The Commonwealth Saga 2-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “You’re kidding.”

  “The self-righteous ones are worse. Have you seen the way Danwal treats his staff?”

  The team moved off deeper into the apartment, making assessments and working out an installation scheme. It took them seven hours to strengthen the apartment’s security. Additional arrays were aligned with the existing ones, and supplementary sensors wired into the apartment’s net. Software was updated.

  He couldn’t use his own active sensors to determine the specific nature of the hardware they set up, but he heard enough to understand the basic system parameters. Anyone who used the elevators would immediately have their data files scrutinized by Senate Security. Birds that flew past outside would be examined. Even guests would be constantly observed as they moved around inside the apartment.

  The new scanners were all active models; it was only the metal shell of the refrigerator that was shielding him from them. If he climbed out, the alarm would sound immediately. He couldn’t connect to a cybersphere node to tell his cohorts what had happened. The system would detect the emission, and the new software would route any call through Senate Security’s RI.

  All he could do was stay in the refrigerator. He didn’t mind, he was in place and concealed, he had food for several days. The person who used to be Bruce McFoster settled down to wait for his target.

  That morning, most of the news shows carried the item about Senator Ramon DB unexpectedly going into rejuvenation. Alic Hogan put Alessandra Baron on one of his desktop screens, keeping the sound low. She had three Washington-based analysts in the studio, talking about the political implications. They were being cagy; with the Senate more or less unified in its response to the Prime threat, social and economic policy had essentially been sidelined. The main speculation was on who would take over leadership of the African caucus. Toniea Gall was clearly the front-runner, although the Mandela Dynasty hadn’t publicly come out in her favor.

  Tarlo knocked on the door and came straight in. “Something you might want to hear, Chief.”

  “Thanks,” Hogan said. His e-butler muted Alessandra Baron. Ever since Senate Security had placed the observation request, Alic had taken to accessing her when she was on. Why Paula Myo wanted her watched was something he hadn’t yet fathomed. Baron’s show was actually quite excellent, with frontline investigative reporting as well as the standard society gossip, and she clearly had some very high-level political contacts. Her researchers were as tenacious as any police detective when they found the whiff of scandal or financial shenanigans. None of which gave him reason for the observation mission. Despite having the confidence of the Admiral, who had ranted about the request being a deliberate Burnelli-inspired provocation, Alic just couldn’t see that. Paula Myo wasn’t the kind of person who acted maliciously. That was one of the reasons he’d actually kept the observation going properly. Despite all the grubby politics, there might be a result at the end of the day; if so, he wanted the Paris office to share in the credit. If it did turn out to be a red herring, he couldn’t be blamed for allocating the resources.

  Tarlo sat in front of the desk, a broad smile on his tanned face. “Got a result from the Shaw-Hemmings warrant. This time we may have a more substantial lead. The money came from transferable DRNG government bonds, which are like million-dollar bills; you can carry them anywhere but you need an authorization code in order to redeem them. They were hand-delivered to the finance company offices on Tolaka. According to their records, the authorization code was then downloaded to their manager’s office.”

  “I didn’t know people still used methods like that.”

  “Chief, the finance industry has more clandestine ways of moving money around than any black market arms dealer.”

  “Why not use a onetime account?”

  “They’re current, and we can access them with a warrant. So get this, those DRNG bonds were issued thirty years ago.”

  “How cold is that?”

  “The Guardians think it’s icy, which is a big mistake. The DRNG treasury is notoriously reluctant to grant law enforcement agencies access to its records. But in today’s climate … You’d have to apply to the treasury direct, which you can do through their finance minister. I thought the Admiral’s office could ask. We might also ask if they sold any other bonds to the same buyer.”

  “Okay, I’ll get that sorted.” He glanced at the screen showing Baron. She had got Senator Lee Ki in the studio for an interview, the pair of them looking relaxed and comfy, as if they were out on a date. “How long do you think this treasure hunt is going to be?”

  Tarlo gave a small shrug. “To be honest, I can’t remember ever getting past three links in the chain before. Maybe we got lucky with the bonds. Too soon to tell.”

  “All right.” Alic had wanted to hear they were on the verge of breaking the case wide open, that the Guardians’ entire financial structure would be exposed, neutering them entirely. Childish, he told himself tetchily. He glanced out at the open office, trying to see the various teams at work. Over half the desks were empty. “How’s Renne behaving?”

  “Come on, Chief, you know she’s the best Investigator this office has.”

  “All right. I appreciate loyalty.” Alic gave the man a sympathetic smile. “So is there any progress on the Martian case?”

  “Sorry, not a thing. Nobody can think what they needed that data for. We gave the whole problem to the technical panel we’d assembled to try and make sense of the equipment we intercepted at Boongate. I mean, the two have got to be connected, right? Maybe the Martian data will help them make sense of the weird force field components.”

  “Good idea.”

  Tarlo smiled. “Renne suggested it.”

  “Okay.” Alic grinned in good-natured defeat. “Get your ass back out there to work. I’ll let you know about the DRNG treasury records by end of play today.”

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  The way he said “chief” almost made Alic believe he meant it.

  The alley was in a run-down area of Paris. Narrow and shabby, no different from a dozen others within a square kilometer. Tall commercial buildings lined either side, inset with barred windows and secure metal rollers across the loading bays. Halfway down it there was a door, smaller than the rest, made from solid planks of walnut, and coated in gray paint, e-shielded on the inside. During the day it looked like it might open into some old shop storeroom, though it was always shut. In fact, it was the entrance to a club. There was no sign outside, nothing to say what it was. If you had to ask, you weren’t trendy enough to get in.

  At two-thirty in the morning, the queue of hopefuls stretched halfway along the narrow unsanitary alley. The glamorous, the important, the famous, and the merely rich all shuffled their feet together, bitched about the cold and the indignity, ingested, inhaled, and infused a variety of narcotic substances, peed against the walls, and waited for some small miracle to grant them entrance. They weren’t going to get it. The unremarkable gray door was guarded by two huge bouncers, stripped to the waist so they could show off the stylish bulbous chrome scabs of their metallic muscle boost implants, like retro-futuristic cyborgs.

  Paula walked straight up the alley to the front of the queue, eliciting murmurs of amazement and hostility in equal measure. One of the bouncers smiled politely, and lifted the velvet rope for her. “Have a good evening, Ms. Myo,” he said in a thunderstorm whisper.

  “Thank you, Petch,” she told him as she slipped past. He was nearly twice her height.

  Music so loud it was on the threshold of pain; black walls, floor, and ceiling producing a darkness that made you squint, until the rig above the mastermix DJ flared with blindingly intense holographic pulses; bodies crunched up so tight you could feel other people’s sweat rub off on you as you squeezed past; Sahara heat; drinks priced contemptuously high; a dance floor so crowded that all you could do was wriggle in imitation sex—apart from the five people in the middle who weren’t imitating anything. Nobody looked over twenty
-five; boys dressed in chic suits; girls in wisps of designer cloth.

  Paula shoved her way aggressively to the bar. Thankfully, she didn’t have to shout herself hoarse for a drink. The barkeeper nodded welcome and immediately mixed her a peach sunset.

  She sipped it, and stood on tiptoes to look out over the outlandish and expensive hairstyles. In among all the high fashion, Tarlo’s navy uniform was instantly noticeable. Two minutes’ more shoving and she was at his side.

  “Hi!” she screeched.

  The tall black girl he was grinding up against gave Paula a serial-killer sneer. It didn’t look right on a face so staggeringly beautiful.

  “Boss!” Tarlo grinned in surprised delight.

  “Need to talk to you.”

  He gave the black girl a dirty kiss, and shouted something directly into her ear. She nodded reluctant agreement, shot Paula a final blood-vendetta glare before wobbling off on high heels.

  Together they made their way over to the end of the bar. Paula took another peach sunset; she could almost feel herself dehydrating. It was always hellishly hot in here.

  “How are you doing?” Tarlo shouted.

  “I’m annoying Admiral Columbia.”

  Tarlo raised an iced bottle of Brazilian beer, and put it to his smiling lips.

  “Best job in the galaxy.”

  “Just about. I need a small favor.”

  “You don’t even have to ask, Boss, you know that.”

  “There’s an old case I want you to look into for me. You remember the Dudley Bose burglary? It was before the Second Chance flight.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “We checked it out at the time and it seemed to be nothing. Now I’m not so sure. There was a charity involved, Cox Educational, which might be a front for illegal money laundering. I think it was used by a politically connected crime syndicate.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Three of its trustees vanished when we started investigating. Could you review the accounts on file in the Paris office for me?”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Any form of discrepancy. I have an outside finance expert going over their current files, but I need to know how far back this goes. There might have been some tampering with official records. If that’s right, then the ones on file in Paris will be our only evidence.”

  “Okay. I’ll get on it tomorrow for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What put you on to this after so long?”

  “I had a tip-off from an informant; it’s also why we’re focusing on Baron.”

  “She’s involved?”

  “My informer claims she was part of the cover-up. We’re not sure. Not yet. And, Tarlo, keep this from Hogan and the rest of them. Columbia has tried to block me once on this already; I need to get the proof without interference.”

  “Hogan hasn’t got a clue what goes on in the office. Don’t worry, you can rely on me.”

  She gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek. “Thanks. I think you’d better get back to your friend now. That way I might manage to survive until morning.”

  Paula watched him slither back into the sweaty embrace of the crowd where the girl was waiting with edgy impatience. Inside she felt a knot of tension slacken off. He seemed to have swallowed the old favor routine. Either that or he was a superb actor. It wouldn’t be long now before she knew for certain.

  Paula had used just about every kind of transport system the human race had ever invented, but the travel pods in the High Angel always unnerved her. The way they turned transparent from the inside, the high speed, the perfectly maintained gravity field, all that combined into an insidious roller coaster disorientation. Nowadays she knew to keep eyes firmly closed from the moment she got in until a quiet ping announced they’d reached her destination.

  Two armored navy security guards were standing outside the pod as she climbed out. They saluted sharply. “The Admiral’s expecting you, Investigator,” one said.

  Paula nodded and looked up. She was standing at the base of the Pentagon II. Overhead the dome was completely opaque, diffused with a creamy light. The High Angel was in major conjunction above Icalanise, with Babuyan Atoll pointing directly at the local star. She couldn’t see anything outside at all.

  The security guards escorted her into the elevator. Anna was waiting outside when it arrived on the top floor. “Good to see you again,” she said.

  “Thanks. How’s married life?”

  “Busy.” She held her hand out showing off her rings.

  “Lovely,” Paula conceded.

  “He’s waiting for you. Oscar’s in there with him.”

  Paula hadn’t expected that. “Okay.”

  With the dome’s uniform white light outside, it was difficult to tell if the windows in Wilson’s office were clear or not. Given this was supposed to be an ultra-secure meeting, she supposed they were sealed. It wasn’t something she asked; it was fairly obvious she’d walked right into the middle of an argument.

  Wilson was standing behind his desk, his long features drawn tight by antagonism. Oscar stood opposite, hands on hips, staring him down.

  “Problem?” Paula asked.

  “A huge one, actually,” Oscar said. The anger fled from him, and he slumped back into the nearest chair. “Fucking hell!”

  “What’s going on?” Paula asked.

  “I asked you here because we had proof of some very serious treachery on the Second Chance flight,” Wilson said. He still looked furious, fingers rapping on the desktop. “I needed your advice on the Guardians. Jesus, if they’re right …”

  “Had proof?” Paula asked. She didn’t like the way Wilson had made the emphasis.

  “Let me show you,” Oscar said.

  A wide section of the office wall began to project the shuttle flight between the starship and the Watchtower. Oscar gave a commentary as the little craft left its hangar bay, explaining the dish deployment, where it was pointing. Paula watched it all in fascination. It really was concrete evidence, rather than circumstantial, that someone was actively working against the interest of the human race. One of the Starflyer’s agents had to have been on board the Second Chance.

  “Thank you,” she said with quiet sincerity. “This is exactly what I needed.” The emotional reaction to the revelation was stronger than she’d expected; it was almost like being mildly inebriated.

  “No it’s not,” Wilson said curtly. “And that’s the fucking problem. This is a recording Oscar made from our main records.”

  “I reviewed the Second Chance data while I was on board Defender,” Oscar explained. “Someone from the Guardians contacted me and said enough to raise some doubts in my mind. I started going through the old records and found this.”

  “You know a Guardian?” Paula asked.

  Oscar shot Wilson a guarded look. The Admiral stared ahead, unresponsive.

  “They claimed they represented the Guardians,” Oscar said. “I mean, they don’t exactly carry club membership badges. In truth, I’ve no way of knowing.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “The point the Admiral is making is that this”—Oscar waved at the projected image that had frozen to show the dish—“is an unofficial copy of the navy secure records.”

  “So?” Paula asked.

  “Let me play you the official record of the same sensor,” Wilson said. The frozen image flickered and vanished. Then the recording began again, showing the Second Chance superstructure rising into view as the shuttle left its hangar. Reaction control thrusters squirted sulphur vapor, rotating the craft. It began to head out toward the Watchtower, leaving the giant starship behind. The image froze.

  “Oh, hell,” Paula said.

  “We sat in here two days ago watching this very same goddamn official recording,” Oscar said. “It showed the dish deploying exactly as it does in my copy. When we ran through it today—” His fist came down hard on the arm of his chair. The main communications dish on the Second Chance was s
till folded down in its recess.

  Paula looked from one man to the other. “Who else knew?”

  Wilson cleared his throat awkwardly. “Just the two of us.”

  “Oscar, did you tell the Guardians what you’d found?” she asked.

  “No. There’s been no contact since I returned from my scout mission.”

  “Is there an access log for official navy records?”

  “Yes,” Wilson said warily. “That was the first thing we checked, of course. Nobody has accessed this recording since we did two days ago. But then …”

  “There’s no log entry of Oscar copying the files,” Paula presumed.

  Oscar’s head dropped into his hands. “I’d been contacted by the Guardians. The Guardians! And I was making illegitimate copies of sensitive navy data right in the middle of Pentagon II, for Christ sake.”

  “You erased the access log.”

  “Yeah. With my code authority it’s not difficult. I know a few program fixes.”

  “Don’t we all,” she admitted. “I could probably do a better job than you. But at least it does prove that someone can get in and out of your secure records without a trace.”

  “What somebody?” Wilson challenged. “There’s just the two of us.”

  “Three,” Paula corrected. “The High Angel sees everything that occurs within itself.” She looked up at the indistinct white ceiling, arching an eyebrow. “Care to comment?”

  The High Angel’s colorful icon appeared in her virtual vision. “Good morning, Paula,” it said.

  Wilson flinched. He’d obviously forgotten just how pervasive the alien starship’s attention was. Oscar’s face was red with guilt.

  “Do you know who altered the official recording?” Paula asked.

  “I do not. I see within myself, but your electronic systems are independent and heavily encrypted, especially the navy network. I have no way of knowing who accessed the official recordings.”

  “Did you see the official recording which Oscar and the Admiral played in here two days ago?”