Fault Lines

by Thomas Locke

  Jorge spoke for the first time since Charlie had entered. “Anyone who passes on the entry codes to an outsider is banished. Not just from the chat room. From ever working with us again.”

  Charlie said, “So you can still contact them.”

  “Oh, sure,” Milo said. “That is, unless they’ve gone off the grid. Which I doubt.”

  “They’re there,” Jorge said. “Most definitely.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I speak a little Italian. Enough to monitor their discussions. They’re there, they’re waiting, and they’re impatient.”

  “Desperate,” Milo agreed.

  “How many test subjects are we talking about?”

  “Two hundred and nineteen.”

  A thought began working at his brain, a tiny electronic worm, digging away. Charlie tried to listen beyond the ache of loss, tried to tell himself it was ridiculous to react to the ascent barrier like this. He violently shook his head, ordering himself to focus.

  Milo caught the motion. “I know what you’re thinking. Two hundred contacts, the bad guys are bound to be listening in. I’ve got two words for you. No way.”

  “Dedicated comm site,” Jorge said. “Ultra-high-level barriers. We downloaded an encryption we designed ourselves. Only available to our test subjects.”

  “Okay.” That was one thing Charlie could deal with. “Do you have a secure comm link to the outside world?”

  Milo slid the computer mike toward him and began tapping keys. “Who are you calling?”

  “Shanghai.”

  Remy Lacoste answered with, “You got some nerve, I’ll give you that.”

  “They hit us last night, Remy.”

  “You got their ID’s?”

  “They carried nothing on them that could be used for identification purposes. But a local ally says the attackers were tied to regional heavies.”

  “You’re thinking the Combine?”

  “Not professional enough. My guess is their contacts over here decided to take the initiative.”

  “Who’s handling security with you?”

  “I brought two friends from the States. A homicide detective and a local. Both very stand-up.”

  Remy was not impressed. “Cops.”

  “Benny Calfo is with me.”

  “No fooling?” Remy coughed a laugh over the computer speakers. “I heard he was dead.”

  “He might be soon enough. If you don’t help me out here.”

  “Oh, so now you’re hitting me with the ‘my life is in your hands’ gig.”

  “Pretty much.” Charlie turned to where Milo listened and watched. “Give him all your websites, the active one and those you’ve taken off-line.”

  Milo asked, “Just exactly who are we talking to here?”

  “His name is Remy Lacoste, and he’s the best there is.”

  Milo looked at his friend. Jorge shrugged. Milo leaned toward the mike and read off the three electronic addresses.

  “Okay, Eltee, I got them.”

  Charlie said, “Two of the sites have been down for a few days, but my guess is the Combine still has them all on permanent surveillance. Can you ID the secret observers and trace them back without being caught?”

  “This the same group that chased me when I went for the blonde?”

  “Roger that.”

  “She’s very nice, by the way. You send her my way, all debts are paid.”

  “Can you send me a photo?”

  “Natch. Give me an e-address.”

  Milo read one off.

  “Coming at you.”

  Jorge hit a few keys, and Reese Clawson’s face popped onto the largest flat-screen.

  Milo said, “Whoa.”

  “Told you,” Remy said.

  Jorge asked, “This woman, she is a bad guy?”

  “Bad as they come,” Charlie replied.

  Remy added, “She’s got herself quite an ops team, by the way. Real scum of the earth.”

  “Any ID’s and background would be a big help.”

  “Got four now, I’ll send more as they come.”

  Jorge set the men on the flat-screens around the blonde woman. The room went very quiet until Remy asked, “You recognize any of them, Eltee?”

  “The blond guy. He was head of the security detail that met me at Harbor Petroleum, then wore the fake FBI jackets and attacked my house.”

  “They’re all Delta except one. That particular standout is a real gem. He’s the one who looks like his skin is only partly glued on. Actually got kicked out of the Foreign Legion. Must have done something truly amazing.”

  The four grim menaces that now surrounded the beautiful blonde woman silenced the room. Charlie heard Milo swallow hard. He settled a hand on the guy’s bony shoulder.

  Finally Remy said, “Okay. I’ve ID’d a parasite doing surveillance on all three sites.”

  Jorge protested, “That’s not possible.”

  “Let me guess. University techies, right?”

  Milo said, “We headed up tech support for a theoretical physics team at MIT.”

  Remy laughed out loud.

  Charlie said, “I want you to send them a bomb. Special delivery. On my count.”

  “Nothing will short that team out for long. You want permanent, you need more than I’ve got. I might as well attack the Pentagon with a can of Raid.”

  “A few minutes will be enough. I just want them to go blind to the outside universe.”

  “That will definitely be a pleasure,” Remy said. “Even though when I’m done I’ll have to emigrate to Yalta.”

  “Hold tight.” Charlie said to the pair, “Do we have a time and place for Gabriella’s meeting in Milan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Write your message to the test subjects, telling them when and where. You’ve got one chance to send it, so make sure you hit everybody on the first go.”

  Milo asked, “What about the others?”

  “Who?”

  “The ones who’ve been asking if they can sign up for the next go-round.”

  “You have others who want to become test subjects?”

  “A ton. Our sign-up process is off-line. But some techies among the ascenders have set up a separate list where they can store the contact details for friends who want to become test subjects. They’re all either Milanese or studying at the local universities.”

  Logic told Charlie to negate the idea. Extending the contact only heightened the risk. But he found himself hearing his own words of that morning. If they didn’t move forward, the enemy had already won. “Include them too.”

  Their fingers flew. Two minutes, then Milo said, “Ready.”

  “Remy?”

  “The grenade is primed, the pin is pulled, Eltee.”

  “Go.”

  “Bomb launched.” A pause, then Remy said, “Kaboom.”

  Charlie patted Milo’s shoulder. “Send your message.”

  35

  Alessandro Gavi sat at his desk and worked through his inbox. He did not mind paperwork in the least. Long ago he had learned to assign his eyes and writing hand to one tiny corner of his brain, leaving the rest of his mental faculties free to roam. Some of his most difficult cases had been resolved while dealing with the burdens of bureaucracy. As a result, he had gained the reputation of being the only employee within the Ministry of Justice whose paperwork was always up-to-date.

  Alessandro was a bailiff, an ufficiale giudiziario. A bailiff, in his humble opinion, was the finest position within the Italian justice system.

  As any Italian with a single breath left in his body would say, the only mess in Italy worse than the police were the courts. The judicial system had been cobbled together over centuries, and each branch had developed into a modern-day fiefdom. The police were fragmented like medieval city-states, between the Carabinieri and the Polizia and the Stradale and the Guardia di Finanza and the DIA. There were plots and coups and bureaucratic sniping and corruption.

 
But in each province, there was only one senior bailiff. Once the judges passed on their instructions, Alessandro could do almost anything. He could call on anyone’s assistance. Even the military.

  The majority of his mind remained focused upon his meeting that morning with the two Americans.

  Alessandro did not respond to the knock on his door. When a shadow fell upon his computer screen, he looked up. “Do you mind?”

  Antonio D’Alba was a defense attorney. Alessandro knew him all too well. Antonio was a fierce combatant in court and used his considerable wiles to extend cases for years. The richer his client, the longer his cases tended to run. He fought court-ordered evictions and asset seizures tooth and nail. He had kept Alessandro in the docket for days on end, tying the bailiff up as long as his clients had funds to skim.

  Out of court, Antonio was a charmer. A smiler. A stellar dresser with an eye for the women. The younger the woman, the greater Antonio’s charm. Alessandro knew Antonio’s wife very well. She worked with his own wife at a home where many of Alessandro’s youngest charges wound up. This being Italy, Alessandro had long ago learned to disguise how he felt about philandering colleagues.

  Antonio said, “I suppose you’ve heard.”

  “How could I not?” Alessandro had no need to ask what Antonio meant. The entire Justice building was abuzz.

  “Interesting they would ram the car into the Bar Azzurra.”

  “Who did it?”

  Antonio tapped the side of his nose, indicating that he knew and the information was secret. “You’re a patron of the place, aren’t you?”

  “From time to time.” Alessandro was not much of a drinker. But what professional socializing he did was there. The Bar Azzurra was owned by a former cop with the Guardia di Finanza. He had lost a leg in Catania, where he had been investigating a Justice official who was reportedly on the take. He was notorious for his hatred of corruption. As a result, his bar was a gathering point for straight cops and jurists and ministry officials.

  When Alessandro had arrived at the office that morning, the bar owner had been downstairs, toasting the fates that had delivered nine thugs through his front window.

  The lawyer asked, “Did you hear how they were found?”

  Alessandro started to respond that of course he had heard, how could he not, when no one in the entire building spoke of anything else. Then he realized Antonio was not even listening to himself. “Is that why you stopped by?”

  “Uh, no, actually . . . Alessandro, I have a question.”

  Alessandro put his computer in sleep mode and shut his file. “Of course. Take a seat.”

  “What? Oh. I . . . Thank you.”

  Alessandro did not offer the lawyer a chair out of courtesy. He wanted to draw Antonio closer. So he could smell the man.

  “Look, I, uh, that is, I have a client. He—well, that is, his lawyers—have asked me for help with a matter.”

  “You’re not his attorney?”

  “I represent a small part of their interests, yes. But the client is very big. Sorry, I can’t name them. You understand.”

  Alessandro waved it away, a matter of no consequence. “Of course.”

  “My client is searching for seven scientists. They come from America, but they originate from all over. One is Italian.”

  “Names?”

  “Sorry, no names.”

  Antonio was lying. What was more, he knew that Alessandro knew. It was a typical Italian bugia, a lie told because the true message could not be spoken. The message was, I can’t tell you and you were wrong to ask, but I need your help, so I can’t risk offending you by saying that.

  Antonio continued, “The scientists stole something of enormous importance to my client.”

  Alessandro asked, “Why would you be speaking with a simple magistrate in Como about this matter?”

  “The American attorneys think they may be hiding here.”

  “In Como?”

  “Somewhere in the vicinity. Perhaps.”

  “Forgive me. But I am still not clear what that has to do with me.”

  “The scientists need a large space for their experiments.”

  Alessandro nodded. “They could not go through normal channels to rent such a space. So you wonder if there has been any movement—”

  “One of your confiscated villas, perhaps, or a warehouse.”

  “I will see.”

  “Any help you can give. Any at all.”

  “Of course.” Alessandro rose and shook the attorney’s hand and waited for the door to click shut. He turned on his computer and reopened his file, finished the report, and sent it off. He called in his two deputies and assigned them new duties. He lunched with a judge. They laughed over the antics of the Bar Azzurra’s owner, who had shared his few unbroken bottles with the prosecutor after signing the official complaint.

  Alessandro then returned to his desk and checked his watch. Three hours had passed since Antonio D’Alba had left his office. Long enough for there to be no logical connection between Antonio’s request and his next action.

  He picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory.

  “Evidence.”

  Alessandro knew the officer who spoke. His name was Pietro, and he was extremely bent. “This is Bailiff Gavi. I need—wait, let me check. Yes, here it is. I need to speak with Officer Luca Bresco.”

  “He’s out.”

  “Have him call me the instant—”

  “Wait. He’s just walked in.”

  A pause, then, “This is Bresco.”

  “This is Gavi. There may be a problem with some evidence you signed in.”

  “Again? I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  “My sincere apologies.”

  “What, I forgot to sign my name in the right spot on your six dozen forms?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. But we do need to speak.”

  “Today?”

  “Please. It is rather urgent, you see.”

  “Oh, all right. But only if you’re here in twenty minutes.” The phone was hammered down.

  Alessandro rose from his desk and reached for his coat. The conversation had been for listeners. What he had requested was time alone with Luca Bresco, the one officer in the Evidence chambers whom he trusted completely.

  It was time to discover what precisely lay behind the Americans and their request.

  36

  Charlie and Gabriella went to Milan with the two Tibetan women, the only others on their team who spoke fluent Italian. Julio traveled with them, mostly because Charlie wanted to reward the kid with a day out. When they boarded the express train, Charlie guided Gabriella into a seat separated from the other three. With the train’s rumble masking his words, he sketched out an idea that had come to him while working with the techies that morning. He needed the entire train ride to explain what he had in mind to keep them safe, mostly because his plans were less than half formed. Gabriella listened with quiet intensity, her gaze holding the electric quality of a million unspoken thoughts. He finished just as they entered Milan’s grimy perimeter.

  Gabriella stared at him a long moment, then said simply, “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “It’s a long way from complete.”

  “You have given me hope. For today, that is complete enough.”

  They all crammed into one SUV taxi because Charlie did not want to split them up. As they drove along rain-swept city streets, Gabriella explained how Milan had two universities. Her father had taught philosophy at the Statale, or state university. One of her proudest memories was of her mother walking Gabriella around her late father’s department, using Gabriella’s new title for the first time. Her daughter, the professor. Gabriella related how beautifully painful it had been, seeing the affection her father’s colleagues still held for him eleven years after he had died.

  Charlie and the others were so caught up in this tale they did not notice what awaited them until Julio jerked in the taxi’s front seat and said
, “Dude, who set off the riot?”

  The Statale’s main building was fronted by that rarest of prizes in downtown Milan, a lawn. The structure itself resembled a palace turned the color of oiled bronze by the rain. A forest of umbrellas and slickers pressed across the lawn and ascended the front steps and crammed the building’s doorways. It was impossible to guess the number because of the umbrellas and the poor light. But there had to be hundreds.

  Dor Jen asked, “Who are they?”

  “Your techies said we’d be meeting some of your former subjects and maybe a few interested new people,” Charlie said.

  Gabriella said, “There must be some mistake.”

  As Charlie opened his umbrella and sheltered Gabriella rising from the car, an Italian version of the universal geek came rushing up. He wore baggy camouflage pants, rectangular glasses, and a tattered raincoat. His sandals slapped the puddles as he ran. Two Brazilian wish bracelets jiggled on his bony wrists. He offered Gabriella a goofy grin and gibbered like he was meeting a movie star. He handed her a mini microphone and a fanny pack.

  Charlie had once accompanied a mega rock star on a tour of China. The Chinese security had been so menacing, the teenage hordes had remained very subdued. But the underlying tension had remained, quietly seething and waiting for an excuse to explode.

  Their entrance into the building was exactly like that, only wetter.

  Julio asked softly, “Bro, how you aim on protecting anybody in this?”

  The answer was, Charlie couldn’t. But as he scanned the crowd, the last thing he sensed was danger. Then again, he could be reading the whole thing wrong.

  The building’s foyer was a single mass of compressed flesh. Even so, the crowd squeezed back far enough to grant them passage. The lobby was maybe two hundred feet wide and half as long, and so quiet Charlie could hear his wet shoes squeaking over the marble tiles. When hands reached toward Gabriella, Charlie said mildly, “Don’t stop. Not for anything.”

  The conference hall was a downward slope from the rear entrance to the podium. The passage was cramped by people crouched upon tiny foldout seats that cut the stairs’ width in half. The applause and the whistles started as they appeared in the doorway and continued as they made their way to the front.