Wilson held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Senator, but Rafael has my complete confidence. I don’t do office politics, not at this level. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war on, and we could well lose.” He turned back to the door.
“The Guardians have been running an operation on Mars for twenty years,” Paula said.
Wilson froze, his hand already extended to open the door. After a moment he said, “There’s nothing on Mars. Believe me, I know.”
“You were there for ten hours, over three hundred years ago,” Justine said.
“I was watching the live television broadcast. I remember seeing Lewis, Orchiston, and you stepping out onto the surface. It was the first time in a great many years I was proud of our country again. You were putting up the stars and stripes when Nigel butted in.”
Wilson turned around, anger flushing his cheeks. “So?”
“The Guardians were using the Arabia Terra station to relay their information back to Earth.”
“What sort of information?”
“We’re not sure. Navy intelligence made one attempt to run diagnostic routines through the equipment up there. It appeared to be standard environmental sensors.”
“I don’t get it.” Wilson shook his head, clearly irritated. “The Guardians are terrorists. What do they want with Martian environment data?”
“We don’t know,” Paula said. “But the Paris office is winding down their investigation.”
“Ah. That’s it.” Wilson gave Justine a disdainful glance. “You want me to pressure Rafael into keeping the investigation open.”
“You have been on the receiving end of a Guardian operation,” Paula said. “More than most, you know how serious and effective they can be. They nearly destroyed the Second Chance. A twenty-year operation is not something they would undertake lightly. It would have to be exceptionally important to them. We have got to find out what it is.”
Wilson let out a hiss of air between his teeth. “Maybe. But if it is truly this important, I don’t believe Rafael would ignore it. He’s many things, aggressive, ambitious, intense, unforgiving, yes; but never stupid.”
“Everyone has blind spots, Wilson,” Justine said. “Paula was fired for political reasons, for not being quick enough to produce results.”
“A hundred and thirty years on a case with no result is very reasonable grounds for dismissal in my book,” Wilson said. “No offense.”
“You heard about the LA Galactic incident?” Justine asked. “An assassin killed the Guardians’ courier who was bringing their Martian data back for them. It was the same assassin who destroyed the black market arms dealer on Venice Coast. He also murdered my brother. So he’s not working for the government, and he can’t be working for the Guardians.”
“Who then?” Wilson asked.
“Good question. The Paris office might be able to find the answer. If they keep hunting.”
Wilson looked from Justine to Paula. “What are you asking for?” “Ask Rafael to keep navy intelligence on the Martian inquiry, not to let up.” “Maybe,” Wilson said. “I’ll have to think about all this.”
After an investment of twenty-five years, most of the planets in phase one space were now linked by maglev express lines, providing a fast, efficient service; and based on that success CST was busy expanding the network out across the planets of phase two space. But for all its imagined importance as the link world to Far Away, Boongate still hadn’t got a maglev track. CST was vague about the timetable for installation.
It had taken the standard express from Paris forty minutes to reach Boongate’s CST station, sliding smoothly up alongside platform 2 at twenty-two hundred hours local time. There were only five platforms in the main terminal building, but each of them were bustling with waiting passengers when Renne and Tarlo stepped out from the first-class double-decker carriage. It was raining outside, and the train was dripping onto the track. A chilly night wind blew in under the big arching glass roof, making people stamp their feet and button up their coats. The overhead polyphoto strips threw a bright blue-tinged light across the scene, illuminating the raindrops that lashed in past the edge of the roof like gray sparks.
“Late to be traveling, isn’t it?” Tarlo said as they walked toward the end of the platform. He ignored the curious glances their navy uniforms drew.
Renne pulled her jacket collar up against the cold, and eyed the people lining the platform. They all seemed to be gathered in family clumps, with subdued, yawning children sitting on piles of luggage. Several CST security guards were patrolling.
“Depends how keen you are to leave,” she replied. It was the first time she’d seen any evidence of the displacement that the unisphere news shows featured so heavily these days. But then if it was going to happen anywhere, she realized, it would be here. Most of Boongate’s neighbors were numbered among the Lost23.
They pushed their way through the equally crowded concourse and found the CST security office. Their liaison was Edmund Li, a local police technical officer who’d been seconded to the navy, then appointed to the newly formed Far Away freight inspectorate division. He didn’t bother wearing a navy uniform, just a simple dove-gray office suit. Renne was rather envious of that; her dark tunic always seemed to itch. It reminded her of the time when Paula was still in charge of the Paris office.
Li had a car waiting, which drove them the eight kilometers over to the Far Away section of the yard. As he was briefing them on the latest interceptions, Renne looked out through the rain-smeared glass. Hundreds of lights shone from tall poles across the extensive station yard, revealing the broad empty regions between the rails and distant industrial buildings, a legacy of lost ambition left over from the days when Boongate thought it would become the junction for the adjoining sector of phase three space. Some of the cargo depots were open, big rectangular doors showing trains drawn up inside, their wagons steaming and dripping as cranes and autolifters unloaded their consignments. She saw a long rank of Ables RP5 shunting engines lined up outside a giant engineering shop; unused since the Prime attack sent the Commonwealth economy floundering, they awaited the return of normal commercial operations.
A weak maroon light shimmered on the other side of the Far Away cargo warehouse, glinting on the rails that snaked around outside.
“Is that the Half Way gateway?” Renne asked. The semicircle of bland luminescence was coming into view from behind the long dark building as the car drew near. It resembled a tired moon sinking below the horizon.
“Yeah,” Edmund Li said. “There’s not been much outgoing traffic since the Prime attack. Most of it is cargo to companies and big landowners, and the Institute, of course. Not much personal stuff, either; anyone who was planning on emigrating has put it on hold, and their tourist trade has packed up completely.”
“What about traffic coming this way?” Tarlo asked.
“Sure. Plenty of people want to get the hell out of there. Who wouldn’t? They’re damn close to Dyson Alpha, but it costs a lot to travel between Boongate and Far Away. Most don’t have that kind of money. And I don’t know how long the Commonwealth Civil Council will keep the gateway open.”
The car pulled up outside the warehouse, and they hurried through the rain to the small office attached to the side of the main building like a brick wart. Inside, the office was a simple open-plan rectangle, with nine desks down the middle. The console arrays on seven of them were covered with plastic dust jackets.
Tarlo gave them a curious look as they walked past. “How many staff does the division employ?”
“There are twenty-five of us on the payroll,” Edmund Li said in a deadpan voice.
“Right. And how many show up?”
“It was four of us yesterday. Tomorrow, who knows?”
Tarlo and Renne gave each other a knowing glance.
“I think that’s called being absent without leave,” Tarlo said. “The Admiral will probably have them shot.”
“He’ll have to find them
first,” Edmund Li told them. “I doubt they’ll be on this world. They had families.”
“So why are you still here?” Renne asked. “It’s not like this is the most vital job in the Commonwealth right now.”
“I was born on Boongate. I guess that makes it easier for me to stay than the others. And I haven’t started a family this life around.” He pushed through the door that led into the warehouse.
It was chilly inside the cavernous space. A single row of polyphoto strips was alight along the apex, casting a desultory light on the bare metal racks that ran the entire length of the enzyme-bonded concrete floor. Rain hitting the solar panel roof produced a loud drumming noise that reverberated around the nearly empty building.
“It gets kind of unnerving working here,” Edmund Li said. He stepped over a set of rail tracks that ran down the middle of the floor to a huge door at the end of the warehouse. “We are physically the closest people to the Half Way gateway. If the Primes did come through, we’d be the first to know about it. You feel really exposed. I don’t really blame the others for quitting.”
They came to a pair of ordinary flatbed train wagons that were sitting on the track, both of them loaded with big gray composite crates. A deep-scan sensor hoop spanned the track twenty meters away; several desks had been set up around its base. Their screens and arrays were all silent and dark. A broad workbench beside them was equipped with several robotic machine tools. Three of the crates sat on top of it; they’d been broken open.
“Urien found these yesterday.” Edmund Li gestured. The packing crates contained bulky sections of machinery that the power tools had split apart. Almost all of the electrical circuitry had been removed and laid out on the bench in a jumble of coiled cable and black box modules.
“All right, so what are we looking at?” Tarlo asked.
“The machinery in this consignment is all agricultural; combine harvesters, tractors, drillers, irrigation systems. It’s shipped in sections like this to be reassembled on Far Away. Makes life quite easy for us to scan it all. We were lucky Urien was on duty when this lot went through; his family are landowners on Dunedin. The man knows his farming tools. He thought there was something odd about the wiring, especially as these are all diesel fueled. Turns out he was right.” Edmund held up some of the cabling, which was as thick as his wrist. “Heavy-duty superconductor. And these current modulators have a massive power rating.”
“Not the manufacturer’s spec then?” Tarlo said.
“Heavens no. This is intended for something that uses a phenomenal amount of electricity.”
“Any ideas?”
Edmund Li grinned as he shook his head. “I have absolutely no clue. That’s why I made the call to your office. I thought you should know right away.”
“Appreciate that. So where was it heading?”
“The address is for Palamaro Ranch in the Taliong district, that’s a long way east of Armstrong City; they say that’s where the Barsoomians are.”
“All right. What we really need are the shipment and financial details. Who was the agent? Which bank was used? Where was the machinery packed?”
“Yeah.” Edmund Li scratched the back of his neck, giving the muddle of machinery a doubtful look. The rain pounding on the roof grew even louder as a dense squall lashed down. “Look, I’m sure that back on Earth that kind of data is beautifully formatted and filed for instant access. Things are a little different here. For a start, some of this stuff is already missing.”
“Missing?” Renne exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. Everyone knows we keep expensive goods in here overnight. Take a look around, lady. Do you see any guardbots on patrol outside? We’ve got sensors, but even if an alarm goes off, the nearest CST security agent is eight kilometers away over in the terminal, and right now they’re all real busy on crowd control. The police are farther away, and care even less.”
“Goddamnit,” Tarlo hissed. “Did you manage to get a record of everything you found in this shipment?”
“I’m pretty sure Urien recorded it, yes. There will be the deep-scan sensor record if nothing else. It just hasn’t been loaded in our official database yet; it’s probably in his console’s temporary store folder.”
Renne made a strong effort to keep her growing anger in check. No good shouting at Edmund Li: they were lucky he even bothered to call them. “What about the associated datawork Tarlo asked about? Is that in a temporary folder somewhere?”
“No. I haven’t started rounding that up yet. It shouldn’t take too long; a lot of the inventory and authorization will be filed with the station’s Far Away export control office.”
“How’s their staffing level?” Tarlo asked bitterly.
Edmund Li just raised an eyebrow.
“Hogan is going to go apeshit,” Renne decided. Another setback. This case is truly jinxed.
“Well, he needn’t try blaming us,” Tarlo said. “But I’m beginning to understand why the boss never found any decent leads here.”
“It’s only since the attack things have gotten like this,” Edmund Li said. “It didn’t help that this operation was still being set up at the time. I can’t even complain about not having any money; it’s lack of people that is the problem.”
“Right,” Tarlo said decisively. “Renne, there’s no point both of us staying here; you get back to Paris. I’ll stay on and run the checks on this consignment. Once we have the basic source, route, and finance information, we can start the backtrack operation from Paris.”
Renne gave the shaded, gaping warehouse a final examination. “No argument. You’d better arrange for what’s left to be shipped back as well. Forensics can start going over it. They might be able to tell us what it’s for.”
Tarlo put out a hand to shake. “Ten dollars they can’t.”
“No takers.”
It was officially called the Westminster Palace Museum of Democracy, but as always everyone just called it Big Ben after the famous clock tower that stood guard at the eastern end. Adam Elvin used his credit tattoo to pay the standard entry fee and walked in through the ornate arching stonework of StStephen’s entrance opposite the Abbey. With its lengthy halls, elongated windows, and bare stone interior, the old British Parliament building always gave him the impression of being a misappropriated cathedral. The lobby between the two main chambers had incongruous wooden furniture huddled defensively between big white statues, while gold-tinted light poured in through the vaulting stained-glass windows highlighting the carvings that stretched up each wall. Groups of chattering schoolchildren rushed about, looking around through interface goggles as the guide program described the historical significance of everything they focused on. Doors into the Commons were open, where holograms faded in and out above the chamber’s green benches, to produce images of successive politicians from the pre-electronic era right up until the last English Parliament in 2065. In the House of Lords the whole rise and fall of the British monarchy from William the Conqueror at the Battle of Hastings to King Timothy signing the act to grant the right of self-determination to his people was played out amid spectral pomp and splendor.
Adam ignored the Victorian Gothic grandeur and the dodgy history lessons to carry on through to the terrace café along the side of the Thames. It extended for over two hundred meters, nearly the entire length of the building, and was always a popular spot for tourists and locals alike. A warm spring breeze coming off the wide river rustled the tall table parasols with their elaborate portcullis emblem. Waitresses threaded their way through the tight maze, delivering trays and taking orders. He had to suck in his stomach and slither his way awkwardly past seats, warding off annoyed glances, to reach a table that was right up against the terrace parapet itself.
Bradley Johansson smiled up at him. “Adam, so good of you to come, old chap.”
“Yeah right,” Adam grunted, and sat down next to Bradley.
A young waitress dressed in a faux-Tudor boy’s costume with
emerald-green tights showing off her long legs came over and smiled hopefully.
“Another afternoon tea for my friend,” Bradley told her winningly. “With cream scones, and I think a glass of that delightful Gifford’s champagne.”
Her smile brightened. “Yes, sir.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Adam muttered after she walked off. Everybody had to be looking at them.
“Now don’t go all Bolshevik on me,” Bradley chided. “When in Rome and all that. Besides, it’s proper Cornish clotted cream.”
“Woopie fucking do.”
“Come on, Adam, they’ve turned this ancient seat of class privilege into a lovely teashop for the common man. There’s got to be a metaphor or two in that, surely? I thought you’d enjoy this.”
Adam would never admit it, but he always experienced a slight burst of admiration for the way Bradley chose to meet him in the most outrageously public places. There was a kind of bravado about it that Adam’s dreary paranoid tradecraft would never permit.
“Kazimir would have liked it,” Adam said. “The history on this world always amazed him. Nearly every building he went in was older than Far Away.”
Bradley’s affable expression hardened. “What happened, Adam? That data was vital.” His hand slapped the table in fury. People did look. Bradley’s smile returned, meeting the stares apologetically.
Adam didn’t often get to see the claws. It wasn’t nice. “We pieced it together eventually. He sneaked off to see a girl before the courier mission. Apparently, they met a long time ago back on Far Away. Turns out she was a little more important than your average tourist.”
“Who is she?”
“Justine Burnelli.”
“The Senator?” Bradley blinked in surprise. “Well, bless the dreaming heavens. No wonder the navy was on to him. I thought he was smarter than that, a lot smarter.”
“Kazimir was murdered by a Starflyer agent called Bruce McFoster. He and Kazimir grew up together.”
The Commonwealth Saga 2-Book Bundle Page 122
