Roads glanced once over his shoulder, sensing again that he was being watched. Then he chided himself for being foolish. Of course he was being watched; the area was full of RSD officers — although apart from a slight increase in pedestrian traffic there was little indication of the industry taking place within the university's grounds. The students had been given an unexpected holiday while the library's facilities were being used.
"It's a long-shot," O'Dell drawled, "relying heavily on the assumption that the Mole won't know you're in there."
"I know." Roads mentally added the possibility that the Mole might not move on an official datapool at all, in which case the entire procedure would have to be repeated the following night. "But it's our only shot."
A passing plain-clothes security guard checked Roads' ID and waved them on. They strolled toward the library.
"What do you plan to do, once you've got him?"
"Whatever it takes." Roads grimaced. "I don't want to kill him, but I will if I have to."
O'Dell seemed surprised by his reluctance. "I wouldn't hesitate, in your shoes. After all, this guy has made a mockery of your security forces. He deserves everything he gets."
"Maybe, but I don't like killing. There are better ways."
"And it'd feel strange, I guess, aiming for yourself."
The entrance to the library loomed before them, at the summit of a flight of wide, stone steps. They stopped there, on the threshold, where moss had attacked the composite protecting the stone and turned it a mottled green.
"But if you have to," O'Dell added, "you'll get him, I'm sure. I have no doubts that you're the best man for the job."
"Despite our differences?"
"Because of them." O'Dell leaned close. "Don't tell anyone I admitted this, but it's possible that biomodification might be useful in some circumstances, in the right hands. The Mole, however, is a prime example of its misuse. I'll be glad to see him fall."
"So you think he's biomodified?"
"I do now, yes. Something left over from the old times. There's no way an ordinary man could do what he does."
Roads was glad that O'Dell had not followed DeKurzak's line of reasoning. Even inside jobs left evidence of some kind. "What about the assassin?"
"It'll be interesting to see what happens after tonight. If the Mole is captured and the murders cease, then that'll solve all of your problems in one hit."
"You think the Mole and the assassin are one and the same?"
"Not as strongly as your man DeKurzak — but it's possible." O'Dell shrugged. "Only time will tell, won't it?"
Roads smiled to himself. "Time, or an awful amount of luck."
Word spread quickly of their arrival. David Goss, the RSD officer in charge of security, came down from the roof to welcome them in person. A giant with bulging muscles and close-cropped hair, he looked as though he might have been more at home in the military. Looks, however, were in his case deceptive. He was one of the most placid, patient men that Roads had ever met. His beaming smile was more than a match for O'Dell's.
Goss took them on a grand tour of the library, pointing out the additional surveillance systems installed that afternoon. Invisible laser trip-wires laced the corridors, floors had been laid with pressure-sensitive mats, every window and door had its own deadman switch, and there wasn't an inch of floorspace that a camera couldn't see. Infra-red detectors reacted to their body-heat, beeping as they passed.
"Better hope there aren't any mice," commented O'Dell.
"Everything is keyed to react to human stimuli," said Goss. "If the heat-signature is wrong or the mass too light, then the alarms won't ring." He stooped to run his hand along the floor. "And the trip-wires come no closer than ten centimetres to the ground. We shouldn't have too many false alarms."
The library's northern wall nestled against an administration complex, so the roof had been booby-trapped as well, along with a wrought-iron skylight that opened onto the main reading room where the datastorage facilities had been assembled. Every conceivable entrance had been covered, including the air-vents.
"You, Phil, will be in here." Goss opened a door on the first floor as they passed it, revealing a white-tiled room lined with cubicles: the ladies' toilets. An array of screens and monitors had been erected in one corner, at which technicians fussed and bothered.
Roads smiled. Incongruous though it seemed, it made admirable sense: close enough to the reading room to give him quick access, but not so close as to risk being stumbled across by accident. Even if the Mole suspected that Roads would be waiting for him, this was the last place he would look.
Roads glanced at O'Dell, who was also smiling.
"Yes?"
"I was just wondering what would happen if the Mole was a woman with a weak bladder."
Goss chuckled. "Then she'd get one hell of a surprise, that's for sure. Not that she'd make it this far."
"Right."
The tour concluded in the main reading room. The chamber was enormous, lined with shelves crammed with antique books. There were only two entrances to the room, one being the door through which they had come, the other high above. The marble ceiling was domed and rococo, terminating in the skylight.
The room had been chosen for its spaciousness, and its ready access to the landlines of the library. A score of long, leather-bound desks had been pushed aside to make way for the data-storage tanks in the centre of the room. Each tank was two and half metres high and as wide as two people, connected by thick fibre-optic cables to a central cluster of terminals. The whole array seemed sorely out of place in the stately chamber. It looked as though the university was conducting a refrigerator sale.
That private thought kept Roads amused until he spotted a familiar figure among the technicians.
DeKurzak straightened and dusted his hands. When he caught sight of Roads and O'Dell, he waved them over with a weary smile.
Goss made it halfway through introductions before Roads cut him short.
"That's okay, David. We all know each other."
"We sure do." Roads was surprised to hear a slight disapproving tone enter O'Dell's normally cheerful voice, and wondered what could have provoked such a reaction. Inter-departmental politics aside, DeKurzak and O'Dell should have had little ground on which to disagree.
"Everything's ready," DeKurzak said, apparently unaware of O'Dell's snub. "You're looking at the total datapool of Kennedy Polis."
"Everything?" asked O'Dell.
"You name it," affirmed Goss, "and it's here in this room. Right down to my shoe-size."
They moved closer to study the screen of the nearest terminal. As they did so, DeKurzak made certain he was between them and the keyboard — shielding the datapool like an over-protective parent — although the screen displayed nothing but a list of nondescript menus.
"When I arrived," O'Dell said, "I brought a data fiche containing historical records and statistics. Can I assume that this information is here as well?"
DeKurzak nodded. "It is. The original card is under lock and key at RSD headquarters."
"Good. Some of that information is sensitive, even today. I wouldn't like it to fall into the wrong hands."
"It won't." DeKurzak killed the display and turned to the others. "The city shuts down in half an hour, gentlemen. From that point on, it's up to us to keep it safe."
Goss grinned eagerly. "The sooner the better. My side of things will be ready by then."
Roads glanced at his watch. "The Mole has never made a move before eleven o'clock — "
"That we know of," said DeKurzak.
"Right, so I'll want to be in and settled by nine, just to be sure. Until then, I'd like to cover the building a couple of times, to get to know the layout."
"Sounds fair," Goss said. "I can give you one of the team, if you like."
"No, that's okay. A floor plan will be fine."
"Can do. I'll get it for you on the way out." Goss stepped away from the terminal to demonstrate the sec
urity provisions elsewhere in the room.
Before Roads could follow, DeKurzak motioned him aside.
"The Mayor wants to talk to you, Phil, when you're free," said the MSA officer.
"About anything in particular?" Roads fought to contain his reluctance. Mayor Packard was well-liked but, in Roads' opinion, something of an imbecile. In his five-year reign, they had spoken face-to-face three times and on each occasion exchanged nothing of any importance.
"About tonight, of course." DeKurzak's expression became mildly reproachful. "I think he'd appreciate some reassurance concerning the outcome of this venture."
"As would I."
"That's not what he wants to hear." DeKurzak shook his head. "There are people in the Mayoralty who question the wisdom of Operation Blindeye, and the Mayor is naturally concerned. It would be best not to joke about the risk you're taking on our behalf."
Roads met DeKurzak's stare, and held it. The inference was obvious: "you", not "we". If Blindeye failed, then a scapegoat would be required, and he'd obviously been nominated in absentia to fill that position.
"Fair enough, I guess," he said, trying to sound casual. "I'll call him when I can."
"Thank you." DeKurzak went to move away, but Roads grabbed his arm.
"Wait. You said some people disagree with what we're doing." The liaison officer nodded. "What about you, DeKurzak? Do you think we're doing the right thing?"
"If I'd thought of anything better, I would have tabled it by now." DeKurzak's eyes hardened. "I'd tell you to your face if I thought your actions inappropriate."
"Would you?"
"Believe me, Phil." DeKurzak pulled his arm free. "There's much more at stake here than your feelings."
The liaison officer went back to attending the datapool, and Roads turned to rejoin the others. Goss was showing O'Dell the security surrounding the main console.
"Lasers, infra-red detectors, pressure mats, you name it," said the big officer. "There's a dozen of each in this room alone. Not even Mister Mouse could get within three metres of this desk without letting half the city know."
Roads, thinking of the video Keith Morrow had given him, pursed his lips and said nothing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
10:35 p.m.
Roads glanced at his watch and resisted the urge to light a cigarette. The toilets were pitch-dark, apart from the inconstant glow of the monitors. The stench of disinfectant had become overpowering in the absence of other sensory input.
He had been in the toilet for an hour and a half. The five screens on the desk before him flickered between various views of the library. Besides a couple of inevitable false alarms, the night had been perfectly quiet. At his request, a separate terminal had been installed so he could work to pass the time, but that had paled quickly. There was nothing to do but wait.
After his guided tour with O'Dell, he had scoured the library from roof to basement, searching for any entrance that might have been overlooked. It had taken him two hours to concede that there was very little Goss had missed; even the chimneys had trip-wires installed. The exercise had proved worthwhile, however. By the time he had finished, he had known the building as thoroughly as he knew his own bedroom, and could have found his way around it with his eyes closed if he'd had to.
Throughout the evening's preparations, however, he'd found it hard to shake the feeling that he was being followed, especially when he went for a nerve-soothing run. Although Goss' team had secured the area for the night, the grounds were alive with subtle movements. He supposed that a few guards still patrolled the paths and lawns along which he ran. Nothing else explained the gut-level certainty that he was being watched again. It was odd, though, that no-one halted him to ask for ID.
He returned to the library feeling relatively refreshed and invigorated. A warm-down and a shower later, he was ready to ring the Mayor.
The conversation went exactly as he had anticipated it. Mayor Packard was in his early fifties, with the perfect mix of grey-haired respectability and charismatic good looks to guarantee a majority vote from the citizens of Kennedy Polis. City politics mirrored that of twentieth-century America in miniature: two major parties competed for both the Mayoralty and seats on the Council by drawing popular candidates from within their own ranks and pitting them against each other for preselection every four years. The conservatives advocated a need for pacifism, an egalitarian social system and complete isolation from the outside world, whereas the other — now synonymous with the Reassimilationists — wanted to reopen the city to the outside world.
In the twenty-nine years since the abdication of the Dissolution Mayor, who had ruled as a near dictator until sickness forced him to retire, every election had been won on an isolationist ticket. Mayor Packard, formerly head of the MSA, hadn't changed the formula even slightly when he had been re-elected the previous year — which only made his sudden reversal in the face of the RUSA envoy even more remarkable. Speculation had been rife of secret back-room deals, or threats, since the envoy's arrival; none, of course, had been confirmed by either the Mayor or his staff, and Roads preferred to believe that, for once, common sense had reigned.
Once the formalities had been dispensed with, he assured Mayor Packard that he was confident of a successful conclusion to the evening, although that outcome might not be known until the early hours of the morning. Packard, in response, asked to be kept informed, no matter what the hour. He went on to reaffirm the serious situation in which the city found itself, and to reiterate the necessity that it present a 'clean bill of health' for Reassimilation.
"Let's show those bastards, eh, Roads? Let's show them we know how to defend our city."
Roads wasn't sure exactly what to make of that comment, but replied: "Of course, sir."
"We do know how to, don't we? I'd hate to think we didn't." A frown disturbed the perfect sweep of Packard's brow, albeit briefly. "If this plan of yours is successful, you can expect to receive a commendation."
Roads resisted the impulse to ask what he could expect if it failed. Instead, he apologised for having to cut the conversation short. Packard wished him luck on behalf of the rest of the city and broke the connection.
He'd had time for one last briefing with Goss, and then it was into the toilet to wait for the Mole. An hour and a half later and he was still wondering who Packard had meant by 'those bastards'.
Suddenly, a familiar voice whispered in his ear via a tiny earplug, startling him from his reverie:
"Howdy, boss."
"Hi, Barney." He glanced by reflex at his watch; it still said 10.35. "You're late."
"I was busy elsewhere. And, besides, my shift doesn't officially start for an hour yet."
"What happened to the fanatical devotion to duty?"
"Out the window, I'm afraid. When a handsome young captain asks you out, nothing gets in the way."
"Oh, so that's where you've been." He winced, hoping the camera in the toilet wouldn't pick up his expression. "And did you have a good night?"
"Simply ... fabulous." Barney's imitation of her colleague, Shelley, was precise. No doubt there would be an interesting conversation between the two women the following day. Roads was positive he didn't want to overhear it.
"Some people will do almost anything to make me jealous," he said, hoping he had inserted the correct amount of humour in his voice.
"What's there to be jealous of? He's a married man, and I'm so much older than him."
"From the tone of your voice, I'd say that neither would be much of an obstacle, given the chance."
"What's the matter, Phil?" She chuckled. "You're not really jealous, are you?"
"Not at all. But this is hardly the time or place to discuss your sex life. Think of your reputation, for God's sake."
"What sex life? Besides, this is a private line."
"Lucky."
"By the way, DeKurzak asked me to remind you to use subvocals from now on."
"Is he still there?"
"Yes. S
o are David and Martin ... Roger couldn't make it, unfortunately, so he misses out on all the perks we have up here, courtesy of the KCU staff room."
"Thanks." The makeshift command centre was in the heart of the building adjacent to the library, on the first floor. Roads glanced disparagingly at the gloomy confines of the ladies' toilets, and belatedly remembered the throat-mike. "Thanks a lot," he subvocalised.
"Oooh, you've gone all husky." She panted a throaty farewell. "I'll be watching you, remember."
"How could I forget? Call me when you can."
"Will do."
He settled back into the chair and closed his eyes. He wondered why he was so bothered by the thought of Barney having dinner with O'Dell. She and Roads were close, yes, and anyone intruding upon that closeness could be considered a threat — but he had no right to expect her not to see other men. He was her superior officer, for Christ's sake, not her lover, and there was the age difference to take into account as well.
But more than rank kept them apart; he was honest enough with himself to admit that. It was history — both his and the city's. A history they had never discussed completely.
If only her father had lived ...
Casting the thought aside, he got to his feet and paced the length of the cubicles.
What had Packard said? "Let's show those bastards we know how to defend our city." Or something to that effect. An interesting choice of words, Roads thought. "Defence" usually referred to something from the outside; "bastards" implied plurality. If the Mayor had meant the Mole, as was suggested by the context, then he would have said "bastard", singular. But it would have been just as strange to refer to the assassin and possible accomplices instead, because the killer was doing exactly what Packard suggested: defending Kennedy from a perceived invasion.
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