by Mike Resnick
“We'll see,” she said. “Computer?”
“Yes?”
“Has there been any change in either patient's non-medical status during the past two days?”
“Yes.”
“Which patient?”
“Patient Benares.”
“Nature of change?”
“Transferred from third floor to sixth floor.”
“Reason for transfer?”
“Security.”
“Reason for security?”
“Classified.”
“Go to pause mode.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Well, Max,” she said, turning to him, “it looks like Benares is your man.”
“That wasn't so difficult,” remarked Becker.
“That was the easy part,” she answered. “Now we've got to find out the nature of the added security, and how to get around it.”
“You're on a roll,” said Becker. “Go ahead and ask.”
Jaimie shook her head. “A direct question concerning security would set off every alarm the system has—and unlike the machine I used last night, this one won't be able to cover our tracks. They'll know exactly where the call came from.” She paused. “This is gonna require a little thought.”
She pulled out a smokeless cigarette and walked over to a large easy chair, where she sat down, tucking her feet beneath her, and stared out at the beach.
Becker watched her, feeling totally useless. He had a number of suggestions he wanted to make, but he was sure that she had already considered and rejected each of them. Finally he sighed, lit another of his small cigars, and sat down on the bed, propping his back up against a couple of pillows.
Jaimie remained motionless for so long that Becker thought she had fallen asleep. Then, just as he had finally made up his mind to cross the room and shake her into wakefulness, she stood up and returned to her computer.
“Computer?”
“Yes?”
“How many means of access are there to the sixth floor?”
“Two public elevators, one service elevator, one medical elevator, and one stairwell.”
“Differentiate between a service elevator and a medical elevator.”
“The medical elevator can accommodate two hospital beds on wheels, and has oxygen supplies built into the walls. The service elevator, while larger, is not sterile, and is exclusively for the use of the maintenance crew.”
“Can patients on the sixth floor receive guests?”
“Yes, with restrictions.”
“What restrictions?”
“Ground level security must approve their visitors’ passes.”
“Can patients on the sixth floor receive vidphone communications?”
“Yes, with restrictions.”
“What restrictions?”
“Hospital security must approve the calls before they are connected, and all calls are monitored.”
“What level of authority is required for security approval?”
“It varies with the patient.”
“Are you empowered to answer the previous question with regard to individual patients?”
“I am not.”
“Go to pause mode.”
“Acknowledged.”
She turned to Becker. “That's about as explicit as I can get without tripping an alarm. We know that we have to be approved by security on the ground level, we don't dare ask how many armed guards are watching Benares, and we know that any attempt to get him on the vidphone will be tapped, even if we manage to break through the security system.”
“Then how the hell I am supposed to get in to see him—disguise myself as a maintenance man?”
“Too obvious,” she said. “Or not obvious enough.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Along with the fact that this hospital, like any other, has a large store of drugs, it also has a number of people in it that the military wants to keep safe and private. Just take my word for it—they count their maintenance people, and they've got the maintenance elevator rigged with half a dozen scanners. You walk into it half an inch too tall, or with too many fillings in your teeth, or three pounds too light, and you're going to find that a reception committee is waiting for you when the doors open.” She shook her head. “No, if you go to the hospital, you'll go in your military outfit and use your own name, and we'll see just how far we can bluff our way.”
“You sound as if there's an alternative.”
“There is: Lieutenant Edward MacCarron.”
“Who the hell is Lieutenant Edward MacCarron?”
“He's the man who cashed Montoya's last paycheck,” answered Jaimie. “Obviously he has access to him.”
“Even now that he's been transferred to the security floor?” said Becker dubiously.
“I don't know—but tomorrow's payday, and I'll bet Montoya has MacCarron cash his check again.”
“He can just have it deposited directly into his account,” objected Becker.
“He could have done it last week, too,” replied Jaimie. “But he didn't. What does that imply to you?”
“That he needs cash, I suppose.”
“Right,” she agreed.
“But why the hell would he need cash in a hospital ward?”
“There's a bunch of healthy spies up there waiting for new identities. Probably they've got an around-the-clock poker game going, or something like that.”
“But Montoya's sick.”
“Wouldn't you risk a little flu for a few hundred dollars, especially if you were bored to tears sitting around waiting for reassignment?”
“I suppose so,” admitted Becker. “So our next step is to find MacCarron before the paychecks are passed out tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Once we talk to him, we'll have a much better picture of the set-up at the hospital, and how to get around it.”
“What makes you think he'll talk to us?”
“Because he owes money all over town,” she answered. “I don't know if he's a gambler and a junkie, or if he's keeping a woman on the side, but he obviously spends more than he makes—which means that for the proper bribe, he ought to be willing to talk to just about anybody.”
“How much do you think it will take?”
“Oh, I wouldn't offer him much more than five hundred dollars. We could give him a million just as easily, but that would set off every alarm in his empty little head.”
“I don't have that kind of money with me,” said Becker, “and somehow I doubt that he'll take a credit card.”
“I'll pick it up tomorrow morning.”
“Where can you get it on such short notice?”
Jaimie grinned. “Do you really want to know?”
“No, I really don't,” he said with a sigh.
8.
They had an early dinner in the hotel's restaurant, and Becker, feeling slightly silly, did his best to look like a sexual predator. Finally Jaimie went back to her room to locate MacCarron, while Becker wandered into the bar, where the huge holographic screen was showing a boxing match between two quick little featherweights, one from Zimbabwe and one from Pakistan, both with their fervent and very vocal rooting sections.
He ordered a martini, then sought out a small booth in the shadows at the back of the room, and spent the next hour nursing his drink while watching a procession of fights leading up to the main event, which featured two Oriental middleweights whose names were unfamiliar to him.
The fight had just gotten interesting when Jaimie approached him.
“Well?” Becker asked softly.
“I know where he should be. There's a bar that takes his personal checks, and he's always short of money. That's where he figures to go when he's off duty.”
“How will we know when he's off duty?”
She grinned.
“Silly question,” he amended. “When does he get off?”
“Nine o'clock.”
“Then we've got about an hour to kill.”
> “We've got an hour to plan.”
“What's to plan?” said Becker. “I'll just approach him and...”
“And what?” she demanded. “Bribe him to sneak you into Montoya's room?”
“I hadn't really thought about it,” admitted Becker.
“Fortunately for you, I have.”
“And?”
“And it seems to me that the quickest way to wind up in the brig is for you to bribe a friend of Montoya's to let you see him—especially when you're the reason he's been transferred to a security level of the hospital in the first place.”
“I'll explain the problem to him.”
“You tell him half of what you told me and he'll think you're drunk or crazy.”
Becker sighed. “You have a better way, of course?”
“Of course.”
“I'm listening.”
“The key to this is that MacCarron is Montoya's friend.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“It's a fair assumption. He's the one Montoya trusts to cash his check.”
“He could ask any security guard.”
“He could—but MacCarron's the one he does ask.”
“Okay, so MacCarron's his friend,” conceded Becker. “So what?”
She shook her head sadly. “I do wish you'd get over this notion that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. It only works in geometry, you know.”
“What particular crooked line do you plan to have me walk tonight?” he asked wryly.
“If you even mention Montoya's name, you're not going to get to first base with MacCarron; he's there to protect him. Therefore, you're not interested in Montoya. In fact, you've never heard of Montoya. It's Samuel Benares that you want.”
“Why do I want Benares?”
“Because he's the father of my unborn baby, and you're my lawyer, and certain promises were made in writing. Now, we tell MacCarron that the Benares we're looking for comes from a very wealthy family, so we're more than willing to spend a few hundred dollars to see if this is the right guy...”
“What kind of background have they created for Samuel Benares?” asked Becker.
She shrugged. “It doesn't matter. The beauty of this approach is that MacCarron knows you've got the wrong man, because he knows that this Benares is really Anthony Montoya.”
Becker nodded his approval. “I see,” he said. “If MacCarron is Montoya's friend, he knows Montoya can't be the guy you're looking for, so he can rationalize that he's not really disobeying his orders. All he's doing is making some easy money by letting me see that Montoya's not the man I'm looking for. He can probably even convince himself that he's actually getting paid to keep me from wrongly subpoenaing Montoya and blowing his new identity.”
“You got it, Counselor.”
“Max.”
“Max,” she corrected. “Works out pretty neatly all the way around, doesn't it?” she said.
“It sure as hell does,” said Becker. He paused thoughtfully. “You realize, of course, that you can't come with me. The second you see him you'd know he isn't the proud pappa-to-be, and I won't have any reason to speak to him.”
“I know,” she said. “I kind of hate to leave you on your own, though. You're just not used to this kind of stuff.”
“To questioning witnesses?”
“To subterfuge.”
“How much help will I need?” he responded. “I've got two questions to ask him—one about the dead crewmen, and the other about the traffic in drugs.”
“You realize that since he's in a security ward, his room will almost certainly be bugged.”
“So what?” said Becker.
“You're breaking the law by being there.”
He shook his head. “Uh-uh. MacCarron's disobeying his orders by letting me in. I'm not doing anything except working on behalf of my client.”
“Speaking of MacCarron, what do you plan to do about him?”
“Nothing. Once I'm there, he's in more trouble than I am if he makes a scene, so I'll ask what I have to ask and then leave.” Becker paused. “Are you absolutely sure MacCarron can get me in?”
“He's assigned to hospital security. If he can't, nobody can.”
“And if nobody can?” continued Becker.
“Then he'll make some arrangement for you to speak to Montoya on the vidphone.”
“I'd much rather do it in person. He can't disconnect me if I'm standing four feet away from him.”
“Sure he can,” replied Jaimie. “He can do it just by yelling for the guards.”
“But then he'll be getting MacCarron in trouble.”
“That's what I'm counting on—that MacCarron is a close enough friend that he won't want to do that.”
They fell silent for a moment. Then Becker ordered them a pair of martinis.
“There are a lot of weak points in this scheme,” he said after the waitress had delivered them. “Maybe we ought to go over it again.”
She shook her head. “There's nothing worse than a rigid plan. It doesn't allow for flexibility.”
“How flexible can you be when ten security guards start shooting at you?” he asked wryly.
“That's when you've got to be at your most creative, not your least,” she answered. “A rigid plan eliminates your options.”
“As a lawyer, I build a case like a house: first the foundation, then the—”
“You're not building a case, Max,” she interrupted him. “You're infiltrating the enemy's camp.”
“The United States military is not the enemy,” he corrected her. “Hell, I'm part of it.”
“If they were your friends, would you be considering this?” she asked.
He stared levelly at her. “A few members of the military are hiding certain facts I need to prepare my case. It's as simple as that.”
“If I thought you believed that, I'd leave right now,” said Jaimie. “This is big, Max. They're hiding your witnesses all over the solar system, or keeping them under guard in classified locations. It takes more than two or three brass to do that.”
“I know,” he admitted wearily. “I just don't like to think about it.”
“You'd better start thinking about it. More to the point, you'd better start thinking about why they're doing it.”
He nodded, then suddenly got to his feet.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I think it's time I put in a call to Jim Magnussen.”
“The prosecutor?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don't, he might get the idea I've found Montoya.”
She smiled. “You're learning, Counselor.”
“I've got a hell of a teacher.” He paused. “Can you rig one of the public phones around here so they can't trace the call?”
“No, but I can fix it so it can't be traced if you're off in less than a minute. Use the one right here in the bar; no sense letting him know you're in a hotel—and give me about 90 seconds to get to my room and rig it.”
He nodded, walked off to the men's room while she left the bar, waited for two minutes, and then reentered the bar and went directly to the vidphone booth.
A moment later Magnussen picked up the phone in his office.
“Hi, Max,” he said, staring at the screen. “What's up?”
“Nothing much. In fact, things are so slow that I sneaked out and got in a round of golf,” answered Becker. “Any word on Montoya yet?”
“No.”
“Shit. I guess I'll just have to do without him.”
“I'm sorry, Max. I did what I could.”
“I know.”
“Why don't you stop by for a drink? It's cheaper in my office than in whatever bar you're calling from.”
“I'll stop by if I can—but don't wait for me. I've got a couple of stops to make in Georgetown first. See you, Jim.”
He broke the connection, then checked his watch: 41 seconds. Satisfied, he returned to his table
.
“It's getting late, Max,” announced Jaimie, joining him a moment later. “We'd better be going.”
“You do know what this MacCarron looks like?” asked Becker, leaving a few bills on the table.
“Down to the dimples on his ass,” she replied. “The military isn't trying to hide his file.”
“All right,” he said. “Let's go find him.”
They took a cab to Waukegan, just north of the Great Lakes Naval Base, and got off at The Destroyer, a service bar filled with photos and holograms of various battleships from the past two centuries. Since Becker was in uniform, and there was no shortage of women on the premises, they drew no undue attention as they entered.
“Any sign of him?” he asked softly as they walked down the long, polished bar toward one of the few empty tables.
“Not yet,” replied Jaimie. “But we're a few minutes early. As soon as he enters, I'll point him out to you and then vanish.”
“Why?”
“Because if the little mother is here, he's gonna wonder why you're not taking her to the hospital with you.”
“I should have thought of that myself,” he muttered, leading her to a table.
“Yes, you should have.”
They sat down and ordered a couple of beers, and Becker lit up one of his small cigars.
“You're sure he comes here every night?”
“I'm sure he comes here most nights,” answered Jaimie.
“And if tonight is one of the exceptions?”
“I've got his home address if we need it, but I'd rather not have him wondering how we got it.”
Becker nodded, nursed his beer, and stared at the door. Perhaps two dozen officers and enlisted men had entered and left when he felt a sharp pain in his shin.
“That's him,” whispered Jaimie, kicking him as a tall, dark-haired lieutenant entered, waved at the bartender, and made his way to the back of the tavern.
“Let's see where he winds up,” said Becker.
MacCarron reached the back of the room and looked around for a table. Before he could find one, Becker realized that Jaimie was no longer sitting down, and he gestured MacCarron over to her empty seat.
“You looked like you needed a friend,” said Becker.
“A seat, anyway,” said MacCarron with a smile. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” said Becker, extending his hand. “I'm Max Smith.”
