“I don’t think so,” Jonah said. “Victor was nobody’s fool. If he’d learned that someone was caching weapons in Geneva, he’d have come out and said so right away. He wouldn’t have put off the announcement for political effect.”
“I guess not. Sorry it wasn’t what you were looking for.”
“Just because I wasn’t looking for it,” Jonah said, “doesn’t mean that I’m not interested. Or that there aren’t other people in Geneva who need to know about it.”
37
Pension Flambard, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
16 December 3134
“I’m in town. We need to meet.”
Jonah’s sigh on the other end of the line was audible.
“Sorry,” Horn said. “Did I say something wrong?”
Jonah chuckled. “Just not used to so many meetings. But you’re right. Meet me here at nine a.m.”
Though Burton Horn had spoken with Jonah Levin at the pension only once before, the proprietress remembered him at once.
“Monsieur Horn.” He wouldn’t say that she smiled at him, but her greeting was possibly a shade warmer than the one that she might have given to a complete stranger—and most definitely warmer than the one she would have given to a tri-vid reporter or anyone else she suspected would disrupt her guests’ privacy.
“Madame,” Horn replied. “Paladin Levin said he would be expecting me.”
“Yes. He is waiting in the private parlor.”
The Pension Flambard’s private parlor was a smaller, less welcoming space than the front sitting room. Where the glowing faux-logs on the sitting room hearth gave off both real and psychological warmth, the private parlor had only an ordinary electric radiator set against the room’s blank inner wall. But it had a door stout enough to discourage casual eavesdroppers, curtains of opaque velvet instead of lace, and it could not be seen from the public rooms.
Jonah Levin waited in a chair by the curtained window. The Paladin looked tired, like a man who’d had a late night and an early morning. Horn would have been more sympathetic if he hadn’t spent most of his own night in transit from Santa Fe.
Levin gestured at Horn to take a seat in the room’s other chair. “I’m sorry for giving you so little time, but I have to be somewhere else at ten. I gather your visit to Santa Fe proved fruitful.”
“Yes,” Horn said. “Among other things, I can confirm that our friend Henrik Morten is not a particularly nice person.”
“So I’ve gathered. Seems to have helped his career, actually. What’s he been up to in Santa Fe?”
“Hiring one of the local thugs to beat up and attempt to kill an inconvenient girlfriend.”
“‘Attempt’?” The Paladin looked curious. “I gather it didn’t work.”
“I dissuaded the gentleman in question.” Horn paused. “I’m sorry that he couldn’t remain available for a more thorough interrogation, but—”
“I understand.” Levin’s smile was a bit grim. “If I hire someone and tell them to use their own best judgment, I’m not going to argue when they do. I’m assuming that you managed to get Morten’s name from him beforehand?”
Horn shook his head. “Morten was too canny to give his name to the hired muscle—he was just ‘some guy in a bar.’ But I did get the name of the bar, and the bartender recognized Morten’s picture, sure enough.”
“You’re certain?”
“He wasn’t the establishment’s usual sort of customer. The bartender made a point of noticing.”
Levin nodded. “How did Ms. Ruiz take the series of events?”
“Everything came as quite a shock to her, of course.”
Another nod. “Of course.”
“On the other hand, the incident effectively removed any qualms she might have had about revealing everything she knew about Paladin Steiner-Davion’s final project. She didn’t know that it was her boyfriend who’d set up the attack, but she did figure out that it had happened to her because she knew something that she shouldn’t.”
“Now we come to the meat of it.” The Paladin leaned forward, intent. “What was it that Elena Ruiz saw and, presumably, passed along in innocence to Henrik Morten?”
“As she told the story to me,” Horn said, “Paladin Steiner-Davion had been working on his final project for several months. And the endeavor wasn’t just a casual hobby; it placed considerable demands upon both his time and his energy. She told me that she would find him asleep at his desk some mornings, with the display still open on his data terminal.”
“So of course she looked at it.”
Horn nodded. “She says it was correspondence mostly at first, and she didn’t notice anything odd about it except for the fact that he was obviously working hard on something and not discussing it with anyone.”
“She should have followed his example.”
“I considered pointing that out,” Horn said. “But since I was trying to convince her to talk to me at the time—”
“It would have been counterproductive. I understand. Go on.”
“As you may have guessed, one night in casual conversation she mentioned the Paladin’s late hours and his mysterious project to Henrik Morten, and Morten—instead of letting his girlfriend’s moment of indiscretion pass unremarked—encouraged her to snoop further and to pass the results along to him.” Horn paused and shook his head. “She’s adamant that she never actually touched anything, or pried into anything; she only relayed to Morten whatever happened to be left out for her or anyone else to see.”
“She apparently saw more than enough. Does she realize that?”
“I don’t think Henrik Morten was involved with Ms. Ruiz for the sake of her vast intellectual capacity, if that’s what you’re asking,” Horn said. “On the other hand, she does possess an excellent visual memory. When I asked, she was able to reproduce the last item she showed to Morten before the Paladin’s death.”
“You have it with you?”
“Yes.” Horn withdrew a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it across to Jonah Levin. “Under the circumstances, I thought it would be unwise to entrust this to any other method of delivery.”
Levin unfolded the paper and glanced over it quickly. Horn knew what he was seeing: no page title or note of explanation, just three columns, two lists of names and a third of numbers—and those alone had been enough to seal a man’s fate.
Levin closed his eyes briefly after he scanned the list.
“Headache?” Horn asked.
“Sort of. Where’s Morten now?”
“Not in Santa Fe, I know that much. I’d guess he’s back here, since this is the place to be for any diplomat. But whether he’s here for sure, and where in the city he might be, I can’t say.”
“We have to find him,” Levin said firmly. Then he frowned, almost wincing again. “And I might need your help on another matter.”
“As long as you’re still paying, you can come up with all the matters you want. What’s this one?”
Levin looked at the paper again. “I need to talk to another Paladin.”
38
Counterinsurgency Task Force
Temporary Headquarters, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
17 December 3134
Heather GioAvanti refilled her coffee mug from the galley-sized urn that somebody on her ad hoc staff had set up in the task force’s basement headquarters and made a mental note to find out whose idea it had been so that she could officially commend their initiative. As soon as she had the coffee cream-and-sugared to her taste, she withdrew again to her private office to meet her ten o’clock appointment.
A message from Jonah Levin had come to her private number late last night—early this morning, really—asking for a meeting and an exchange of information. She’d thought at first about using her proper office, which was located on the same rarified level of the building as those of the other Paladins, but upon reflection had decided against it.
Up there, access was restricted, which meant that people’s comings and goings would be both noted and logged. These lower-level rooms, on the other hand, had a number of different ways leading in and out. If Jonah Levin wanted to arrive discreetly by the building’s service entrance instead of taking the elevator down from the main lobby, he could do it.
Levin arrived on the hour, without fanfare, looking like a man who hadn’t had much sleep in quite a while. Heather welcomed him into the windowless cubbyhole that served her for a private office. The room had two chairs and a door, which was more than the rest of her task force possessed; it wasn’t much, but it would do. A small video screen in a corner showed looped footage of the riot in Plateau de St. Georges, which Heather had been studying earlier.
“You look like hell, Jonah,” she said.
“It’s not that bad,” he said. “Nobody’s shooting at me, and I actually had time for breakfast.”
“The two signs of a good day,” she agreed. “I got your message—woke up from a sound sleep to get it, in fact—so here we are. You said something about an exchange?”
“Pooling our information, really.”
“You’ve got something to share?”
He nodded. “I do. You may have heard that I’ve been asked to look into Victor Steiner-Davion’s death.”
“I hadn’t heard anything official about that, no.”
“But unofficially?”
Heather smiled. “I’ve heard about it from at least a half-dozen sources. How’s the investigation going?”
“Classified,” Levin said sternly. Heather stiffened in reaction to his tone, but then relaxed as Jonah’s face lightened. “That always sounds better than saying ‘Slowly.’”
“I always tell people I’m just too busy to update them right now.”
“I’ll have to try that one next time. Anyway, it hasn’t all been fruitless. I came across some information you’ll find interesting.”
If this were Duncan talking, Heather would be bracing herself for another piece of useless information along the lines of “The White Heat Consortium has decided to have pasta for lunch,” but she knew Jonah Levin wouldn’t personally deliver inconsequential information.
“Whaddya got?” she asked.
“I have a contact who has a man inside a St. Croix warehouse, where he stumbled upon a hidden weapons cache.”
Heather sat bolt upright in her chair. “You’re joking. Where’s the cache, and what kind of weaponry are we looking at?”
“Pistols—lasers, flamers, you name it—shotguns, rifles, even an armored car. And ammunition, if my informant’s description is to be believed. Here’s the where.” Levin passed across a slip of paper with a street address written on it in neat, regular handwriting.
Heather took the paper and, after a glance at the address, rose from her chair. “Just a minute.”
She went over to the office door and opened it. “Koss!”
The junior of her two assigned Knights left her desk and came forward. “Yes, ma’am?”
She thrust the paper at her. “Check and see if this warehouse is on that list I had you draw up.”
Koss’ eyes went bright. “The where-would-I-hide-things list?”
“That one. If it’s on there, give yourself a pat on the back. If it isn’t, start tweaking your criteria until that address does show up, and get me a revised list ASAP. Santangelo!”
The senior Knight came forward and joined them. “Ma’am?”
“Get together a three-person crew and check out all of Koss’ addresses, starting with this one. Discreetly. We don’t know what’s up yet, and the last thing we want is to spook people into action before we’re ready.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Heather stepped back into her private office and closed the door, shutting out the noise of sudden intense activity beyond. She turned again to Jonah Levin.
“That should keep them busy for a while.” She sat back down. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything quite as high-grade as that to offer in exchange. Unless you’re interested in some dossiers on the Kittery Renaissance and assorted other fringe political groups?”
“They can’t hurt,” Levin said. “I don’t think that Victor’s death was faction-related—no group with any credibility has claimed credit, for one thing—but you never can tell. And the Kittery people certainly weren’t very fond of Victor.”
“I’ll send the files over. I’m sure you’ve been anxious to spend more time in front of your data screen anyway.”
Levin didn’t respond. He didn’t even seem to be looking at her, and his mouth was slightly agape.
“Jonah?”
He kept staring off to her right, looking like he’d just had a minor stroke.
“Jonah?” she said again. “What’s the matter?”
His hand fluttered upward until it pointed at the screen in the corner of her office.
“What is that?”
“My video screen. What’s the matter with you?”
“No, no,” Jonah said, leaning forward so far that he was no longer sitting. “What’s on?”
“Oh, that. Did you hear about the riot in Plateau de St. Georges the other day? A few places—banks and the like—got some pieces of the action on video. I’ve been watching it, seeing if I could pick out any possible Kittery Renaissance members.”
“Move it back. A minute ago, I saw something. Move it back.”
Heather stared at his face. Whatever he had seen, it was more compelling to him than the weapons cache.
She picked up a small controller, pressed a button, and the images on the screen flew backward. She watched the timer until she had reviewed nearly a minute of footage.
“There!” Jonah exclaimed. “What was that?”
“What?”
“No, dammit, he’s gone again. Go back, then play it slow.”
Heather obeyed. She watched the screen.
The camera was posted over the entrance to Bank du Nord, looking down broad steps to the street below. The woman Mandela had called Norah was little more than a tall blur in this shot, gesticulating wildly, pushing away someone who came too close. But she wasn’t what Jonah was watching.
The doors below the camera flew open and two guards ran out. Instead of running straight down the steps, they veered wide to the left, quickly moving out of the camera’s sight. They must have ran right at someone on the steps, because he had to jump quickly to the right, into the camera’s range, to avoid them. Just as quickly, he bounced back left, out of sight.
“That man!” Jonah said, now fully standing. “Get a freeze on that man!”
Heather fiddled with the buttons until the screen held a reasonably clear image. She zoomed in on his face as much as possible.
Duncan chose that moment to burst through her door with a fistful of notes.
“Not now!” Heather barked before Duncan could speak. He meekly backed out of the room.
She turned back to Jonah, who still stared at the screen. Air escaped his mouth like a leak from a tire. “That’s Henrik Morten.”
It was Heather’s turn to drop her jaw. “That’s Henrik Morten?”
Jonah finally pried his eyes off the screen. “You know who Henrik Morten is?”
“His name recently came up, yes. What do you know about him?”
Jonah shook his head and sat back in his chair.
“Looks like our meeting isn’t over yet,” he said.
39
Federal Penitentiary, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
17 December 3134
It’s time, Heather thought, to get our hands a little dirty.
The election was only days away, and Levin had already done a pretty thorough job of milking official sources for information on Henrik Morten. The problem was, in matters like these, officials usually were quite deliberate about keeping themselves in the dark. The more they didn’t know about specific activities, the more they could deny.
Heather needed
to talk to someone who would have a better knowledge of the ins and outs of insurgence plots, and the role, if any, Henrik Morten played in any of them.
Santangelo had wanted to come along, insisting (with all due respect) that he was a more intimidating presence than she, and might be better able to loosen the tongue of Heather’s quarry. However, the interrogation rooms of the federal prison on Geneva were closely monitored, and even a Paladin had trouble getting around those restrictions. The interviewee, knowing he couldn’t be physically assaulted, would be all but immune to Santangelo’s brand of intimidation.
One of the reasons Heather had risen to the rank of Paladin, though, was that she knew more than one way to loosen a tongue.
After negotiating four separate security checkpoints, Heather found herself waiting in a room one and a half meters square, barely large enough for the chair in which she sat. In front of her was a wall of thick ferroglass, and on the other side of the glass was an empty chair. She couldn’t see the tiny, nearly invisible camera lenses scattered in the walls in both rooms, but she knew they were there.
The door to the other room opened, and Royle Cragin strolled in. From the neck up, it appeared that prison hadn’t made a dent in Cragin’s personal style. His hair was carefully parted and every strand was in its appropriate place, and he still wore his horn-rimmed glasses, an affectation for a man with vision better than 20/20. He looked more like a prosperous investment banker than a detainee in a maximum-security prison. He certainly didn’t look like the revolutionary his court papers said he was.
Of course, Cragin’s personal style never would have allowed him to wear a fluorescent yellow jumpsuit, or magnetically clasped shackles on his ankles and wrists. He seemed to be used to the shackles, and he accomplished the short shuffle to his chair with something approaching grace. He said down smoothly, and Heather knew that the jumpsuit concealed a physique as powerful as it had been the day of his capture—a day that had ended with the death of two Knights of the Sphere.
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