guards performed more detailed searches. To one side was a striped wooden cabin where the guards
amused themselves with cards and cheap pornography. A low stone wall overlooked a narrow, pebbled
quay. An empty chair stood by the wall, next to a large trestle table covered with a cloth.
“Say as little as possible,” Floyd said to Custine.
As the guard with the machine gun returned to his post, another from the inspection area knocked on the
roof of the car. “Bring it out. Place it on the table.”
Floyd and Custine worked the case from the rear of the Mathis. It was cumbersome rather than heavy,
and had already accumulated enough scuffs and scratches that a few more wouldn’t matter.
“You want me to open it?” Custine asked.
“Of course,” the second guard said. “And remove the instrument, please.”
Custine did as he was told, setting the double bass down gently. There was just enough room for it on
the table next to the empty case. “There,” he said. “You’re welcome to examine the case if you think I
have the ingenuity to hide something in it other than the instrument.”
“It’s not the case I’m concerned about,” the guard said. He motioned to one of his colleagues, who was
sitting on a folding chair next to the striped cabin. The man put down his newspaper and picked up a
wooden toolkit—an inspector of some kind, clearly. “I’ve seen these two before,” the guard continued.
“They’re back and forth across the river like it’s going out of fashion. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
The inspector narrowed his eyes at Custine. “I know this one,” he said. “Used to be a policeman, didn’t
you? Some big cheese at Central Headquarters?”
“I felt a change of career would do me good.”
Floyd took a fresh toothpick from his shirt pocket, inserted into his mouth and bit down. The sharp end
dug into his mouth, drawing blood.
“Quite a comedown, isn’t it, from high-profile police work to this?” the inspector persisted, setting his
toolkit down.
“If you say so,” Custine replied.
The inspector picked up the double bass, shaking it with a look of deep concentration on his face before
returning it to the table. “Nothing rattling around,” he said, reaching for his toolkit. “Still, they might
have taped something to the inside. We’ll have to take this boy apart.”
file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Alastair%20Reynolds%20-%20Century%20Rain.html (10 of 556)22-12-2006 17:44:18