White Horse let the slats snap closed and paced the length of the long, pale cream room once more, her bare feet never getting used to how far they sank into its luxury carpet, nor to how easily it sprang back up after she had passed. She hadn't known carpets like this existed, and it was even stranger to find one in her brother's house, one of only a thousand gadgets, trinkets, and comforts she'd never imagined before.
At first they'd delighted her, but now she loathed them all. The apartment was a show home, an empty place. The gadgets existed to make life easy, but they required a duty of service, a payment of money, they came with obligations each one, from the mixer to the shower-pump system with its twenty-setting massage unit. Their existence made her soul itch.
Jude—she found it hard to think of him under the name Mo'e'ha, Magpie, anymore, since he'd left her that time they'd argued—had only been gone a couple of days. She'd only been here one more than that. But already she could feel the FBI catching up, following her easily from Deer Ridge to this apartment where soon they'd show up in force and drag her away. She knew them and their method. They were so close she could almost smell them. But she had to wait. It was unbearable.
On the smooth glass of the coffee table the neat, hand-size panel of the house's answering system was alive with messages. White Horse dared not use it and would not answer any calls. She didn't watch the TV and she didn't play music or games or use anything of the place, except the bathroom and the kitchen. Her own PocketPad was switched into collection mode only, to allow it to log calls but do no more. Last night she'd gone out shopping, come back, cooked. Now the rooms smelled more of chilli than polish, but it was all the impression she wanted to make. Her bag was ready, her boots by the door, always.
But how long should she wait? Jude had called her once, left a Pad message, no voice and no vid option. He hadn't wanted to talk to her and she, for once, didn't blame him. He had written, Looks like you were right. Get rid of it.
That had arrived four hours ago. White Horse had read it many times, even though once was enough to understand it entirely. She had not got rid of the ugly black machine, however. It was her only evidence now the program was in Jude's hands and there was no way she'd give it up. She wasn't even sure she trusted him a hundred percent not to turn his coat and hand it over himself. But she thought that the shortness and the routing of his note via ordinary domestic lines contained some element of wisdom. She should hide it. For the last four hours, she had thought of where she could go undetected, where it might be safe. Nowhere sprang to mind.
Scratching at the itch of her healing burns before she remembered not to, White Horse winced and cursed as the pain roared to life on her hands and arms. She went to the kitchen and took a pill for it, rubbed cream onto the skin carefully, and then she knew that there wasn't anywhere on Earth to go. The apartment was only safe as long as nobody knew she was there and that couldn't last. The doors would be watched, the AI systems governing the building's public areas alerted to look for anything odd. They were capable of sending her picture, files, and information direct to the nearest patrol car.
Then again, the FBI or whoever else was involved might find out Jude wasn't in Seattle at any time. The device itself must be fitted with some kind of tracking unit, she supposed, although if so it wasn't working. Maybe she'd broken that part of it when she fell on it back at the house. But she couldn't leave with it in case they located and destroyed it. Therefore, it must stay and she would go, to lead them away from it as fast as she could.
One thing she and Jude had in common was tidiness. It took her only a few moments of exploring to locate his tool kit in the cupboard with the cleaning equipment. Even the corners of that space were dust-free and everything he owned set in its place, as though it was never used. She felt sorry for him, alienated even by his own house. She felt that she had been instrumental in causing him to turn so far away from his right nature. This vacant space was his payback for turning. It was a punishment too much. She didn't understand why he couldn't feel this—or if he did, why he stayed. Was he so stubborn that he couldn't put down his pride and come home? She missed him. She'd always missed him, especially during those long summers when he was away at his expensive school and with his mother. They shouldn't have parted like that. She and he were one blood. His wasichu half couldn't be the core of the person she knew. It couldn't win.
White Horse opened the toolbox and lifted out its trays. She took the relevant ones with her and spread them out on the smooth, heavy-snow carpet that showed no trace of time. Then she went to her bag and extracted the machine.
Beneath the modern abstract oils of his pictures, and the display of old bone jewellery that was part Navajo, part Apache, part Cherokee, part Cheyenne—silenced to a whisper against the icy background of the walls—White Horse brushed her long, synthetic dreadlocks to one side and began to pick it to pieces.
She was glad to see that the dull black casing was not a manufactured type. It had been specially made. That meant it was more difficult to open without damaging, but it would also be easier to put together again afterwards. The thing had been intended to be serviced or upgraded, and she got it open after a few deft twists of the delicate screwdrivers, without even scratching its surface.
Inside she recognized some elements that were common to most electronic devices. Taking it to bits might render the thing useless if she ever got it to trial; they could say she'd manufactured it. But that made life easier, in fact.
She undid the mounts and removed the whole lot as a piece and then went to weigh it in the kitchen. She packed the casing with an equal weight of cardboard, cut out of a box of Cheerios, and a Pad battery. Then she replaced the switch systems and LED indicator, linking them together with the tiny battery from her own watch. When she was done the machine looked as it always had; press the switch and the light comes on … nothing happens, but then, it never did, as far as she was able to tell. It must be broken.
The machine's case went back into her bag. The contents lay on the carpet. White Horse looked around, guessing at wall cavities, false ceiling heights, the interior structure of the furniture, the likely gap size beneath the floor. Where should the device's innards go? Where could she hide them until they were needed? She moved silently through the airy rooms, touching walls, doors, cupboards, feeling the floors with the bare soles of her feet, open to guidance, waiting for a change in her feeling that would tell her she'd found it.
Mary Delaney had an audience with Guskov scheduled for three that afternoon. Dix never dealt direct with contractors. Instead, she had a team of negotiators that she shared with the Defense Directorate. Mary didn't come into that category, but after her job inside the FBI was over and Mappa Mundi was in the bag she hoped for advancement into their ranks. Hence she'd persuaded Dix to let her act more closely on the project this time, to keep an eye on it from both ends. As a reward or a punishment, Dix had decided to test her and give her the chance to act on her behalf. The authority was something Mary wasn't about to waste.
She pulled the appointment forwards half an hour, just to see what he'd do. They'd already met many times, and although she'd once or twice left feeling that she'd scored there wasn't any doubt in her mind that Guskov was always going to take the Grand Slam unless she was better than her best.
With winning in mind there was nothing left to chance. Mary wore her finest suit, had her hair, nails, feet, legs, and face seen to by a flotilla of experts, shod herself in perfect antique Blahniks, and when she checked herself in the office's private ready-room even she had to admit that it was unlikely the Russian was going to beat her at Best in Show. Brains, on the other hand … exact amounts of guarana, vitamins, and ginkgo were the maximum she was prepared to use in training. She slugged back her personalized mixture of three drops in a half-glass of water and checked again in the Ladies' Room mirror for traces of visible panty line. Beneath the silk lingerie she could feel her body trying to sweat, but under the control of the respon
se inhibitor that functioned for her instead of an ordinary antiperspirant it wasn't making it. She grinned into the mirror. Time to go.
At exactly two-thirty Mikhail Guskov was shown in and they shook hands and made eye contact with matched firmness and determination, each registering the other's approval and engagement in the tussle with perfect understanding and the most subtle of shifts around the eyes. Mary loved meetings with Mikhail. They tested her to the limit.
“I'm sure that your contacts have already told you why this meeting has been called,” she said, once greetings were over. They sat together in high-backed leather comfort chairs; hers with firmer cushions, but despite that he was as tall, as imposing, at ease. If he noticed the difference he affected not to. His blue eyes were amused and guarded, indicating readiness to fight, in that look that was more charged than any glance of sexual lust could ever be. Mary had long preferred it.
He gave a slight nod in concession to her guess. They both knew the contacts she meant; men and women working in the Russian mafia's network who owed him loyalty for old debts.
“I was shocked to discover that a decision had been taken here that would allow such a test to take place,” he said, his American English almost perfect except for a haunting trace of Russian taints here and there; a style Mary was sure was deliberate. It made her think of wild Siberian winters, fur collars, log fires, and stone-built dachas deep in the forest. Nothing about him was not chosen. He was self-made in every detail. As she had, he had learned to abandon anything of himself that did not serve his purpose. But she checked herself in case he saw this admiration leaking out of her.
“It was a political ploy,” Mary replied calmly. “A lever to test the mettle of the government. We should be grateful they chose CONTOUR. Less destructive than some other projects that are under way. Its effects are contained.”
“Yes.” Guskov let his head rest on the chair's support, easing his shoulders with a slow, sensuous motion. “And it served to prove that Mappaware is still far too unstable for any kind of real-world use.” His face split slowly with a knowing grin at her, a sustained eye contact that he dared her to break in denial.
She realized that he knew about the Pentagon and CIA use of basic NervePath technology in the field. That was a surprise, and no doubt he'd seen the involuntary iris response to it as he looked into her eyes so keenly.
“The latest refinements on very limited and basic applications of Mappaware have worked much better than the test on Deer Ridge would suggest,” she said. “Whoever constructed the programs used in CONTOUR…”
”Kozyol!” Guskov snorted, giving his opinion on that excuse for a person. “Yes, an idiot of the highest calibre. It astonishes me how so many of them appear to be employed in your most sensitive posts.” His blue gaze suddenly became commanding and cold although his voice didn't change. “You must find them.”
“We will.” She opened the palm of her hand where it rested on the chair's arm, smoothing off a patch of imaginary dust, wiping them off the face of the Earth. His interruption had given her a mild case of annoyance, but she let it sink down again. He seemed to notice nonetheless.
“But this is not your worry,” he prompted her. “So, the information leakage is as bad as I predicted it would be. But we haven't yet reached Stage Three. One or two more tiny slips will be all it takes for all our efforts to be wasted, given away to the world market. I thought you people claimed you had control.” He was no longer amused. “This is no way to run a business, Ms. Delaney.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Mary smiled at him, using all the force of her wit to try and elicit a friendly response, not giving in when she didn't get one. “That's why we want to move to Isolation now.”
As she had anticipated, he was not surprised by her challenge. He moved suddenly, lunging forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he considered her proposal. Finally he said, “The site is prepared?” He glanced up at her through his heavy, overgrown hair, cheeks and jaw very heavy at that angle, like a boxer's face that had taken her best punch and could take a lot more.
“Yes.” Which was not strictly true, but she knew Dix could make it happen, because she had to.
He nodded. “And if we do this now, we will have to take in with us the extra personnel. It's outside the plans we drew up. These people will have to be imported, spirited in from all over the world. Can you do that?”
“How many?” Dix had warned her about this, and she dreaded the question. In order to go into Isolation the whole team working on Mappa Mundi would have to enter a closed environment, cut off from the outside world. The NSC had prepared for this eventuality a year ago, when the first stage of Mappa Mundi had been completed and it was already clear that the price of information was good enough to soften the resolve of more than a few. The site was limited, however. It didn't have the equipment or the space to allow significant alteration in a short time. Even getting it ready within a few weeks was going to drag out their resources to the limit.
Guskov didn't need to consult his notes. “Twenty-five.”
Which was ten more than she'd bargained on. She laughed. “Twenty,” and that was too many.
He shook his head, “Not at this level. There's too much to be done.”
“Twenty,” she said, wishing that she'd picked a lower figure.
His nostrils flared in contempt. “Not possible.”
“Twenty. Five more would tip the entire system into a potential disaster. The site can't support that many. It's twenty.”
And here she had him because the government called this one, whether he liked it or not, and he knew it.
“Choose who you like,” Mary added, generously indicating the entire world with a half-shrug, “but by tomorrow I want a list of twenty names and not one more.”
Guskov hesitated and then sat back, regarding her with a fatherly tolerance.
“Do you know that among my scientists many are deeply uncomfortable with the obvious implications of this project? It offends their moral sensibilities. They see immediately that for all your sweet words it is a perfect tool for repression. Of that twenty, at least half, or more of them, may quickly be pushed across the line where they refuse their labour and, once they are sealed in, then who will I use as they join the strike? Who will police them, so that they do not sabotage the work in a moment of misguided, heroic idealism?” He leaned his head on one side and looked at her through steepled fingers.
“I wouldn't dare to suggest anything to an expert in coercion,” she said easily. “You can answer that better than I could.” And now wasn't she on the back foot? She had to grit her teeth behind her cool façade.
“So,” he mused, “you would take their families hostage, you would impound their assets. You, the American government, would use basic emotional router programmes and your inept, undereducated NervePath programmers to resculpt their personalities? All these tactics your culture stands against, first and foremost among all nations, and you will not hesitate? There is nothing so low that you will not stoop to it, to crush freedom's life out, without mercy?”
Mary felt her own smile go bitter cold now. “You can rely on that.” As she said it and his smile intensified into one of warmth she knew that this one wasn't a bluff. She would. She could. The knowledge was a triumph and a disappointment, the two emotions so intimately entwined that she couldn't separate them.
“Then I will give you my list,” he said. “Ten names. As we agreed.”
She frowned questioningly at him.
Guskov smiled and disentangled his hands, spreading them out in the air. “There are some people,” and his look made her aware that he suspected she knew who they were, “that even I would not trust, Ms. Delaney.”
Part of her longed to ask if he would have included her on that list or not, but she'd already given enough points away on the day. She offered him a drink and they toasted their agreement with vodka.
When he'd gone and she had to send her news to Rebecca Dix, Mary paused
with her hand on the Pad control. She had the sensation that she'd missed something, and then realized it was only the glass shuttle that had gone from its place. She shook her head to clear it of the feeling, and started calling.
Natalie stared at the ceiling of the guest room as dawn was breaking. Its faint, grey light came through the uncurtained window like the breath of an old animal out in the cold, weak and unwilling. From the street she heard the milk cart come whirring quietly, bottles chinking for houses other than hers.
She couldn't believe herself. What a moron. What an idiot. Talking like that and then … she cringed inwardly at the memory of her wanton behaviour. Oh my God. He'd think she was a Total. And then she thought of the file and today's experiment at the Clinic, which she'd conveniently forgotten about last night, and it was too much. She wanted to be safely away in her old life where nothing happened.
Beside her Jude rolled onto his back and reached over to touch her shoulder.
“Awake?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. She turned her head on the pillow and looked at his face.
To her relief, he smiled and tucked both hands under his head. “I guess I look as bad as you feel?”
“Much worse.” She was touched, surprised, glad when he pulled one hand out again and brushed the tip of her nose with one finger in a tender caress.
“Your science has done something to my head,” he said wryly, but she didn't know this time what was meant. She wanted to think he was referring to a feeling he had for her that was more than friendly, something, not a headache or the problems of Selfware or gratitude for the project she'd told him about. But the smarter, self-preserving element of her wasn't awake yet. She said, “Do you always sleep with your informants?” and instantly regretted it.
Mappa Mundi Page 16
