“Pretty damn far,” I say firmly.
Plunkett frowns. “I see. You want to know if my counterparts or me are involved. Well, as far as I know, Roman, there isn't anything serious going on.”
He’s lying, or at least holding back information. I can tell in a number of ways.
“You sure about that?” I ask.
“Quite sure. You’re familiar with the way I run my organization. Do you think you would have gotten in here so easily if I suspected conflict was on the horizon? You know I take my safety very seriously.”
He’s right about that, I think nodding and rubbing my chin. Going back to the drawing board. Thinking…
Plunkett obviously knows something, but perhaps he just doesn’t know the true extent of it all. That would explain why he hasn’t beefed up his security. Or maybe, if there is a plot, it's either a lone wolf sort of deal or else the others have just decided not to cut Plunkett in on it.
“How serious are we talking, Roman?” Plunkett asks, obviously noticing the worried expression on my face.
“People died. Party members. Big wig types. Lots of them, and the OUSP is assuming the worst. They think the Oligarchy is responsible. That’s the short version,” I explain. “It could mean war. Could mean your bunker walls here will soon be put to a very strenuous test.”
Plunkett stares at me gravely. “I’m disappointed in you, Roman. I never thought I’d see the day you ran around delivering threats on behalf of the socialists.”
“I’m not threatening you, Plunkett. I’m just trying to get this thing sorted out before you guys blow us all to hell.”
“The Ousp,” he says, purposely pronouncing the acronym as a funny sounding word, “isn’t going to attack us. We have nukes, Roman. Why do you think they left us alone instead of attempting to absorb us like all the other tribes and territories that came before us?”
“You sure that’s going to be enough, Plunkett? What if they have sleeper cells lying in wait? Just waiting for the word to cut the heads off of the five-headed snake? That’s all it would take, you know? If you think you can launch a nuke in the time it would take a highly trained assassin to lop your head off, you’re kidding yourself.”
I’m just spit balling at this point. Sending in secret assassin’s isn’t really the OUSP’s style, but I’m hoping Plunkett doesn’t know that. Hoping his paranoia takes the bait and compels him to divulge whatever information he’s holding back.
“Goddamnit, Roman, you’re going to give me a heart attack,” he says, probably picturing a stealthy assassin slicing his head off as he spoke.
“Then tell me what you’re hiding, Plunkett,” I demand. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to stop a war.”
“Okay… I’ll admit that maybe I'm aware of a few assassinations.”
“How many’s a few?”
“Two or three maybe,” he says.
“Do you know anything else about these assassinations? Anything strange or interesting maybe?” I ask, fishing to see if he knows that the targets were synths.
“Not really. Aside from the fact that they’re all high-ranking socialists,” Plunkett says. “In fact, I had assumed they were inside jobs. Some kind of power struggle within the Ousp.”
I nod. I can tell that Plunkett’s telling the truth, and he doesn’t seem to know that the main targets were synths.
“I think I can rule you out for now,” I say. “But what about your counterparts? In your opinion, do you think any of them could be behind all this?”
Plunkett sighs, dropping his head back and staring at the ceiling. “I really couldn't say, Roman. To be honest, my head’s kind of spinning right now. But if it would help, I may be able to arrange a meeting with you and the five of us.”
“I'd love that,” I say. “In person or virtual?”
“Virtual. The five of us rarely meet in person anymore. Besides, holograms are quicker. If you stick around, I’m sure I can pull everyone together.”
“Yeah, I'll stick around,” I say.
CHAPTER 8
◆◆◆
Plunkett and I head upstairs, via a private elevator. He has a towel wrapped around his waist. His muscles glisten with the steam and sweat of the sauna. He's too busy tapping out a message on his omni on the way up, but as we're stepping off the elevator into his offices, Plunkett grins and blows a kiss at me.
“You owe me, Roman,” he says. “They've all agreed to a quick meeting. I'll get everything set up, and the rest will be up to you. I suggest making your questions count. If not, my counterparts may get bored and find something else to do with their time.”
“I guess that means the other four are just as impatient as you?”
“More so I’m afraid,” he says, still plucking away at his omni.
“Will Vangelina be there?” I ask.
“Of course! I did say all of them, didn't I?”
We walk through a complex of upscale open rooms. One of the rooms is a bar, and he pauses to fix himself a drink before we continue. He offers me one, but I refuse. I could certainly use a little buzz, but I’d rather remain as sharp as possible, considering the task at hand.
Finally, we reach a room that I actually recognize. It's the same place where I originally met with Plunkett a year or so ago, where we first discussed the case he wanted me to work on. The space is dominated by a huge round table, made of reclaimed mahogany. There are hologram eyes on the table surface in front of each seat.
“What kind of system are you guys using nowadays?” I ask Plunkett, wondering how they’ve adapted to the current state of the global datasphere.
“Very simple, really,” he replies, taking a seat. “Let me show you.”
He lays his omni in his lap, then pulls a feed off the bottom of the table and hooks it in.
“They hardwire in,” he tells me. “It's the only secure way to do it. It still isn't perfect, though, so expect a bit of obfuscation. They don't want any of their words to be... hijacked. Overheard by garden variety hackers out in the street.”
“Makes sense,” I say, sounding as disinterested as possible. Meanwhile, Ana is whispering in my ear.
I sit a few chairs down from Plunkett. We're on almost opposite sides of the table, looking at each other. He smiles over at me for a second, his eyes sparkling and dreamy. Then he looks down at his omni, frowning in concentration as he finishes setting up the meeting.
Quickly, stealthily, I hook my own omni into the system. After a tense moment, during which time I expect Plunkett to remark in surprise at my sudden presence in his personal sphere, Ana whispers confirmation in my ear.
“I'm in,” she says. “I can get all of Plunkett's files. If you want me to.”
“Wait,” I mutter quietly, trying to keep my mouth movements to a minimum.
“When they're all connected, you can start snooping. Don't copy anything, just look.”
“I know what I’m doing, Roman,” Ana says indignantly.
“Okay!” Plunkett suddenly exclaims. “They should be arriving in just a moment...”
I turn to face down the length of the table. Right on schedule, the hologram eyes start to glow and suddenly there are four other people sitting at the table with us. Other than the faint telltale glow of a holograms, they look completely real and solid.
There's Vangelina Natali, also known as Lady Vangelina. She’s not far to Plunkett's left. Her stunning face looks almost like that of a statue, flat planes and sweeping arches. No doubt one of the most beautiful organic women in the world. And she’s also one of the most inventive and brilliant people too, as far as I'm concerned. Her water tech has changed everything for humankind, and her androids could very well change the future, and our place in it. They could make all the boring, menial tasks a thing of the past once again.
A little further on is Orin Plith. The guy looks as moody and nervous as ever. He has dark hair, dark eyes, dark circles under his eyes. Even his clothes are dark. Kind of reminds me of an undertaker.
Tall and bony, twitchy, restless. Never met him in person before today, but I’ve heard of him and I know all too well about his hatred for synths. That makes him a suspect in my book, though an unlikely one due to his nervous and somewhat ineffectual nature. Back in the day, before the Oligarchy, Plith was one of the most outspoken and well-known figures in the anti-synth movement. If you could even call it a movement.
Another interesting thing to note about Plith, according to Plunkett, he and Vangelina have a strained sort of relationship, and for good reason. Plith, being an Oligarch, is naturally opposed to the OUSP. He's convinced that the OUSP could win a war against the Oligarchy despite the Oligarchy’s nuclear arsenal. He’d like to use Vangelina’s android tech to build a robot army to even the infantry odds, but So far, Vangelina has not budged.
That’s all the more reason to shoot Plith right to the top of my list of suspects but I’ve never been one to put all my eggs in one basket. I need to see more. Need to see the whole story…
Past Plith, seated alone at one corner of the table in a perfect, patient sort of posture, is Arthur Manwell. You'll never, ever meet someone who's more synonymous with the word gentleman. Both in appearance and personality. Manwell was the first big name in the Oligarchy's water trade. To understand the significance of that, you first have to know what the policies are surrounding water in the OUSP's territories. It's technically “free”, meaning you pay no extra money for it, but it is also heavily regulated. Rationed, even. This is the opposite of how it works in the Oligarchy. Here, you get as much water as you want, provided you have the dough to pay for it. This was made easy and practical by Vangelina's water synthesis tech, and Manwell was the originator of this brilliant business scheme. Turns out that people don't mind paying a little extra to be able to use water as they see fit.
But, as far as I know, Manwell is strictly a businessperson. He doesn't stir up any pots in politics, at least not openly. I'm sure he has some things going behind the scenes. You have to, if you own as much money as he does.
Finally, several seats to my right, rests the enigmatic form of the androgynous Oligarch known as Fenix. I already know precious little about the other Oligarchs. My knowledge of them comes on the tail of years of careful gleaning and rapt attention. But, about Fenix, I know pretty much nothing.
I finish glancing around the table, then bring my gaze back to Plunkett.
“My friends!” he says, spreading his arms wide as though to embrace them all.
“I'm sorry to bother you on this beautiful day but—”
“It's actually quite nasty outside,” says Lady Vangelina, lifting a champagne flute to her rosy lips.
“Oh, yes,” Manwell replies. “Quite nasty, indeed. In fact, I was just thinking that our next venture should be some sort of system for controlling the weather...”
“That's science fiction,” Fenix rasps. Fenix never speaks much above a rasping whisper, really. In the few times I've actually heard them speak. Their voice is quite husky and deep, but perhaps not completely masculine.
“I’m not sure if I agree with you, my esteemed colleague,” Manwell says. “But even if you are correct for the moment, we mustn’t forget that science fiction often becomes fact, in time.”
“I’m not sure often is the appropriate word,” Fenix tells him. “Considering we only seem to remember the stories that come true and forget the many thousands that do not.”
“A fair point,” Manwell acknowledges. He then smiles and looks apologetically at Plunkett, gesturing for him to continue.
“Roman Ibarra, a dear friend of mine, is visiting with us today,” Plunkett says, much louder than need be. “If you remember, Mr. Ibarra is a private detective whom...”
I don't hear the rest of his introduction. Ana starts whispering in my ear again.
“Rome, I've found some things you'll want to hear,” she tells me. “There's evidence on their omnis that each of the Oligarchs has hired hitmen in the past.”
At the moment, with so many people watching, I'm unable to ask the obvious question. But Ana answers it in my earpiece anyway.
“I don't know if they ever hired the same hit squad we're after. I can't find specific enough evidence. Nothing that mentions Cronus, but it's definitely enough that we can't rule out anyone at this table. Not even Plunkett. Be careful.”
Her voice cuts off, and I snap back into focus on the conversation at the table.
“...has a few questions for you,” Plunkett is saying, looking over at me and nodding his head. “Roman?”
Right on time. I smile politely at everyone and decide that I might as well make my first question a real ball-buster.
“I want to know,” I say, “if any of you are aware of a plot against the OUSP. I’m asking because the Party has reason to believe that an ongoing conspiracy may have been hatched right here in the Oligarchy.”
I quickly move my eyes around the table, trying to gauge the first reactions of each Oligarch. They all maintain their poise, giving me nothing.
It's Vangelina who responds. “I believe I can speak for all of us and answer in the negative, Mr. Ibarra. I assume you're speaking of the recent assassina—”
“They aren't that recent,” I break in, relishing in Vangelina's look of surprise that a lowly street dick would deign himself worthy of interrupting her. “They've actually been going on for a couple years.”
Vangelina nods slowly at this. “Well, Mr. Ibarra, however long they've been going on, none of us have any knowledge of why they are happening or who is perpetrating them.”
Of course, you don't, I think sarcastically. “I want to believe that, because if it’s true we could likely avoid a war, but you all are going to have to help me out here. At this moment I can’t rule out any of you… and that’s a problem. The party members were killed by hitmen, and you have all hired hitmen in the past. Every one of you. Don’t bother denying it.”
The Oligarchs do give me a reaction now, glancing around at each other with guarded looks.
“Please expand on that,” Manwell tells me, ignoring a stern look from Vangelina.
“How do I know the party member hits aren’t just standard operating procedure? I can only assume the hits you’ve all authorized in the past were efforts to further your business interests. Who’s to say the party member hits are any different? We’re talking about a squad of hitters that cost a serious amount of dough, and besides you five, I can’t think of a lot of other people who can afford them,” I explain. “With that said, this is not an accusation. I’m just telling you how the case looks at this time… Letting you know why the OUSP suspects your involvement.”
After a few moments of uneasy silence, the other four oligarchs look to Vangelina.
“Where have you attained this information? How are you so certain that we’ve authorized assassinations in the past?” she demands, staring at me with eyes that could probably melt steel.
“I’m good at my job, Lady Vangelina. Let’s just leave it at that. I'm not going to spill the beans to the public, if that's what you're worried about. But I'd appreciate it if you'd help me out here.”
Vangelina takes a deep breath. And then she actually smiles, nodding her head as if this is some great entertainment.
“Okay,” she says. “I won't deny it, Roman. But I won't confirm it, either. However, I can say that any so-called hitmen we've hypothetically hired with in the past have nothing to do with the assassinations you're here to learn about.”
“So, I guess you've never met with anyone named Cronus,” I say, and again I quickly look around the table to see if there are any unusual reactions. And again, there isn't much at all.
“I'm afraid not,” Vangelina says.
“I think the detective is right,” Fenix suddenly pipes in.
“In what regard?” Manwell asks.
“I have heard of Cronus,” Fenix responds. “Let’s just say I’ve hypothetically inquired about their services.”
“So, you’ve used
them before?” I ask.
“No, Mr. Ibarra. I found their cost to be too expensive as it relates to their competitors,” Fenix says firmly. “That is why I believe you may be on to something. The list of individuals who could afford to contract the assassins in question certainly could be narrowed down to the attendees of this meeting… Aside from yourself, of course. No offense.”
“None taken,” I reply.
“And it could just as easily be the OUSP themselves,” Vangelina scoffs. “An inside job meant to appear as an attack perpetrated by us.”
“Now, wait just a second,” Manwell says. “My name has no business being included on this list you all keep speaking about. Everyone knows I'm strictly anti-violence.”
“Then why have you hired hitmen before?” Fenix asks, raising one perfectly trimmed eyebrow.
Manwell's mouth clamps shut. “Well… that was likely something arranged by one of my subordinates. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“It can't be me,” Plith says, his first words of the meeting. “The whole world knows I don't like the OUSP. But I've never—”
“Of course not,” Vangelina interjects. “Of course, it wasn't you, Orin. It wasn't any of us, and we know that.”
It's like a switch has been thrown and now everyone is playing along. They all smile at one another, almost apologetically. Even Fenix.
“I really wish we knew more,” Manwell says. “It pains me greatly to admit ignorance.”
“As it does me,” Vangelina agrees, turning her head to look at me. “Roman, I want nothing more than to be able to provide you with evidence that can close your case, but we simply can't give what we don't have. If you don't mind me asking... you work on contracts, yes? Who was it who hired you? Are you working directly for the OUSP?”
Her tone of voice makes it sound like a casual question. An afterthought. A mild curiosity. But I feel like it's actually the opposite.
“Definitely the Socialists,” Orin Plith says in a perfectly offhand manner, as if he doesn't really care.
Black Marble (Darkside Dreams - Series 1 Book 3) Page 16
