“Then why haven't they tried?” Mirim asked.
“Maybe they know it wouldn't work,” Casper said slowly. “Maybe it's inherent in the imprint that it wouldn't work.” He thought about his speech at Data Tracers that morning, about his automatic negative reaction to mention of the government much of the time. He thought about the Party and the Consortium and he realized he hated them both, where before he'd always considered them something of a necessary evil, the unpleasant cure for the terrorist wars and economic crisis of his childhood years.
Now he wanted to destroy them both, whatever the cost.
Maybe, he thought, he'd been programmed to be some sort of saboteur, a dangerous and involuntary rebel. Maybe the imprint had been meant to create moles, people who would attack their own countries from within.
That was just the sort of lousy trick that the government would pull.
Or was the imprint making him think that?
“So what are you going to do?” Cecelia asked, breaking his train of thought. “Could you turn yourself in, tell them you want to be recruited?”
“No,” Casper said immediately. “They must know what's in my head better than I do—they'd assume it was a trick, that I was going to turn on them.” He smiled wolfishly. “They'd be right, too.”
“Imprints aren't supposed to control your actions!” Mirim protested.
“This is no ordinary imprint,” Casper said. “I'm sure of that.”
“What the hell is it, then?”
“I wish I knew!”
“Okay,” Cecelia said, “You don't turn yourself in—though as an officer of the court I am required to advise you to surrender. But speaking hypothetically, let's say you don't—what do you do?”
“Well, I can't just ignore it,” Casper said, “though that's exactly what half of me would like to do—probably the half that's not imprint. I can't ignore it, because they'll kill me if I do.”
“They haven't managed it so far,” Cecelia pointed out.
Casper snorted. “If they're serious about it, they will eventually.” He glanced at the coffee shop windows, suddenly uncomfortably aware that he'd been in this same place rather longer than was entirely wise, and that he was visible from the street.
“So what's left?” Mirim asked.
“Run,” Cecelia said. “That's obvious.”
“Run?” Casper said. “Maybe.”
“Well, what else?”
“Fight back,” Casper said, and he felt a warm surge of satisfaction at the idea.
“Fight against the entire United States government?” Mirim asked.
“Why not?” Casper asked. “They're just people.”
“They're thousands of people, with guns and tanks and bombs and organization, Casper,” Cecelia pointed out. “Effectively, you'd be up against the whole damn country.”
“So I'd recruit my own people, get my own guns.”
“How?”
Casper shrugged.
A second before it had seemed natural and obvious, and he still thought it could be done, but right now he didn't know how. The imprint was playing its tricks again.
“That might be fine in the long term,” Mirim said, “but for right now, the idea is just to stay alive—how do you plan to do that?”
“You'll need to run,” Cecelia said. “I can try for a court order to stop the attacks—even with the emergency decrees in effect, I think I can plead that you're entitled to due process as long as you aren't actually taking part in subversive or terrorist activities.”
Casper shook his head. “No, Celia,” he said, “you're missing something here.”
“What?”
“You're coming with me.”
Cecelia blinked at him.
“Don't you see?” he said, the words coming in a rush. “If you go home they'll know you were with me, they'll take you in for questioning, they'll keep you locked up while they pry out every word I've said to you, they might just decide to lose you completely. If they do let you out, it'll just be as bait for me—you'll never have another moment's privacy, they'll be spying on you every second of the day. And you, Mirim, they'll do the same to you—you know they will, when you think about it you'll know it's true! Listen to me, think about it—even if you could go back, become good little drones again, do you want to? Is that any life to live? Is that a government that deserves your allegiance? What right does the government have to kill anyone who causes trouble? What right do they have to order everyone around? Who gave the Party and the Consortium and the whole stinking power structure the right to run our lives this way, to grind us down? Who said they could suspend someone's civil rights indefinitely just by labeling him a security risk? Who said they could exempt the Consortium from anti-trust and environmental laws and all the rest, and leave them in place for everyone else? Think about it—they sent me to have my brain, my very identity, tampered with, so that I could serve the Consortium better, so it could keep the Party strong. They screwed up and put in the wrong instructions, so now they're going to kill me for it. No apologies, not even an offer of a quick, painless injection—they do that much for serial killers, for God's sake, but for me, it's a spray of bullets through my apartment door, it's hunting me down on the city streets...”
He had risen to his feet while speaking; now he threw his arms out theatrically.
“How can you continue to serve them?” he shouted.
For a moment the two women stared up at him, and Casper stared back, meeting Cecelia's gaze. From the corner of his eye he saw the counterman watching him suspiciously, but the man wasn't taking action to quell the disturbance.
Not yet, anyway.
“He's right,” Mirim said.
“He's right about them locking us up, anyway,” Cecelia agreed. She looked up at Casper.
“All right,” she said, “so all three of us run, and we might as well do it together. Where do we run to?”
Casper looked at both women. He dropped his arms to his sides and seemed to shrink.
“I wish I knew,” he said.
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Chapter Eleven
The first step was obvious—and for that matter, so was the second. If they were going to run, the first thing they needed was transportation, and the second was money.
Where to go after they had transportation and money wasn't so simple, but as Casper led the two women into the parking garage he'd chosen he made a suggestion. Neither of them had any comment on it, at least at first.
“Maybe we should take a train,” Mirim said nervously, as Casper looked over the silent rows of vehicles on the second level of the parking structure.
Casper shook his head. “Too easy to search,” he said. “And a train goes in a straight line, you can't turn off and get lost on the side roads. If they decide to search the trains for me, and I'm on one, I'm dead.” He looked over a brown Toyota, then moved on.
“They can stop cars and search those, too.”
“Some of them, yeah, but do you have any idea how many roads there are out of Philadelphia?” He zeroed in on an old blue Honda four-door and looked it over for any sign of a security system. There was no thumbprint scanner on the car's computer, no warning lights or labels beyond the usual required safety notices. He noticed the clutter of old maps and empty fast-food wrappers on the back seat—exactly what he was looking for, signs of a disorganized owner.
“I don't like this,” Mirim said, her arms folded across her chest. She looked about nervously as Casper ducked down, got on his back, and peered under the Honda.
Cecelia watched Casper with interest. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I'm checking to see if there are any wires that don't look like they belong,” Casper said. “I figure that if there's an added security system, there'll be wires.”
“Some of them are subtler than that,” Cecelia said. “I had a few clients who tried this sort of thing when I did my year as a public defender.”
>
“It's a Honda, Celia, not a Ferrari or something,” Casper said as he got to his feet.
“You'd be surprised.”
“So be ready to run,” he said, as he made a sudden whirling movement and kicked out the driver's side window. The safety glass buckled, and dropped inside in a single large sheet—the glass was shattered into bits about the size of teeth, but the fragments were still held together by the layer of plastic.
“Jesus, Casper!” Mirim said. She looked about, waiting for an alarm to sound, for cops to jump out of nowhere with guns drawn.
No sirens wailed, no horns beeped; the only sound was the normal buzz of traffic outside. Casper ignored her as he reached in, tossed the ruined window away, and opened the door. He slid into the driver's seat, leaned across and fished through the glove compartment, checked the storage compartments and sun visors—and found the spare key in the ashtray. The clutter in the back seat had made him optimistic that such a stash existed.
A few seconds later the engine roared to life.
“Get in,” he said, as he used the power-lock button to unlock the other doors.
The two women hastened to obey; Cecelia took the front passenger seat while Mirim ducked into the back, shoving the trash aside.
Casper backed the car carefully out of the space, then asked, “Either of you have any idea where the nearest ATM is? And have you got your cards? They may have stopped mine already.”
Both women began digging through their purses as Casper headed down the ramp. Cecelia found her card first, Mirim a moment later.
“I didn't know you knew how to steal a car,” Cecelia remarked, as Casper pulled out of the parking structure onto the street.
“Neither did I,” said Casper, as he scanned the traffic. It wouldn't do to get into a fender-bender or get stopped by the cops. The broken window was going to be risky enough in that regard without doing anything else to attract attention, like speeding or any sort of hot driving. “I was guessing—it seemed like something this stupid imprinting ought to include, and sure enough, once I started looking, I knew what to look for.”
“I'm still not sure this is a good idea,” Mirim muttered from the back seat.
“What, stealing the car?” Casper shrugged, then ducked his head to get a better look at the traffic light. “Maybe it wasn't. I mean, taking it from the middle of a commuter garage, I figure no one will notice it's gone until 5:00 or later, and we'll have ditched it by then. And except for the window we aren't going to hurt it. If you want, we can leave a couple of hundred bucks for the gas and the repairs. I mean, once we've got some more money.”
“I didn't mean that,” Mirim said. “I meant going to Leonid's place.”
That had been Casper's suggestion; this was the first feedback he'd gotten on it.
“Oh, that.” Casper turned the corner. “Well, no one had a better idea. If you think of one while we're getting money, you know, while we're at the ATMs, let me know, okay? But I didn't know what else to suggest. They'll be watching all my friends and relatives, they're watching your apartment, and Cecelia's office, and probably Data Tracers—where else could we go?”
“But if they're being that thorough, they must know I'm with you,” Mirim protested.
Casper hesitated. “Well, yeah,” he admitted, “but if you were after a man and a woman who were running away together, would you expect them to hide out with her boyfriend?” Cecelia threw him a suspicious glance. Casper saw it from the corner of one eye, but ignored it. If he once started trying to allay Cecelia's suspicions about something going on between himself and Mirim, he'd never be able to stop. Best to just ignore the obvious, as if he were so innocent that he didn't even realize she had doubts.
A few days ago he wouldn't have thought that way; he'd have been telling Cecelia how there wasn't anything between himself and Mirim and saying it so badly that he'd be stuffing his foot further into his mouth with every word.
Now, even though he felt pretty much like himself at the moment, he knew better.
Had he figured it out for himself, or was the imprint telling him this? What the hell kind of imprint would include advice on keeping a girlfriend from being jealous, on top of everything else?
“Why not?” Mirim answered. “After all, we picked up your girlfriend—what's the difference?”
Casper didn't have a ready reply to that; he was sure there was a difference, but he couldn't put it into words. The imprint didn't offer any help on this one. “They probably think I took you hostage or something like that,” he said at last.
“Why would they?” Mirim asked.
“I don't know. I just think ... I mean ... Look, we'll get the money first, and when we get to Leonid's place I'll check for a stake-out—you know I can do that, right? You'll trust me on that? I managed okay back at Celia's office, didn't I?”
“Yeah, but back there you were...” She stopped in mid-sentence, not sure how to say what she meant—or at least, not sure how to say it without offending Casper.
Back then, he had been calm, controlled, efficient, in charge—the imprinting had been telling him what to do, she supposed. Now he was being, at least intermittently, timid and confused and whiny and unsure—his old self, in other words. He'd been the new Casper when he kicked out the window and started the car, but his voice now was back to his former personality.
It was hard to explain just what the difference was, but she could sense it instantly. Sometimes Casper was on, was the new assertive Casper, and sometimes he was off, was the old, timid Casper.
She had heard stories about how movie stars could turn something on—without it they were ordinary people, but when it was on they were stars, they drew stares, they were always the center of attention. Charisma, star quality—she wasn't sure what to call it.
She'd never really believed the stories—until now. She'd never met a movie star, but she'd seen Casper turn on, turn into this irresistible force, this presence she couldn't resist. He'd done it with his speech at Data Tracers, he'd done it when he killed those two men at his apartment, again when they had arrived outside Cecelia's office, when he'd killed the two men in the street, and in the coffee shop when he'd convinced them to join him.
But right now it was off, and he wasn't a leader of men, he was just Casper Beech, liability analyst. It was hard to take him seriously, hard to trust him with anything important. He was a nice guy, fun to talk to, but no more than that.
Could he turn it back on, whatever it was, when he needed it? Could he spot people watching Leonid's apartment?
Well, they'd find out soon enough.
She just hoped they'd survive it.
“So after he took out Groves and Dominguez, he spotted their back-up? Spotted the tail?” Smith said.
“Maybe,” his assistant said. “We don't know if he spotted her or was just getting loose on general principles. She didn't think he'd made her.”
“He probably had, though. This son of a bitch is good. He's spotted and dealt with everything we've done—dodged it if he could, killed if he couldn't dodge.”
“Yes, sir,” his assistant said.
“So we have to assume he'll spot any of our people, no matter what we do,” Smith said.
“Yes, sir.”
“So he won't approach anyone we have covered.”
The assistant hesitated. He wasn't any too sure of anything about what this Casper Beech would or wouldn't do.
“Yes, sir,” he said at last.
“But he has to go somewhere. He's got the women with him—he's not going to just sleep in the street, not with all three of them. And he can't get a hotel room without using a credit card, and we've flagged all their cards.”
“He's getting cash from ATM machines,” the assistant pointed out. “We can't cover all of them, and we can't reach them in time when his card registers.”
“Freeze his accounts—haven't we done that?”
“Uh ... no. You just said to flag them, not to freeze them.”
“Well, do it, idiot! And the women's accounts, too. How much have they already gotten?”
“Uh ... about two grand. His own account's cleaned out; they've been working on Ms. Grand's.”
“Well, freeze what's left. And have you ever tried to get a hotel to accept cash? No respectable one will take it any more. Besides, put out a notice, in case they try—if any hotel has a customer pay cash, we want to be informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So we're covering Beech's friends and relatives?”
“Of course.”
“And Anspack's?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Grand's?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You said Anspack's got a friend who works in security?”
The assistant glanced at his computer screen. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Leonid Chernukhin, senior operative at Spartan Guardian Services.”
“He's covered?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pull ‘em off, right now—and get him on the phone for me.”
“Sir?”
“I said to phone this Leonid Whatsisname. If Beech can spot all our people, we'll use someone else. And if he won't touch anyone we have covered, we'll leave someone open.”
“Yes, sir,” the assistant said.
Leonid hung up the phone and gazed out the window as contemplatively as he was capable of.
So the feds wanted a hit. He could handle that.
He'd never done a hit before. He'd killed a couple of guys once who chose the wrong place to try to rob, and he'd put some others in the hospital, but he'd never deliberately set out to kill anyone before, let alone someone he knew.
He didn't know Beech well, but he'd met him the other night—and that made it easier, actually, because Leonid didn't like Beech much. Beech was a snotty little wimp, thought he was smart. He'd be no loss to the world.
And the son of a bitch had been screwing Mirim, if the fed's hints meant anything; that made it personal—and a lot more fun, too.
Beech had been imprinted with some sort of combat file, the man said—but Leonid grinned.
The Spartacus File Page 9
