"Some, 'bout half. I write my own, too, man!" O'Donal was stuffed with righteous indignation. "I see what you're getting at, I'm no cyborg, man. I've got my own scene outside that arsehole. I'd have made solo without Wolf. I would!"

"Give me your bank account number, the one your Event Horizon burn money was paid into."

O'Donal clutched at his hair with both hands, pulling hard. "Shit, no way man, I've got everything stashed in there. I only burnt your fucking company once."

Greg jammed the Mulekick down on O'Donal's Akai terminal. Blue-white static tapeworms writhed across the heat-dump fins, snapping and popping like arid matchwood.

"All right!" O'Donal shouted. "Jesus." He looked down hopelessly at the tiny wisp of smoke rising from the back of the Akai.

The restraint of fear was wearing thin, anger was predominating again. Greg knew he'd have to do something about that. Soon.

O'Donal's fingers trembled softly as he squirted the information from the Mizzi to Greg's cybofax. "Hey, listen, you ain't going to like do anything to me, are you? I co-operated man, really I did. You know it all now. God's honest truth, every last byte."

"That's right," Greg said, and straight-armed O'Donal with the Mulekick, punching the electrode deep into his small flaccid beer gut.

O'Donal's cheeks inflated, eyes bulging. Alcohol-toxic breath rushed out of him, and he curled up, collapsing backwards on to the terminals. Memox crystals went glissading over the cold brick floor.

"Did you enjoy that?" Gabriel asked.

"No. Come on, time for us to make our exit."

Greg sneaked a peek through the lounge door on the way out. The pool was filling up; people fully clothed, people half-clothed, naked people; empty magnums and sodden burger baps were bobbing about among them. A cloud of thick blue-black smoke was mushrooming up from the barbecue grill, the steaks and sausages were burning fiercely. Led Zep was crashing out 'Whole Lotta Love'. Hell of a party.

Greg tugged the Duo away from the kerb in a tight U-turn, ignoring the shrill clamour of incensed bicycle bells, and headed back towards Oakham.

Gabriel hunched down in the passenger seat and devoured the information O'Donal had squirted into his cybofax.

"Make any sense to you?" Greg asked.

"Nothing obvious leaps out. The targets are companies and finance houses. Most of the time Wolf wanted logic bombs crashed into their data cores; though there are some data snatches too, mainly high-tech research."

"Doesn't tell us much. I'll squirt it over to Morgan Walshaw, get his economic intelligence team to run an analysis on it, see who benefits most."

"But you've got a pretty good guess. I know you. You're almost happy about finding this list."

"Yeah. What odds will you give me that our friend Kendric di Girolamo comes up top of the beneficiaries?"

"You really have got it in for him, haven't you?"