“No. We’ll keep him in reserve.”
There was a swift rocking motion as the Pegasus rolled forwards into the hangar. Greg stood up and made his way to the front of the plane.
“You think Baronski is going to co-operate?” Suzi asked as she followed him.
“According to his profile he goes out of his way not to annoy the big boys. Besides, he’s old, he’s not going to blow his chances of a golden retirement over something like a client’s identity, not when we start bludgeoning him with Julia’s name.”
The belly hatch opened, letting in a whine of machinery and the shouts of service crews.
“Malcolm, you come with us this time,” Greg said.
The hangar took up the entire upper floor of the Prezda, nearly two hundred metres wide, curving away into the distance. Bright sunlight poured through its glass wall, turning the planes parked along the front into black silhouettes. It was noisy and hot. Gusts of dry wind flapped Greg’s jacket as they made their way across the apron. Executive hypersonics and fifty-seater passenger jets were taxiing along the central strip, rolling on and off the lift platforms. Drone cargo trucks trundled around them, yellow lights flashing.
The back half of the hangar had been carved into living rock, the rear wall lined with offices, maintenance shops, and lounges. Biolum strips were used to beef up the fading sunlight.
Greg walked through the nearest lounge and called a lift. He held his cybofax up to the interface key in the wall beside it, requesting a data package of the Prezda’s layout. “Baronski lives seven floors down from here, and off towards the central well,” he said, reading from the wafer’s screen.
Suzi pressed for the floor and the lift door shut.
Greg tried to get an impression from his intuition. But all he got was that same pressure of time slipping away.
The lift doors opened on to a broad well-lit corridor with two moving walkways going in opposite directions. It was deserted, the only noise a low-pitched rumble from the walkways. They stepped on to the walkway going towards the centre of the arcology. There were deep side corridors every fifty metres on the right-hand side, ending in a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out across the valley.
The eighth walkway section brought them to the central well. A shaft at the apex of the amphitheatre, seventy metres wide, zigzagged with escalators. It was twenty storeys deep, Greg guessed the roof must be the hangar above. Each floor had a circular balcony, two-thirds of which was lined with small shops and bistros, the front third a gently curved window. The rails of glass-cage lifts formed an inner ribcage.
It was a busy time, the tables in front of the windows were nearly all full, smartly uniformed waitresses bustling about. People were thronging the concourse and the balconies, filling the escalators. Teenagers hung out. Strands of music drifted up from various levels, played by licensed buskers. Greg could see a team of clowns working through the window tables two storeys below, children laughing in delight.
“Baronski is back this way,” Greg said, and pointed back down the corridor. “Couple of doors.” That was when the ordered his gland secretion, seeing a flash of black muscle-tissue jerking. His espersense unfurled, freeing his thoughts from the prison of the skull. Minds impinged on the boundary as it swept outwards, deluging him with snaps of emotion, of tedium and excitement, the tenderness of lovers, and frustration of office workers. One fragment of thought had a hard, single-minded purpose that was unique in the whirl of everyday life about him. He stopped and searched round, seeking it again, knowing from irksome memory what it spelt.
“Wait,” he said.
Suzi almost bumped into him as he halted. “Now what?”
There was a flare of interest in the mind. And again, another one on the edge of perception, a couple of floors higher up.
“There’s a surveillance operation here,” Greg said. “I’ve got two people in range. Probably more outside.”
Suzi shifted her bag. “Targeting Baronski, do you think?”
“Dunno. They’re interested in us, though, the direction we’re heading.”
“What now?”
“Malcolm, there’s one on the other side of the well, opposite this corridor, not moving. Male. See if you can spot him.”
Malcolm Ramkartra turned slowly and leant back on the walkway, resting his elbows nonchalantly on the rail. “Think so. Bloke in a blue-grey shortsleeve sports shirt, late twenties, brown hair cut short. He’s outside a greengrocers, reading a cybofax.”
Greg looked down the corridor. A woman and her ten-year-old daughter were riding the walkway towards the well. Ordinary thought currents. There was no one else.
Two people in the well implied a sophisticated deal. They couldn’t stay there all the time, which meant a rotation, others held in reserve. Probably an AV spy disk covering Baronski’s door as well. More people to trail the old man if he went down the corridor to a lift.
He realized he’d subconsciously accepted that it was Baronski who was the surveillance target. Not that there’d been much conscious doubt. The chance of this being a coincidence was way too slim.
“OK, this is how we handle it. Malcolm, you walk down the corridor to the first lift, call it, and hold it. When you’ve got it, Suzi and I will try and get in to see Baronski. If the observers start thinking hostile thoughts, we’ll run for it, if not, we go in. Meantime, you get Pearse to contact that security liaison officer, go through Victor Tyo if it’ll add more weight. But I want to know if that’s an authorized surveillance. This might just be a police drugs bust, or something.”
“Bollocks,” Suzi said.
“Yeah, all right, some hope. But we check anyway.”
“Gotcha,” said Malcolm. He stepped on to the walkway that took him back down the corridor.
“We’re running into a lotta heavy-duty shit for what was supposed to be a simple little track-down,” Suzi muttered. “The Monaco lift, now this.”
Greg was watching Malcolm, who was talking urgently into his cybofax. “Yeah, Julia didn’t think this through properly.”
“How do you mean?”
“Why did the people who took that sample from the flower bother taking it in the first place? I mean if they knew what the flower was they wouldn’t need to take a sample. If they didn’t, then there’d be no reason to do it. The flower was a specific message from Royan to Julia, he knew she’d be curious about it because flowers are special to the two of them. But for anyone else, it would be meaningless, a beautiful girl carrying a token from a lover.”
“If they knew she was a courier they would have ripped her baggage apart to find the message. Analysed everything. Maybe even used a psychic to sniff out what she was carrying. You said the flower was giving off freaky vibes.”
“Could be,” he admitted. “Especially if they knew she was carrying a warning about the aliens, a living example would be an obvious way of providing proof. But if they are working for the aliens, then why let a message about their existence get out at all? Why not snuff her?”
Suzi rubbed her forehead. “Christ, Greg. I’m just here to hardline for you, remember?”
“I don’t expect answers. All I’m saying is that this is weirder than it looks.”
“That’s what I’ve just fucking told you!”
“I’m trying to think what kind of allies these aliens might have plugged in with. For a start, whoever it is has got to be rich enough to afford these kind of deals.”
“A kombinate, finance house, someone like Julia; Christ, take your pick.”
“There’s no one else like Julia.”
“Independently wealthy, arsehole.”
“But why?”
“Like I said to Julia yesterday. Starship technology is worth a bundle. Antimatter drives, boron hydride fusion, high-velocity dust shields. Any one of those would be instant trillionairedom.”
“Right.” He was amused by her reaction. Suzi, a starship buff. He knew the English Insterstellar Society sponsored regular convent
ions, covering topics from propulsion systems down to the practicality of pioneers setting up homesteads in alien biospheres. And there was a large chapter active in Peterborough, naturally, the heart of England’s high-tech industry. The thought of Suzi attending didn’t fit his world view.
The observer on the other side of the well emitted a burst of annoyance. He began to walk away from his position, thought currents feverishly active.
Looking the other way, Greg saw Malcolm Ramkartra was holding the lift. The hardliner gave Greg a short nod.
Two new minds moved into his perception range, that same steely intent as the first observer prominent amongst their thought currents.
“Bugger.”
“What?” Suzi asked.
“The observation team have realized we’ve seen them. Come on.”
At least Baronski was at home. Greg could sense his mind. Thought currents moving normally, their tension slacker than the people in the well, the way it always was with older people. Another mind close by was denser, brighter, filled with expectancy, a streak of suspense.
“He’s got someone in there with him,” Greg said. “One of his girls, at a guess.” He pressed the call button. The suspicion and interest of the observers rose.
“Yes?” Baronski’s voice asked from the grille.
“Dmitri Baronaki? Could we come in, please? We’d like a word.”
“I’m not seeing anyone today.”
“It is important.”
“No.”
“Just a couple of questions, I won’t take a minute.”
“No, I said. If you don’t go away, I shall call arcology security.”
Greg sighed. “Baronski, unless you open this door right now, I’ll come back with arcology security, and they’ll smash it down for me. OK?”
“Who are you?”
Greg showed his Event Horizon security card to the key, there was a near invisible flash of red laser light. “I’m Greg Mandel. Now can I come in? After all, you’re not on our shit list… yet.”
“You’re from Event Horizon?”
“Yeah, and one of your girls met with our boss in Monaco the other night. Are you getting my drift?”
“I… Yes, very well.” The door lock clicked.
Baronski’s lounge was huge, its colour scheme navy-blue and royal purple. The chairs and settee were sculpted to look like open sea shells. Antique furniture cluttered the wall, delicate tables holding various art treasures, a genuine samovar, an ikon panel of the Virgin Mary that was dark with age, what looked suspiciously like a Fabergé egg, which Greg decided had to be a copy. The paintings were chosen for their erotica, old oils and modern fluoro sprays side by side. They were illuminated by biolum lamps in the shape of a tulip, grey smoked glass with elaborate gold-leaf curlicues. Vivaldi was playing quietly out of hidden speakers.
Suzi whistled softly as they walked in. Greg’s suede desert boots sank into the pile carpet. He was conscious of his leather jacket again, Eleanor’s disapproval.
Baronski and the girl were both in silk kimonos. There was a pile of glossy art books on a low coffee table in front of the settee. Two tall glasses full of crushed ice on Tuborg beer mats standing beside the open volumes.
The girl was black, about sixteen, with that same athlete’s build that instantly reminded him of Charlotte Fielder. She was obviously going to be beautiful; her cheeks and nose were covered in blue dermal seal, but her features were so finely drawn it almost didn’t matter. She stood beside the settee, perfectly composed, looking at him with wide liquid eyes, unafraid.
Baronski was backdropped by the Alps beyond the picture window, a thin man with a thin face, nothing near Greg’s simple mental image of burly red-faced Russian grandfathers. He was dainty, birdlike, longish snow-white hair brushed back, resembling a plume. But stress had marred his face, leaving bruised circles round his eyes, creases across his cheeks. His mind had such an air of weariness that it evoked a strong sense of sympathy. Greg wanted to urge him to sit down.
“What exactly is it you require?” Baronski asked stiffly. “I’m sure you must be aware that I’ve never sought to infringe upon any of Event Horizon’s activities. My girls have very clear instructions on this matter.”
Greg clicked his fingers at the girl. “Best if you disappear.”
She glanced at Baronski.
“Go along, Iol. I’ll call you when we’re finished.”
She curtsied, and walked silently across the lounge to the hallway door.
Suzi watched her go. “Give her a lot of artistic tuition, do you?”
The door closed.
“Miss…?”
“Suzi.”
Baronski appeared to chew something distasteful. “Indeed.”
“I expect you know the routine,” Greg said.
“Remind me,” the old man said vaguely.
“Hard or soft. We don’t leave without the data we came for. And I do have a gland, so we’ll know if it is the right data. Clear enough?”
“My word, am I really that important? A gland, you say. You obviously cannot read my mind directly.”
“I’m an empath; you lie, and I know about it instantly.”
“I see. And suppose I were to say nothing?”
“Word association. I reel off a list of topics, and see which name your mind jumps at. But it’s an effort, and it annoys me.”
“So what would you do should you become annoyed, beat it out of me? I imagine I would feel a lot of pain at my age. The old bones aren’t very strong now.”
“No, I wouldn’t lay a finger on you. That’s what she’s here for.”
There as a sharp pulse of indignation from Suzi’s mind, but she held her outward composure.
Baronski studied her impassive face for any sign of weakness, then sighed and sat carefully in the settee. “I suppose this day was inevitable, I just pushed it away to the back of my mind, always secretly hoping that I would be proved wrong. But I can honestly say that I never intended to upset Julia Evans. In a way she is an admirable woman, so many would have squandered what she has. Yes, admirable. You can see that I’m telling the truth, can’t you?”
“I knew that before I came,” Greg said.
“Yes. Well, what do you wish to know?”
“Charlotte Diane Fielder.”
“My yes, a beautiful girl, very smart. I was proud of Charlotte. One of my triumphs. What has she done?”
“Where is she?”
“I genuinely don’t know.”
Greg frowned, concentrating. There was a strong trace of disappointment in Baronski’s mind. “Do you know who she left the Newfields ball with?”
“It was supposed to be Jason Whitehurst. My problem is that I can’t find out if she actually did or not. I haven’t been able to contact her or Jason since.”
“This Jason Whitehurst, is he about fourteen, fifteen?”
Baronski gave him a surprised look, and picked up one of the beer glasses from the table. “Good Lord no, Jason is in my age bracket. He has got a son, though, Fabian. Fabian is fifteen, perhaps you mean him.”
“Could be.” Greg pulled out his cybofax, and summoned up the memory of Charlotte and the boy leaving the El Harhari.
“Yes,” Baronski said, studying the wafer’s screen. “That is Fabian Whitehurst.”
“And this?” Greg showed him the chauffeur.
“No. I don’t know that man at all.”
“OK, what does Jason Whitehurst do?”
“He’s a trader, shifting cargo around the world. A lot of it is barter, buying products or raw material from countries that have no hard cash reserves, then swapping it for another commodity, and so on down the line until he’s left with something he can dispose of for cash. There’s quite an art to it, but Jason is a successful man.”
“Said it’d be some rich bastard,” Suzi said. “Money lifted her over the border, no need for a tekmerc deal.”
“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “Where does Jason Whitehurst live?”
Baronski took a sip from the glass. “On board his airyacht, the Colonel Maitland.”
“What the fuck’s an airyacht?” Suzi asked.
“A converted airship. Jason tends to the eccentric, you see. He bought it ten years ago, spends his whole time flying over all of us. I visited once, it has a certain elegant charm, but it’s hardly the life for me.”
Greg sat heavily in one of the chairs. Wringing information out of the old man was depressing him. It was psychological bullying. Dmitri Baronski was a man who took confidentiality seriously. He’d built his life on it. “Do you know where Whitehurst was flying to after Monaco?”
“Yes. That’s why all the heartache. The Colonel Maitland was supposed to be flying straight to Odessa, so Jason told me. But there’s been no trace of them, no answer to any of my calls. I tell myself it cannot be an accident. Airships are the safest way to travel; a punctured gasbag, or a broken spar, the worst that can happen is a gradual deflation. The Colonel Maitland would simply float to the ground. But it hasn’t happened. Such an event would be on every channel newscast, rescue services all around the Mediterranean would be alerted by emergency beacons. Jason Whitehurst and his airyacht have simply vanished from the Earth. I don’t like that. I always keep an eye on my girls, Mr Mandel, I’m very stringent about the patrons I introduce them to. There are certain members of my charmed circle who develop, shall we say, unpleasant tastes and requirements. I won’t have that, not for my girls.”
“Very commendable. Did you try phoning Whitehurst’s office?”
“He has several agents dotted about the globe, and yes I called some of them. It was the same answer each time. Jason Whitehurst is currently incommunicado.”
Greg looked at Suzi, who shrugged indifferently.
“Julia and Victor won’t have any trouble locating something that size,” she said. “There can’t be that many airships left flying.”
“Yeah,” Greg acknowledged. There was something faintly unsettling about the way the world lay exposed to Event Horizon. A single phone call and someone’s credit record was instantly available; a request to the company operating the Civil Euroflight Agency’s traffic control franchise, and Europe’s complete air movement records would be squirted over to Peterborough for examination. If an Interpol investigator had requested the data, it would take hours or even days for the appropriate legal procedures to be enacted and release it. Companies and kombinates were developing into an extralegal force more potent than governments, but only in defence of their own interests. It was a creep back towards medievalism, he thought, when people had to petition their local baron for real action, when the king’s justice was just a distant figurehead.
The Mandel Files Page 103
