This one had been disguised to look like a Pac Tel maintenance truck, but it didn't work. After three days in the 'hoods Pac Tel's vans looked like they'd been in a demolition derby. This baby was brand-new, even the graffiti sprayed across the back door looked fresh, not to mention the idiots in their spotless overalls.
They were moving all sorts of gear to and fro, but it was obvious from the way they went about it that they didn't know a piece of fiber-optic cable from a length of garden hose, and were putting on an act.
An act which the street people recognized for what it was but tactfully ignored. Hey, if the heat wanted to play com tech, then let 'em, as long as they stayed out of the way.
As the cab rolled by his building, Kim grabbed his arm. "Rex, look, isn't that what's-his-name?"
Corvan looked in the direction of her pointing finger and sucked in his breath. "Whats-his-name" was none other than Germany's gift to the WPO, Captain Hans Dietrich. He too was dressed in an immaculate set of overalls, and was crossing the street from left to right, heading toward the front of the police van.
As the cab swerved to go around him there was a moment when Dietrich unknowingly looked Corvan in the eye. It was a hard, unblinking stare, the kind that a predator reserves for its prey, and Corvan felt a chill run down his spine. The hunt was on.
10
As Dietrich neared the police van, Nicolai Slovo stepped out to greet him. The man's clothes looked a size too large and his hair was slicked straight back. A bodyguard or a spy? Maybe both. Christian Fawley had sent him along, ostensibly to watch Dietrich's back, but was that all? Was Slovo a spy for Subido? For Numalo? There was no way to be sure.
"Phone call, boss," Slovo said, his eyes flicking from Dietrich's face to the buildings beyond. "Somebody named Subido."
Dietrich swore silently. So much for his plan to have Corvan in the bag before he talked to her. Unfortunately the good-for-nothing boys in blue had missed Corvan at the train station. How the hell could they miss a one-eyed freak with a Eurasian bimbo for a sidekick? Dietrich didn't know, but SF's finest had managed to pull it off and leave him holding the bag.
All was not lost, however. Chances were that Corvan would show up at his apartment, fall into Dietrich's carefully laid trap, and take one last dip in San Francisco Bay. Just another victim of the bay's frigid waters.
In the meantime, however, he'd be forced to kiss Subido's ice-cold posterior. The prospect was less than pleasing.
The van's side door slid open at his touch. The fact that the vehicle smelled new inside made Dietrich angry. He couldn't believe it. The cop shop had provided him with a brand-new paddy wagon disguised as a telephone truck. Shit, they might as well have written "Police" all over it and shown up with a brass band.
Soft red light pervaded the van's cramped electronics section. Both walls were covered with racks of electronic equipment. Indicator lights glowed red, green, and amber, while computer-enhanced plotting screens displayed infra-red surveillance shots provided by a flock of low-flying robo cams.
Hidden speakers muttered an endless litany of police jargon, sensors tracked the movement of vehicles and pedestrians, and an on-board computer scanned thousands of local phone lines for key words and names. One mention of "Corvan, Kio" or a hundred other key words and all hell would break loose.
A cop with a blonde crew cut and a bad case of zits lowered her machine pistol and nodded toward one of the three cellular telephones racked against one wall. "You've got a call on phone two. It's scrambled both ways."
For a moment she just sat there trying to stare him down. Finally she gave a shrug, picked up her weapon, and headed forward.
The cop paused at the door to the sleeping compartment and looked back over her shoulder. ''Keep it short, slick. If I miss a command call I'm gonna bust your balls." The door closed and she was gone.
Dietrich picked up phone two and said "Hans Dietrich" into the mouthpiece. There was a burst of static and a millisecond delay while his words were scrambled, bounced off a satellite, and reassembled at the other end.
Carla Subido's normally tidy desk was piled high with printouts. It was absurd to be awash in paper this way, but the president's computer had defied her best efforts to access it, and that had forced her to request information from other sources. A computer expert could have straightened the whole thing out in a few hours, but then she'd have to kill him, and mat would have generated even more complications. It was just fine for Numalo to spend his time playing power politics, but she was up to her ass in alligators.
When Dietrich spoke, Carla looked up from her paperwork, frowned, and focused on the matter at hand.
"Hello, Hans. Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been rather busy and this is the only time I have. How's it going?"
Dietrich felt a cool breeze touch the back of his neck and turned to see Nicolai Slovo lounging in the doorway. He frowned, but the bodyguard remained where he was. Turning to one side, Dietrich lowered his voice.
"The local police missed Corvan at the train station. I have his apartment staked out and expect him any time now."
There was a long silence at the other end of the connection while Carla thought it over. When she spoke, her voice was deliberately casual.
"I know you were educated in this country— N.Y.U., if I remember correctly, so you'll understand when I say, 'Three strikes and you're out.' "
Dietrich swallowed hard. "I understand."
"Good," Carla replied. "Good hunting, Hans," and she broke the connection.
Carla examined her watch: almost 1:00 a.m. In about two hours Mary Hawkins would have a heart attack and die. When her death was announced, the stock market would drop a point, the price of gold would twitch, and the press would go nuts.
Half-hour documentaries would be built from file footage and aired that evening, every person who'd ever come within fifty feet of the first lady would be asked for a comment, and the media would scream to see the president. And see him they would.
Tears rolling gently down his cheeks, a televised Hawkins would speak fondly of his wife, would recall their years together, and would assure the public that Mary's spirit was still at his side.
Then a spokesman would announce the funeral arrangements, the actor would depart for Camp David, and the press would go home.
Carla yawned and rubbed her eyes. Maybe then she could get some sleep.
11
It was a crummy little hotel, but that's what Corvan could afford. Over the years a once modern decor had turned gradually old. The tubular chairs, glass-topped tables, and modular accessories all looked tired. Even the chromed lamps seemed to droop. But tacky though it was, the hotel was a haven of sorts. A place for Corvan and Kim to hole up and consider their options.
The government and/or the WPO was after them. Dietrich's presence outside Corvan's apartment proved that, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. Someone had the video matrix generator and didn't want the news to get out. Either they were already making use of it or planned to do so soon. But who? The WPO? The government? There was no way to tell. And Corvan had other problems as well.
Suddenly his plastic was worthless. If the police were watching his apartment, then they were monitoring his credit cards as well. The moment he used one, a computer would note his location and dispatch a patrol car to pick him up.
The little man with the big nose watched cynically as Corvan counted out a hundred and twenty dollars from his meager supply of cash. When the last bill hit the counter, the clerk nodded, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and pushed a key card across the worn Formica.
"You're in room 312. Up the elevator, to the left as you get off, far end of the hall."
Corvan nodded, accepted the card, and dumped both of their bags onto the counter. "My wife and I would like to grab some dinner before we hit the sack. Can I leave these with you?" Corvan held up a five-dollar bill. It quickly disappeared.
"They'll be safe with me," the clerk assured him, t
ucking the suitcases under the counter. "If you like pizza, try Mama Mia's. It's the best on the block."
Corvan thanked the clerk for his advice and headed for the front door. He could feel the clerk's eyes on his back as the greasy glass slid open and he stepped outside. The eye cam was an indelible mark. It set him aside and screamed his identity. If the police came by, the little man would remember.
"So what?" a part of his mind asked as he stepped out into warm, humid air. "You haven't done anything wrong. Turn yourself in."
"Bullshit," a more primal persona replied. "Find out what this is all about before you put your ass on the line. If this has something to do with Frank and his video matrix generator, then God knows what you're up against."
The last part sounded like good advice, and Corvan decided to accept it. Kim was nowhere in sight. The cab had dropped them a couple of blocks away and Kim had ducked into a convenience store, promising to catch up. Corvan headed in that direction.
It was a busy street even late at night. People heading to and from work, searching for some sort of entertainment, or just existing, declaring a section of sidewalk to be their own and lying down to sleep.
Corvan felt naked, stripped of the power that his profession normally conferred, another member of the faceless crowd. He had no permanent job, no family, no friends, and quite unexpectedly, no material resources. For the first time since the start of his free-lance career Corvan wished that he were affiliated with a network. A nice paternalistic organization which would take him in, say "There, there," and protect him from the things that go bump in the night.
The crowd swirled and Corvan saw Kim step out of a public com booth, slam the already broken door, and start his way. As she got closer he knew something was wrong. Tears made tracks down her cheeks and there was fury in her eyes. That impression was confirmed when she slapped him across the face. It hurt and Corvan touched his cheek.
"What the hell was that for?"
"What was that for?" Kim demanded. "What do you think it was for? I just got off the phone with Seattle. Louie says there's police all over the place. They claim that Mel Ryback died of a heart attack, but one of the engineers got a look at his office, and there's bullet holes all over the place. Why's that, Corvan? And how come a mysterious fire destroyed my editing suite? You know the reason why, because someone wanted to destroy Neely's disk, that's why. Val's dead and what little I owned is gone.
"But that isn't why I slapped you. I did that because you knew they were watching us and you didn't tell me. That's why you ordered the cab to roll by your apartment without stopping. You used me. You used me to get your story, and if I jumped into your bed, then so much the better. You asshole! When they removed your eye, they cut out your heart as well."
Corvan wondered who Mel Ryback and Val were, but decided those questions could wait. He had something more urgent in mind. "Did you use your calling card?"
"What?" Corvan's question caught Kim by surprise.
He grabbed her shoulders. "Answer me! Did you use your calling card?"
Kim shook herself loose. "Sure . . . but I don't see why . . ."
Corvan grabbed her arm and began to run. They were only a hundred feet away from the com booth and just turning into the rear entrance of a sex arcade when two patrol cars converged from opposite ends of the street.
These weren't the glorified golf carts the SFPD used for traffic duty. These were full-blown combat cars, specially rigged for urban warfare and armed to the teeth.
Corvan peeked around a life-sized neon nude and saw two dozen combat-equipped cops jump down and fan out. Within two or three minutes the police would realize there weren't any one-eyed reops in the crowd and expand the search.
"Come on." Corvan grabbed Kim's arm and pulled her toward the front of the arcade. She jerked her arm free and took a step backward. "Screw you, Corvan. I'm through being used."
Corvan stepped up, started to touch her shoulder, and lowered his hand. His eye cam whirred softly as he zoomed in on her face. "Listen," he said gentry. "People have been murdered to protect someone or something evil. In a minute, two at the most, those cops will come and get us. That's what you're telling me, right? Your friend, Mel what's-his-name, they killed him."
She shrugged. "Ryback, and he was no friend of mine."
"All right," Corvan said patiently. "But think about it. They killed Ryback, they killed Frank, they destroyed the disk. Why? To protect the video matrix generator, that's why. Someone's using it and they don't want us to find out. Now, I'm sorry you're angry with me, and I'd like to talk about it, but this isn't the time or the place. Come or stay. It's up to you."
Corvan turned and walked back through the arcade, praying that she'd follow. Auto-eroto booths lined both sides of the passageway. Corvan could hear electronic voices whispering words of encouragement as customers, men mostly, were brought to orgasm through direct neural stimulation.
A few seconds later he passed through the arcade's lobby. It was filled with the usual racks of sexual paraphernalia and the same old customers searching for something new. As Corvan left the arcade he hoped Kim was right behind him. He turned and found that she was.
"I still hate your guts," she said defiandy, her eyes burning with anger.
"Understood," Corvan replied. "But let's talk about it somewhere else."
They hadn't taken more than two steps when a cone of bright light popped into existence around them. It pinned them to the street like specimens to a slide. They felt a down draft and heard an amplified voice:
"Freeze! This is the San Francisco Police Department. Stay where you are! I repeat, stay where you are!"
Corvan swore. A chopper. Damn. Now what? The crowd scattered and Corvan looked right and left. There was no way out.
A car screeched to a stop in front of them. It was huge, one of the slab-sided behemoths Americans had loved seventy or eighty years before. The driver tapped the accelerator and the internal-combustion engine roared in response. A middle-aged woman sat behind the wheel, and although Corvan couldn't place her, she seemed vaguely familiar. The woman smiled. ''Care for a lift? I'm not a cop."
The situation was so weird that Corvan believed her. Besides, the chopper was lower now, and he could see cops coming from every direction. "Yes, a lift would be welcome."
The woman nodded. "I thought so. Hop in the back."
Corvan opened the rear door, waited for Kim to scramble inside, and jumped in after her. The car took off with a screech, throwing the door closed and nearly catching his left ankle.
There was a gentle thump as a cop bounced off the right front fender and a volley of shots as his companions opened fire. Two bullets whipped through a side window and out the other side. Safety glass shattered and cascaded to the floor like a thousand tiny diamonds. If this bothered the driver, she didn't show it.
"This baby has lots of pickup," the woman observed as she glanced over her right shoulder. "Some of my friends stole it last night. They don't make 'em like this anymore."
As if to prove her point, the woman put her foot down, and the car swerved around a corner, tires screeching and horn blasting as a hundred people scrambled to get out of the way.
Corvan looked out through the rear window and saw the bright disk of a searchlight right behind them. The chopper was hot on their trail. The woman noticed his movement in the rearview mirror and spoke from the side of her mouth:
"Yeah, we gotta lose the bird, but that's not as hard as you might think."
So saying, the driver took another screeching turn, straightened the wheel, and stomped on the gas. The sedan seemed to drop down onto its haunches like a beast preparing to attack. Then it roared a challenge through its twin exhausts and charged down the street. Corvan saw that a thin line of wooden barricades barred the way and braced himself for the impact.
The sign over the hole said "Cross To n Tunnel" in big, lighted letters, and a smaller sign just below it read "CLOSED FOR REPAIR."
Undau
nted, the woman aimed the car at the mouth of the tunnel and plunged inside. The barricades shattered, splinters of wood flew in every direction, and the car rolled through. The impact was barely discernable.
Behind them a frustrated helicopter pilot pulled up and away, swearing into her throat mike and heading for the other end of the tunnel. In response to her orders five combat cars and a host of lesser vehicles hurried to take up positions at the other end as well. When the car emerged, they'd nail it with massed gunfire and wire-guided missiles.
The inside of the tunnel was huge. A six-lane throughway built at enormous expense and designed to relieve some of the city's considerable surface congestion. And for the last five or six years the underground passageway had been a big help. The only problem was that the substandard concrete used by a greedy construction company had already started to give way. As a result, construction crews worked on die tunnel during the day and a collection of youth gangs used it at night.
At first the police had tried to stop it, worried that the gangs would steal or damage the contractor's heavy equipment, but had eventually given up. The truth was that they were too shorthanded to do much else.
And it seemed as if the gangs had some sort of unspoken agreement to keep theft and vandalism to a minimum, because when the construction workers arrived each morning, their equipment was undamaged. Only a scattering of burned-out bonfires and empty booze bags indicated that the kids had even been there. Having no where else to go, the gangs seemed to value the tunnel and did nothing to attract unwanted attention.
Looking out through a shattered side window, Corvan saw heavy equipment, piles of rusty steel, corrugated pipe, and the big metal storage units which protected smaller items from thieves.
Up ahead a row of bonfires blocked their way, and the driver applied her brakes. As the car slowed, Corvan saw hundreds of kids appear out of the shadows, their ceremonial makeup indicating which gang they belonged to, with a variety of weapons in their hands.
Matrix Man Page 11
