Sagramanda

by Alan Dean Foster

  How thoughtful, then, how kind of the simple shopkeeper to lend his compromised communicator to the real object of Chal's interest. And how considerate of the obstinate Mr. Buthlahee to provide specific instructions to his would-be buyer as to where and when the two of them should meet. Chal eyed his tandem electronics with satisfaction. Their cost had been astronomical—and worth every dollar. For the unique equipment, it was just as easy to intercept, capture, and download video as audio.

  Already familiar with Buthlahee and Ghosh's appearance, he now also knew what the buyer Mr. Karlovy looked like, and had acquired a glimpse of Buthlahee's girlfriend as well. Another time, another assignment, he might have looked forward to a diversion, a bit of enforced dalliance with such an alluring creature, made all the spicier by having her paramour restrained nearby and forced to watch. Not this time. The stakes were too high. Sex, of whatever variety and fetish he preferred, could be indulged in later, with no risk and at far less expense.

  In addition to himself, Buthlahee had spoken of being accompanied to tomorrow night's meeting place by hired protection to match what the buyer insisted on bringing along with him. If both sides adhered to their guarantees, that made four potential adversaries to deal with, two of them professionals. Possibly five, if the scientist's consort chose to join him, though she did not really figure into his calculations. For that matter, neither did the scientist or the buyer. Of those who planned to be in attendance, Chal knew he need only be concerned with the two pros.

  Provided he got the drop on them, to employ an ancient cliché that was no less valid for its age, it should not be a problem. He could hire and bring along temporary help of his own, of course. There was enough time between now and tomorrow night to make the necessary arrangements. But with only two real antagonists to worry about, he did not think it necessary. He had dealt with and on at least one occasion dispatched twice that number. Surprise was the key to success in such situations. That should not be a problem. No one would be expecting a third party to put in an appearance, least of all the two bodyguards on hand for the occasion. He anticipated no difficulty.

  While anticipating none, he would prepare for every possible eventuality. Obsession over detail was another character trait that had contributed mightily to his success and continued survival. Though always ready to extemporize, he never entered into a dangerous situation unprepared.

  Unquestionably, a great deal of money was involved. Nayari had implied as much on more than one occasion. The buyer, Mr. Karlovy, had spoken circumspectly of a “down payment” he was to hand over. As a matter of professional interest, Chal found himself speculating on the amount. After neutralizing the two bodyguards, he could easily steal it, of course. It never occurred to him to do so.

  Once, early in his career, he had been hired to deliver a sum of cash to ransom the son of an important Malaysian businessman. With time on his hands until he was due to turn the money over, he had peeked inside the carbon-fiber container that had been handed to him. It had contained, as near as he could hurriedly calculate, between five and seven million U.S. dollars. Concluding his examination, he had closed and resealed the case, and had not so much as looked inside again.

  Word swiftly made the relevant rounds about those in his line of work who reneged on their responsibilities. Five or seven million dollars would buy many things, but in a world linked by several modes of virtually instantaneous communication, it would not buy permanent anonymity. Recidivists in his profession inevitably tended to be found and terminated, often messily. Renege on his assignment, take the money and run, and he would be doing no more than switching places with the scientist Buthlahee. Ultimately, he would be found, and sooner or later his career as well as his life would be brought to an abrupt and brutal end by others of his own kind.

  Besides, he always had and still continued to take pride in being the best at his work. While it would not win him the Nobel Prize, or land him on the front of The Economist's box page, in certain important circles it did lend him a distinctive aura that was both feared and respected. He prized that. And it was not as if he didn't live well. Following the successful conclusion of this assignment, he would be able to live even better.

  Unclasping his hands, he leaned forward and murmured instructions to the box unit. It took hardly a moment for it to generate a map, in relief and with accompanying reports on access routes, predicted weather, and assorted other pertinent factors, showing the exact location specified by Buthlahee for the clandestine meeting that was to take place at ten o'clock the following evening. Chal transferred it to his mated pocket unit and ran off a hardcopy as backup. Then he put both units in secure sleep mode, rose, and walked into the bedroom.

  The lockable privacy closet held three sets of clothing, each hung equidistant from the other. One was for the street. One was for dining out in nice restaurants or attending meetings with individuals like Nayari. The third, a one-piece construct woven from special synthetics, could best be described as work clothes.

  Whistling softly to himself, he removed the latter, hung it on the back of the bathroom door, and set about checking its pockets and specially embedded systems for gear that was not designed to aid in the execution of such mundane vocations as, say, plumbing or home electrical repair.

  Keshu was on his way home in the shuttle chopper when his pocket communicator buzzed for attention. The tone indicated it was his official channel. Irritated, he considered deactivating the call and ignoring it. Most likely it was nothing that couldn't wait until morning. It was already after six, and even traffic in the carefully structured air above Sagramanda was busy. He was hungry and tired, and his wife was a superb cook. He was anxious to get home, enjoy one of her marvelous dinners, settle into his favorite massage chair, and pick up the history of Southwest Africa he had been reading. He definitely did not want to have to deal with business.

  Maddeningly boorish, the communicator continued to trill at him. The chopper's constrained cockpit offered nowhere to run. Intent on his work, the shuttle pilot studiously ignored his passenger's incoming private message. As it always did, Keshu's damnable sense of duty overrode his personal desires. Grumbling a suitable phrase, he proceeded to acknowledge the incoming call.

  He recognized the voice. Subrata from downstairs. The tireless bridge to, among other sections, Forensics. The individual who was invisible—except when he had something to say. The kind of man on whose hard work and back great works were raised. With a sigh, he muttered the command that would allow two-way communication.

  “Chief Inspector Singh?”

  “Yes, what is it, Mr. Subrata?” Keshu's annoyance increased as the shuttle slowed to give more room to a pair of air ambulances speeding past on their way to some unknown medical crisis. “I'm on my way home, you know.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector. I know. I would not bother you, sir, if I—”

  “—did not think this a matter of some importance,” a prickly Keshu finished for him. “Get on with it, man.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector.” Though the communication was devoid of video, Keshu almost thought he could see the little man shuffling papers in front of him: mentally if not physically. “I, and those I am working with, believe we have identified a woman matching the description of the composite created by the department's visual facilitator.”

  Ignoring the crowded air lanes now, Keshu sat up a little straighter in his seat, the mandatory safety harness digging into his chest. “What woman?”

  “The projected multiple murderer, Chief Inspector. The match is accurate to—”

  “Hang percentages! Who is she? Where is she?” Even as he spoke, he was alerting the pilot, indicating with gestures that the man needed to be ready to receive new instructions.

  The urgency in the chief inspector's voice did not fluster Subrata. Keshu was beginning to think that very little did. At least, not where the little man's work was concerned.

  “Her name is Jena Chalmette. She is a French national who has
been resident in India, in Sagramanda, for many years. Apparently, she changes her place of residence on a regular basis. Officers have already been to her apartment. She was not there.”

  Keshu cursed fluently and at length, but to himself. “Leads?”

  “Better than that, Chief Inspector.” Was that an uncharacteristic hint of glee in the sober-minded researcher's voice? “As soon as her identity was ascertained from a box match, a grade one-cee priority override was injected into the municipal surveillance system.”

  Keshu knew what that meant. Tens of thousands of individual pickups, vit sensors, and spotpoints maintained by the police department and scattered strategically about the city would have been alerted to search for one particular facial match. In addition, a grade one-cee override would temporarily coopt the functions of thousands more private surveillance systems to join in the hunt.

  “And?” Keshu asked tersely.

  The reply was more than he could have hoped for. Even worth missing one of his wife's superb dinners for. “We have her located.”

  The sense of relief that washed through Keshu was expansive enough to prevail over any feeling of triumph. Besides, any indulgence in the latter was premature. Locating someone was not the same as having them in custody.

  “Order those officers on-site to maintain surveillance and keep their distance,” Keshu instructed Subrata. “I want to be in on this one myself. Where is the suspect, and what is she doing?”

  “Just a moment, Chief Inspector, and I'll patch you through to a Lieutenant Johar, who is the officer in charge on location.”

  Though to an energized Keshu the resultant pause seemed like forever, it took the ever-efficient Subrata only a moment to link the chief inspector's communicator with the officer on site.

  “Chief Inspector Singh?” The voice that issued from the communicator's tiny but powerful built-in speaker was unfamiliar to Keshu. Though distorted by mild interference, it sounded capable enough.

  Wasting no time on pleasantries, Keshu barked back, “Current location and disposition of the female foreign national Chalmette: report, Lieutenant.”

  Johar's prompt and efficient response justified Keshu's initial assessment of the officer. “At present, suspect is traveling south on automated public transport. There is a possibility, as yet uncomfirmable, that suspect is following a small group of students. Transport has just left Canning Central on way to Basanti Main.”

  Keshu found himself cursing again. Though still within his district, the foreign woman was far south of his present location. That made for awkward, but not insurmountable, logistics. While conversing with the lieutenant, he instructed the shuttle pilot to turn and head south as soon as airspace became available.

  “How many people do you have on her and can they tell if she is armed?” he asked sharply.

  “Two undercover officers, rotating observation, Chief Inspector. No visible weapons, but of course that is hardly conclusive. Do you want us to pick her up?”

  “No, no,” Keshu responded quickly. “We have to move very carefully here, Lieutenant. We have to have something irrefutable to take into court.” He thought furiously. “I was told that officers have been to her apartment. I don't suppose they found anything incriminating, or I would already have been informed.”

  “I have seen the reports of the search, Chief Inspector. No weapons were found, if that is what you mean.”

  Keshu considered. “Anything less incriminating but still suggestive, Lieutenant? Media recordings of recent killings? Anything that might indicate souvenirs taken from one of the murder sites?”

  “No, Chief Inspector. Nothing at all.” The voice on the other end of the communicator hesitated. “There was one item that caught my attention, though. I thought it rather a strange thing to find in the living quarters of a foreigner, even one who qualifies as a long-term resident.”

  “Don't keep it a secret, Lieutenant,” Keshu chided him impatiently.

  “No, Chief Inspector. It was a shrine.”

  Acknowledging his orders, the shuttle was slowing and descending toward a staging area that bulged out of the right side of the expressway like a blister on an artery. He was already pumping a command request into the chopper's transmitter. As the pilot set down smoothly on the empty platform, Keshu continued questioning the distant but responsive lieutenant.

  “What kind of shrine?”

  “Very strange,” the officer repeated. “It was as well maintained as any shrine in a well-to-do Indian home. When I saw mention of its existence in the report, I expected it to be a shrine to Ganesh or Krishna, those being the gods Westerners seem to find the most comforting. But it was not. It was a shrine to Kali.”

  Keshu swallowed hard. Leaning to his right, he peered out the transparent bubble of the shuttle, scanning the pollution-stained sky. “I don't know about you, Lieutenant, but I, for one, do find that suggestive.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector,” the distant officer agreed. “Also creepy.”

  “But not grounds for arrest, and certainly not for prosecution. We need much more than that, Lieutenant Johar. We can't remand a person into custody on the basis of uncharacteristic theological preferences, a perceived visual match with a computer simulation, or even for carrying a weapon that might match the one used in certain attacks.” A black spot in the sky was growing steadily larger as it approached the platform on which he had ordered the shuttle to land.

  “Tell your people to keep their distance, to make sure they aren't detected by the suspect, and not to do anything. Understand? They are not to approach the suspect in any way unless it looks like the woman is going to be alone with the students she may be following. At that time, and only under those circumstances, are your people allowed to move to stage two.”

  “Understood, Chief Inspector.”

  “I want to be very clear on this, Lieutenant.” Keshu spoke slowly and emphatically. “If this woman is by chance the person we are after, and we alert her that we are on to her, she may change her modus completely. Or worse, leave India altogether. As a noncitizen, we cannot hold her. We need to be absolutely certain we have our killer before we pick her up, and that we have sufficient evidence to bring cause and to convict. Otherwise, we may not get a second chance. This case is too important to risk on second chances.”

  “I understand fully, Chief Inspector. It would be useful, I suppose, if she were to attack the students she seems to be following. Without being allowed to harm them, of course.”

  “Yes, catching a suspect in the act is always the ideal situation. We can but hope.” Growing larger, the black spot resolved itself into a police stealth chopper. Switching gears, he added, “Downline your present location, Lieutenant. I'll be airborne again in a minute or two and on my way in your direction. And for the love of Guru Nanak, keep your people clear of the suspect.”

  The specially equipped chopper barely had time to touch down on the service platform before Keshu leaped aboard. In the waning light he hurried forward to take a seat behind the copilot. It took only seconds for his communicator to wirelessly relay the information the lieutenant had supplied and enter it into the chopper's navigation system. Upon confirmation from the pilot, the craft rose and turned south toward the indicated coordinates as it rapidly gained altitude.

  Through the open sides of the craft the sounds of the great city wafted up to him. Black and lean as a cobra, the stealth chopper itself generated virtually no noise. Or rather, the sounds it made were smothered by the special noise-canceling electronics that were built into its propulsion system. Descending on unwary suspects, it could touch down with less commotion than a startled cat.

  Endless commercial and industrial complexes and towering apartment blocks swiftly gave way to more prosperous inurbs whose fenced and patrolled interiors were interspersed with neighborhoods that varied from the desperately poor to the unspeakably poverty-riven. As the first arms of the Delta passed beneath the chopper, they in turn were replaced by the inurbs inhab
ited by the wealthy and the merely well-off. When the chopper began to descend, Keshu found himself wondering if after weeks and months of endless frustration they really might have the right person. Computer simulation matches had been wrong before. And even if Lieutenant Johar's people had locked onto the right suspect, there was no guarantee she was doing anything more than traveling south. To arrest and prosecute, he needed more than that; much more. Ideally, he needed a smoking gun.

  Or a swinging sword.

  Jena thought about trying to strike up a conversation with the students she was following. She knew they were students because of the way they acted, the style of MPAs they played with, and the matching Bangalore University Zoology departmental shirts they wore. They had backpacks that were up-to-the-minute stylish as well as practical, and fancy roll-up communicators, and gave every indication of being rich, educated, and innocent the same way certain flowers emit a musky stink to attract certain insects. They were perfect candidates to save from the brutal corruption and overwhelming despair with which the world was soon to mortally infect them.

  Unusually, and usefully, the transport car in which all three of them were speeding south was busy, but not crowded. Standing and hanging onto one of the commuter bars, you could actually see through a window: never mind actually seeing the length of one of the slightly curved acrylic windows itself. Conversely, freed from the usual need simply to find enough personal space in which to breathe, it also meant other passengers would be more likely to notice the neatly dressed foreign woman introducing herself to the college-age locals. The immediate environment was public, and occupied by too many of the public. Better to wait, keep to herself, and continue to follow quietly until privacy as well as opportunity presented itself. She continued to peruse the bright-backgrounded scriptures unscrolling on the compact reader resting in her left hand, and waited.