by Alma Boykin
The next day, Rahoul wondered if he should buy stock in a company that made headache tablets. The Shetland Constabulary had ruled the radio-astronomer’s death as suspicious, and toxicology studies were in progress, confirming Desta Selassie’s misgivings. As a result, Selassie tasked Lt. Janet O’Keefe with looking through all the available news and police reports to see if any other space-related personnel had died mysteriously in the past weeks. Rahoul studied O’Keefe’s brief initial memo and felt the muscles in his forehead starting to tighten. Mr. Terrance Kilmli, a specialist in the interpretation of images from the HEREO-1 near-space satellite, crashed his car under very odd circumstances not long after the Carrington Event. It appeared that his brakes failed at the same time that the gas pedal stuck, causing him to lose control on wet pavement and hit a pole at more than 150 kilometers per hour. “And, of course, the wreckage burned,” Rahoul growled to himself, massaging his temples. The police and Lt. O’Keefe noted that Kilmli’s car, a Mercator Avonleigh borrowed from a neighbor, fell under the parameters of a recent safety recall for accelerator system software problems, making the accident quite likely nothing more than an accident. Rahoul closed the file and snorted.
Two hours later, Rahoul stared in disbelief at the general on the other end of the secure computer video conference call. “Sir, just to make absolutely certain that I understand. I am to go to Manchester alone, without any support staff or security, and meet with Police Inspector Morris about some material they’ve found that may or may not be of interest to the GDF?”
Major General Alexander Adams nodded. “That is correct. Before you protest further, Rahoul, the situation surrounding the acquisition of the material is very sensitive. To the point that you are the only person whom we can send without causing a domestic incident.”
The headache began pounding as Rahoul tried to find a way to phrase his next question. “Ah, can you tell me anything more, sir; perhaps a recommendation concerning the nature of the sensitivity?”
“You speak Punjabi and Pashto, and you are familiar with the protocols for dealing with items of cultural and religious sensitivity,” General Adams reminded Rahoul. “Go in mufti, but go armed. Details about the location and time of your appointment will be in your secure file this evening, Khan. Adams out.” The screen went dark.
Damn, he can almost match Rachel’s gift for vagueness, Rahoul started, catching himself as a wave of sorrow overrode his irritation with his superior officer. “Not here, not now,” he whispered, concentrating on the throbbing at his temples in order to distract and refocus his attention. Physical pain overrode his emotions, giving him space to maintain control. “There will be a time, I promise,” he repeated yet again, “just not right now.” For a moment he envied First Sergeant Lee, and wished that he too could have gone on personal leave. Then Rahoul settled himself and began making travel arrangements and deciding how much of what little he knew to tell his executive officer.
Police Inspector Howard Morris seemed like a decent enough chap, Rahoul thought as they shook hands the next day. Morris waved him into a spare seat in his cluttered but tidy office. “Thank you for coming on short notice, Mr. Khan. I understand that you were told what the problem is? Ah, tea?”
Rahoul nodded. “Yes, but why don’t you tell me what you’ve observed—and tea would be lovely. You may have seen something or noticed a detail that would clarify things.”
The rotund blond man nodded. “Two teas,” he requested over the intercom, then cleared a little space on the desk so he could see his calendar. “Right. You heard about our little disturbance the night of May 24-25?”
A sergeant brought in two very full mugs of tea, and Rahoul waited until she left before replying. “Yes. Six square blocks of disturbance, according to the news. ‘Underprivileged and oppressed youths’ I believe the term was.”
“It started—” Here Morris lifted three file folders and a book, pulled out a map, and handed it to his consultant. “Started at the blue spot, spread along the red arrows, and we stopped it there. Would have been nice if we’d known in advance that we’d have neither power nor radios, but we managed to contain the mob. We found the items in question where the green stars are.”
Rahoul frowned as he studied the map. According to the markings, the riot had started near a mosque, but nothing suffered damage until the next block. “How did it build? That is, when did people start gathering? Was there a protest or sports event?”
Morris shook his head. “It started as if someone threw a switch. Strangest mob I’ve seen in ages, Mr. Khan. Witnesses say that the crowd just appeared, intact, started rioting and moving all at once. And instead of taunting us, throwing water bottles and rocks, the usual thing, they moved together against the police. It was damn scary once or twice, I don’t mind telling you. As if they were testing us. Then, when it stopped and dissolved as quick as it started, no one hung about to harass the fire brigade—no taunting, nothing.” He drank more tea before concluding, “As the clean up began, we found the items.”
Rahoul finished his tea and returned the map. “That does sound puzzling, Inspector Morris. I’ll take a look at the items whenever it’s convenient.”
Morris heaved himself out of his chair. “Right. No time like the present. This way, please. We’re keeping them in a special section of the evidence and property rooms.” The policeman and his expert threaded their way through the usual maze of desks, corridors, canteen, interrogation cells, and the like, stopping at a very solid locked door. The officer on duty signed them in before unlocking the room. “Legacy of that mess in Glasgow,” Morris explained.
“I understand,” Rahoul replied, looking around at the shelves and cabinets full of neatly tagged or boxed things. He followed Morris around a corner to a separate cubby that someone had lined with green fabric.
Morris stopped and pointed to the floor, “The items are there. I’m not supposed to cross that white line.”
Rahoul covered a snort of disdain with a nod. “If you like, you may certainly watch. The items may not even be sensitive.” That said, he nonetheless pulled a pair of tight-fitting silk gloves out of his bag, followed by a pair of white cotton ones. “In this box?”
“Yes.” Morris watched with interest as Rahoul pulled the paperboard box off of the shelf, set it on the green-draped table, and pulled out three book-looking things.
Rahoul glanced at the script on two of them. He opened the thinnest one, explaining, “This is an urban warfare manual,” before setting it to one side. “This one is a commentary on the Koran, and the other is a Koran.” Rahoul flipped through the Koran, then stopped, backing up and frowning. “No, this was a Koran, to which someone has added pages. Some is still in Arabic and some is in Punjabi.” He held the book up so that the police inspector could see the different scripts. “Because it has already been defaced, anyone can handle the book without causing problems.” Rahoul started to set the volume down and stopped, carefully running his finger along the base and top of the spine. He leaned over and pulled a small flashlight out of his bag and used it to peer inside the binding at the book’s spine. “Do you have someone who can take pictures, Inspector? I’m going to cut the spine open, because someone has tucked something of possible interest in here.”
Morris left and returned with the duty officer and a digital movie camera. The two policemen watched and filmed as Rahoul used a knife to slit the binding, revealing a very small transmitter and antenna. The transmitter had markings on it and, with a pang, Rahoul dug Commander Na Gael’s spare loupe out of his bag and used it to study the device. The words were in Trader, presumably the manufacturer’s name and the power of the thing, along with “recharge when the light goes out.” He looked up at the policemen, who were watching avidly. “This may explain how the mob gathered so quickly and dispersed so rapidly, Inspector Morris. It’s a micro wireless device. I know of someone who is much more familiar with electronics and who could tell you more if you need.”
The commen
tary book had also been “defaced,” and it, too, contained a transmitter or receiver, this time between two pages that had been glued together. Rahoul suspected that it was a receiver, but he’d need Captain Ahkai’s wizards to sort it out. “I hesitate to speculate, Inspector, but these may explain some things about your riot. And if they were close enough together, the interference from the Carrington Event would not have blocked them as it did your wireless system.”
The duty officer looked suspicious. “How can you tell it’s a wireless set, sir?”
Rahoul already had a cover story with documents to match. “I was a communications tech in the Army, eighty-six through ninety-six, then Reserves for another four years. I don’t recommend Iraq or Bosnia for your next vacation, corporal.” Rahoul scolded the duty officer a little. “Some of us ivory tower types have seen the real world.”
“So, defaced books with wireless sets inside them and an urban warfare manual?” Morris prodded, bringing them back on topic.
“Correct. These,” Rahoul flipped through the commentary, “these lists are addresses, in Pashto.” He set the book down and opened the Koran. “And these look like more addresses, along with dates. I don’t know enough to say where they are. Manchester, London—maybe not even in the UK.”
The beefy inspector folded his arms. “Right. This now reaches above my forensic science capacities. Gen—” he caught himself with a glance at the corporal. “The person who recommended you suggested that his people might be interested in the books if you found something useful.”
“I would definitely send them to him, provided that you don’t need them as evidence of anything,” Rahoul agreed, peeling off the gloves. On a whim, he brushed an exposed stud on the bottom of the Trader-labeled box and felt a slight tingle. “And this still has power to the battery, Inspector. You might wrap it in a static-proof computer bag, then foil, before sending it along.”
It took considerable time to fill out the necessary paperwork for the Manchester Police, the local Religious Rights Council, and for the GDF technical team. As a result, Rahoul departed the police offices around 2100. He declined a lift to the train station, opting to return to the station on foot. The long summer evening provided more than enough light, and he needed the fresh air. Rahoul walked at a steady pace, alert for possible trouble among the other pedestrians out late on a fine summer night. While the shopping areas and residential plazas near the train station posed no hazards, Rahoul needed to pass through a few less savory blocks on his way from the police station. Physically he blended in with the neighborhood’s residents, so he concentrated on moving as if he were harmless, walking neither quickly nor slowly, shoulders relaxed. A few men gave him suspicious glances but did nothing more, and Rahoul made certain not to look for too long at either the men or at the burka-shrouded figures trailing behind them. Within a few hundred yards, the signs shifted to English again, with a few older Chinese notices above one or two shops, and Rahoul breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
Three blocks from the train station he ran into a mess. “How bloody long does it take to clean up rubbish?” a shrill voice demanded from within a gathered crowd. Rahoul eased up to see a large rubbish lorry on its side, blocking the street. A spill of trash completely blocked the sidewalks, and the police refused to let any pedestrians through. “There is a tripping hazard,” Rahoul heard the constable explain, causing someone to mutter, “Bloody ‘ealf’ an’ safety’ strikes again.”
An irritated man answered the original loud question, “More than two hours, I’d guess. Must be a special kind of rubbish.” That generated laughter amidst the grumbling, and Rahoul turned to go the block around. He saw a convenient passageway and ducked into it, strolling along like one of the locals. The alley widened and he eased to the side. Someone grabbed him, spinning him against the wall and into the shadows before he could even yelp.
“Move slowly, Brigadier Khan,” a voice grated—he could almost place it, but not quite. “Hands in the clear until I verify your identity.” The officer did as he was told, preparing to bolt for shooting cover as soon as he knew who or what had surprised him. Instead he froze with shock and recognition.
The figure raised a small device the size and shape of a cell-phone to eye level while covering Rahoul with a pistol. Whatever the box showed must have been satisfactory, because the muzzle lowered and the stranger slid the weapon into a drop-holster with practiced ease before walking forward into a bit of light. Rahoul knew the slightly dragging gait and tried to speak but no sound came out. He swallowed and tried again. “But I watched you die.”
“Yes, you did,” a soft voice affirmed. A tall shadow detached itself from the shadows and glided over to Rachel’s side, offering the small woman her walking stick. “Thank you,” she said, smiling up at who or whatever it was before turning her attention back to Rahoul. “Or I should say, you almost did. I assumed too much.” Her words broke off, and the man beside her rested his hand on her shoulder in a protective gesture.
Rahoul couldn’t stand it any longer. Rank and cover be damned, he rushed forward and grabbed Rachel, hugging her so tightly that she squeaked. The man beside her stepped back, out of the way. “Rada, if you ever, ever, even think of doing that to me ever again,” Rahoul threatened, not letting go of his friend and adviser.
“It was needful,” she managed, muffled by his coat. “And we have to get under cover or this will all have been worthless.” She slithered out of his arms and started back into the darkness.
“What do you—?”
The tall figure made a beckoning gesture. “This way, sir, before the next sweep,” and he, too, moved toward cover. Totally befuddled, Rahoul followed the pair into what seemed to be a narrow passageway that sloped to below street level. He brushed the wall and felt cool, damp stone under his fingertips. “Mind the lintel,” the man ahead of him warned, and Rahoul ducked under a low bit. Something swept closed behind the officer and he flinched. “Just a bit farther, sir,” the voice assured him. Indeed, Rahoul rounded a curve and caught sight of a dim light. He sped up and found himself in a snug set of rooms.
“Welcome to Purgatory,” Commander Na Gael said, as she took off the grey-black camouflage coat over her clothes. She wore an exotic, close-fitting dress, and when she pivoted Rahoul caught a glimpse of tight breeches and a knife sheath through the split in the skirt. The Wanderer flopped onto a pile of cushions and sprawled bonelessly. “It is most certainly not home, but it’s not hell either.”
Rahoul shook his head and turned to see Sergeant Tony Lee hanging an armored jacket on a wall peg. “You’re on compassionate leave with your parents!” Rahoul blurted.
“Yes sir. And now I’m here.”
“Rahoul, I’m sorry for hurting you,” Rachel began quietly. “I’ll explain things later, after we stop the next assassination.”
“No. Explain now, Rachel. What is all this, where are we, and what are you and Lee up to? And what assassination are you talking about?”
The mismatched pair looked at each other and Lee began. “Do you mind if I sit down, sir?” When Rahoul shook his head, the lanky Englishman settled onto a wooden chair. “Thank you. With Rachel’s permission I’ll skip to the important part.” She nodded. “As you know, instead of taking Rachel’s body straight to the morgue, Sergeant Navarette and I took her to her ship instead. In the chaos of the shooting, I’d not gotten a correct pulse, and once I realized that she wasn’t dead yet, I reverted to protocol. But she disappeared along with her ship. When you explained what that meant, sir, I assumed we’d been too late getting her to medical attention, and you know the rest.” Lee managed to hide his feelings very well, but Rahoul caught the younger man’s hesitations and glances toward Rachel. Rahoul wondered about the relationship between the two.
“Obviously I was not dead, but I needed to be in order to sort out exactly just what the hell was going on,” she said. “So I tracked Tony down. He was exceedingly surprised and nonplussed when I appeared in the flesh. It to
ok some work to convince him that I was neither a ghost, nor a shape-stealer, nor someone trying to con him.” Lee smiled a little at Rachel’s rueful tone and Rahoul imagined the scene. “When we found evidence of the second assassination, he agreed to help me. A friend of a colleague told him about this place, and we’ve been working from here for the last four days. I think.”
“Yes, ma’am. This is the fourth night,” Lee confirmed.
Rachel rubbed under her blind eye and closed the other briefly. “The third, we barely stopped in time—that was yesterday—but we may have a chance to completely block the fourth. If we don’t and there’s a fifth, things will have gone so far down that track that all you will be able to do is brace for disaster.” Rachel opened her eye to meet Rahoul’s confused gaze. “I don’t want to try and get details, sir. I’m draining myself dry as it is trying to zero in on who, where, and what is behind all the deaths and attempted murders.” She sounded both apologetic and sad as she tried to muster a smile and failed. “We have blocked one other try, thanks be,” she repeated.
“And you nearly got killed in the process—you’re not doing that again, ma’am.” Lee’s words tumbled out, and he frowned at the small woman, who gave one of her shrugs, or tried to. “That’s why we, ah, well sir,” the NCO prevaricated.
“The word is ‘Shanghaied,’ Tony,” Rahoul supplied as Rachel grinned. “Who else knows that you’re not dead?”
Rachel straightened up from her sprawl and counted off on one hand, “General Eszterházy, because I needed to maintain my security access, Captain Ahkai for the same reason, and someone whose name you do not need to know, sir. He’s allied with the GDF, but I’m not at liberty to say anything more.” The brunette slid forward onto one knee, tried to get to her feet, and staggered. Before Rahoul could help her or she got her balance, Lee had his arm under hers, steadying and supporting her. She started to speak but closed her eye instead, then shuddered and went limp. Lee tsked before lowering her back into her pillow pile. No, Rahoul realized, it was a nest, like the one in her quarters but without the frame.