"But. . ." Possible words flashed in his mind. "But it was a little cramped. And, the smell wasn't the best." A tiny lump formed in his throat. Maybe he shouldn't bring up his trouble. Diomedes had told him not to say too much after all. Change the subject. "Who's Wallace?" he asked.
Felix seemed to pause just a moment. "Diomedes hasn't told you?"
"I don't know everything about him."
"Indeed," was the reply, more a statement than a question. "I can tell you who he is, but as for specific details of what happened, those are facts that escape me, too."
"What happened with what?"
"Wallace—Ken Wallace is his full name—is an executive V.P. for Raven Defense Technologies, and not the sort of person you'd call completely legit. From what I can tell he's handled a few of the company's more shadowy dealings. Industrial espionage, a little Wall Street-style extortion. Did you hear about those black market tac-impers who were murdered a few months ago?"
Romulus nodded. Dealers in cybernetic tactical weapons implants. He remembered hearing something about three men, whom CPMC had reported as black marketeers in the trade, all being found dead within a week. From what he remembered, it was thought to be from their own treachery.
"I've heard some indication that it was RavenTech who hired freelancers behind it, taking out their competition and retaliating for the theft of their property. And that possibly Wallace had a hand in it."
"Head of the dirty tricks division, it sounds like."
"Not the head—I don't think—but from what I hear he's demonstrated quite the knack. If he were the head, I doubt Diomedes would be nearly as calm. Dio got mixed up in something with Wallace. I don't know the intimates. Wallace screwed him over and nearly got your roommate killed. Or he tried to kill him. One of the two. Probably the latter given some things I know, and the fact that my source says Dio swore revenge—something Wallace surely isn't too happy with.
Romulus wondered if that might be the reason his mentor was so bristled. He remembered Diomedes disappearing a few weeks ago for a short period, and being in a silent rage when he resurfaced. "When did this happen?"
"A little under a month ago. Though I only got wind of it a week ago myself."
Romulus nodded but realized that aside from the immediate rage, his mentor's demeanor hadn't changed remarkably from before his disappearance. "Who told you about it?" He lived with Diomedes and he hadn't heard of him swearing revenge on Wallace, or even mentioning the name until now. Curiosity tugged at him.
"How about a trade? I'll tell you that if you answer something for me."
Romulus once again heard his mentor's warning in his head. "Answer what?"
"What happened to Ranth?"
The warnings turned to alarms. "What, so you can sell us out to the rest of them?" Romulus belatedly thought of grabbing the man by the neck, but it seemed too late for that. Diomedes would have had Felix against the wall before saying a word.
Felix regarded him calmly. Was that disappointment? "Because something's been bothering you since you came back out of that hole. I just. . . want to know. That's all. I give you my word it won't go beyond me, and I hold my word sacred."
Their eyes locked for a moment as Romulus wrestled with the decision. Felix spoke before he could. "C'mon, if I'm lying you can beat me to a bloody pulp. Or tie me up and force me to listen to country music," he finished with a wink.
"You don't like country?"
"Absolutely abhor the stuff." The man's smile faded into a somber look of listening.
"Diomedes shot him." The words left his mouth before he'd known he would say them. "He had to," he added, looking at where the floater rocked slightly. "He saved my life."
Romulus watched the ground, waiting for Felix to make a comment, but the man was silent. After a moment Romulus continued. "We—I—gassed the room before we entered and I was the first in. It looked like he was down but either he was only stunned or he was faking because as soon as Diomedes followed and I turned, he was on me. Then the one we captured," Romulus realized for the first time that they never asked his name, "jumped Diomedes, but he was able to pull him off quick enough. I couldn't do the same to mine—to Ranth." The words were spilling from him now. "He was about to slash my throat when Diomedes saved me. He—he died instantly. I think."
Romulus's mind suddenly became blank but for a single question, the question that had burned in his mind for the past half hour, the question that now somehow seemed terribly foolish as he prepared to speak it aloud. While he hesitated, Felix beat him to it.
"You're wondering if you threw the grenade wrong."
Romulus nodded. "Stupid, huh?"
"Was there gas?"
"Yes?"
"Either a grenade goes off or it doesn't. Yours went off."
"I still could have done it wrong. The wrong placement, the wrong timing. Or something else I don't know."
"Did the gas fill the room?"
"It looked like it but he wasn't affected, filled or not."
"Well then that's hardly your fault, I'd say," Felix said.
"But what if I—"
Felix cut him off. "Flynn, you seem to be determined to find fault with yourself. Questioning your own thoughts and actions is healthy, up to a point. But take it to the point where you're banging your head against the wall and you're going to drive yourself nuts. And let me tell you, I'm plenty bonkers for the both of us." Felix smiled. "You said it stunk down there right?"
The abrupt question caught Romulus off guard. "Yeah, it's a sewer," he said in a tone that was more annoyed than he had intended.
"Imagine living down there like they do. Don't you suppose you'd want to find a way to avoid that?"
"Um," Romulus replied before he saw what the man might be getting at. "Are you talking about nasal filters?" He hadn't considered it before, but it did make sense. Nasal implants helped to filter out the pollution of the city and certain noxious gases. They certainly could have been at least a little effective against the gas, and they were cheap and self-installable.
"It's certainly a possibility," said Felix. "And as I said before, possibilities are our friends!"
Romulus nodded, realizing his mind was put to rest, slightly. Though. . . "I still wish he hadn't died."
For a moment Felix said nothing and glanced up at the Moon. "Good."
Another moment of silence passed. Somewhere beyond the alley a chorus of drunken voices rose suddenly and then faded away.
"It's your turn to answer my question," said Romulus.
Felix chuckled but before he could respond further, the floater's engines began to whine in starting and the door slid open. The reporter whose name Romulus had been too preoccupied to remember stepped out with the body of the Nosferatu a moment later.
"Your friend says we're leaving," the reporter told them. He laid the body against the alley wall. Romulus looked at the silent figure as he and Felix moved to the door. "He's still alive."
With a relief that surprised him, Romulus nodded and closed the door, once again taking the front seat near his mentor.
XI
It was half past ten beneath the light of the evening moon, and people moved with quiet purpose throughout the streets of the corporate district. Some were leaving their offices for home, or maybe a night on the town. Others were simply stepping out of the skyscrapers that lined the streets for a quick bite of food before continuing to work into the night. Regardless of their purpose, the companies in control of the district would keep them safe from the assorted populace usually found on the streets: muggers, winos, gangs, and the general homeless who were too lazy and weak better their lives. These were problems that plagued the rest of the city; there was no place for them here. Corporate security kept a close watch on those who entered the semi-privately owned district, and cameras stood in a comforting vigil above.
From his apartment on the other side of the city, Marc Triton "borrowed" access to one of the cameras and slowly panned it across the multitude of faces on
the sidewalk below. A great many of them, he knew, were good, kind-hearted people, no more responsible for the corporations' cold, compassionless ideology than pebbles were responsible for an avalanche. They had families to feed, rent to pay, and they could hardly be blamed for wanting to be safe. But the upper echelon, those in the towers who molded the corporate polices and secret mission statements—Marc had long ago decided that they played a large part in causing the conditions whose presence they kept out by force. A number of corporations commanded more resources than some governments; their influence on the world and its inhabitants could be argued by only the most foolish of people. Even without their bribes and connections to government regulators, they could hardly be considered to be taking responsibility for the consequences of their actions beyond the standard public relations smokescreens designed to keep the average person from speaking out.
Marc frowned and tried to concentrate on his search. A group of people stood patiently at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. Though their corporate ID badges made them less likely to be the man for whom he was looking, he made a check of each face. None were a match. He zoomed out and moved on.
When he had satisfied himself as much as possible that the object of his search was not within sight, Marc allowed the camera to return to its automated sequence and sent after it a minor worm designed to erase any records of his presence. Waiting for it to accomplish its task, Marc chafed at his inability to use more than one camera at a time. While it was easy enough, if meticulous, to access a single camera without being detected, security countermeasures made using two or three simultaneously too complex and too risky, let alone trying to use them all at once. His fellows at the AoA were working with him on finding a way to do so, but at the moment, a solution was a ways off.
Marc leaned back in his chair, drained the last of the root beer in his glass and looked over at the remnants of the pizza in the box on his coffee table. If he had another piece, he'd regret it before he could finish it. Instead, he popped a Lifesaver into his mouth and stood up, rubbing his temples. This was not how he had wanted to spend his evening.
He believed in his purpose, of course. If the man from ESA was truly planning to betray his own organization and sell the secrets of the Space Agency's discovery, Marc's group needed to know. Intelligence, information—those were the keys. The AoA needed to know what the ESA mole was up to before they could decide how best to act. If it turned out to be a false alarm, calling attention to him could lead to the AoA's own exposure, but if the man truly meant to compromise the security of future secrets, it would need to be determined just how much damage he might cause. The AoA was considering putting the project on hold if security could not be guaranteed. It was a threat they needed to contain.
Unfortunately, the tail that had followed the mole into Northgate had lost him at the airport due to a stupid mistake. Had that not occurred, Marc would have had a fix on the mole hours ago and could now be tracking his movements. As it was, Marc needed to spend his time instead in the effort to find him again, and locating one man in the entire city wasn't much better than trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack. What was it Felix had said once? "The likelihood of anyone ever actually dropping a needle in a haystack, much less wanting to find one, is incredibly small." Good for a chuckle, but not all that helpful. There were so many faces to check, and no real way to check them all. He could record the footage and view it all back later, but by then it wouldn't matter. Marc made a mental note to work more on the minor artificial intelligence he was constructing. He could have used an A.I.'s help here.
Cramped from sitting at his desk so long, Marc lay down on the couch and linked the computer into the data visor that he habitually wore over his eyes. The interface was a bit awkward, but he needed to stretch out. He pushed a pillow under his head and settled down into the cushion. Much better.
He returned to the search, unable to resist glancing at the time once more. Even if he did find the man, it would probably be too late. The AoA suspected there would be a middleman. Such a meeting had most likely already taken place, which meant it was no longer possible to trace the middleman to the person or persons that were to finally be contacted. As the minutes passed, it became less and less likely that he would have a hint of the man's purpose tonight.
They were not without recourse, however. Eventually, it would be known whom he'd contacted, middleman or not. There were too many ears listening. Whomever the man from ESA had approached would eventually be discovered, just as his intentions to do so had been. Marc was sure steps were already being taken. Plan for the worst to prepare for the best.
Marc accessed a camera over a section of downtown where crowds moved among the popular bars and clubs. At this point he was just hoping to get lucky, and the more faces he could scan, the better his odds. From what he understood, his target was not the most social of men. He was more likely to be holed up in wherever he was staying than out on the town, but perhaps the lure of the active urban nightlife would draw him out. At this point it was Marc's only hope. The local hotel registers couldn't be checked—or rather they could, but it would be a time consuming process with even less hope of a lead. The man had used a false name for his airline tickets and would be certain to use another for hotel reservations—if indeed he was even staying in a hotel. The man was already cautious, and it was imperative he not know he was being followed, to say nothing of who was following him.
An unmarked floater crossed in front of the camera, obviously privately owned and most likely not his target. And yet, for a reason whose origins he couldn't pinpoint, Marc couldn't help but feel he should follow it. The hunch was more than he'd had for most of the evening. As quickly as he could, Marc disengaged the current camera, covered his tracks, and then accessed the next one along the floater's course. It continued on and turned. Again Marc switched cameras, feeling a growing concern that he would lose it despite any cognizable reason to be following in the first place. He got the next camera in time to see it disappear from view. There was no time to make the switch to the next. Gambling it would continue on the same course, he skipped ahead to a camera farther down. A moment later the vehicle passed by, turned a corner and began descending.
Marc switched to what he suspected would be the last camera for the moment. It gave him a view of the front of the Northgate Municipal Justice Tower. He panned the camera and then spotted the floater coming to rest in a spot across the street from the building, nearly directly beneath his viewpoint. As it sat there silent, its doors still sealed, Marc briefly let himself believe that he had found his man. It was unlikely, of course. The inexplicable feeling that something important was inside was most likely just a product of the need for some relief from the frustration born of a night spent in a fruitless search.
The door opened. He readied himself for disappointment.
The man's hair was red, and therefore not the man he wanted, but he was not alone. He stood by the open doorway speaking to someone inside. Marc scowled and found another camera. The area around the justice building boasted more than most areas. Now watching from one on the building itself, lower to the ground, he zoomed in to see if he could discern any of the occupants.
Two figures sat in the front. Before he could get a clear look at their faces, another man stepped out from the back. Something was familiar about him, but he turned to the pilot before he could see his face. Still, it looked like it might be. . .
Marc chuckled. It was. Felix Hiatt. Marc could make him out clearly now as Felix looked across at the tower. Well, speak of the devil. For a brief moment he entertained the thought of calling Felix just for kicks, but he dismissed the idea. Not before he could tell more about the two figures. Unlikely as it was, Felix might very well be the middleman for all he knew, and letting them know they were being watched. . .
Marc tried to zoom in a bit further. Getting as close a shot of the two figures as he could, he captured the image and then enhanced the frame t
o extrapolate whatever detail of their faces he could from the low resolution. In a few seconds he had a clear enough picture to find that both men struck a familiar chord with him, though Marc couldn't recall anything specific. Neither was connected to the ESA mole, however, that much he did know. What were they doing with Felix? Marc decided to check on it later, if he had time.
The sight of Felix had Marc considering asking the other to keep his eyes open. He toyed with the idea briefly, but then set it aside. Felix Hiatt wasn't AoA anymore, and while he could be trusted to keep their existence secret, Marc doubted that using him as a resource would be looked upon favorably. Perhaps later.
With a quick glance up at the Moon hanging promisingly in the sky, Marc resumed his search.
XII
The Municipal Justice Tower rose out of the street to dwarf the buildings surrounding it. The actual tower was a dark slab of glass and metal some thirty stories tall built upon an older stone building spread out along the base. The latter's Romanesque features merged with the tower in an eclectic combination of twenty-first century architectural style. Contained within were courts, the central precinct of the Northgate Police Department, crime labs, a high security holding facility, a host of legal offices, and sitting near the very top, the local and regional headquarters of CPMC.
Brian chuckled to himself at the audacity of blatantly jaywalking in front of the building that was the center of the city's police activity. Perhaps audacity was too strong a word. He very much doubted that officers would descend upon him and Felix. Then again, they might at that, just as a matter of principle. With the growing crime rate and a public police force so under-funded that it only concentrated on crimes against actual verified taxpayers, the income from easy jaywalking citations might sound welcome. He increased his pace, just to be sure.
"So what did Diomedes say to you in there?" Felix asked as he stepped quickly up onto the sidewalk from behind.
"Rather blunt, aren't you?" Brian answered. Was it that apparent that he'd been spooked?
A Shadow in the Flames (The New Aeneid Cycle) Page 12