didn't like seeing her so low, and even though she'd put him in the frame for this, it felt like he was stealing something that should have been hers.
He'd always been wary of playing in corporate grey areas, and this was certainly a bad neighbourhood, but that was precisely why the story was interesting.
If the SO rumbled them, he would be rescinded. It could be a massive career wound he'd never recover from.
The procedure sounded harebrained. If anyone could do it, it was GEO, but he fully anticipated an outright failure, or at least a truly pathetic realisation of the wonders Ayoob had been boasting about. Then again, that was the story too: the corporate machinations, the misadventure, the schadenfreude.
He realised what was souring his excitement the most was the way Underwood had looked at his scrawny white torso when he'd taken his shirt off. The tone in her voice as she'd listed his deficiencies to Apfel. Contempt he could have handled. Disdain too.
It had been pity.
He reached his rental building, and unlocked the door under a porch light clicked against by orbiting blurds. The stairwell smelled of cooking, and his apartment was cold. He was on his second Scotch-effect when the buzzer went. It wasn't green hiker girl. The carry-out meal had arrived first: plycard punnets of Vietnamese from a half-decent hotel kitchen further up the street.
Noma arrived about ten minutes later, grinning. She brought a bottle of sparkling wine.
"What have you done?" he asked.
"Nothing," she insisted.
"You'd really better not have done anything."
She wandered around his apartment.
"Cosy," she said.
He was about to tell her it was a hole and he was actively searching for somewhere better, when he remembered what she was living in.
She took a glass of the sparkling wine. It was wine-effect, but the foil stopper wrap and the cork were at least real.
"When do we move with this?" she asked.
"I told you we'd have to wait, and we'd have to box clever."
"So you've done nothing all day?"
"It's going to take longer than a day," he replied. He began to split open the carry-out punnets. Warm food smells permeated the room, robbing away the aura of damp carpet and cold plaster.
"I've actually begun to get somewhere," he said, "so there's all the more reason to keep a lid on this. It's a great story, and it could open up an even greater one. We do not want to crap on our own leads."
She picked up a bowl and started to eat.
"So tell me all about it," she said.
"I can't just yet."
"You're going to thieve this away from me, aren't you, you bastard?"
"No," he said. "I was making a few very discreet enquiries this afternoon, and they led me to a very interesting place. You need to leave it with me for another few days. A week, maybe."
"A week? Are you kidding me?"
"A week isn't long. Not for something this good."
"How good?" she asked.
"It's either good good or bad good, but either way, we'll both walk away looking very pretty indeed. Just leave it with me. It's delicate. We mustn't jeopardise it."
Fork rocking thoughtfully in her hand, she studied him. He felt as though he was being measured. He wasn't sure if it was for a new suit or a coffin.
"I will cut you in," he insisted. "Full share. It's the kind of story that will need two POVs. We'll clean up. The bolide story and where it goes."
"Tell me."
"I can't."
She took a deep breath.
"I can place the story," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"I spoke to some contacts."
"For fuck's sake!" he said, and got up, dropping his bowl on the counter. "What did I tell you? One simple thing! What did I tell you?"
"Oh, relax. I'm not stupid, Falk. I didn't tell anyone what the story was. I just touched base with some feature editors, sounded out things in theory. Jill Versailles at Reuters is very keen. Just in principle."
"Jill
He'd always been wary of playing in corporate grey areas, and this was certainly a bad neighbourhood, but that was precisely why the story was interesting.
If the SO rumbled them, he would be rescinded. It could be a massive career wound he'd never recover from.
The procedure sounded harebrained. If anyone could do it, it was GEO, but he fully anticipated an outright failure, or at least a truly pathetic realisation of the wonders Ayoob had been boasting about. Then again, that was the story too: the corporate machinations, the misadventure, the schadenfreude.
He realised what was souring his excitement the most was the way Underwood had looked at his scrawny white torso when he'd taken his shirt off. The tone in her voice as she'd listed his deficiencies to Apfel. Contempt he could have handled. Disdain too.
It had been pity.
He reached his rental building, and unlocked the door under a porch light clicked against by orbiting blurds. The stairwell smelled of cooking, and his apartment was cold. He was on his second Scotch-effect when the buzzer went. It wasn't green hiker girl. The carry-out meal had arrived first: plycard punnets of Vietnamese from a half-decent hotel kitchen further up the street.
Noma arrived about ten minutes later, grinning. She brought a bottle of sparkling wine.
"What have you done?" he asked.
"Nothing," she insisted.
"You'd really better not have done anything."
She wandered around his apartment.
"Cosy," she said.
He was about to tell her it was a hole and he was actively searching for somewhere better, when he remembered what she was living in.
She took a glass of the sparkling wine. It was wine-effect, but the foil stopper wrap and the cork were at least real.
"When do we move with this?" she asked.
"I told you we'd have to wait, and we'd have to box clever."
"So you've done nothing all day?"
"It's going to take longer than a day," he replied. He began to split open the carry-out punnets. Warm food smells permeated the room, robbing away the aura of damp carpet and cold plaster.
"I've actually begun to get somewhere," he said, "so there's all the more reason to keep a lid on this. It's a great story, and it could open up an even greater one. We do not want to crap on our own leads."
She picked up a bowl and started to eat.
"So tell me all about it," she said.
"I can't just yet."
"You're going to thieve this away from me, aren't you, you bastard?"
"No," he said. "I was making a few very discreet enquiries this afternoon, and they led me to a very interesting place. You need to leave it with me for another few days. A week, maybe."
"A week? Are you kidding me?"
"A week isn't long. Not for something this good."
"How good?" she asked.
"It's either good good or bad good, but either way, we'll both walk away looking very pretty indeed. Just leave it with me. It's delicate. We mustn't jeopardise it."
Fork rocking thoughtfully in her hand, she studied him. He felt as though he was being measured. He wasn't sure if it was for a new suit or a coffin.
"I will cut you in," he insisted. "Full share. It's the kind of story that will need two POVs. We'll clean up. The bolide story and where it goes."
"Tell me."
"I can't."
She took a deep breath.
"I can place the story," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"I spoke to some contacts."
"For fuck's sake!" he said, and got up, dropping his bowl on the counter. "What did I tell you? One simple thing! What did I tell you?"
"Oh, relax. I'm not stupid, Falk. I didn't tell anyone what the story was. I just touched base with some feature editors, sounded out things in theory. Jill Versailles at Reuters is very keen. Just in principle."
"Jill
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