by Mike Resnick
He checked his timepiece, for perhaps the fiftieth time. Another hour, and then he would call Magnussen.
And Magnussen would tell him that Mallardi and Montoya were on the Martin Luther King, and before long he'd be as crazy as Jennings, just from the effort of trying to make sense out of what was happening.
He grimaced, finished his beer, and ordered another. While waiting for it to arrive, he activated the tiny video monitor in his table and spent the next few minutes trying to work up some interest in the soccer game that was being broadcast from Uruguay.
“That's a rerun, hon,” the waitress informed him as she set his new beer down on the table next to the monitor. “Brazil won it, 8 to 3.”
“Thanks.”
“You expecting someone?”
He shook his head.
“I just asked, because you've been here a long time, and you keep checking your watch.”
“No, just killing time.”
“Fight with your missus?” she asked with a knowing smile.
“No, just with the United States Government,” he replied, returning her smile.
“Tax people,” she said, nodding her head. “We ought to shoot ’em all.” Suddenly she stared sharply at him. “You got enough to pay your tab?”
He withdrew a large bill and laid it on the table next to him, covering most of the monitor with it.
“No offense intended,” said the waitress. “You just go back to killing time.”
“To hell with it,” he said. “Have you got a pay phone here?”
“Vidphone's on the fritz, but we've got an old talkie in the back. No charge if it's local.”
“Where is it?” he asked, getting to his feet.
“Follow me,” she said, leading him behind the bar to a storeroom filled with cases of liquor. “Right here,” she said, pointing to a telephone.
“Thanks,” said Becker, pulling out another bill and handing it to her.
“I told you,” she said, “there's no charge if it's local.”
“It's also private,” he said, holding the money out to her.
She took it and left the storeroom without another word.
It had been a few years since Becker had used a telephone, but he still remembered how to log onto the vidphone grid, and a moment later he heard Magnussen's voice.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jim. It's Max.”
“We've got a bad connection,” said Magnussen. “I can't see you.”
“I'm not using a vidphone.”
There was a brief pause.
“Are you sure all this secrecy's necessary?”
“I'm not being secretive,” answered Becker. “I'm being practical. The nearest vidphone is half a mile away.”
Magnussen's answer was a noncommittal “Oh.”
“Did you get the information I need?”
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“Yes on Mallardi, no on Montoya.”
“Amazing how quickly they gave it to you once I threatened to go the press, isn't it?” said Becker wryly. “Where's Mallardi?”
“This is going to sound crazy, Max...”
“Mallardi's aboard the King, right?”
“No, but for all practical purposes, he might as well be.”
“Explain.”
“He was just transferred to Mars Base this afternoon. His ship took off about two hours ago.”
“Can we divert it or order it back to base?”
“Not a chance, Max. He's on some hush-hush security project. He can't be contacted until it's over.”
“Does he have any background in security?” demanded Becker sharply.
“How the hell should I know?”
“Check his military record and his personal dossier. I'll lay ten-to-one that this is his first security assignment.”
“All right,” said Magnussen. “I'll do that.” He laughed nervously. “Hell, Max, you've even got me half-believing this conspiracy bullshit.”
“What about Montoya?”
“Classified. I couldn't find out a thing.”
“Then I want you to go back to them and tell them that I—”
“Hold it, Max,” interrupted Magnussen. “You asked for a favor; you got one. I'm not about to become your errand boy.”
“All right, Jim,” said Becker. “You helped me out, and I'm grateful. Now let me repay you.”
“How?”
“Have Jennings transferred to another level of Bethesda—or better still, put him in a private clinic.”
“Why?”
“Because he never mentioned Mallardi's or Montoya's names until today—and suddenly one of them is being sent to Mars and the other's hidden under a mountain of red tape.”
“If you're implying that they've got a bug in his room, that's no secret,” said Magnussen. “He's under constant surveillance.”
“I know there's a bug in his room,” replied Becker. “And whoever's at the other end of it doesn't want me to speak to anyone who might corroborate any facet of Jennings’ story.”
“That's awfully far-fetched, Max.”
“So is sending a doctor back into deep space after eleven days on Earth, or sending a junior officer to Mars on some security project less than half a day after his name first comes up.”
“Maybe it's just a coincidence,” said Magnussen.
“Do you really think so?”
“No,” admitted Magnussen. “Even I can't buy it.” He paused, and this time he sounded truly worried. “Just what the hell have you gotten into, Max?”
“I don't know,” replied Becker grimly, “but it's more than some spaceship captain who went a little looney and killed a couple of crewmen.”
“Maybe we'd better sit down and talk about this face-to-face,” said Magnussen.
“Not now.”
“Why not?”
“First, if they've tapped your phone and we arrange a meeting, they'll know where I'm going to show up.”
“So what?”
“I need some time to find Montoya before a superior officer orders me not to.”
“You had a second reason?”
“To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure that you aren't one of them.”
“One of whom, for God's sake?” demanded Magnussen. “Are you honestly accusing me of being an alien?”
“I don't believe in aliens,” responded Becker. “But I do believe that some person or group of people is trying to hamper my preparation of this case.”
“Not me!” snapped Magnussen irately. “I got you the information on Mallardi, didn't I?”
“Yes, you did,” admitted Becker.
“Well, then?”
“I still can't meet with you until I've found Montoya.”
“He could be anywhere: on Earth, on Mars, on Ganymede, aboard the King...”
“He's on Earth,” said Becker with certainty. “If he was where I couldn't reach him, they'd have told you.”
“All right. Say, for the sake of argument, that he's on Earth. Where do you begin looking for him? It's a pretty big planet.”
“I don't know,” lied Becker, suddenly grateful that the vidphone was broken so that Magnussen couldn't see his face.
“All right,” said Magnussen. “I want you to keep in touch with me.”
“Not at your office.”
“Then how?”
“Give Karla a secure number, and a time when I can call you.”
“If my office isn't secure, then neither is my home,” said Magnussen.
“Right.”
“Then how do I come up with a secure number?”
“You'll figure it out.”
“How soon can we meet in person?”
“As soon as I talk to Montoya and find out what this is all about.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” said Becker, signing off. “I have a feeling that I'll need it.”
* * * *
Becker left the bar and took a cab t
o D Street, then began walking through the maze of dilapidated buildings until he found the one he sought.
There was an elevator, but it hadn't been working for years. He felt very uneasy about using the stairs, especially since most of the lights had been shot out, but there was no other choice, and after pausing a moment to see if he could hear anyone above him on the staircase, he took a deep, fatalistic breath and began climbing. Five flights later, panting for breath, he pushed open a door and walked down a long corridor, the walls scrawled with graffiti.
Finally he came to the door he sought, pushed the buzzer, waited a few minutes, and then knocked.
“Come in, Counselor!” shouted a feminine voice from the other side of the door. A moment later the door slid back into the wall and he was confronted by a short, wiry black woman wearing a very expensive leisure outfit.
“Hello, Jaimie,” said Becker. “It's been a long time.”
“Could have been longer, though. Come on in, Counselor.”
Becker followed her into the elegantly-furnished living room. The walls displayed a collection of truly exquisite artwork, the floor was covered by a plush white carpet, and the furniture belonged in a mansion fronting the ocean. The row of computers along the back wall was the equal of anything this side of the Pentagon.
“This is a hell of a place you have, Jaimie,” said Becker.
“You approve?”
“Except for the building and the neighborhood, I do more than approve—I covet.”
“Come on, Counselor,” said Jaimie with an easy smile. “If I moved to Georgetown, I'd get arrested again just on general principles.” She paused. “Can I get you a drink?”
“That'd be nice,” replied Becker, sitting down on a leather sofa.
“You got it,” said Jaimie, disappearing into the next room. “Be right back.”
“How have you been, Jaimie?” asked Becker, idly inspecting the magazines strewn on the coffee table in front of him. Almost half of them were business journals; the other half were devoted to the more esoteric realms of computer technology.
“Can't complain, Counselor,” said Jaimie, returning with Becker's drink.
“Glad to hear it.”
“Served my year's time, though it only came to four months with good behavior. Got you to thank for that, Counselor.”
“I was just doing my job.”
“Uh-uh,” said Jaimie adamantly. “My own lawyer was gonna cut me loose and watch me sink. You're the one who arranged my plea bargain.”
“You weren't a real thief,” replied Becker. “You could have transferred a couple of billion dollars to your own account if you'd wanted. Instead, you just ordered six generals to show up in an Argentine whorehouse.”
“They should have thanked me,” chuckled Jaimie. “Anyway,” she continued, “if I needed money, there were banks galore; I know better than to rob the government. I just wanted to see how good your security was.”
“Nobody ever cracked one of the Pentagon's M-117 machines until you did it. We had to find out how it was done. That's why we arranged to let you plea bargain.”
“I knew it wasn't because of my winning personality.”
Becker smiled wryly. “In the end, they decided you were such a genius that it wasn't cost-effective to keep you out. They figured there were only five people in the whole country who could have done what you did: three of them work for Uncle Sam and one's doing life at Leavenworth for being greedier than you.”
“You're gonna make me blush, Counselor,” said Jaimie.
“Been back in lately?”
“Is this an official visit?” she asked.
Becker shook his head. “Just curious.”
“Yeah, I snuck back in, just to see if I could do it.” She grinned. “I could have transferred twenty thousand tanks to South Dakota.”
“I believe it.”
“I didn't, though.”
“I know. I would have heard of it if you had, and you would have had two dozen M.P.'s paying you a little visit.”
“So instead of two dozen M.P.'s, I've got one hot-shot lawyer who says he's not here on official business.”
“That's right,” said Becker.
“Okay, Counselor—why are you here?”
“Do you remember the day I took you into my office and offered you a reduced sentence if you'd tell us how you did it?”
“I'm not likely to forget it.”
“Do you also remember that you said you'd return the favor if the opportunity ever arose?”
“I take it that the opportunity has arisen?” asked Jaimie dryly.
“It has.”
Jaimie shrugged. “No problem. Jaimie Nchobe always keeps her promises.” She paused. “What can I do for you, Counselor?”
“I'm trying to find a certain lieutenant.”
“Have you looked in the phone book?”
“No jokes, please.”
“I wasn't joking. Usually the simplest way is the best.”
“He doesn't have a listing. He's been in the space service for the past few years.”
“If he's in the space service, you ought to be able to track him down with no trouble.”
“He's not in the computer.”
“Everyone's in the computer, Counselor,” said Jaimie. “It's just a matter of knowing where to look.”
“That why I've come to you,” said Becker.
“So you just want to know where this guy is, nothing else?”
“I'd also like a look at some service records, just to see if they've been tampered with.”
“No problem.”
“If there was no problem, I wouldn't have come to you,” said Becker. “The military is trying to cover something up.”
“Sounds like the military,” commented Jaimie without any show of surprise. “I know things about them that would curl your hair.”
“Don't tell me,” said Becker. “What I don't know, I can't testify to.”
Jaimie grinned. “You always did play it close to the vest, Counselor.” She rubbed her hands together. “All right. Let's get started.”
“Can you do it from here, or do you need my computer?”
“I don't need anything from you except the names I'm after,” said Jaimie. “Of course, your access number would save me a few minutes.”
“Can you get what you need without it?”
“Yes.”
“Then do so.”
Jaimie looked amused. “Afraid I'll use it sometime in the future?”
“No,” said Becker. “But I don't want my superiors to think I've managed to find out where Montoya is.”
“Montoya?”
“Lieutenant Anthony Montoya—the man we're looking for.”
“Not to worry, Counselor,” Jaimie assured him. “I can cover up my tracks once I'm on the way out.”
“You're sure?” demanded Becker.
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
“All right,” said Becker. “My access number is XB2236772439Q.”
“What's this Montoya done that makes you so hot to find him?”
“I don't know,” replied Becker. “Probably nothing.”
“If you tell me what this is all about, I can probably find him a lot quicker.”
“I wish to hell I knew what it was all about. I just know that they're trying to keep his whereabouts a secret.”
“So for all you know he could be on one of Jupiter's moons?”
“No,” said Becker. “I'm pretty sure he's on Earth.”
“Any reason why?”
“Just that I've got a case coming up soon, and they don't mind telling me where my witnesses are once they're so far away that I can't pull them back in time.”
“They? You mean the military?”
“Right.”
“Well, you just sit back and drink your drink, Counselor, because the champ is about to enter the ring. Think hard, now—is there anything you can tell me about this Montoya besides his name?”
“On
ly that he served aboard the Theodore Roosevelt until a month ago.”
“The Teddy Roosevelt,” repeated Jaimie, frowning. “Isn't that the ship that ... ?” Suddenly she laughed aloud. “You're not defending that looney, are you?”
Becker nodded.
“I sure don't envy you,” she continued. “Is this guy Montoya gonna testify that the captain was crazy?”
“I don't know what he's going to say,” replied Becker. “First I've got to find him.”
“It's as good as done, Counselor,” said Jaimie, activating one of her machines. “Give me that access number again.”
“XB2236772439Q.”
“Got it,” said Jaimie, typing it into the computer's memory. “Okay, let's roll.”
“I would have thought you'd use a computer that you could speak to,” commented Becker.
“This may come as a shock to you, Counselor,” replied Jaimie, “but there are a lot of languages that are much more complex and powerful than English, and you need a keyboard instead of a microphone for most of them.”
The computer's modem came to life, and a moment later Jaimie began hitting keys with the skill and speed of a jazz pianist.
“They don't like you, Counselor,” she announced after a moment.
“I beg your pardon?”
“They're hiding things from you.”
“More than Montoya's whereabouts?”
“Lots more,” said Jaimie.
“Like what?”
“Don't know yet. That's what I'm going to find out.” Jaimie turned back to the computer. “Okay, you sons of bitches, let's see how smart you really are.” She broke the modem connection, then dialed a new number. A flurry of commands followed, and finally she paused again. “They're good, Counselor, I'll give ’em that.” She hit another combination of keys. “But there ain't no one as good as Jaimie Nchobe.” She paused for a moment, studying the screen. “Got it! We're in!”
“Where is he?” asked Becker.
Jaimie turned to him. “It's not that easy, Counselor. You got to be subtle. Right now I've accessed their Officer Appraisal File.”
“What good does that do?”
“We'll see,” said Jaimie. “There's probably thirty or forty routes to the information you want: front doors, side doors, back doors, windows, chimneys. They can't have locked all of them.”
A moment later she cursed under her breath. “Smart boys you got working security, Counselor—a lot smarter than they used to be.”