It was a common arrangement for such places. The subterranean hollows were easy to keep temperature controlled, and provided a natural level of physical security for the contents. From his current vantage, right on the edge of the drop, Zidarov could see all the way along the transit canals that ran due west, carving through the city, hammering a straight course all the way to the distant coast. As he watched, a mag-transport was coming in, three hundred and twenty feet long, fifty high, labouring on a whole raft of static-spitting plates. It would slide under them soon, making the floor shake, to find a berth far below.

You could see a lot of Urgeyena through those windows. He wondered if some of the specks on the grimy far horizon were places he’d just driven through, and whether Udmil’s perfumed gardens could have been picked out, if he’d had an ocular magnifier with him. Maybe even his own hab-tower, nestled somewhere in the anonymous suburbs.

Zidarov pulled the chair up, holstered his pistol, then sat opposite Chaikos, who was still twitching nervously.

‘Exceptional view,’ he said.

Chaikos glanced miserably over his shoulder, as if he’d forgotten it was there. ‘I guess.’

Zidarov placed his hands together. ‘Last time I was here, you weren’t.’

‘You’ve… been here before?’

‘A year ago.’

‘You’d have spoken to Gilla. She ran things then.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘People move on. You need to find her?’

‘No. I’m sure she’s doing just fine. Business good?’

Chaikos was beginning to lose his twitch. Now he just looked bruised and sullen. ‘It’s steady.’

‘What’s coming in?’

‘Shipments from Ref Karsa, mostly. We take our slice.’

‘That’s how it works.’ Zidarov noticed a spot of blood on his jacket, and rubbed at it. ‘And your supervision?’

‘You mean Mzl Ndada?’

‘I don’t.’ The spot proved stubborn. ‘This isn’t about you. You were very stupid to think it was. How often does Adeard Terashova come down here?’

Chaikos looked first bewildered, then worried. The man was transparent – he was wondering what was more dangerous, dissembling to Zidarov, or informing on his ultimate employer.

‘I really don’t want to ask again,’ Zidarov said.

‘Once a month, maybe,’ Chaikos said, quickly.

‘What does he do, when he gets here?’

‘He supervises.’

Zidarov laughed. ‘When was the last time?’

‘I don’t know. Three weeks ago?’

‘Think about it.’

‘Three weeks ago.’

‘What did he do, when he was here?’

‘Looked over the books. Checked the orders.’

Zidarov turned away from the view. He got up, strolled over to the stacks of papers. Chaikos stayed where he was, like a nervous canid. ‘These things?’ Zidarov asked, prising the lid from a box.

‘Yeah, mostly, but–’