Broken Dolls: An Urban Fantasy (The Telepathic Clans Saga Book 3)

by BR Kingsolver

  “Does your intelligence doubt my trustworthiness?” I asked. This conversation was starting to put me on edge.

  “No. You have a reputation for being honest. But some of your activities and methods might be described as distasteful.”

  It took me a bit of running that comment around in my head, thinking of the men and women I’d seduced for money. Then anger started to bubble up.

  “You sanctimonious prig,” I hissed. “You run intelligence operations against every Clan and government in the world. You use succubi to influence governments. You steal nuclear weapons. Who the hell are you to judge me?”

  His expression didn’t change. “I’m a former wilder who used his Talents to pick people’s pockets. I made a mistake when I was fifteen. I tried to lift the wallet of Seamus O’Donnell.”

  A wilder is someone who has grown up outside a telepathic society. Many of them go insane, others become alcoholics or drug addicts. If you aren’t shown how to shield, your mind is open to the thoughts of everyone you pass in the street.

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. I couldn’t help it. I thought about what he’d said and envisioned the scene in my mind. I burst out laughing.

  “Yes, it was a rather rude awakening for a street kid who thought he had it all figured out,” he said. “He didn’t even lay a hand on me.”

  “I don’t use compulsion,” I said. “Except in domestic disputes, I only work for the good guys. In a divorce, most of the time neither side is clean. I don’t steal. And I owe Lord and Lady O’Byrne for most of the kindness in my life. Other than my mother and grandmother, they’re the closest I have to family. I may not have sworn fealty to a Clan, but the Lord is as close to a father as I’ve ever had. You don’t have to worry about my ethics where O’Byrne is concerned.”

  He nodded and pushed the stack of files toward me. All but one.

  I stood and picked them up. The files were about six inches thick.

  “And that one?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t have anything in it you don’t know about,” he answered, opening it up.

  Several pictures of me, taken at different times in different settings, were paper-clipped inside the cover. The first page had my name, vital statistics, even my damn bra size, and biography. I reached out and paged through it. My time at O’Byrne in high school. My time at Oxford. The year I spent hitch hiking across Europe. Some of the highlights of my cases. My comments about O’Donnell’s espionage activities were confirmed. A copy of my entire Interpol personnel file was included.

  “Am I of that much interest to O’Donnell?” I asked, hoping my voice was steady. Inside, I was shaken. They had been keeping tabs on me for twenty years.

  “Any telepath with your power is of interest to us,” he replied. “It’s worth it to us to keep track of you, and hope that you continue working for the good guys.”

  I looked up and met his clear blue eyes. Even with my Empathy fully employed, I could feel no malice. Amusement and lust, yes.

  “Where is the office I can use?”

  ~~~

  The information in the files was depressing and alarming. Nigel was right. The attack in Paris was only the surface. There had been other attacks on O’Donnell. Women had been beaten and killed. Young girls had been kidnapped, minds wiped, and forced into prostitution.

  It took me two days to read through all the information. The Gordon Clan in England and von Ebersberg in Bavaria were deeply involved. O’Donnell had operatives all over Europe and England attempting to find more information. And they had a lot more resources than I did.

  Although the factual information was useful, a file containing an analysis by a woman named Rebecca Healy addressed most of my unanswered questions. Twenty pages long, it started with an overview of global trafficking, saying it had grown to a forty-billion-dollar-a-year business. It detailed the explosion of European trafficking after the Soviet bloc disintegrated, and traced both the east-to-west and the west-to-east trafficking patterns. Then, as I turned a page, it hit the heart of the matter.

  The trafficking of telepathic women is a recent phenomenon. Most of the women identified are either succubi, s-gene carriers, or women with unusual or Rare Gifts. In-depth interrogation of those involved with the trafficking and extrapolation from known intelligence information provide answers to why these women are commanding premium prices. One captured trafficker revealed that he expected a ten million dollar price for a single succubus.

  All known kidnapped telepathic women were captured by drugging them. The most common method was intramuscular injection of a cocktail of fast-acting drugs, though some were subdued by so-called “date rape” drugs introduced in alcoholic beverages.

  It appears that the ability to implant constructs into telepaths significantly reduces the need for “training,” which usually includes a violent and traumatic series of events to break the woman’s spirit and make her compliant. A construct, with associated compulsions, eliminates this need and allows a faster and more certain introduction of the woman into revenue-producing activities without damage to the merchandise.

  With succubi and s-gene carriers, this process is even easier, as compulsions to block moral or cultural inhibitions to promiscuity are unnecessary.

  There are multiple reasons why telepathic women are desired trafficking objects. Examination of women who have been recovered reveals that the constructs, compulsions and training are aimed at taking advantage of their telepathic Gifts.

  A telepath can read what the “john” considers pleasurable, project pleasure into the mind of the “john,” and directly stimulate pleasure centers in the brain. Taken together, this makes the “john” feel as though the encounter was the best he has ever experienced. Prices for such women are ten to one hundred times as high as for normal prostitutes and escorts. Evidence is that return business is very regular and highly profitable.

  In addition to the increased revenue such women bring their pimps, many are also trained to scan the customer’s mind for credit card and bank account numbers, passwords, passport numbers, and other personal information that can be used for identity theft, looting of bank accounts, and at times enslaving wealthy normal customers. In one instance, a single five hundred dollar sexual encounter netted the trafficking ring almost a half million dollars in follow-on revenue.

  There is some evidence that women with unusual Gifts, including the Kashani Gift, have been sold to far-east customers. Intelligence reports suggest that the Chinese Clans are extracting eggs from these women for use in selective breeding and genetic manipulation experiments.

  I read that section a half-dozen times. It bothered me just as much the sixth time as it did the first.

  The second day, a man came to the office I was using and handed me an external computer hard drive.

  “It’s a copy of the computer in Carpenter’s apartment,” he told me.

  “An exact copy? Nothing left out?” I asked, disappointed. I had planned on going by Carpenter’s apartment and taking it myself.

  “A bit copy,” he answered. “The only things not there are the viruses.” He handed me a piece of paper. “These are all the passwords. It took me two hours to crack them all. I thought I’d save you the trouble. There are also pictures of your girl there.” He pointed to a line on the paper with a folder address.

  I put the hard drive in my bag and went back to reading the files. That afternoon, I sat back finally and tried to blank my mind. Gradually, thoughts began to seep back into the blankness. The information I’d absorbed was overwhelming and sickening. The important thing was that I was only looking for one girl. I didn’t have to break the whole nasty business.

  I gathered up the files and took them back to Richardson’s office. His secretary barely glanced at me and told me to go in.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  “I think I’m on information overload,” I said. “I appreciate the background. It gives me a better idea of what I’m up against.”
<
br />   “We can work together,” he said.

  “I work alone. I’ll keep you informed if I find anything.”

  “These are very dangerous people. There are bodies all over the place,” Richardson said, leaning forward with an earnest expression on his face.

  “I understand that,” I said. “I’m not exactly harmless.”

  “At least let me assign people to provide some backup.”

  “I don’t need a damned army. I appreciate the offer, but I stand a better chance of finding Myrna working alone. I can feel your Protectors a hundred yards away. I’m sure the bad guys can, too.” That wasn’t entirely true. I could feel Edwin and Davin at an even greater distance. I didn’t think Richardson needed to know that.

  “Miss Kendrick, I ...,” he stopped, and seemed to consider what he was going to say. “Look, these people traffic women. Telepathic women. You’re not daft, and I assume you own a mirror. You could be sold for millions.”

  He handed me his card. An additional phone number was hand-written on the back.

  “That’s my personal mobile. Call if you need help.”

  I gestured to my file that still sat on his desk. “Mr. Richardson, I’m sure you’re aware that I don’t need a phone number. If I need to contact you, I will. Thank you for your time and help. I’ll be in touch if I find anything I think will interest you.”

  He nodded. As I opened the door to leave, he said, “Miss Kendrick.”

  I turned back. “Yes?”

  “Something that wasn’t in those files,” he started. I stopped and stepped back into the office. “O’Donnell has declared war on Gordon.”

  Holy Goddess, preserve us. Suddenly it felt as though there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

  “Be very careful about going near Gordon or any of his people,” Nigel continued. “I’d hate to see you caught in a crossfire.”

  I took a deep breath. His eyes dropping to my chest amused me enough that I was able to get my bearings. You can always count on men being men.

  “Can you give me a safe-passage marker or something for your Protectors?” I asked.

  He reached out his business card again. “This with my personal mobile number is enough of a physical token,” he said. “If you want something better, let me into your second level.”

  I did a quick mental check, pushed a number of things on my second level down into my third level, then opened my mind to him. He pushed a compact thought package into my mind. I checked it out. It said, “This is an O’Donnell ally. Provide protection and full cooperation. Return her to O’Byrne if injured.” It had Richardson’s distinct mental signature and a code that I didn’t understand, but I assumed it verified the message.

  “Thank you, Mr. Richardson.”

  “When you’re finished with this case, I’d enjoy taking you to dinner some evening.”

  I fought the smile that sprang to my face and managed to tone it down, if not suppress it. “Mr. Richardson, I might be talked into that offer.”

  ~~~

  Chapter 12

  Gordon Enterprises, Limited, was headquartered in the Gordon Building, a gleaming glass and steel skyscraper, located on the south bank of the Thames across from the Tower. I drifted south across the Tower Bridge wearing a souvenir t-shirt with a camera around my neck. It was a pretty summer day and I was enjoying myself, playing tourist and taking some nice pictures.

  Normally, I don’t pay much attention to other telepaths. London is always swarming with them. Thousands live there and at least hundreds more are visiting at any given time. Contrary to popular fiction, telepaths don’t go around reading minds all the time. The thought of opening my filters to millions of norms is both terrifying and depressing. I have my own problems. Why would I want to know about theirs?

  But that day I was paying attention to telepaths. I figured there were over five thousand of them within a two-mile radius of where I was standing. Roughly guessing, of course. I wasn’t about to count even if I did have that many fingers and toes. There were two predominant moods I could detect. A minority were what I would describe as grimly determined. Most of the rest were apprehensive or fearful, or both. That over a thousand Protectors were within several hundred yards of the Gordon Building was enough to have me included in the apprehensive crowd.

  As I neared the south end of the bridge, I could see that there was an extraordinary number of people dressed head-to-toe in black. It was unusual for a warm summer day. Remembering Nigel’s warning about crossfires, I decided I’d conduct my surveillance through the telescopic lens of my camera.

  *Edwin, Davin?* I called to my unseen shadows.

  Davin answered immediately, *Yes, RB?*

  *Am I walking into a battle?* I asked him.

  *I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t bet against it, either. There’s a hell of a lot of firepower concentrated in and around that building.*

  *That’s kind of what I thought,* I said. *Are you in contact with the O’Donnell Protectors?*

  *Yes, and if something happens, we will be considered enemy combatants by Gordon’s Guardians.*

  *And me?*

  The emotion that came through the link from him was pretty scary. *From the O’Donnell side, they’ll try to keep from hurting you, but they won’t lose any sleep if you’re collateral damage. From the Gordon side, they don’t give a damn about collateral damage. At best, they’d consider you a spoil of war.*

  A chill passed through me and I shuddered. *I take it that you’d rather I not be here,* I ventured.

  *RB, I would rather lower the odds that either my brother or I will die today.*

  I turned and started walking north, back across the bridge. He was as serious as the day he’d followed me into that house outside of Dublin. I knew he wasn’t a coward, but he was right. This wasn’t our fight.

  As I neared the northern end of the bridge, I felt something stir the psychic air and turned back to look at the building across the river. Seeing motion on the roof, I turned my telephoto lens that direction and watched as a helicopter landed. I snapped pictures as people scurried around, and then it took off again. It rose a couple of hundred feet, faltered, seemed to drop, then stabilized and shot off to the south.

  *Risky business, that, in a city,* Edwin sent.

  *What happened?* I asked.

  *Someone tried to capture the ‘copter with an air shield,* he replied. *It could have crashed if someone on the other side wasn’t powerful enough to override it.*

  *And?*

  *I think Gordon was on that ‘copter. He has the O’Donnell Gift. In any case, the man who projected the air shield is dead.*

  Okay. I didn’t know that about Gordon. Richardson hadn’t warned me. I had the power to project an air shield around that helicopter, even that far away. I didn’t have the power to reach out mentally and kill people hundreds of yards away, the rare ability called the O’Donnell Gift. When I was in training, I was told not to worry about it. It was so rare that I’d probably never encounter it, and since there was no defense, it didn’t matter anyway.

  I took a deep breath and remembered how men like Gordon, Lord O’Byrne and Seamus O’Donnell became Clan Chiefs. It was because of inheritance, but only partly due to who their fathers were. Lord O’Byrne was a younger son, but far more powerful than his brothers.

  ~~~

  Gordon’s estate was west of the city, along the Thames near Windsor. A very pricey neighborhood, but his great-great grandfather probably got a deal on the place back in 1432.

  A couple of days before, I had entertained fantasies of perhaps getting an appointment with Gordon and discussing his business interests. Very few telepaths scare me. But after what I’d learned that morning, I no longer wanted to be within a mile of the man. The people working for him could have information that might be useful, though.

  I drove out of the city, and leaving the highway, took back roads to within a couple of miles of his estate. I parked the car on the side of a little-used farm road and
set out on foot. I had my shields locked down as tightly as I could, and scanned both telepathically and visually for any people. I cut across fields, climbing fences and walls, keeping to what woods or other cover I could find. A good sniper can kill someone a mile away. Rumor has it that so can a telepath with the O’Donnell Gift.

  I could feel other telepaths in the vicinity, but I managed to reach the top of a hill overlooking Gordon’s manor house without encountering anyone. I was about four hundred yards away. I couldn’t figure out how I had found such a good vantage point without stepping on a dozen other observers. There must have been two hundred people watching the estate, not to mention the hundred or so Guardians patrolling the perimeter. I’d gladly have paid for this seat, even without popcorn.

  I lay in a slight depression, watching the house through a set of binoculars. There wasn’t any movement I could discern. The house looked deserted. I settled in for a long wait.

  About an hour after I arrived, a convoy of half a dozen vehicles turned off the road and drove up the long driveway toward the house. They parked in front, and Guardians poured out of four lorries. A white-haired man got out of a white Rolls Royce. He stood looking about, then walked into the house. He looked a lot like the pictures of Gordon I’d seen.

  Shortly thereafter, more lorries full of Guardians arrived. The tranquil country setting began to look as though an army was preparing for a siege.

  A helicopter landed behind the house, and the occupants scurried out and in through a back entrance. I knew that Gordon had two sons and a daughter, and one of the men emerging from the chopper looked a lot like pictures I’d seen of his oldest son.

  There was some milling around by his Guardians. The men and women who arrived with him conferred with those who had emerged from some of the out buildings. From where I lay watching, it looked like a disturbed anthill. Someone ran out of the house into the largest gathering, and I rose to my knees, adjusting my binoculars for a closer look.