He jerked his head at the thought and the drums hammered faster inside. Groaning, he was clutching the sink to steady himself when the stranger stepped out into the street. Hermano stopped and peered through the window with bleary eyes. It was another anglo, clean and fit, wearing an old jacket. He’d never seen him before, and Hermano knew everyone in his neighborhood. This man was walking tall, all proud, not weary and hunched over like a decent working man.
Ever since Hermano had got home, the news had been blaring some special story about a group of druggies hiding in the zones. The newscasters said this gang wanted to detonate explosives at the B-Port. Put Hermano and his friends out of what little work they had. That made him mad. Hermano had already lost two daughters to drugs; turned them into prostitutes. His beautiful girls. That anglo must be one of them. The ‘cast mentioned a reward. A large one. With that kind of money, he’d be able to buy some nice things. And some decent drink.
He’d get recognized too. Finally. The dock management would realize Hermano was no dummy, not just some oaf driving a lift. He’d be promoted to shift supervisor and that greasy little rat Vandarm would be fired. He could almost see the look on his face when the big bosses came down and patted Hermano on the shoulder, saying what a fine fellow he was and how they were so glad to have him watching over the shift. Señor Vandarm would slink off, sad and scared, escorted from the premises by security, and the big bosses would speak among themselves and nod at Hermano, knowing things would run smoothly on C level, South Dock 16 from now on.
Hermano saw the anglo’s back disappear around the corner. Filthy druggie fanatic. He snapped the socks twice in the air, flicking drops into the smoky light, then laid them on the edge of the sink to dry. He had a call to make.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: BOKER BLADES
Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. 3:47 p.m. Day One.
I found the café Antojitos on a hectic street near the district’s market square. The yellow, green and black awning marked it out for me. Alejo had said it catered to the local mob circuit, so the clientele was mixed and questionable, which was good because that meant the local policía were paid off and a stranger wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. It boasted bitter hot Arabian coffee, decent curry, and most important, several Public Access terminals. A couple of swarthy muscle boys at a corner table watched me when I came through the door, but I waved for coffee and went straight to a booth. After a few seconds, they realized I wasn’t an issue and went back to muttering over lunch.
The monitor was locked away in a battered steel cabinet behind a lexan panel, the keyboard and optical mouse on a slide out tray underneath. I swiped the back of my hand under the scanner, and the new chip registered one ‘Abuyen ibn Hadiz. Islamic Republic, Moroccan Zone. Electrical Engineer Forth class’, logging on to Public Access.
Now, like any other decent contract outfit, Eshu International had high-tech gear for secure communications. Encrypted squirts are instant and nearly unbreakable, perfect for a tactical net in a combat zone, or emergency use. But if someone’s balls-out hunting for you, the burst transmissions show up like flares at midnight on surveillance networks. They’re a dead giveaway. We needed to stay out of sight, out of mind, so I went to Plan B.
Over the years, we’d developed a simple system of communication with our agent, Jaithirth Rao, and various other handlers and contacts. We hid in plain sight.
Most of the time, we used barely coded ads on various business and hobby message boards to stay in contact. There were hundreds of thousands of forums with millions upon millions of members and posters worldwide, so unless you knew exactly where and when to look, and could understand the jargon, intercepting our communications was like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles. On top of that, we changed location, boards and identities at random intervals. One month it might be a cooking forum, another it was robotics, and another might be dating personals, gambling, or some sleazy Thai porn site. This month was automotive, and “geargreaser313” had parts to trade. I clicked through to the forums. Jaithirth was online and I opened a chat screen.
“Item off the shelf and packed for delivery.”
“Sorry to hear about your family problems. Everyone OK? The part’s still available? In good shape?”
“Of course. Our cousin is very sick though, and the weather is bad. We’ll have to deliver it some other way.”
“My client says he has friends coming to the area who’d be happy to pick it up and pay you.”
“Has friends near me?”
“Yes. Says they love Esqueixada de Bacallà. Says it’d be no trouble.”
I sat back in the hard plastic chair. Agents on our tail—that was goddamn fast. I knew APAC was hemorrhaging credits, but this was huge if they were coming to get it themselves. Gibson’s face flashed in my mind. Him, they’re coming get him. I typed again.
“Well sure. If it’s no trouble. Let us know when his friends will be around, and we’ll arrange to meet up. Any word on my O2 injector? My cousin’s ride is in bad shape.”
“Shipped out this morning, so it should be there soon. It’ll need aftermarket parts once it gets there though. Can’t fit everything in the priority box.”
“Understand. Looking forward to it.”
“Let me know ASAP when/where, so I can tell my customer. He’s all hot and bothered on getting his car up and running. Excitable type. Stay cool and play safe. Out.”
“You too. Out.”
I logged off and leaned back, staring at the gray screen. I downed the rest of my coffee in one gulp. It was scalding, harsh all the way down, but what shook me more were the thoughts burning in my head. I got up and hurried out the door. Tam and I needed to talk to Alejo.
----------
After dinner that night, Carmen washed the dishes, and we listened to the tiny voices of their younger girls saying their prayers upstairs. I’d told Tam and Alejo about my little net chat, and the old Spaniard sat quiet for several minutes nodding, stroking his moustache, then nodding some more. I could almost see his brain scanning through options. Finally he spoke up.
“A place with a crowd, multiple exits, and no police surveillance? I know of three such spots nearby. I haven’t been to any of them since I came to Jesus. They are not good, these places. Deporte de la sangre—blood sport, understand? And the people who run them…” He shrugged. His shabby leather chair creaked as he leaned forward, smiling grimly. I saw the former pirate breach the surface for an instant. “There is one that will work better than the others. I will go and make arrangements. You can rendezvous there safely,” he said. “Well… safer than the others.”
He leaned back into his chair a contented old man, grinning under his huge moustache as he scribbled on a scrap of paper. “Here is the address. Tell these Asian Pacific agents they must come in two nights. At sunset. And now…” he pushed himself to his feet using his arms, “…one more thing.”
I looked at the paper. “You’re sure we can meet at this place?”
“Yes. The Arif family runs the place, and the Turks still owe me… for a couple of things.” His eyes hard-edged at a memory then softened as he saw Carmen.
He’d walked stiffly over to one of the battered military trunks lodged in the corner and started rummaging through it. We watched curiously, listening to him murmur as he went through its contents item by item.
“Aha!” He turned back to us. “Now, they don’t let spectators bring weapons inside of course. There are guards, and a Russian scanner at the entrance. But I still have these.” He tossed a musty, stained cloth bundle onto the door table in front of us. “Could come in very handy.” Tam unwrapped it with several quick motions and a dozen sharp, flat gray knives spilled out.
“Funny, the souvenirs you kept from the old life. Thought all you needed was faith,” Tam asked.
“Trust God. Keep your powder dry,” Alejo answered.
I picked one up. “Ceramic?”
“Si, Boker blades. Old C.I.A.
stash, no metal at all.” Alejo winked. “So they don’t show on older detectors.”
They had a dull stone smoothness, and I hefted the one in my palm, admiring its fine edge and evil point. It had such perfect balance I tossed it thrumming into the doorjamb across the room.
“Hey!” Carmen hit me with her dishtowel. “You’re going to fix that!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: LAND OF OPPOSITES
Gibson: I don’t know what to do. There’s no terminal here, no wireless, no Public Access, not even a flat screen for normal vid-casts. I want to contact Dr. Evans, tell him I’m all right, tell him to come and get me, but I can’t. I don’t know where I am.
Before yesterday, I’d always been in the same place. Separated from other people, monitored in a restricted area, kept busy with tests, lists, instructions, schedules, examinations, more tests, every day was divided up into half-hour slots. I don’t remember my life any other way. Only nurses touched me, only doctors spoke to me, only scientists came to see me, and always there was another assignment. But I’ve been dropped in a land of opposites. Everything in this place is dirty and dark and loud and warm and up close. There are people touching, hugging, talking, eating, laughing. The three big men want to play games and show me their rifles, their equipment. The older man and woman are nice, always bringing food, getting me to smile. Even the other two soldiers try to be kind. I am lost. And happy. This is the first time I’ve ever had nothing to do. It scares me a little.
The one they call Poet9 is still sick. He was the man on the Grid, and he’s lying on the other side of the room, not moving. It has something to do with the grafted unit on his head, and everyone is worried, especially the older man and woman. They smile and say it will be all right, but I think it might not be. I’ve seen that look before on Dr. Evans’ face. The men are waiting for their own doctor to come and make Poet9 well. For some reason, it’s difficult. I think because people are searching for me.
I’m not sure I want to be found.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: GOOD INTENTIONS
Barcelona Port Complex, Asian Pacific Consortium Trade Offices, Bureau D. South Dock, Level Five. 9:03 a.m. Day Two.
The guard snapped to attention as Colonel Otsu approached the black armor-glass entrance. He returned the boy’s salute and entered the security office.
They seem younger every deployment. Or am I really that old now? he thought wryly. He made a mental note to learn the young corporal’s name and welcome him to the unit. He wanted to let him know his commander wasn’t so ancient as to not be on top of things. Yet another thing to do later. The bedlam of the dockyards snapped off behind him, replaced by the steady hum of air-conditioning and the array of computer systems. A small mob of Asian Pacific traders swirled around large-screen monitors, shouting into satellite phones, sending their clerks scurrying off in random directions every few seconds. Compared to the twenty-four-hour racket of the Port Complex, it seemed positively blissful. His secretary was waiting, hot tea and several data pads in hand. She came alongside him instantly, matching his stride.
“Good morning, Colonel. Captains Asaki and Girin-Taga want to speak with you this afternoon about the Libyan longshoremen. They say it’s urgent. Please sign here. And here. The Traders Collective has pushed up the monthly meeting to tomorrow morning, 0800. And here too, sir. Sergeant Hashimi requested an order of one hundred new cameras to extend the coverage on levels three, four, and five. And there’s a secure line waiting for you, sir. E.U. Regional Office. Again.”
His brow furrowed. “How long?”
“Less than five minutes.”
“Route it to my office. No disturbances.”
She nodded and moved off as Colonel Otsu entered his small office. Latching the door behind him, he saw the green light was flashing on his desktop monitor. He steeled himself with several deep breaths, took his seat and pressed the “Accept” button. Avery Hsiang’s plump face snapped into view.
“Colonel Otsu. You have kept me waiting.”
“My apologies, Mr. Hsiang. It was unintended. I returned to the Trade Office moments ago. For added plausibility, my unit is conducting a security audit here at the Docks. The cover story you devised is ingenious, but quite demanding. It’s necessary we maintain appearances.”
“I have no time for excuses,” the manager fired back. “Tell me about the mission. Have the Type Fives arrived yet?”
“Within the hour, sir. I’ve sent one of my men—Lieutenant Kaneda—to pick them up and get them to a safe house. In the meantime, we’ve made contact with the mercenary team’s agent and have made arrangements to meet.”
“When?”
“Soon, sir. Our initial contact is tomorrow night.”
“Perhaps I have failed to impress on you the imperative nature of this mission. I want that technology now. Not ‘soon.’ Now, Colonel Otsu. Avery Hsiang said dryly. “I didn’t hear from you last night. I want updates. Why are my orders being disregarded?”
Colonel Otsu frowned inwardly, but bowed low.
This man is far too anxious about this mission. Is he simply uneasy about the funds? Or is it something more? “Mr. Hsiang, I meant no disrespect. This morning’s sit-rep will outline our plan and mission details. I will compile pertinent information for this evening’s report as the situation develops.”
“I want up-to-the-minute reports. Just what do you deem to be ‘pertinent information’, Colonel?”
“Sir, nothing substantial has changed since yesterday. The Type Five clones will arrive shortly. We have an apartment in a sprawl neighborhood near the Docks that will act as a temporary base for their operation. My lieutenant will support them in every possible way, and I have transport standing by once the item is in hand. My entire unit stands ready to assist them.”
Avery Hsiang scowled. “You are restating the obvious, Colonel. I want specifics. Tell me specifics on the operation.”
“A preliminary meeting between the clones and the mercenaries is scheduled for tomorrow evening,” Colonel Otsu said.
“Where is this meeting?” Hsiang snapped.
“At a public location in the sprawl’s northern sector.”
“Northern sector? Is that where the item is?”
“Mr. Hsiang, it is a rendezvous spot. The mercenaries could be holed up anywhere in the slums around the city. The Type Fives are simply going to work out the details of getting the device. The mercenaries are professionals, Mr. Hsiang. It is highly unlikely they’ll have the technology with them.”
“Professionals would have delivered the device on time. Get that device, Colonel. Nothing else matters,” Avery Hsiang said.
“Yes, sir, we’re moving as quickly as possible, despite the increasingly complicated situation.” The Colonel spoke quickly.
The manager’s round face creased with impatience. “Colonel, your excuses are taxing.”
“Sir, I’m stating facts. The Regional Threat Level has just been raised based on the possibility of a terrorist attack here at the Port Complex.” Colonel Otsu consulted a data pad from his desk. “Spanish government troops and Dawson-Hull Special Deployment units are conducting district by district sweeps, presumably in search of the terrorists. We believe the story has been manufactured as justification for Dawson-Hull’s efforts to regain the device. Nevertheless, the entire Barcelona Sprawl is under restriction, with a corresponding surveillance and security increase.”
“You thought a declaration of martial law was not pertinent?”
Colonel Otsu bowed his head. “The state of emergency is on all the Euro-newsnets, sir. I had no intention of wasting your already valuable time.”
“Colonel, your good intentions are irrelevant.” Avery Hsiang breathed out a heavy sigh. “Perhaps you’re too obtuse to appreciate the delicacy of this matter. I neither know nor care. I want this operation brought to a successful conclusion, and I’m going to inform the shinigami they are free to act on my authority. I’m even considering granting them ‘maximum sanction’, anything so lo
ng as they get the device.”
Maximum Sanction? To a clone unit? Colonel Otsu was shocked. “Sir… maximum sanction. Is that wise? The risks of a covert operation like this are large enough without adding—”
“Colonel Otsu,” the Executive Manager interrupted. “I’m not accustomed to subordinates questioning my decisions. You are there to facilitate this operation, not complicate it. Do I have to spell this out for you, Colonel? Tokyo Head Office considers this critical to the company’s global strategic interests. Get your head on straight, and quickly, or you will be seeking new employment. In the zones.”
Tokyo Head Office… Colonel Otsu ignored the threat and focused on that phrase. A shadow of suspicion flickered in his mind. “Should I be forwarding my reports to the Directorate and Central Operations as well, sir?”
Avery Hsiang slapped that idea away with a wave of his hand. “That’s only more time wasted. This mission is streamlined and red-stamped ‘Top Secret’, and is being run through my office. Duplicate channels only give opportunity for bureaucratic interference, and create a potential security breech. I will make a full disclosure to Central after the matter is successfully concluded. Your only concern is acting to that end: success.” Avery Hsiang tapped his finger on his desktop, emphasizing the last word.
Running Black (Eshu International Book 1) Page 9
