviction that he and the stranger he had never even seen were comrades.

He sat in a darkened room with two others from his cell, listening to voices over the comm. Large gatherings were far too dangerous, and only for important decisions did they risk many simultaneous small meetings.

"Moving too soon jeopardises everything," the stranger said.

"There'll never be a better time." The man who replied had a distinct Greek accent — the spokesman for the Attican resisters, and the only member of the network who spoke directly to the outsider. Him Member Three knew well, or at least the voice he used over the comm. "We're in danger here every day, but while they think they control us, we have the freedom to act."

"Regretfully, sacrifices sometimes have to be made," the man said. "You are one organisation, and we move when the bulk of our forces are ready. Later."

"Later will be too late. We can take the city and then the rest of the country will follow us, I know it."

"And then they will take it back." Touch of impatience in his voice. What
was
the accent? "A city, a district, even a country — these mean nothing. If you act alone, the Administration will concentrate its forces. You might hold out for a few days, you might survive on the run for a few weeks, but in the end you'll fail."

"We're not afraid to die," the Attican spokesman said.

"In the long run, to quote Keynes, we are all dead. However, we cannot afford to waste lives. Or opportunities. An open, armed revolt will cause the Administration to crack down across Europe. Sometimes it takes as much courage to wait as it does to attack."

"Wait. I must discuss this with the cell leaders."

The speaker muted. In the tiny, stuffy basement, Member One turned away and entered a discussion over the second link with the other group leaders. Her voice rang oddly in the room, translated smoothly and instantaneously into measured male tones. Member Three imagined this scene repeated across Greece. How many cells? How many people ready to fight if the word was given?

After a minute, he caught himself biting his nails and made himself stop. Gina hated the habit.

In one way, the command to wait made sense to Member Three. Primarily because it was what they had always done — met, planned, dreamed. But never, actually, done anything. Talking was safer. Not much safer, within the Administration, but still a hell of a lot less dangerous that taking to the streets. The Service had an extensive array of what they described as non-lethal weapons for the suppression of riots. Some of them even were, because it was considered important to take a good haul of prisoners for questioning.

Glance at his watch. They'd been here for fifteen minutes — getting close to the mandated limit of twenty. A security restriction designed to keep prying monitoring systems from noticing their clandestine comms. One day, perhaps soon, no security precautions would be enough. And then . . .

The cell structure was scrupulously maintained within the resistance organisation. That had proved its value, but it hadn't kept cell beta-one-forty-seven safe, or God only knew how many others. Any or all of them could be arrested at any time. The thought of I&I, of what waited for him in the underground cells there, brought an acid taste of fear.

Member Three, despite his subversive activities, didn't like to think of himself as a violent man. For I&I, however, he was willing to make an exception. Legal torturers, passively supported or at least tolerated by the majority of citizens who, sedated by Administration propaganda, bought into the myth that it was necessary.

That was one thing their anonymous contact was clear about. When the Administration fell, I&I must be eradicated. He'd said that more than once.

All the resisters knew people who had entered the doors of I&I, and rather fewer who had emerged alive and free. Some, like Member Two, had more personal experience. Two was outside somewhere, watching the street, ready to raise the alarm. He didn't talk about his time in I&I hands, not while sober. And when drunk he'd say things that no one wanted to hear.

I&I was a rallying symbol, as well as a terrible threat. It embodied all the reasons why the all-encompassing Administration had to be resisted. When I&I was no more, that would signal the return of freedom. Repeating that to himself helped get him through the moments of doubt, when he wondered why the hell he came to these meetings when nothing ever
happened
.

He understood Member One's impatience. The tension had become unbearable. Trapped, exposed, the drive to act, to end the suspense in one way or another, affected all of them.

Member Three knew what the decision would be before Member One reactivated the speaker on the comm.

"Two months," the spokesman said. "That's all I can give you. Then we move. If we don't at least try, then everything we've done up to now will be in vain."

Silence. Then their contact said, "Naturally, I can only advise you."

They left the room separately. As he walked across campus in the warm spring sunshine, back to his office, Member Three — now plain Alexandros Vasdeki again — thought about the meeting.

'Sacrifices sometimes have to be made'.

'We can't afford to waste lives'.

For some reason, the contradiction nagged at him. Which, Alexandros wondered, meant the most to the man?

Toreth thought it had been almost a perfect Sunday so far. A lie-in and a late breakfast in bed, followed by the massage he was owed from the previous weekend. No fuck yet, but the morning was building nicely towards it. All his basic needs satisfied by lunchtime, and then the rest of the day still to go.

He lay flat on his stomach, chin on his hands, eyes closed. Warrick lay half on top of him, pleasantly heavy, cock nuzzling against him, oily hands still working lazily on his arms and shoulders. Not a cuddle, obviously — just an intermediate stage between the massage and the imminent fuck.

Only one thing stopped it being absolutely perfect — tomorrow Toreth had to catch a flight out of New London, headed for an I&I internal review in the Athens station Political Crimes section. It was scheduled to last up to a fortnight, could easily take three weeks and wouldn't entirely surprise him if it took a month, if he actually found anything wrong. It wasn't in itself a bad thing. A few years ago he'd have been fighting for the assignment. Regular office hours, a nice hotel, decent expenses preapproved, a chance to get away from the unseasonably soggy spring weather, and probably plenty of available fucks.

None of whom would be Warrick.

The idea bothered him. It bothered him that it bothered him. Maybe he could fly home for a weekend in the middle? No — without an excuse that would be unbearably pathetic. Maybe he could persuade Warrick to fly out to Athens.

"I'm going to miss this," Warrick said, now apparently numbering mind-reading among his many talents.

Toreth opened his eyes and turned his head, resting his cheek on his hands. From there he could just see the cabinet, framed in wine-red velvet. "Bollocks. Friday — that's what you're going to miss."

A pause, then Warrick said, "I hadn't even thought about it."

"Liar."

"No, I'm not. The statement applied equally to every day." Warrick paused and kissed his shoulder. "Although I will admit that Friday is perhaps a little more equal than the others."

"I'll call you."

"Mm? That'll be nice."

"No, I mean I'll call on Friday. We can talk through it instead. Next best thing."

Toreth felt the shiver ripple through the body above him. "Oh, God. Yes. That would be . . . "

"Nice?"

"Very."

Taking advantage of the oil, Toreth slipped out from beneath him and reversed their positions, pinning Warrick to the bed, face down. He didn't put up much resistance.

"We could do it now, if you like." Beneath him, Warrick went absolutely still. "A few days early. It wouldn't matter." He ran his hand through Warrick's hair, tilting his head forwards, then bit hard, at the junction of neck and shoulder.

Warrick moaned. "I don't . . . I don't want to."

"Now that is a lie."

"Yes, it is."

He took hold of Warrick's wrists and stretched his arms out, burying his face in Warrick's neck. God, he smelt fabulous. Fuckably fabulous, and if Toreth hadn't been hard already, this would have done it.

Moving higher, he brought his mouth up to Warrick's ear, kissing and licking between phrases. "It'll give me something to think about on the flight. You look so fucking good like that. Helpless. Begging for it. When I can do whatever I want . . . hurt you . . . take you however I want . . . fuck you . . . make you come when I want you to . . . touch you when you can't — "

"Please — oh, God." Warrick took a shuddering breath. "Pl — plastic duck."

Toreth let him go, and knelt up. "Sure?"

"No, not at all. But the rule is no more often than every six weeks, and besides — "

"You've got Very Important Investors coming in tomorrow, so you don't want to be bruised to fuck. Sorry. I forgot."

Warrick laughed, shaky and breathless. "So did I, very nearly."

Tempting to try to change Warrick's mind — he sounded open to persuasion, which was unusual. However, for this one thing, the rules weren't just part of the game. Neither of them wanted to risk what had happened at the beginning of last year happening again.

It had been months since Warrick had begged for an early session. A good thing, because saying no to sex didn't come naturally to Toreth. However, he had seen sufficient addictions — and created enough deliberately at work — to know that abandoning the restriction could lead to unpleasantness. So they had to stick to it, and Toreth had broken another rule by using the six-week limit to tease.

Which was okay, because some rules were better for being broken occasionally. However, once was enough.