Newton’s Fire Read Free

He’d turned back to his host.
    ‘Call me superstitious,’ he’d said, ‘but I never celebrate a deal before the ink’s dry.’
    ‘Call me superstitious,’ his host had returned, ‘but I never make a deal unless I have a bottle of champagne on ice.’ And he’d looked around at his two bodyguards at that moment: nothing dramatic, just enough to put them on alert.
    Irina had been with Croke since the debacle in Doha. She’d proved attentive, smart, discreet, loyal, quick to learn and fun to bed. Everything he could have asked. On the other hand,
his
safety was now at stake; not to mention a potentially lucrative relationship.
    ‘Well?’ his host had pressed, pen poised above the dotted line. ‘Do we have a deal?’
    Something unfamiliar had fluttered inside Croke’s chest at that moment; and he’d realized, not without a certain perverse pleasure, that it was fear. It was an unexpected drawback of success, that it allowed you to cut risk out of your life. But risk was excitement; risk was
joy
. So he’d looked unflinchingly up into his host’s gaze. ‘Go fuck yourself,’ he’d said.
    A pinch of garlic salt in the Bloody Marys, a dash of Tabasco, ice cubes and a slice of lemon. He was a traditionalist when it came to drinks. He took the heavy crystal tumblers over to Irina, gave her hers. She took a large swallow. Her eyes gleamed and her jaw muscles tightened. ‘You considered his offer,’ she said bitterly. ‘I saw you considering it.’
    ‘I considered the
situation
,’ he said mildly. ‘It’s not the same thing at all. Besides, if it makes you feel better, it wasn’t about you.’
    She snorted at that. ‘It felt like it was about me.’
    ‘I’m sure it did. But it wasn’t. If it had really been about you, he’d never have signed the contract. We might not even have got out of there alive. It was about
me
. Specifically, he wanted to know if he could trust me, or whether I was the kind of man who could be bribed or bullied into giving up something I valued.’
    ‘I thought you were going to say yes,’ she said, the slight quaver in her voice betraying the way her world had trembled beneath her feet. ‘I thought you were going to give me to that … that
monster
.’
    ‘But that’s the point,’ said Croke. ‘It wouldn’t have been a gift. Not under coercion like that. It would have been
tribute
.’
    She took another gulp, frowned and shook her head. ‘I don’t see—’
    ‘Tribute is something demanded by the stronger party and paid by the weaker,’ explained Croke. ‘I don’t pay tribute. I
never
pay tribute. It sends all the wrong signals. It lets people know you can be pushed around. Gifts, on the other hand, are what equals exchange freely and willingly. They’re a valuable part of what I do; they’re how I form bonds with other powerful people, how I build my influence. Here’s a tip for you: in situations like this morning, where you find yourself at a temporary disadvantage, do whatever you can to achieve parity first, and
only then
show generosity. Otherwise it will be misinterpreted as weakness. Do you understand?’
    She sat a little heavily down in one of the white leather armchairs. ‘My head,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t feel so good.’
    ‘A reaction to the tension, I expect.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Or perhaps to what I put in your Bloody Mary.’
    She frowned a moment then looked in dismay down at her drink. But it was already too late. She tried to push herself up but collapsed back down again.
    ‘You really should have let me know you spoke German,’ he told her. ‘I need to be able to trust the people around me.’
    She tried to say something, maybe explain herself, but nothing came out. The tumbler slipped from her weakening grasp and shattered on the polished marble floor, tomato juice spreading like blood around the translucent shards. Her eyes glazed and her head lolled forward, a little pinkish drool leaking out onto her white blouse.
    The door