Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men

by Robert N. Charrette

  Stay still.

  Okay.

  He leaned against the wall, folding his arms and adopting a casual posture. The shadows should hide him from immediate discovery. The guys came around the corner, moving faster than he had seen them do so far. They slowed and stopped just inside the alley mouth. They scanned their surroundings, looking for their quarry. For him.

  He kicked his heel against the wall to attract their attention. "Nice day, guys. What brings gentlemen like you to this part of town?"

  They started. The Asian started to reach under his jacket, but aborted the action. The looks on their faces were priceless. Surprise, anger, frustration, embarrassment, and just the faintest, most fleeting hint of fear. Annoyance surfaced and took over.

  Probably directed at themselves.

  Deservedly.

  They'll have to be better to catch us, won't they?

  Assuredly.

  The blond one interrupted John's conversation. "John Reddy?"

  John felt annoyed himself. Here were more strangers who knew who he was. He didn't like it. "Yes."

  "I'm Agent McAlister. This is Agent Surimato. FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

  Damn, the guy recovered quickly. Agent McAlister was talking as if he was standing in an office, not an alley. "About what?"

  "There's no reason to be upset, Mr. Reddy. We're not after you."

  "Then why were you following me?"

  The two agents exchanged glances. McAlister said, "We are investigating a series of terrorist attacks. We have been given reason to believe that you might have had contact with one of our suspects."

  "I'm not a terrorist." "Of course not, Mr. Redely. We are aware of that. But you may have had contact with one or more of these people without knowing their true aspect. We need your help in this matter. Would you be willing to look at some pictures and tell us if you've seen any of the people in them?"

  "Do we need to go to your office?"

  McAlister smiled. "If you like. Or we can do it here. It shouldn't take long."

  "Let's see them."

  Agent Surimato reached into his jacket, the other side this time, and pulled out a handful of four-by-sixes. He held them out, and John took them.

  The pictures were of varying quality, but all were cropped to show no more than a head and shoulders. Some of the pictures were very grainy, clearly computer-enhanced versions of other photographs. Halfway through the stack, he came across a picture of the woman in Bennett's photograph. It was a different angle and she looked younger, but John was sure it was the same woman.

  "You know, you guys ought to keep better track of your investigations. I've already talked to an agent."

  The agents exchanged glances again, concerned looks Hashing across their faces. McAlister gave a slight nod. Surimato said, "Could you describe this agent?"

  "A bit taller than me, pale, blond. Why?"

  "Very thin?" Surimato asked.

  "Male?" McAlister asked.

  John nodded yes to both questions.

  "You don't see him in the pictures, do you?"

  John shook his head. "Naw."

  "Did he give you a name? Show you a badge?"

  "Said his name was Bennett. I didn't get a good look at the badge. Come to think of it, I haven't seen your badges either."

  "Sorry," McAlister said.

  Both of them pulled out wallets, flipped them open, and handed them to John. John looked carefully this time. The badges said Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the ID cards looked very official. The photos on the cards matched the two agents exactly. He handed them back.

  "This Mr. Bennett is not a federal agent," Surimato said solemnly.

  "If he is who we believe him to be, he is a very dangerous man," McAlister added.

  "And just who do you believe him to be?"

  "We're not at liberty to say," McAlister said.

  "How did I know you were going to say that?" John thrust the stack of photos back at Surimato. "I haven't seen any of these people."

  "You're sure?" McAlister asked.

  "Yeah. I'm sure."

  McAlister held out a card. John could see a phone number printed on it. "It's very important that you call us if you see any of these people. It would also be wise to call us if this Mr. Bennett contacts you again. Be very careful around him, and don't take any chances. Most especially, don't let him know you have spoken with us."

  "You guys afraid of Bennett?"

  The agents exchanged looks again. McAlister smiled reassuringly at John. "As I said, this man may be very dangerous. He could get you into a lot of trouble."

  "I'll be careful."

  "Good boy." Surimato started to leave, but McAlister lingered. "Remember to call that number if you see any of these people."

  "I won't lose the number."

  "Good boy."

  Of course I didn't say I'd use it, either, John said silently to the backs of the departing agents.

  The advice to be cautious was good advice. Something strange was going on, and more than one party thought that John had some connection to it. Intriguing. And a little scary. He was getting worried all over again.

  What the hell is going on?

  Some people are never around when you need them.

  John cut back around to the mall entrance. The federal agents were nowhere in sight. He went inside. The noise and people made a comforting blanket So very, very normal. He dropped by the arcade. Slipping his card into The Dragonknight, he bought himself some safe adventure for a while.

  Worcester looked like a nicer district than Tewksbury. It was less built up, less paved over. There were more parks, more grass. The streets were cleaner, the people less unkempt. In many ways, it was more like the Massachusetts she remembered.

  The driver dropped her off where 190 split from 290. He was going north, away from where she needed to be. The only payment he took was a smile.

  Yes, Worcester was a more pleasant place.

  She hiked down off the highway and skirted the fence separating it from the local streets. Up beyond the interchange she could see the Mitsutomo Light Metals fabrication facility spreading out along the base and lower slopes of the hill. At the upper boundary of the facility, the antique steel and glass structure of the Woodman Armory Museum stood silhouetted against the sleek sides of the rezcom units that topped the hill.

  The streets here were a snarl of passageways passing over and under each other and snaking every which way. She walked along one that seemed headed in the direction of the hill.

  There was still time.

  Dr. Spae insisted that she had detected a ripple in the ambient psychic aura. Holger was just her bullyboy and no expert on such things, so his opinion of the reasoning behind the rush trip didn't matter. No one cared to listen to his opinion that she was just playing a hunch, Spae herself least of all. It only confirmed his opinion that she really didn't have a good reason to drag them to this corporate exurb.

  "You're an expediter," she had said after deciding that they go directly to one of the sites of alleged activity. "Expedite our trip."

  He had. Now here they were in downtown Mitsutomoland. All the maps said Worcester, Massachusetts, but maps always lagged behind reality.

  The security at the airport had been lax; they hadn't seen what they should have seen, which suited Holger fine. He hadn't been obliged to produce his UN permits, always good for at least a half hour of hassle while the locals proved to themselves that they still had some authority over their jurisdictions. The easy pass-through meant that he and the good doctor had a lower profile. The Department appreciated low profiles.

  The Department also appreciated results, which they didn't seem to be achieving. Of course, he couldn't be sure, because he was only a bullyboy and Spae was the special expert, but cruising the town seemed an unlikely way to turn up much of anything. Still, he followed the doctor's vague directions as best he could. Moving in a straight line was not easy while driving through the warren o
f one-way streets and narrow cowpaths-turned-roads that was the heart of the exurb's transportation net. The layout of the city reminded him a little of home, which was odd; he'd thought all American cities were served by broad highways and grid-planned streets.

  One always has to adjust expectations in new places.

  The morning had vanished and the afternoon was well on its way to following. Holger had stopped excusing himself when his stomach grumbled, but the doctor didn't seem to notice the difference. The sun was almost touching the western hills when she finally agreed to one of his suggestions that they stop for some food.

  "May as well, I've lost focus anyway," she said, massaging her forehead as though she had a headache. She vetoed the restaurant when he pulled into the parking lot, saying, "I'm not sure we'll have enough time to sit down."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't, know."

  He nosed the rental car back out onto Park Avenue. He hated working with specialists. All vague feelings and no hard data. "McDonald's?" "Hate the place."

  Good. So did he. They passed it by.

  "I think we should have people around," she said.

  He'd prefer not. "Professional opinion?"

  She mumbled something that sounded like "Yes."

  There was a mall ahead on the right. Malls had food courts. Almost as fast as McDonald's, but more variety. Food could be better, could be worse. No way of knowing till you tried it, but the food was rarely as bad as that served in certain institutions.

  "Try the mall?"

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. After a moment, she said, "Yes." She sounded unsure.

  Parking took a while. It was late Friday afternoon and the mall traffic was picking up. Spae would certainly have people around. Holger located the food court on the map just inside the entrance and directed Spae toward it. Partway down the stairs, Spae stopped dead. Blocking traffic attracted attention. Holger urged her back into motion, pulling her to one side once they'd reached the lower level. She stared across fee crowded walkway.

  "Look over there," she said, starting to point.

  He caught her hand and pulled it down. Bad tradecrafit. People who were pointed at often noticed the people who were pointing at them. "Tell me, Doctor. There's no need to point."

  "Over there by the sculpture."

  Holger saw nothing out of the ordinary. No fireworks, no gun-waving thugs, no monsters, lust a crowd of mall crawlers, kids, old folks, shoppers, idlers, and working folk. Ordinary, everyday people. "Could you be more specific?"

  "The dwarf."

  Holger spotted her obvious referent: a dark, bearded man little taller than the lunch stand table by which he stood. He was short enough to be termed a dwarf, but he stood with an aggressive stance that suggested no one would call him one unless he gave them permission. Two other men, a Caucasian and an Asian, shared the table. They were holding a conversation, which suggested that they knew each other.

  "I see him, Doctor. Why have you pointed him out?"

  "Seeing him here tells me we've come to the right place."

  This mall? She must mean Worcester. "How so?"

  "He's turned up before."

  "CIA?"

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  He hadn't thought he was being ridiculous. They were supposed to be stealing a march on the rival agency, and her reaction hadn't been strong enough to suggest that the dwarf was an enemy.

  "So who is he?"

  "I don't really know. He's used the name Sorii more than once. Fits if you like cross-language puns; he's a surly little bastard."

  "Will we be coordinating efforts, then?"

  "Over my dead body. The bastard's trouble."

  "Is he a—" The therapy hadn't been totally effective. Holger couldn't bring himself to say the word, so he opted for the euphemism so popular in the Department. "Is he a specialist?"

  Spae snorted a laugh. "No more sensitive than a rock. On all counts."

  Holger was glad of that. It was always bad enough dealing with a situation when you didn't understand what was going on or who the players were, but to have some of them be—be magicians ... Well, that would be too much.

  Too much like before.

  "Let's get out of here before he sees us," Spae said.

  Holger was happy to comply. Fresh air and sunlight would be good right now. Spae and her search would wait. Questions about the dwarf would wait.

  He needed to see the sky.

  CHAPTER 8

  John slept better Friday night. Not well, just better. He kept waking, thinking he heard someone calling. It wasn't Faye. She wasn't around. He stayed in bed late, chasing the elusive rest, and only rose when his mother called him to the phone. He wouldn't have bothered if she hadn't said it was the Armory Museum calling.

  It was Mrs. Bartholomew, the personnel director. John had a moment of anxiety when she asked how his orientation session had gone; he was afraid she was going to rescind the job offer. But it turned out that one of the guards had just quit and the museum was caught in a scheduling bind. Mrs. Bartholomew told him that the museum was in a budget crunch, and hiring a substitute from a private guard agency would cost money better spent on the museum's mission. She wanted to know if he could start tonight. He said he could. Who really needed sleep anyway? She went on about some details, but John didn't listen very closely; he was too excited. He had to ask her to repeat what she said about uniforms.

  The uniform shop didn't have any shirts with sleeves long enough for him and the pants had to be taken in at the waist.

  While he waited, he tried to avoid thinking about the Winston situation. He wasn't entirely successful. Obviously the museum had not gotten word of his involvement in the beating incident. He supposed that he shouldn't be surprised, since apparently no one else had either. He hoped they wouldn't, but he couldn't count on it. In the past, the flare-ups of his temper had always brought official notice. It was probably only a matter of time. He resolved to enjoy his time with the Museum while he could.

  Following Mrs. Bartholomew's instructions, he arrived about an hour before the Museum closed for the day. He waded through a crowd of school kids and around to the side door of the small room that served as the ticket office. It also doubled as the nighttime guard station. John tapped on the door and Mrs. Hanson opened it. He chatted with her while he signed in. When a late-arriving visitor took her attention, he went off to the staff room to change into his new uniform. The gift-shop staff came in while he was admiring himself in the mirror, so he had to put up with Jenny's smart remarks about how handsome men looked in uniform. With the museum about to close, he had the excuse of business to extricate himself.

  Mrs. Bartholomew herself showed him the watch station and how all the controls worked. When the last of the office and shop staff had departed, she turned on the security system and sat with him through the fifteen-minute diagnostic and setup program. They watched the motion sensors report the movements of the janitor as he finished the last of his chores and followed the janitorial dot as it wandered about on the console screen's map of the museum. Mrs. Bartholomew showed him how to call up identification data; the computer said the dot was Mr. Revirez, janitor, and cited a ninety-seven-percent probability. Standard margin of error, Mrs. Bartholomew told him. The dot approached the watch station and John couldn't resist greeting Mr. Revirez just before he came into sight. Revirez gave John a perfunctory "good night" and a considerably friendlier one to Mrs. Bartholomew. He left, and for the next five minutes the mo-lion sensors reported nothing. The computer reported the galleries and all of the staff areas except the guard station cleared of people.

  With only the two of them left in the building, Mrs. Bartholomew demonstrated how to key the system up to the next level of security, Once it was activated, she had three minutes to exit the building without setting off an alarm. The combox on John's belt exempted him from the same requirement. The box was a call unit as well as a part of the security system loop, and broadcast cont
inually to the system's scattered sensors; the system would ignore any readings generated within two feet of him. Mrs. Bartholomew said good night and wished him a pleasant first night on the job. He waved to her through the window as she passed through the lobby and listened until he heard the heavy steel doors thud closed behind her. The console flashed its green lights. The Woodman Armory Museum was secured for the night.

  The position of night watchman didn't really require a lot of effort. The electronics did most of the work. All of it,- really. The watchman was more a concession to tradition, a sort of honor accorded the men who had worn the armor and used the weapons that the museum so proudly displayed. It was better to think of the position that way than as a pointless redundancy in the security system.

  Pointless or not, John was glad to be there. The museum felt different at night. Different even from just being closed. He'd been around when it was closed before, and then the arguments and jokes of the staff had still given the place a sort of ordinary life. Now with everyone gone but him, it was quiet in an absolute way. There was only John.

  John and the armor.

  He couldn't stand sitting in the watch room any longer. He had to get out and experience the great quiet in person. He wanted to see those hollow knights in all their solitude.

  He took the back elevator up to the great hall. His passkey opened the lock on the ancient wooden door and he entered. The gallery lights were on their lowest setting, adequate for a slow amble and soaking up the somber, glinting magnificence of burnished steel, but not enough to see very far with any clarity. He liked the ambiance.

  A suit of seventeenth-century three-quarter armor faced him. It was a new acquisition, said to have belonged to one of Oliver Cromwell's generals. It was a fine piece, but not the sort that John favored. He turned right, toward the medieval wing. The Middle Ages, when knights were knights.

  The center of the hall was dominated by the jousting display, two mounted knights in full tourney armor aiming their lances at each other over a section of tilting barrier. Beyond them two English men-at-arms attacked a mounted French knight of the Hundred Years' War. Beyond them a pair of sixteenth-century knights fought with poll axes within the confines of a tiny list. The freestanding displays were only the highlights. More suits and isolated pieces of armor filled the alcoves on either side. The museum was blessed with a number of fine suits and had commissioned an equal number of fine replicas. All were carefully labeled as to which was which. He liked the replica displays better; they were generally mounted in more interesting ways.