It made Katia fume even now. God knew how these people attained their positions. Some in every organisation, Ibrahim had told her, matter-of-fact as ever. Katia could only marvel at his restraint—that damn woman had risked a firefight between people who were supposed to be on the same side simply because she was too chickenshit to deviate so much as a punctuation mark from the damn manual, and hadn't wanted stain on her record. Katia strode down the corridor toward the Presidential Office, wondering darkly if there were any legal way for the President to intervene in a certain security officer's performance review...
Then she caught sight of the tangle of milling, arguing people in the euphemistically named Garden Room—the waiting room outside her office, for anyone needing to see her on short notice. And nearly stopped in her tracks. Twelve, she counted, her poor secretary trapped behind his desk in the corner, trying to answer calls and sort through a teetering stack of papers while the dozen intruders milled about, arguing loudly ... Oh no, Kishen Chandresakar was there, haranguing her Finance and Internal Affairs ministers, and Mahudmita Rafasan hovering on the periphery. All faces turned her way as she entered, escort dispersing about this safe territory—just when I most need them, Katia thought desperately—and all voices raised in a single, urgent entreaty...
"Just bloody wait," she shouted at them, striding through their midst, hands raised in defence. "I've got an ongoing security crisis. Everyone's just going to have to wait another five minutes. Where's Ibrahim?" reaching the doors and looking sharply around.
"He let himself in," called Sarpov, her secretary, from the rear of the crowd.
"Did he now," Katia muttered, opening the door ...
"Ms President," interrupted Chandresakar, "I really must speak with you immediately with regards to the ..."
"There are fifteen dead people at Rawalpindi," Katia cut him off brutally, "gunned down by FIA. We might have more before the night is over. You've got something that tops that?" Staring hard at the Progress Party leader.
Chandresakar glared. "I'll wait," he snapped shortly.
"Maisie," Katia said loudly as she walked through the door, "in here, now." Left the door open for Rafasan to scamper through, closing it behind her.
Ibrahim was waiting by the windows behind her desk, gazing out at the city lights beyond dark shadows of Parliament gardens. One-way armoured glass, Katia recalled soberly, moving directly to her comfortable leather chair. She was in the habit of remembering such details, lately. Sat down with a heavy sigh and leaned right back, closing her eyes. Comfortable, for a brief moment.
Looked up and saw Rafasan waiting, chewing a fingernail and looking anxious as usual. Her normally immaculate sari appeared slightly rumpled, some hair loose about her fringe.
"For God's sake, Maisie," Katia said tiredly, "have a seat and relax. All these bloody people determined to kill themselves worrying. Get yourself a drink if you want one ... something for you, Shan?"
"Um ... he doesn't drink, remember?" Rafasan said hesitantly. Walked to the drinks cabinet. Katia had to smile.
"Forgot we had a genuine practising Sunni Muslim in our midst," she sighed. "So many Indonesians and regressive Indians in this place ... Scotch and soda for me, thanks Maisie."
"Well this regressive Indian gratefully accepts your offer," Rafasan said, unstopping a bottle and pouring into ornate glasses. "My nerves are shot to pieces, if I ever see another gun in my life, it shall be far, far too soon."
Rafasan, Katia remembered, had been here at Parliament all along—as legal advisor, she had various consultative functions with branches of the public service, representing the Administration's position on this or that legal matter. She had been here, albeit in another wing, when the flyers had come circling overhead and Guderjaal's decision had been announced. Near enough to hear the shooting certainly, if the worst had happened. Katia sympathised. Firefights, she knew from experience, were no fun at all.
Jesus. How had they got into this situation? Just public servants, all of them. It was a career. This, or medicine, tech-science or law ... or in Mahudmita's case, both. But no lawyer's resume ever stated 'risked life in hail of bullets'. Yet here they were. Public servants with armed protection, directly targeted for selective political violence. The universe, Katia concluded, had gone mad.
"Must have been touchy here for a while," she said to Rafasan.
"Touchy!" Rafasan's voice was unsteady. "That is to put it very mildly ... I was just terrified. I think I made at least twenty basic grammatical mistakes in my briefing to the Revenue Department..."
Katia laughed. Rafasan glanced at her, surprised and pleased at the response. Went back to pouring drinks.
"Of course, it's nothing compared to what you went through ... Shan, would you like a juice or mineral water?"
"A soda, thank you." From behind Katia's chair, facing away, gazing out of the window.
"Decadent," Katia commented.
"A creeping darkness of the soul," Ibrahim agreed mildly. Walked slowly around the desk as Rafasan brought the drinks over. Katia watched him surreptitiously.
"Thanks Maisie," she said, reaching for her own drink. And saw Ibrahim rest a brief, absent hand on Rafasan's shoulder as he took his drink then retreated to a chair. Typical of the man, Katia thought. A gentle man, in many ways. A man of simple, forthright concerns. And yet, somewhere in the translation of principle to action, cold, hard purpose set in. The necessity for ruthless action.
The curse of all power, Neiland pondered darkly, sipping her drink. No good could be done without also causing harm. To do good required firm resolve. And firm resolve, inevitably, got people hurt. And she wondered, not for the first time, at the wisdom in her choice of career.
"So what's the latest?" she asked Ibrahim as he settled into the available chair. Ibrahim sipped absently at his drink. His attention seemed elsewhere.
"Well," he said after a slight pause, "Chenkov Biomedical Designs have made some interesting transactions we've dug up on external records. It seems fairly obvious that they were in it up to their ears. There's nothing left of their own records, of course, but we suspect they were a major distributor on the underground network. Evidently they knew something important, or were vulnerable to disclosure for some reason ... possibly we'll never know. There's not very much left." A brief, silent pause. "But I suppose that hardly matters now."
"And the FIA?"
"We're following all available leads." Wearily. "We've been detaining, questioning and even arresting a steady stream of people since the Tetsu raid, and some of them are unquestionably involved, but there's just no legal means of obtaining the information from them within the time required, and they're determined not to talk ... I think more than a few are afraid for their lives. Which means we have to do everything ourselves from scratch. We've got plenty of leads, and over the time of a normal investigation I would be very confident, but now, working to this deadline ..." He shook his head. "If I had another five thousand people we might have a chance, but I doubt the expenditures committee would go for it." There was an edge to the sarcasm that Neiland could not remember hearing before from Ibrahim, at any time.
"More difficult than you thought, huh?" Katia asked him solemnly. Ibrahim's eyes locked on hers, a darkly penetrating gaze.
"You have no idea." Sounding nearly exasperated. Which was also a first. "This city ... there are layers upon layers upon layers. A million different means to conceal your presence or actions, and a million more places to hide. We have become so reliant upon information networks, and so unquestioningly faithful that open information flows are the panacea that guarantees all rights and all goodness in a modern, pluralistic society ..." He shook his head. Took a deep breath.
"Large-scale institutions created the networks. If you have money and expertise and technology, you can manipulate information as easily as Old Earth societies ever censored the paper press or TV broadcasts. Far more easily, when there are places on the networks where independent monitoring is not
allowed. Further regulations could help, but even then ... there are difficulties. And it's too late for any new regulations to stop the FIA now."
"You never thought you would be advocating Big Brother, did you?" Rafasan inquired wryly.
"No." Ibrahim sipped at his drink. "Never. I wrote papers about it, back in my student days. About the ultimate futility of information controls in an infotech society. I thought then that such controls were a waste of effort and money because they could never succeed. But now... I wonder."
"There has always been a strong anarchic streak through the media lobbies in this city," Rafasan added, fingering an elaborate earring. "And through the academic institutions that support their arguments. The panacea of information, the notion that all information is good—it's yet another form of academically inspired ideological utopianism that's just typical of this city. They think information is like water in a desert—you can never have too much. We need a system of accountability here ... perhaps my bias toward the libel system reflects my legalistic roots too strongly, but we clearly need to give thought to some kind of control mechanism. It's the broader philosophy that concerns me, and we all know the limitations of centrally imposed controls, we need a system of personal responsibility enforceable by law ... oh! I'm sorry, I'm rambling. Too much coffee and adrenalin and my brain thinks it's in court arguing a case ..." She sipped again at her drink, looking anxious once more.
Katia smiled. "You want to commission a report?" she asked. "We could put together a community study group. You'd chair it, table a recommendation for Parliament to debate." Rafasan blinked. And blinked again.
Then, "Really?"
"Really. That line between censorship and governance is supposed to be invisible, but somehow it keeps tripping people up. This whole mess just shows how much of a rethink we need. I can get you funding by next sitting. Say a week."
Worship shone in Rafasan's eyes. Several months of mind-numbing legalistic debate, semantic hair-splitting and the concept-redefining techno-legalese—lawyer heaven. Rafasan looked positively emotional with gratitude.
"Oh my." Halfway between bewilderment and excitement. "I've wanted to do something like that since law school. How will I ever ...? Oh, perhaps ..." The eyes became distant as the mind raced on ahead. Her drink hung from absent fingers, temporarily forgotten. Katia looked at Ibrahim. He raised an eyebrow at her, the ghost of a smile upon his lips.
"Living proof," he said, "that the distance between heaven and hell is merely a matter of perspective." Rafasan ignored the jibe, lost in mental calculations. Katia sighed and took a large mouthful from her glass. Swallowed hard.
"So, Shan. What are our chances of catching them?"
"The CSA's chances?" He shrugged, all traces of humour vanished. "Almost none. For the reasons we've been speaking of. They've just vanished. And our best inside contact is now dead."
"No word from Kresnov?" Ibrahim shook his head grimly.
"No. It could be good news. She made direct interface with her friend before he died. His interface possessed certain codes for use in this operation. Theoretically they're not transferable, but considering how well Kresnov knew him over their years together, it is certainly possible that she now has possession of certain leads that we are not privy to."
Neiland considered that for a moment.
"And she hasn't told us." Pointedly. Ibrahim gave a single nod, acknowledging that line of thought. Darkly. For a moment, Katia did not know what to think. "Well, I suppose that would solve a problem for us. Should it eventuate."
"I would like to question someone," said Ibrahim.
"Why should they tell you any more than the bunch we're holding right now have? They're Federal agents, Shan. Their cases all fall under Federal jurisdiction. As soon as that damn committee gets here, they're gone. No matter what they've done."
The tension about Ibrahim's mouth and brow spoke of certain very dark thoughts passing through the Director's mind. Katia knew exactly how he felt.
"I have a question." It was Rafasan, emerging from her dreamworld. She sounded uncharacteristically subdued. Katia nodded.
"Go ahead."
Rafasan took a breath. "If Kresnov does find them ... and something happens ..." a long pause. "Do we still need her? Technically speaking?" Katia stared hard at Rafasan. Her legal advisor looked almost ashamed of the question. Katia opened her mouth to retort ... and shut it. God help her, with Dali gone, and herself back in charge, and the FIA out of the picture one way or another ... Kresnov's presence would be a huge problem. Knowledge of her existence would assuredly get out. There were too many people who knew already. Questions asked. Interviews requested. Parliament shouting matches, pointed fingers ... God, political mileage fit for Kishen Chandresakar's wettest of wet dreams. A League GI, employed by the CSA, granted protection and even citizenship by the grace of the President herself under undemocratic, unconsultative emergency powers. To say nothing of the outcries from various lunatic biotech conservatives and religious nuts who argued that GIs did not have souls and could never be recognised as sentients by the courts, which meant legal challenge, news show interviews, death threats by the hundred ... God knew where these people got their financial backing, but she knew damn well it existed. Mosque, Church and Hindu temple united, an unholy alliance. Not to mention certain insultingly wealthy academics who should have known better but didn't, and wrote bestselling books explaining why.
But if Kresnov were to get herself killed, and die a hero ... God, she nearly hated herself for thinking it, but it would solve a lot of problems. Not the least of which being that, politically speaking, Kresnov could theoretically expect more support from the right-wing Progress Party than her own Union Party colleagues. And an awful lot of her own party would number themselves among the most seriously dissatisfied. By Christ, it was going to get complicated.
"Let's just get through the next 24 hours, shall we?" she replied finally, with a tired sigh. "It's going to be a nightmare few months ahead, whatever happens."
* * * *
"Who'd we lose?" asked Petr Shimakov, striding into the plush coffee lounge. People lounged in chairs, weapons on laps, or leaned against the walls. The only light came from several small, shaded lamps. City light gleamed silver through the broad windows that counted for the far wall, towers and traffic. Here on the top level, the street was only six storeys below—disturbingly close, to Shimakov's thinking. But it was the place they had, and it would do.
"Schroeder," said Wong, a tired, cracked voice. Shimakov stared at him, a dark figure, slumped against the wall near the windows. Feeling a cold anger brewing. "Ramesh, Togodo, Pham. All confirmed."
"Fuck," Shimakov pronounced with controlled fury. Deathly silence in the room. "Was it the GI?" The dark shadow that was Wong nodded.
"I don't know what happened. But there was shooting on the roof about twenty seconds before zero-signal. We went early, did the deed with no help from the roof, chased some stragglers up the stairs ... and Togodo got hit. Right through the chest, real accurate. We just started shooting back ..." He shrugged. "Suppose we had more firepower. Skin was already real shot up. We hit him with a T-5 to be sure, finished off the last marks and got the hell out. Guess he bugged out on us. Schroeder said we should have whacked him after the big hit."
Shimakov stood silently in the middle of the room for a long time, unmoving. Thinking that something most certainly did not make sense. Thinking that the Skin just hadn't been smart enough to start a rebellion on his own ... and whatever he thought about GIs, they just didn't do that. They followed orders. Unless they got instructions from elsewhere.
Had they been doublecrossed? Had Dark Star given him different instructions? No damn way, The Skin had been as dangerous as any Skin was likely to get. It'd helped plan a damn good hit on the President's convoy—no way he or any FIA guy could have done the same, unfamiliar with GI capabilities and operating techniques as they were. It wouldn't have waited until such last-minute desperation
before pulling a stunt like this—more likely it would have killed them all in their beds, hunted them down, if that had been its instruction. Or jumped out of the moving van and left a grenade behind.
It didn't make sense, that last-minute, foolhardy change of plans. And the Skin being dead did not make him any more comfortable with the situation. Dead or not, he felt edgy.
"I want full guard on this whole damn building," he told them coldly. "If you think you've got it locked tight now, lock it tighter. We're out of here in two hours, people. I've got the cars on the roof, just two more hours and we're headed out of this damn city. Let's not fuck it up now."
* * * *
Night-tuned eyes watched through the windows as the agents climbed to their weary feet and moved out. Heat silhouettes on the darkened glass, human shaped, multiple shades of red and orange. One figure stood still in the centre of the room. Facing the window, as if seeing the dark, crouched figure who watched him from afar.
Finally, he turned and left the empty room. The eyes zoomed back a touch, scanning the building layout. Small luxury office building. Six storeys, tucked into the pleasant greenery of the Ringold commercial/residential district. Standard fare for Tanusha's multitude of small design and technology firms—specialised, wealthy and flexibly creative. A different style from the mega-conglomerates that populated the mega-rises. In Tanusha one did not need to be big to be successful.
Feelers raced down nearby links, probed security barriers, hightech and sensitive. Probed the layout, vision scanning through light reflective glass, making out shapes, patterns, supports and variations. More links found an architectural display site, open for public viewing ... found the designer name, and the layout in question, and found a near-match. Accounted for custom alterations ... and began to put together a picture.
More scanning, a fast zoom toward movement through lower windows. Noted the deployment. Noted the pair of large capacity aircars on the rooftop pads. And began summing the accumulation of security measures, their weak and strong points, probing cautiously, careful not to trigger any alarms.
Crossover Page 42