Beech was a wimp. Combat imprint or not, he was still a wimp.
This was going to be fun.
“Anyone there?” Cecelia asked testily.
Casper hesitated.
“I don't think so,” he said.
He'd driven the stolen car around the block twice now, and hadn't seen anyone suspicious—but it didn't look right, somehow, and he wasn't sure whether the stupid unpredictable imprint was working properly.
But he couldn't see anyone, and where else were they going to go? No respectable hotel would take them unless they used their charge cards, and even if the cards had still been good—which they weren't, as they knew from the last ATM they'd hit—they'd have been like waving a red flag for the government to see.
Besides, Cecelia was suspicious that something was going on between him and Mirim, he knew she was suspicious despite his innocent act, and if Mirim's lover was around maybe she'd realize there wasn't.
Not that Casper was sure he'd mind if there was something going on.
He pulled the car into the lot and turned off the ignition. “Come on,” he said.
No one shot at them as they left the car and entered the building; no one followed them, or came anywhere near them. Some kids were playing a game a block or so down the sidewalk, and a woman was walking a dog, but that was all. It was almost 4:00; rush hour had started back in Center City and would be reaching this neighborhood soon, but right now everything was quiet.
Casper still didn't like it.
Mirim led the way and rang the bell, Casper and Cecelia hanging back. Casper could hear a TV going in one of the other apartments.
The door opened, and Casper tensed, but it was only Leonid, in jeans and tank top.
“Hi,” he said. “What's up?”
His tone didn't sound right to Casper—and what was he doing home at this hour, anyway?
Well, security people didn't all work the day shift, Casper told himself, and he was probably just being paranoid.
“May we come in?” Mirim asked.
“Um ... sure,” Leonid said, stepping aside.
Mirim turned and beckoned to the others, and the three of them trooped into Leonid's apartment.
“What's going on?” Leonid asked, as he closed the door behind them. “Why aren't you guys at the office?” He looked from one to the other—but something made Casper think he was acting.
“Someone's trying to kill Casper,” Mirim said.
Leonid glanced quickly at Casper, then back at Mirim. “Who?” he asked.
That wasn't right, Casper thought; he should have said “What?” rather than “Who?”
“We don't know,” Mirim said.
Casper didn't contradict her, but he watched Leonid's expression closely. He thought he saw Leonid's lips twitch slightly, as if he were thinking, “Yeah, sure you don't.”
Paranoia, he told himself. Yes, someone was after him, but that didn't mean everyone was.
But something was clicking away in his head. Leonid worked in security, he was known to be acquainted with Mirim, the feds knew Mirim was with Casper.
“Tell me about it,” Leonid said.
“Two men broke down his apartment door,” Mirim said. “He managed to get away out a window, and came back to Center City to talk to Celia and me, and when we were on our way to lunch two more men came after us with guns.”
Leonid turned to Casper. “Men with guns?”
Casper nodded.
“You don't know who they were?”
Casper shook his head. “Not for sure,” he said. “I think it has something to do with the imprint I got from NeuroTalents last week, though. For Data Tracers.”
“Shit. Any chance they followed you here?”
Casper shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“You seem pretty definite about that.”
Casper shrugged. “I'm sure,” he said.
“So why'd you come here?”
“They were watching Celia's apartment and office.”
“So you came to me for help?”
“Well, if there's anything you can do...” Mirim said.
Leonid considered.
Mirim thought he was thinking over Casper's situation, but what he was actually thinking about was whether he should take out Mirim, too, and say it was an accident. The bitch was lying—the Covert contact had said she was at Beech's apartment, not in Center City with her roommate. She was lying because she'd been fucking Beech. And she hadn't mentioned that Beech actually managed to kill two of his pursuers—Covert had told him that.
If she was lying for Beech like this, she was never going to be any good to him, to Leonid, again. And she'd be a witness, a witness with a grudge.
The other woman would be a witness, too, but that was no big deal—she was a lawyer, Covert could get her to stay quiet. Lawyers could be bought or intimidated.
Besides, she looked nervous. She'd probably be glad to be rid of Beech, to not be mixed up with him any more.
The first bullet for Beech, then, but the second for Mirim.
“You know, I have access to a lot of information on criminals,” he said. “Part of my work, y'know—I'm on the closed law enforcement nets, got access to all the secure sites. Maybe I could find out something about this. You three wait here.”
He turned, and ambled down the passageway into the bedroom, and the instant he was sure he was out of sight he headed directly to the drawer where he kept his .357.
In the living room Casper watched Leonid go, and then, without consciously thinking about it, moved swiftly across the room and took up a position beside the entrance to the little corridor, his back to the wall. He drew the Browning and checked the magazine.
Nine rounds left.
He rammed the clip back into place, chambered a round ... ?
“Casper, what the hell do you think you're doing?” Celia asked. She had her hands on her hips, and was glaring at him.
He held a finger to his lips. Then he pointed toward the front window.
Cecelia blinked, and turned to see what he was pointing at.
“I don't...” she began.
He said, “Shhh!” and pointed again, more urgently.
As Leonid came down the passage, his revolver in the hand behind his back, he noticed both women staring toward the far end of the room.
That must be where Beech was, down by the window.
He stepped out into the living room and started to bring the pistol around ... ?
And Casper stepped up right beside him, the Browning ready in his hand, catching Leonid totally off-guard. Casper pointed the weapon at Leonid's chest.
“Drop the gun,” Casper said.
Leonid could see that the safety was off on Beech's 9mm, that Casper's hand was steady, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Beech was smaller than he was, a nebbish, a nothing—but he had the gun in his hand pointed at Leonid's heart, and Covert said he'd had a military imprint of some kind. He knew how to use a gun, knew how to fight, knew how to kill.
And when Leonid saw the look in Beech's eyes, any doubt he'd had that Beech would shoot vanished.
Maybe Beech wasn't quite such a wimp after all.
“Shit,” Leonid said. He tossed his .357 away and raised his hands.
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* * *
Chapter Twelve
Leonid glanced at the women—and Casper, he noticed, didn't; Beech's gaze never wavered.
Mirim and Cecelia were staring, shocked.
“Casper, what the hell...” Cecelia began, but Mirim shushed her.
Leonid took his cue from that.
“So this is a scam?” he said. “You planning to clean me out?”
“Just defending myself,” Casper replied, and his voice was calm, confident, commanding. “You came out with a gun, you work in security, this place is the only place we might have gone that's not under surveillance—I think that it's a set-up. I think they should hav
e been watching here, and they weren't because they wanted me here. I think that you got a call telling you that I'm some kind of dangerous fugitive.”
“Hey, you said you were a fugitive!” Leonid protested. “I shouldn't try to protect myself?”
“Maybe I'm being a little over-cautious,” Casper conceded. “So explain why you came out with a gun.”
“Well, I thought maybe you were holding the girls hostage,” Leonid bluffed. “I was going to get the drop on you, and ask them what was really going on, why the feds are after you.”
Casper smiled, a smile that Leonid really didn't like at all. “Who said it was the feds?” he countered.
Leonid's mouth opened, then closed.
Cecelia's expression changed from angry confusion to outrage, and her gaze shifted from Casper to Leonid. Mirim took a step back, looking wary.
“You said it was,” Leonid said. “You told me the government was after you.”
“No, I didn't,” Casper replied. “I was very careful about that. I did my best to make it sound like either organized crime or corporate espionage. You said yourself you were going to check on criminals.”
“Yeah, but...” Leonid stopped in mid-sentence. What more could he say? He was caught.
“So the feds did call?” Casper asked. “Did they tell you why they want me dead?”
“Not really,” Leonid admitted. “Something about you being a terrorist.”
“You believe that?”
“No.”
“But you were going to kill me anyway?”
Leonid shrugged. “The feds asked me to. I'm going to argue with them?”
“Who was it called? FBI?”
Leonid shook his head.
Beech waited, but Leonid didn't answer further.
“You probably know I don't want to kill you,” Casper said. “Not only do I not want to kill anybody, you can still be useful to me, and you know it. I wouldn't mind shooting you in the leg, though, and do you really want me to do that? I'd try to break the bone if I did, and that could be messy.”
“Covert Operations Group,” Leonid said.
Casper gestured at the women with the hand that wasn't holding the Browning.
“I never heard of them,” Mirim said.
“I have,” Cecelia said. “When they eliminated all those conflicting agencies at the beginning of the century, after they set up Homeland Security, they put all the above-ground ones in the FBI, and all the secret ones in Covert.” She frowned. “But I thought they were like the old CIA, not supposed to operate in the U.S. in peacetime.”
“They make exceptions,” Leonid said.
“So that's who's after me?” Beech asked.
Leonid nodded.
“Why?”
“I don't know.” He didn't bother to swear to it, or try to explain—he didn't think it would make any difference to Beech.
How could he have ever considered this guy a wimp? Beech hadn't made a mistake, hadn't wavered—and his eyes ... ?
Casper nodded.
“Let's see if we can find out,” he said.
“You want me to call them?” Leonid asked.
“No. Too easy for you to warn them I'm here—hell, just calling might be enough to let them know. But you said you're on the law enforcement nets? Was that just an excuse to get your gun, or is it true?”
“It's true.”
“Maybe we can do something with that.”
“What the hell is taking so long?” Smith demanded. “Why hasn't Chernukhin called in to confirm the kill? We know Beech went in, right?”
“The lobby security camera shows him going in, yes, sir.”
“So what the hell happened?”
“I don't know, sir.”
Smith reached a decision. “Call Chernukhin,” he said. “Find out what happened. If he doesn't answer, we'll know Beech killed him.”
Mirim and Cecelia watched as Casper navigated the net on Leonid's computer. This was similar to the sort of work he'd done at Data Tracers, and he didn't need any imprint to tackle something as simple as a standard web search, even on a specialized closed network.
He'd had Leonid boot up the system, but not much more than that—it would be too easy to slip in some sort of signal. Once the browser was up and running, and Casper had satisfied himself that Leonid, like almost every user, had the system set up to remember all the necessary passwords, he had wrapped Leonid up in bedsheets, tied him with electrical cords, and shoved him in the bedroom closet.
Casper had grinned wryly at discovering that the log-ons were completely automatic. Everyone did that, of course—who wanted to carry around a list of passwords in his head? And ordinarily, no one else would be using one's own personal home computer—most people had all manner of private business on their systems, and never worried about what might happen if someone got access to them.
For someone who worked in security, though, it was sloppy and careless.
Convenient, though; Casper was able to search through the law nets for his own name, to track back any mentions he found, and to cross-reference them.
He had already done exactly that, and had moved on to other things, when a phone rang.
Casper glanced up from the screen.
Leonid thumped against the closet door, but the others paid no attention to the pounding as they looked at one another.
“I could answer it,” Mirim said. “I've been here before, after all.”
Casper considered that, then shook his head. “No,” he said, “Leonid stepped out for awhile. Let his voicemail get it.” He tapped a few keys. “And I'd say that's our cue to get the hell out of here, while we still can—if that's Covert calling to check up, no answer will mean trouble.” He logged off, then popped out a disk and pocketed it. “Come on,” he said.
“Where?” Cecelia asked. “I thought we came here because we didn't have anywhere else to go.”
Casper tapped the pocket with the disk. “I've learned a few things,” he said. “I think we can find somewhere better now.”
Cecelia seemed inclined to argue, but Mirim took her by the arm.
“Come on,” she said, “let's get out of here. Leonid's going to be really pissed when he gets free.”
Cecelia glanced at the closet, then shrugged.
The phone rang again and again as Casper, Mirim, and Cecelia gathered up their belongings—and some of Leonid's—and departed.
Behind them, Leonid kicked viciously and pointlessly against the closet door.
“There's no answer,” Smith's assistant said. “How do you want it handled?”
Smith growled.
“I want a fucking SWAT team, is what I want,” he said. “I want them to go in there and get that son of a Beech bitch ... I mean, son of a bitch Beech. And I don't care who gets in the way—if they take out Anspack or Grand or Chernukhin or half a dozen innocent bystanders it's just fine with me!”
“Yes, sir.” The assistant turned away.
“And when you've got that started,” Smith called after him, “I want you to find me the asshole who wrote this goddamned Spartacus File in the first place, and get him in here! I want to know just what the hell is in it, in case this Beech gets away again!”
“Yes, sir.”
“So where are we going?” Mirim asked.
She was riding shotgun in Leonid's antique Mustang—Casper had wanted to have something intact, with all its windows and the keys and remote, in case he got stopped for speeding. It wouldn't be safe for very long, of course—there'd be an APB on it as soon as Covert's people got Leonid out of the closet, if not sooner, and it was a very distinctive vehicle.
But it was fast and handy and Casper hoped he wouldn't need it for long.
“New Jersey,” Casper said, his eyes locked on the highway.
He had been very much in his high-intensity mode ever since disarming Leonid, and Mirim was getting tired of it. It was wearing, being around Casper when he was “on.” Besides, since they were headed northea
st on I-95 and the Delaware River was maybe a mile ahead, it was not exactly surprising information that they would be crossing it.
“Where in New Jersey?” she demanded. “Stopping in Jersey, or just passing through?”
“Stopping,” Casper said.
“Casper, would you mind being a bit more informative?”
Casper glanced at her and smiled crookedly; his ferocious intensity vanished.
“Sorry,” he said, in a voice that had neither the tight, hard command of the fighter, nor the rich tones of the orator, nor the uncertain quaver of the old Casper, but a warm confidence. “I haven't exactly been talkative, have I? I think I was afraid we might be separated, and if that happened and you were captured, the less you knew the better. But that isn't fair, is it?”
“No, it isn't,” Mirim said, somewhat mollified.
“Well, it's like this,” Casper explained. “This Covert Operations Group has posted warnings all over the nets that I'm a dangerous terrorist in possession of stolen software of theirs, which fits the old definition of a good lie, because it's pretty damn close to the truth—I can't deny being dangerous when I've killed four men in a single day, and I do have Covert's software in my head, even if I didn't want it there. So every law enforcement agency in North America knows that Covert's labeled me as such, right?”
“I guess,” Mirim said.
“If they read the nets, they know,” Casper said. “And of course they read the nets.”
“Okay, so?”
“So, who else would read the law nets?”
Cecelia, resting as well as she could in the cramped back seat, suddenly leaned forward.
“Casper...” she said warningly.
Mirim glanced at her, then back at Casper. “I don't get it,” she said.
“Well, think about it, Mirim,” he said. “Who else would want to know everything that's going on in the world of cops and robbers, besides the cops?”
“The robbers,” Mirim replied automatically. “But I still don't ... oh, no.”
Casper grinned. “Now you've got it,” he said. “Every cop in the country thinks I'm a dangerous terrorist in possession of government secrets—and so does every terrorist organization with half a brain. And they won't want to kill me—they'll want to recruit me!”
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The Spartacus File Page 10
