by Steven Brust
“Huh, what? No. Not at all.”
She relaxed a little, but it seemed like she wasn’t entirely sure she believed him.
“We’re trying to get information on the missing Turkish artifacts.”
“I’ve told Mr. Becker everything I found out!”
Donovan tried smiling again. “There is a man named Charles out there, Peggy. He’s responsible for the death of one of our people, as well as several others. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who stole the artifacts.”
“You think that I—”
“Stop it, Peggy. I think you are completely honest. I think you are utterly loyal to the Foundation. I think you’re very good at your job. I think you might know things you don’t know you know. I think I want to ask you questions. I think if you sit there scared as hell, you aren’t going to think clearly, and I need you to think clearly. Should I take you out for a drink? This is Spain, so they have good sangria here, right? I love sangria. I’m trying to figure out how to relax you, Peggy. I don’t intend to hurt you, scold you, or even give anyone a report that will turn into a bad review. I just want to have a conversation. I want you to take me through the investigation, so I can figure out if there might be something in it that will help me. Okay?
“Why don’t you stand up, take a walk around the building, breathe some fresh air, tell me a funny story about your cat, and—”
“How do you know I have a cat?”
“Please, Peggy.”
“All right, Mr.—Donovan. All right, Donovan. Ask your questions. I’ll do my best.”
Donovan smiled again. “Now we’re talking.”
* * *
Donovan left Peggy Hanson in a better mood than he found her in at least. He left the executive wing and took the elevator down to 2, stepped off, and followed the signs to Budget and Oversight. He gave the receptionist his friendliest smile.
“Hello,” he said. “Do you speak English?”
The nice young man shook his head and gave Donovan an apologetic smile. “Deutsch?” he asked.
“Señor Fenwood?” said Donovan.
The man nodded enthusiastically, and held up a finger. Then picked up his phone, pushed a button, and spoke in Spanish for a moment. Then he hung up the phone, smiled, and pointed to a chair. This part of the building was all actual offices instead of cubicles, and the chairs in the waiting area were comfortable. The first two magazines on the table were in Spanish—one showed someone’s hands on a piano; the other depicted a woman in a short black dress holding a champagne glass and looking seductively into the camera. Donovan checked the picture carefully for clues. He was still doing so when he caught movement, and looked up to see Fenwood staring at him.
Donovan stood up. Fenwood took a step backward.
“Jesus,” said Donovan. “Don’t they feed you here? What do you weigh, twenty-five pounds?”
“Please, Mr. Long—”
“Oh, stop it. I didn’t come here to punch you out. Though I can’t deny the thought’s crossed my mind.”
Fenwood stopped backing up, but he still looked ready to bolt. “Then how can I help you, Mr. Longfellow?”
“Can we go back to your office?”
Fenwood hesitated.
“I promise,” said Donovan, “that if I decide to kick your ass I’ll bring you here first.”
For some reason, that worked—Fenwood led him back. Fenwood’s office wasn’t in a corner, thought Donovan with a certain reprehensible pleasure. The desk was placed so there would be no view out the window. There were a few pictures on it next to the computer, but Donovan couldn’t see what they were. There was a small bookcase beneath the window. The lower shelf had a few computer manuals, the middle shelf accounting books, and along the top were four intricate, detailed model eighteenth- or nineteenth-century sailing ships. There were two plain chairs facing the desk; behind it was an office chair that cost as much as Donovan’s stipend for six months.
“Mind if I sit down in one of your guest chairs?” said Donovan. “You can go ahead and sit in your own very comfortable chair.”
They sat down. Being in the chair seemed to restore some of Fenwood’s confidence. “Well, Mr. Longfellow? How may I help you?”
I should have taken the desk chair. “It’s pretty simple. I want you to do some checking within the Foundation.”
“In the first place, you do not have the right to ask me for an investigation of any sort. In the second—”
“Oh yes. And keep it secret.”
“Mr. Longf—”
“I’m hoping to find the source of a financial leak within the Foundation.”
“Financial leak? There’s no—”
“And I’m sincerely hoping it doesn’t turn out to be you, on account of how well we get along. So can you check that for me?”
Fenwood’s mouth opened and closed; then he said, “There is no way for any money to be ‘leaked’ from the Foundation, Mr. Longstreet. We have a series of checks and balances in place to verify the accounting. Any discrepancy would alert Ms. Molina, the department manager.”
“And it’s foolproof? There’s no way some accounting expert and computer genius could fool your system into thinking everything balanced?”
“No, there isn’t.”
“You understand, by saying that, you’re casting suspicion on Ms. Molina.”
“That’s absurd!”
“Well, the money’s missing.” Or, at any rate, it’s possible that there’s some money missing. “Suppose some computer wizard found a way to prevent the alarm from being given?”
“We check it manually twice a year.”
“How long since the last check?”
“January.”
“Check it now.” Fenwood started to speak. “Please,” Donovan added.
Fenwood sniffed and began working on his computer, using his mouse and typing occasionally. After about five minutes, his eyes grew wide. He looked up at Donovan and said, “Oh my God.”
“How much?”
Fenwood stared at him, horrified. “Ninety-two thousand, four hundred, and fifty-five dollars and sixty-four cents,” he said.
Donovan nodded. “Check into it, will you? And for now, keep this just between us.”
“If I discover something like this, I’m supposed to—”
Donovan stood up, leaned over the desk, and dropped his voice. “Do this for me, Mr. Fenwood. Please?”
Fenwood hesitated, then nodded.
“Good man,” said Donovan. He straightened up. “I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
Susan had had another beer, and Marci another cup of tea. Marci had taken her shoes off and her feet were on the couch; Susan was lounging facing her. Donovan wished very much he could have listened to their conversation while he was gone, but there was no point in even asking.
“Did you get anything?” said Marci.
“Yeah. The name of the researcher is Peggy Hanson. I told her that we needed to find the supplier—the one who stole the crate of artifacts—so if we could figure out how it had happened, that it might give us a clue. There was a bit of back-and-forth, but in the end, we agreed that most likely the supplier had known about the cache of artifacts before it was sent, and made arrangements to have it vanish during shipping. So, how do you learn about the existence of artifacts just as they’re being dug up? I asked how Peggy found out about the cache. That turned out to be a mistake. She told me. In detail. I was afraid I wasn’t going to get out of there with my sanity.”
“What sanity?” said Marci.
“Remember when you called me sir? What was that, two weeks ago?”
“I was a lot younger then.”
“Yeah. Anyway, then I asked her how someone who hadn’t known about it in advance would have learned of it, and that made her get all sorts of funny looks on her face. I’m going to have a beer. Anyone else? No? Okay.”
He got one, opened it, sat down again in his desk chair, back to the kitchen table. “So, she said
it had to have come from whatever archaeological dig unearthed the stuff in the first place.”
“How?” said Marci. “Does the Mystici have the manpower to watch every dig going on everywhere, just in case something magical shows up?”
“No,” said Donovan. “And whoever our mastermind is, he or she has even less manpower. So that isn’t what happened.”
“Oh,” said Marci. “Good then. Uh, is there a spell that can do that? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“That’s just what I asked. Neither had she. I mean, she thought it would be great if it existed, and I could just see her wishing she had the ability to, like, go find magical artifacts. But, you know, when they’re buried somewhere, they’re just there. Buried. They don’t give off a signal or anything like that.”
Donovan looked at Susan, who gave him a why are you looking at me? look. He took a long pull of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We knew the supplier was working with someone inside the Mystici, the Foundation, or both. I was betting on the Foundation, so I checked it out. And yeah, someone is siphoning funds out of the Foundation. That is not only evil in that it furthers their dastardly scheme or some shit, but more important, it puts our wages at risk, so, you know, now there’s no fucking around. But anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Point is, there’s someone on the inside. That’s confirmed.”
Marci shifted, putting her feet on the floor and leaning forward. “I believe that,” she said. “But that doesn’t tell us how they got hold of the artifacts, or get us closer to finding him.”
“Right. But keep that in mind. We know that the leak didn’t come from the Burrow, because the Burrow didn’t start looking into it until the artifacts were in use already. So if you want to steal magical artifacts, the first thing you need is to know they exist. How would someone find that out, other than the way the Burrow does it, which is a cross between happenstance and meticulous detective work. So I asked her to go over for me what happens on a dig.”
Donovan stopped and pulled out a small notebook, consulted it. “I took notes.” He cleared his throat. “So, archaeologists pick a site based on various methods—someone finds something and says, ‘Hey, I found this in this-and-such spot,’ or maybe there’s a historical record of a city having once been in a certain location, or it’s an obvious continuation of some previous dig, or it’s a great place to put a city, or sometimes they even follow up on folktales.
“A team shows up and lays down a grid on the site. They go over the top level, picking up any obvious things, dating them if it’s easy to do, and bagging and tagging them just like a crime scene. Then they gradually go deeper, keeping track of what layer things are found at. They keep careful notes, including who is on the site, weather conditions when things were found, and tons of other things. And it was right about then that Peggy sort of choked, stopped talking, and said, ‘Hey, is there a magic spell that can read a book someone else has?’”
Donovan stopped and waited.
Marci said, “Well, I mean, it’s possible, isn’t it? There are clairvoyance spells, and spells for preventing clairvoyance, and it’s a whole thing. Not something I ever got good at, because it involves manipulating light, and I … oh, wait. I see where you’re going.”
Donovan nodded. “The first possibility of discovering a magical artifact, if you aren’t actually on the site, would come from reading the notebooks.”
“I don’t get it,” said Susan. “How do you go from ‘I found a really old coin’ to ‘wowie zowie there’s magic here’?”
“Thanks for asking that. I feel better. When I asked Peggy, she looked at me like I was an idiot. Then she had to back up and explain things to me in the same tone I used when my niece asked me why people have to go to work. They don’t go to these sites blind. I mean, they know something when they walk in, right? About the culture, the language, what they ate, that stuff. So, Marci, you do enchantments, right? I mean, you recharged my knotnots.”
“I know the basics, sure.”
“If I said, ‘Hey, I need a device with a water-walking spell,’ what would you put it on?”
“I don’t know. Something easy to carry around, something that won’t attract a lot of attention, but that also stands out. I mean, you don’t put a spell on a quarter, because then you’re digging in your pocket trying to figure out which quarter the spell is on, right?”
Susan nodded.
“Yep,” said Donovan. “And that’s how it was found.”
“Um, explain?”
“If you know the culture, and you can read the journals, you identify things that stand out, that don’t belong. Not ‘don’t belong’ in the sense that would attract the tabloids—all things that are part of the culture. But odd. You know, just a little bit weird.”
“Like,” said Marci, “why are there a bunch of polished rocks here?”
“Yeah,” said Donovan. “Like that. Some archaeologist writes in his notebook: ‘Why are there a bunch of polished rocks here?’ Our guy reads the notebook, does some checking with folklore or his own records, and there we are. From there, he starts figuring out how to steal it.”
Susan nodded. “Okay, I get it. How does that get us closer to the supplier?”
In answer, Donovan turned to his computer, brought up Skype, and placed a call.
Becker came on at once. “Mr. Longfellow,” he said. “How can I assist you?”
“How are we doing on those security tapes?”
“There’s been progress, Mr. Becker. I hope to have them soon.”
“All right. There’s something else. Do you know of anyone in the Foundation who is skilled at clairvoyance?”
“Several, Mr. Longfellow. Can you be more specific?”
“Someone who could find a notebook and read it, given a general location.”
“And read it, Mr. Longfellow? From my understanding of sorcery, that would take a great deal of skill.”
“That is my understanding as well. Can you find such a person?”
“I believe so. Yes.”
“Then I suggest you speak with this person, or these people, and ask where we might find a criminal mastermind.”
“I see. Can you give me the background?”
“It would take a long time, Mr. Becker. I’d rather we just got on with it, if it’s all the same to you.”
Becker looked away from the screen. Then he looked back and said, “I’ll get back to you, Mr. Longfellow.”
“I look forward to it, Mr. Becker.”
Donovan disconnected.
“Security tapes?” said Susan.
“I’ll explain when we have them.”
“I thought you didn’t trust Becker.”
“I don’t. I don’t trust anyone who isn’t in this room. But he’s going to have to either answer the question, or identify himself as working against us.”
Marci nodded.
“Got it,” said Susan. “So, what do we do in the meantime?”
Donovan sighed. “I guess we figure out how to get you two settled in.”
* * *
Recruitment and Training made up the third floor. Recruitment was a small part of it—one corner containing the cubicle of the recruiter for the Mediterranean Region, another for the head of R & T, and a few desks for clerical staff. Manuel Becker walked up to the cubicle of the department head because he liked to do things in person when possible.
William Faucheux looked up, and said, “Mr. Becker. May I help you with something?”
“I need to borrow a pair of sorcerers, Mr. Faucheux. Whoever you have with the capability of subduing a hostile.”
“Can you give me any more details? That is, if I know the exact nature of the probable resistance, I can be more precise.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Faucheux.”
“All right.” Faucheux picked up his phone and pushed a number. “Doris? William. Please release Melissa and Heinrich and ask them to meet Mr. Becker by the elevator. Tell them this
is not a training exercise, and that it is possible their skills will be needed. Mr. Becker will explain more.” He disconnected, and nodded to Becker. “They are the best of the current class,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Faucheux,” said Becker, and headed back to the elevators.
The students looked nervous and excited; Becker approved. “You will follow me,” he explained. “We are going to make an arrest. If there is any resistance, you will subdue the individual, but not harm him. Under no circumstances will you render him unable to speak. We will bring him to the basement holding cells with as little disturbance as possible under the circumstances. If he does resist, I do not know what form the resistance will take, so be ready for sorcerous or physical attacks. I repeat, subdue, do not harm. Is that clear?”
They nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
They went up the elevator to 6. The Research and Development department looked like a library, like a warehouse, like a mad scientist’s laboratory, like the house of a pack rat. People—researchers—were scattered randomly about the floor, which was undivided by anything except support pillars and one cubicle in a far corner.
Becker walked toward the cubicle, Melissa and Heinrich flanking him, and looking around. Partway there, Becker stopped in front of a table behind which stood two men, one watching a computer screen, the other passing his hands over a thin piece of stained glass. There were a pair of wires leading from the glass into a USB port of the computer. “All right,” said one. “Anything now?”
Becker said, “Christopher McCaan?”
The one who’d spoken looked up. “Yes, that’s me. If you’d just give me a sec—”
“I’m Manuel Becker from Investigations and Enforcement. Please step away from the table and come with me.”
“Huh, what?” The man looked surprised, and not in the least guilty. “What’s this about?”
“Just some questions.”
“Uh, all right. Can I finish—”
“No. Please step away from the table.”
“Jesus! All right! Where are we going, anyway?”
Melissa and Heinrich fell in next to McCaan. Becker turned and headed back to the elevators.
* * *