Tek Money

by William Shatner

  “A highly intelligent young woman would head for shelter the moment you came within range.”

  “Another nasty trick that fate plays on me,” said Gomez, “is to pair me with a partner who doesn’t appreciate my immense charm.”

  A few spaces to their right the pilotside window of the Newz, Inc., skycar opened a quarter. “Hi there, putz,” called the robot cameraman.

  “Welcome to Madrid,” muttered Gomez, heading for the hotel entrance.

  The Cafe Picasso was a large multilevel place adjacent to the vast soaring lobby of the Hotel Condor. Natalie and the short pudgy secretary of state had taken a table on the level that featured a replica of Pablo Picasso’s studio built on a floating platform. An androidsim of an aged Picasso was at work at an easel, clad only in a pair of khaki shorts and sandals.

  Turning away from watching the android, Secretary Torres said, “A very fascinating artist. Full of fire.”

  “He’s okay,” said Natalie.

  “Before we leave, we’ll go up to the top level of the cafe and see the animated Guernica.” From his breast pocket he took a bright orange plyochief and dabbed at his perspiring forehead. “I find myself, my dear, in an unpleasant position. Not merely unpleasant but dangerous.”

  She rested one arm on the small table, which had a Picasso dove etched on its plastiglass surface. Leaning closer to the politician, Natalie said, “This has to do with what we talked about the other day, Señor Torres?”

  He wiped his forehead. “Sí, my dear,” he replied. “The guns, sí. On that previous occasion I made light of your suggestions that the Garcia regime was going to be the target of an imminent coup.”

  “You were perspiring a lot then, too, Mr. Secretary,” reminded Natalie, watching the pudgy man. “Being a seasoned reporter, I knew you weren’t being absolutely honest and forthright with me.”

  “Es verdad,” admitted Torres. “I already knew that weapons of some kind had been delivered to Janeiro Martinez, that he was planning to use them in an attempt to overthrow our government.”

  “Does President Garcia know what you know? I assume, as a trusted member of his cabinet, you’d have—”

  “The situation, señorita, is a complex one, very delicate,” he said, wiping at his forehead with the orange plyochief. “One has a loyalty to one’s country, but also to oneself.”

  “So you haven’t discussed this with Garcia?”

  “There are several factors to consider,” said Torres, glancing again at the android Picasso. “For one thing, your American government is involved.”

  “I know about the Office of Clandestine Operations.”

  “It goes somewhat higher than that. There is, I am fairly certain, someone high in the Interim Cabinet, which was established after your president was forced to resign. Someone in that cabinet who is active in what’s going on.”

  Natalie sat up. “I didn’t know that. Who?”

  “I am unable to say. However, I know that a certain segment of the United States government wants President Garcia out of power.” He wiped at his forehead with the orange plyochief. “I’ll go, too. But I’ve been hoping to arrange a safe and comfortable retirement for myself.”

  “And that’s not possible anymore?”

  He shook his head slowly and sadly. “I’ve learned that I won’t be allowed to live should the coup succeed,” he said. “That is a very sobering reality to have to adjust to.”

  “I won’t allow anything like that to happen,” she said, angry. “I’ll use the power of vidnews to expose—”

  “There is a quicker and, from my point of view, more helpful way to approach this, señorita,” the perspiring secretary of state cut in. “If your esteemed Newz, Inc., organization could arrange me safe passage to elsewhere—and provide me with sufficient funds—I’d be willing to provide them information.”

  “What exactly do you have to sell?”

  Glancing for a few seconds at the painting android, he turned back to her. “A brilliant artist, so confident and sure of himself,” he observed. “But then, the twentieth century was a more confident age than ours.”

  “What is it you’re selling, Mr. Secretary?”

  “I know the reasons your government wants us out of power.”

  “That’s easy to guess. The OCO, or at least part of it, wants to encourage the Tek trade again in these parts. Garcia’s administration has been cracking down on—”

  “Ah, but it’s much more complicated than that, my dear.” Torres lowered his voice. “Zabicas has promised to …” He half rose in his chair, staring toward the artist’s studio. “Deus!”

  Picasso had tossed his brush aside. From the waistband of his shorts he drew a lazgun. Spinning, smiling, he aimed the gun at the table where Torres and Natalie were sitting.

  31

  GOMEZ HAD SPOTTED her first. “Ai, it’s just as I feared,” he remarked, slowing as they crossed the many-tiered lobby.

  “What?” inquired Jake.

  “The bane of my life, sitting in the restaurant yonder with—Caramba!”

  Leaving Jake, Gomez went running across the lobby and up the ramp to the second level of the Cafe Picasso. He’d noticed the artist android discard his brush and reach for the lazgun tucked into his waistband.

  The racing detective reached Natalie Dent’s table just as Picasso aimed and fired.

  Gomez tackled the redhaired reporter and they both fell to the right and hit the floor in a tangle.

  Secretary Torres cried out a thin keening scream when the beam of the lazgun sliced into his chest.

  Rolling free of the sprawled Natalie, Gomez snapped out his stungun and fired at the android.

  The beam hit the mechanical Picasso while he was swinging around to take aim at the fallen reporter.

  The andy’s arms snapped to his sides, the lazgun fell to the simulated studio floor, bounced twice. Picasso tottered forward, teetered on the edge of the platform for several seconds before plunging over onto a table just below.

  “You in passable shape, chiquita?” Gomez inquired, holstering his gun, and offered her a hand.

  “Yes, fine, thanks, Gomez. I’ll express my gratitude later.” She waved away his assistance, pulling a palm-phone out of her skirt pocket. Punching out a number, she said, “Sidebar, get the heck in here on the triple. There’s just been an assassination and we’re the first ones on the scene.”

  Colonel Maresca of the Policia National was a tall, lean man of fifty. His crisp tan uniform was trimmed in gold and there were many bright medals and ribbons on the chest of the jacket. His large circular office was at the top of the Justicia building on the Plaza De La Independencia. From his high, wide viewindow you could see a portion of the simulated greenery of Retiro Park below.

  Jake said, “Not a damn thing.”

  Turning away from the window, the colonel returned to his realwood desk and stood beside it. “I have, Señor Cardigan, heard many favorable things about you,” he said, smiling briefly. “It is said that, despite your earlier criminal career, you have an excellent reputation as a private investigator who—”

  “What I don’t have, Colonel, is an earlier criminal career.” Jake was slouched in an armchair near the wide desk. “That was a Teklord frame. You can find all the details in—”

  “Of course, sí, forgive me.” Maresca smiled apologetically. “I was allowing the fact that you’d served considerable time in an American cryoprison known in the underworld as the Freezer affect my judgment and my memory.” He smiled again, even more briefly. “The point I was making is that I find it odd that you, a respected investigator, would withhold information from—”

  “I’m not withholding any information, Colonel,” Jake assured him. “My partner and I don’t know, as I’ve already said, a damn thing about the assassination of Secretary Torres.”

  “A true shame that Señor Gomez couldn’t make our meeting.”

  “Since your invitation said this wasn’t an official request but just a cou
rtesy thing, he decided to go out and work on the case we’re here in Spain to cover.”

  “And you believe this case, whatever it is, has nothing to do with the murder of the secretary of state?” The colonel sat down behind the desk.

  “I’d bet that it does,” answered Jake. “But right now, Colonel, I don’t know exactly how it ties in. What did Natalie Dent say?”

  “You’re acquainted with the young lady, I believe?”

  “Yep,” admitted Jake, “know her well.”

  “During my recent interview with her, she was her usual circumlocutious self.”

  Jake grinned. “You think Janeiro Martinez is behind the killing?”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  “Where is the guy?”

  “That I don’t know. He and his core people move about.”

  “Don’t the National Police keep track of their prominent rebels?”

  “We try to, Señor Cardigan,” said Maresca. “But the fact that Martinez is still not in prison attests that he’s very good at outfoxing us.”

  “What about Carlos Zabicas?”

  “A suspected Teklord,” said the colonel. “He has a villa, a most impressive one, on the outskirts of the city.”

  “He’s linked with Martinez, isn’t he?”

  “That’s my belief, but there isn’t any proof.”

  “President Garcia’s been cracking down on the Tek trade in Spain,” said Jake. “That gives Zabicas a motive for wanting him out of office.”

  “A motive shared by a great many other Teklords.”

  “Have you questioned Zabicas about his association with Martinez?”

  “Zabicas is not an easy man to question.”

  “You can’t invite the guy in for an informal chat like ours, huh?”

  Colonel Maresca smiled. “Unfortunately, no, señor. You’re aware that a great deal of money, no matter how it’s made, has the power to insulate one from a great many of the annoyances of society. Including police questions.”

  Jake nodded. “What about a supply of illegal weapons that recently came into your country?”

  “The smuggling of unauthorized weapons is a thriving trade. Can you be more specific?”

  “Devlin Guns.”

  The colonel got up, returning to the window. “We believe that Martinez has them.”

  “You don’t know where?”

  “Not at this time, no.”

  “What would be your guess?”

  “I don’t make guesses. That’s an occupation for private detectives.”

  Jake stood, too. “Something’s going to happen within the next few days, Colonel,” he said toward the policeman’s back. “The assassination this afternoon must tie in.”

  “We’re already investigating the possibility of an attempt to overthrow President Garcia,” Maresca assured him. “Gracias for coming in. I’m sorry you weren’t able to provide me with more information.”

  “I was about to say the same thing to you.” Giving him a lazy salute, Jake made his way out of the office.

  32

  “DON’T GO MOPING along with that hangfrog expression on your aging face. Afterall, I’ve already expressed—”

  “Hangdog. It’s a hangdog expression people display when shrouded in gloom, chiquita. Not applicable here, since outrage is what I am attempting to—”

  “My point, Gomez, and you really seem intent on muddying the waters with a lot of unnecessary verbiage, instead of following the example I always strive to practice and that is to get right to the point without a lot of shilly-shallying around the bush, my point is that I’m obviously grateful to you,” said Natalie Dent as they walked side by side along a lane lined with holographic projections of trees. The rain had stopped and the sky over Retiro Park was a yellowish grey. “Afterall, by knocking me to the floor, spilling my soup of the day all over my best skirt in the process, you undoubtedly saved my life and kept that assassin andy from carrying out his full mission.” She gave him a cordial pat on the elbow.

  “I accept your deftly phrased expression of undying gratitude.” The detective glanced back over his shoulder and scowled. “Does your snide cambot have to stick so close to us?”

  “Sidebar is also acting, considering all I’ve been through today, as my official bodyguard. Newz, Inc., orders, which indicates they think a lot more of me than I’ve been assuming.”

  The robot, who was walking about ten feet behind them, cupped his metal hands to his voxbox. “I’ve got exceptional hearing, putz,” he called. “A couple more wisearse remarks out of you and—”

  “Hush, Sidebar,” ordered Natalie, frowning at the bot. “Don’t let his sometimes surly attitude annoy you, Gomez. His ill manners are caused by a mechanical quirk that frequent overhauls have failed to detect.”

  Gomez lowered his voice, saying, “Okay, tell me why somebody wanted both you and Secretary Torres dead?”

  “I’ve been doing a heck of a lot of brooding over that very exact question,” the redhaired reporter told him. “It’s my impression, and my instincts in situations like this have proven fairly accurate on previous occasions, keep in mind, that the secretary, poor man, was getting ready to tell me something important.”

  “Do your infallible instincts hint to you as to what it might be?”

  “You know that the Office of Clandestine Operations is up to its chin in this gunrunning, don’t you?”

  “Up to its ears. Sí.”

  “Secretary Torres was getting ready to reveal, I’m nearly certain, some further motivation for the OCO’s involvement in Spanish politics and the operations of the country’s largest Tek cartel.”

  “Money,” said Gomez, guiding Natalie over to a wrought-iron bench. “Let’s rest while we chat.”

  “We can’t sit on that.” She pointed with the toe of her shoe at a low sign.

  “Warning!” the sign said in several languages. “This is but a holo image. Do not attempt to sit.”

  “As I was saying, the OCO must be involved in raising money for some other shady operation.” He and Natalie continued walking.

  “Guerrilla activities are warming up in Brazil again,” said the young woman thoughtfully. “And so far, Congress and the Interim President are opposed to supplying any funds.”

  “Africa’s a better bet. Several choice sneaky conflicts underway in—”

  Something buzzed in her skirt pocket. “Excuse me a minute, Gomez.” She pulled out her palmphone. “Go ahead.”

  “Hi, Nat. This is Eddie Wexler with NewsTalk mag. Got some time for—”

  “Hold on for just a second, Eddie.” She nudged the detective in the ribs with her forefinger. “Could you stand over there out of earshot for a bit? This is, I’m sure, going to be an offer from this trashy zine to do a piece on the Torres business. I’d rather you didn’t hear me negotiating for money with this goniff, since it might tarnish the bright image you have of me as a sweet and demure person.”

  “Sí, I don’t want to shatter any more illusions than I can help,” he said, taking a step away from her. “But, bonita, we have yet to talk about the possible whereabouts of Martinez and company.”

  “We will,” she promised. “Now, shoo.”

  Thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets, Gomez trotted across the lane and stood under a real oak tree.

  “Care to play a game of chance while cooling your heels?” called Sidebar.

  Gomez replied with an unfriendly sound.

  The offices of Maravilla Detective Services were in a brand-new building on the Calle Goya. The ninth-floor corridor smelled fresh, and there were two copperplated robots laying carpet down at the far end.

  “Señor Cardigan,” said the voxbox built into the licorice-colored Lucite desk in the agency reception room as Jake crossed the threshold and the door slid shut behind him. “Señor Soberano will be with you in approximately thirty seconds.”

  A door in the far wall opened and a short plump man of about forty smiled out at him. “Come on
in, Jake,” he invited. “I’m glad you persuaded Bascom to hire us to back you up on this.”

  Shaking hands, Jake said, “We have a rich client, so I figured we could afford the inflated fees you guys charge, Pavo.”

  “Maravilla is known throughout Europe for its reasonable rates. What do you think of the chairs?”

  “Can you sit in them?”

  Carefully, Pavo Soberano lowered himself into one of his office’s five metal and imitation canvas chairs. The chair groaned and swayed. “See? They hold me, so you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  Jake sat. “No desk?”

  “Oldfashioned, according to our decorator.”

  “Tell me what you’ve found out about Janine Kanter,” suggested Jake.

  Soberano said, “I went to work right after I got your faxgram yesterday, Jake. As you found out from your police friends in Greater Los Angeles, she—”

  “Gomez’s friends,” corrected Jake. “I don’t have many buddies left among the local lawmen.”

  The chubby detective continued. “Janine Kanter, still using the name Jean McCrea, arrived here on a Quixote skyliner flight from Greater LA. By the time the request from Lieutenant Drexler of your local constabulary arrived at Justicia, it was too late to detain the young lady. The liner had long since landed and its passengers scattered to the four winds.”

  “Where’d she scatter to?”

  “She took a skycab to the Hotel España on the Calle de la Princesa.”

  “But she never actually registered there?”

  “Sí, exactly.” He spread his hands wide and gave a sad shrug. “She vanished at that point. I still have two operatives working on it, trying to find a trace of her. Do you wish us to continue?”

  “Keep at it, yeah,” said Jake. “I’ll try a few other angles. You tried finding her under other names? She tends to stick with first names starting in J, and M’s one of her favorite initials for a last name.”

  The detective shrugged again. “I personally checked out Josephine Macklin, Jada Mercado and Jennifer Milligan,” he said. “They all arrived in our fair city on the day in question and checked into various hotels. None of them is the elusive Janine Kanter.”