Her eyes flashed. "Then what is it?"
"A very bad pun," said Morrow, looking pained. "I am a businessman, my dear, not a petty criminal. Ask Phil. Just a smuggler with connections, I swear."
"Hoarding is still illegal," she protested.
"It is, yes, for the moment. These are desperate times. I do what I can to survive, and no more, until the day when I am no longer considered to be a criminal."
"On those charges only."
"On all charges. I do not prey on the weak; only the strong."
She hesitated, but her hand remained in her coat. "Phil?"
"Trust me," he repeated. "I'm not bent, if that's what's worrying you."
"Alas," rued the Head. "How true."
"And besides," Roads went on, "we couldn't arrest him if we wanted to."
"Why not?"
Morrow smiled. "Because I'm dead, my dear, that's why not. I died over fifty years ago."
"That's impossible — "
"'Impossible' is a ridiculous word." Morrow rolled his eyes. "You children of the Dissolution are all the same. You have difficulty accepting the fact that the present is not representative of the past. Many things that once could be done cannot be done now. That is all, my dear."
Barney still floundered. "I don't understand."
"No," said Morrow. "And therein lies the difference between us."
"I'll explain later," said Roads, leaning over the table to place a hand on her arm. "We've got more important things to talk about at the moment."
Barney nodded dumbly, casting a What the hell have you got me into? look back at him.
Their drinks arrived at that moment via a trapdoor in the rear of the cubicle. Roads put his in one corner of the table, away from the flickering hologram. Barney drank half of hers in one gulp.
Roads reached into a pocket, produced a cigarette and a lighter. He lit up and took a deep, sour breath.
"I need your help," he said to Morrow, getting down to business.
"I guessed as much." The Head rotated to face him.
"How much do you know?"
"That you have a serious problem. I'm glad it's you and not me, no offence."
"Thanks. Are you going to help me?"
"That depends. Are you going to help me?" Morrow countered.
"If I can."
"How?"
"I don't know. Put in a good word, perhaps."
"That won't be necessary. I have something more concrete in mind."
"Tell me."
"First, the problem," said Morrow. "You've got a thief to catch. And a killer too."
"How much do you know?"
"Enough. Since the first of August, there have been thirty break-ins and eighteen political assassinations within the city — all of them unsolved. The bulletin boards think that both series of crimes were performed by one and the same person, although RSD is treating them as separate matters entirely. No-one has given the killer a nickname yet, but the thief has been dubbed 'the Mole'. What little evidence you have in either case is inconclusive. In particular, the identikit pictures of the Mole are ... how do I put this? ... interesting." Morrow smiled apologetically. "You can't blame me for having been suspicious of you, at first."
"No, I don't." In the six weeks the Mole had been operating, RSD had learned only one thing about him: that he looked exactly like Roads. After the first break-in, Roads had been on suspension until he could prove his alibi; he didn't like remembering the experience. "Is that all you've found out?"
"Absolutely not, my friend. I know that the murders were of highly placed officials who actively supported the Reassimilation Bill. Mayor Packard is down-playing the political motive behind the killings, but the thought of joining the Reunited States of America has obviously ruffled someone's feathers. I know security has been upped at Mayor's House, and another hundred officers have been drafted from RSD to help with the arrival of General Stedman on Tuesday." The Head winked. "I'm sure that's ruffled still more feathers downtown. Or have RSD and the MSA finally reached a consensus that I'm not aware of?"
Roads didn't dignify the comment with a reply, although it certainly hit home. RSD had evolved during the Dissolution from a small, privately-owned security company. Kennedy's former police department and a small Army garrison had been combined to form the Military Services Authority. While RSD officers patrolled the streets and maintained civil law, the MSA's main task had originally been to keep external forces out of the city. In recent years, however, the MSA's authority had been extended to cover many matters dealing with the city's internal safety — a fact many old-hand RSD officers, including Roads, resented.
Roads put aside the cigarette and leaned forward. "Go on."
"The thief is another kettle of fish," Morrow said, his face sobering. "And the one you're after in particular — the Mole, rather than the assassin. That's been your assignment for the last six weeks. But you've had no luck thus far, and I can well see why."
"Oh?"
"Of course. The thefts were not of valuable items that would reappear later, as the b-boards depict them, but of information concerning RSD resources, movements of the MSA, reactor status and population figures, among other things. Correct?"
"Yes." The MSA break-in tended to overshadow the other thefts, but Roads knew them all by heart.
Morrow went on: "It's hard to see why anyone would bother stealing this data at all. There's so much of it, for a start, and of such variety. Who could possibly find a use for it all?"
"That's what we've been trying to determine." Roads leaned back into the seat, away from Morrow's probing stare. "As you say, the evidence is nonexistent, and the few suspects we've uncovered all had alibis. Motive is all that's left, and it's getting us nowhere."
"So you've finally come to me for help," Morrow said, the suggestion of a grin at the corners of his mouth. "Do you suspect that I am involved, perhaps?"
"No," Roads said. "You could break into any system you wanted without sending in the heavies."
"Exactly. The computer sciences employed by this city are not what they used to be." A fleeting regret clouded the Head's face, almost as though he missed the challenge.
"They're still not exactly easy to break into," said Barney irritably. "Whoever the Mole is, he knows what he's doing."
"True," the Head conceded. "So it would seem."
"I'm hoping you might have heard something," Roads prompted. "A rumour, anything."
"If I had, I would tell you for free."
"Does that mean you haven't?" Roads tried to keep the disappointment from showing.
"Not exactly." Morrow hesitated. "But it's strange," he said. "I thought you would have guessed by now."
"What?" asked Barney.
"Let's study the Mole's behaviour, shall we? He works under the cover of darkness, often three or four nights in a row. He is a meticulous professional, and he works alone. He does not socialise or talk to others, for, if he did, someone would surely have seen him doing so by now."
"We know this, Keith," Roads said.
"Yes, but have you ever stopped to ask yourself what he does do on his nights off?"
He had, frequently. "I've got a feeling you're going to tell me."
"Exactly. And the time has come for me to ask for that favour in return."
"Go ahead."
"It's quite simple," Morrow said. "I too want you to catch the Mole."
Roads performed a mental double-take. "You what?"
"I want you to catch him, for even I am not immune to this invisible thief. On every night the Mole has not been robbing you, he has been locking horns with me. And winning, I should add."
Roads almost laughed at the Head's expression. It must have hurt Morrow plenty to even contemplate asking an RSD officer for help, albeit that Roads had come to him first.
Barney shook her head. "Shit."
"My sentiments exactly."
"What have you lost?" asked Roads.
"Not much. Invoices, inventor
ies, securities, private records. I get the feeling the Mole is simply testing my defences, waiting until he's ready to pull off the big one."
"Have you kept a record of what he took?"
"Naturally, and of the time each break-in occurred. Like you, I have been unable to determine a pattern."
"Regardless ... I need your data."
"And you shall have it. But only you, not the entire Regional Security Department."
"You have my word. They don't even know we're here."
"Good."
The trapdoor opened in the back of the booth, revealing a data fiche the size and shape of an old smart card. Roads gently picked it up and pocketed it, keen to study it but trying not to raise his hopes too high. The revelation, unexpected thought it was, might still lead nowhere.
Morrow had closed his eyes, and appeared to be thinking to himself. Roads looked at Barney, who shrugged. He waited as long as he could before breaking the silence.
"I don't suppose you have a card reader here, Keith?" he asked. "I want to get started on this right away."
Morrow's eyes snapped open. "Of course; you must be keen to explore the depth of my vulnerability. But not right now. I have other work for you to do."
"Oh?" Roads said cautiously.
"Yes. The time is two-fifteen. You are still here, which I take to mean that you have not received a report from RSD HQ regarding the latest robbery."
Barney glanced at her watch. "That's right. But that doesn't mean we won't. Sometimes it takes a while for a break-in to — "
"I have just had word from one of my subordinates," Morrow interrupted. "An entry alarm was triggered twenty minutes ago. Our friend has been busy."
Roads gripped the edge of the table. "Where?"
"One hundred and fourteen Old North Street. If you hurry, you might catch him on the way out."
Barney lifted her coat into her lap. "It'll take at least ten minutes to get there."
"I know," Roads said.
"And he has an annoying habit of triggering alarms when he leaves, not as he enters." The Head shrugged with his eyebrows. "Still, someone will meet you there. Call in the troops and see what you can find, but remember: I didn't tip you off."
"Of course not. Thank you." Roads clambered across his seat.
"A pleasure — and to have met you, my dear." Morrow smiled at Barney. "Do keep in touch."
The Head flickered once, and vanished.
CHAPTER TWO
2:45 a.m.
The rain had gone as suddenly as it had come, leaving nothing but dampness in the air and swirling water on the streets. In places, storm drains had been overloaded or blocked, and mirror-flat puddles shattered into spray as the RSD patrol car passed.
Roads drove while Barney arranged the rendezvous with HQ, using the secure phone in the dash rather than the radio. The duty officer confessed to being slightly overwhelmed with requests: more than just the Mole had been busy. It took five minutes to confirm that a footsquad and van would be dispatched to Old North Street as soon as possible, and that curfew would be lifted in the area once power loads could be juggled across the city to accommodate the extra demand.
When she had finished, Barney collapsed into the seat and slicked back her still-damp hair. The alcohol slowly dissolving in her stomach didn't ease the sensation that her world had suddenly been turned upside down. Watching Roads drive wasn't helping, either.
Kennedy Polis had been designed and built with an emphasis on new ways of managing resources, waste, and movement. The last, in particular, gave the city a unique shape. Instead of a complicated tangle of roads and freeways, Kennedy had boasted a massive twin-track personal rapid transport system arranged in seven concentric rings — designated A to G — spaced one kilometre apart, web-like, around the nominal heart of the city. Each elevated guideway, not much wider than a conventional sidewalk, had originally carried six- or two-seater cabs that could be summoned from numerous stops and junctions along the network. Powered by linear induction motors, the cabs had been computer-controlled, quick and safe, designed as a compromise between buses and taxis. Armed with a smart card, a commuter could have summoned a cab at any time from anywhere in the city — arrival within two minutes, guaranteed — and taken it wherever he or she liked.
The annual cost of regularly using such a service had amounted to little more than the cost of maintaining a private motor vehicle to travel the same distance, so patronage of the system — nicknamed the 'Rosette' — had been high. As an added incentive, the city's streets were deliberately narrow — with priority lanes given to bicycles and service vehicles rather than general traffic — and followed the path of the Rosette almost exactly. These long, curving maintenance roads provided the only relatively uninterrupted stretches of tarmac in the city, apart from radial freeways pointing the four directions of the compass.
Following the War and the enclosure of the city, private vehicle ownership had been banned and use of the Rosette rationalised. New outer sections, once intended as complete additions to the original ring structure, had been turned into loops connecting the inner rings with more distant sites, thus allowing commuters access to their workplaces. Little-used segments had been shut down completely, their reaction plates and control systems cannibalised to repair others. The only vehicles allowed on the roads were those performing the work of the Mayoralty.
The streets were, therefore, empty for the most part, maintained irregularly, and ill-lit at night. Rusting hulks left over from the old days had long since been recycled, but there were still plenty of other hazards. Where tarmac had crumbled, a new surface compounded from old rubber tyres filled the gaps. Traffic lights no longer worked at all. The motorist's only advantage lay in the assumption that all wheeled traffic was important, and therefore had right of way.
Roads, accordingly, drove as though he was the only person on the road. The harbour lay to the south of the city, with Old North Street perversely to the south-west, in an area that had fallen into disrepair after the deactivation of the nearest segment of the Rosette. Following maintenance roads along J loop back to G ring, he pushed the patrol car's small electric motor to its limit, growling around bends and accelerating across intersections without even pausing.
Along a relatively straight stretch, Roads fumbled with one hand inside his coat and handed her the data fiche.
"We'll have to decide what to do about this later," he said. "Until then, keep it safe for me."
"Will do, boss." She tucked it into the breast pocket of her shirt. The sharp edges of the card nagged at her. Accepting help from a known felon smacked of corruption, and contradicted everything she thought she knew about her partner.
"You really surprised me tonight," she said.
He glanced at her, then back to the road. "What do you mean?"
"Come on, Phil." She studied his face closely in the dashlight. "When the hell did you start dealing with Keith Morrow?"
"A long time ago," he said, his expression fixed. "But it's not as bad as it looks."
"Are you sure? For someone who swears he's not crooked, you keep the damnedest friends."
"Is that what's bothering you?"
"Well, you've got me worried, I'll admit."
"Don't be," he said. "I haven't spoken to him for almost twenty years, until tonight."
"But you did deal with him?"
"In a way. We helped each other out, once." He shrugged. "It's a long story, and not particularly relevant."
She wanted to believe him — and did for the most part — but the question had to be asked. He was so much a part of her life that the very thought of him betraying her made her stomach turn.
"Promise me you're telling the truth," she said.
"Easy," he said, and smiled. "You've never met a straighter cop."
Her doubts ebbed at that. They had been partners for long enough to know when they were telling the truth, as well as their games.
"I know," she said, returning the smile and ad
ding a suggestive leer. "At least, that's what I've heard."
"So believe it."
"As long as you tell me the full story one day."
"Maybe." He returned his attention to the road. "But not right now, okay?"
She took the hint.
Roads directed the car along a cross-route between G and F rings. The headlights seemed to disappear into the gloom, sucked away from them by the night and returning only in brief reflections off broken glass. Whole blocks had been left to the elements, abandoned for more convenient locations closer to the Rosette. Decaying facades gaped back at her like mocking skulls, blank and impersonal yet eerily animated all the same. If buildings could look wild, untamed, then these did, as though the dead blocks resented the intruder that had so rudely disturbed their brooding, uneasy rest.
Then, as they neared the address Morrow had given them, Roads flicked off the headlights.
"What — ?" she began.
"No need to let the Mole know we're coming," Roads said, his voice soft. "If he's still around."
Barney put one hand on the dash. Privately she doubted that the Mole would be anywhere near the address Morrow had given them: not because Morrow had lied, but because the Mole had an uncanny knack of slipping away well before anyone came close. That wouldn't stop her from trying, of course — but the possibility of crashing into something in the dark concerned her more. The road ahead was utterly dark.
"Jesus, Phil — "
"It's okay. I can see fine."
The car swerved to the left, and she clutched the dash hard. "Are you sure?"
"Positive."
Dark buildings loomed on her side of the car, and she flinched instinctively away. Roads had been RSD's champion marksman for more years than she could recall, but that didn't make her feel any safer.
Suddenly Roads spun the wheel and brought the car to a sudden halt.
Barney jerked back into her seat. "Now what?"
He pointed past her, through the window on her side of the car. "We're here: 114 Old North Street."
"How can you tell?"
"Would you believe I'm psychic?" He opened his door and stepped out of the car.
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