“So we don’t even know if she’s in there or not?” Kieran said.
“We have accessed civic sensors around the hotel,” Jenny said defensively.
“Nobody with her visual profile has left the building; our characteristics recognition programs would have caught that.”
“Understood.” He turned to Jamas and Rosamund. “That’s your first priority, try to establish if she’s still in there.”
“We’re on it,” Rosamund assured him from a plush leather armchair. Her eyes fluttered half-shut as data began to fill her virtual vision. Small holographic data blocks sprang up from various arrays spread out around her. Her hands and fingers twitched minutely as she began manipulating programs, infiltrating them into the Octavious systems.
“Our database didn’t tag any of the other residents,” Jenny said. “None of the names are known to us.”
“We should maybe try and run a comparison, see if any of them fit Isabella’s profile.”
“Good idea. We’ve got several hours of images from the civic cameras. It shouldn’t take too long to—”
“There’s someone else here,” Rosamund announced.
“What do you mean?” Kieran asked. An ion pistol appeared in his hand.
“In the Octavious arrays,” Rosamund said. “I’ve found a second set of scrutineer programs. Someone else is watching room 2317.”
“Jamas,” Kieran said firmly. “Review this hotel’s arrays, find out if we’re being watched.” He opened the base of a large case, revealing an impressive collection of weaponry. Jenny selected a gamma pulse rifle, while Kanton took a plasma grenade auto-launcher. The three of them moved smoothly to cover Rosamund and Jamas.
“Rosamund,” Kieran said. “Can you see where the other programs are sending their information? And have they noticed you?”
“Get into one of the force field suits,” Jenny told Kanton.
“No anomalous programs in the arrays on this floor,” Jamas said. “Moving the scan outward.”
“What about emissions from non-net systems?”
“Nothing detectable. But if this is the navy, we’re not going to be able to see the kind of systems they use against us. The unisphere has rumors that they’ve modified an insect that’s immune to janglepulse.”
Kanton slipped into one of the skeletonlike force field suits, wearing it outside his clothes. The thick bands adjusted themselves to achieve a balanced coverage of his body, then a thin layer of air shimmered around him as the force field came on. He nodded, and Jenny took another suit out of the case, moving quietly, as if noise alone would trigger an assault by an armed navy team.
“Kieran?” she whispered.
“Not yet.” He waved her back and holstered his ion pistol. “Kanton, open the door.” The lock disengaged, and Kieran stepped out into the corridor, holding a sensor stick casually in one hand.
Jenny had to wait in a fervor of anxiety while he checked around. He returned in less than a minute.
“Some of the occupied rooms have got their integral e-seal switched on,” he said, and held up the little sensor stick. “I couldn’t tell what was inside, not without raising the alarm. In any case, if they have any fieldcraft, they won’t be on this floor.”
Jenny let her breath ease out of her. Kieran was already giving the ceiling a suspicious stare. “We’re moving,” he said. “On foot. Jenny, pick a hotel at random. We’ll establish a safeguard perimeter before we move in.”
“All right,” Jenny said. She put the rifle back in the case and asked her e-butler for a list of hotels within a five-block radius.
Kieran was stripping off his shirt and pants. “As of now, we’re staying hot. I want everyone in force field suits worn under your clothing. Rosamund, how are you doing?”
“I think our programs might have been compromised. If I can expose their programs, they can certainly do the same to ours.”
“Can you tell where the other watchers are based?”
“No, they’ve employed some very sophisticated routing.”
“What about Bernadette? Is she in there?”
“Her room’s drawing power for lights, the air-conditioning, and the bathroom. Power use has fluctuated since she checked in, which is a good indicator of occupation. The door lock hasn’t been used since check-in, either. That’s the best I can do.”
“Fine. You and Jamas take it in turns to get into suits, then we’re out of here. Jenny, any idea who our rivals could be?”
“Other than the navy, no. But why would the navy be following Bernadette?”
“I don’t know.” Kieran sounded dubious as he buttoned his shirt over the dark bands caging his chest. “Mellanie Rescorai was warned about Isabella and her parents. It might be a news show team.”
“Or we were seen by Halgarth security,” Jamas said as he pulled the force field suit on. “Let’s face it, we were operating on their home turf.”
“If they’re watching Bernadette, it implies they’re opposed to the Starflyer,” Jenny said.
Kieran handed the last force field suit to Rosamund, and snapped the case shut. “Don’t bet your life on it.”
***
It was the small hours of the morning, Illuminatus time. Gwyneth Russell, who wasn’t even back on Paris time properly yet, was wide awake and relaxing in the Almada hotel’s spa bath, with bubbles foaming gently all around her. She’d just got a call from Vic, who was checked in to a hotel a mere five kilometers away. They’d talked about maybe spending a couple of hours together, but it wasn’t going to happen. Both of them were on active duty, and could be called on at any moment. Most of their talk had concentrated on the coincidence of being on Illuminatus. Vic didn’t think it was coincidence, although neither of them could think how Bernadette Halgarth could possibly be connected to the Agent. Gwyneth had suggested it might be Isabella who had the connection, and Bernadette was just here to see her. Of course, that left what Isabella was doing with the Agent.
Gwyneth sighed, and examined her hands. Her skin was starting to wrinkle she’d been soaking so long. She really should try to get some rest, ready for tomorrow. For once she thought the case was actually progressing well. Beard had set up his meeting with the Agent for the following evening. She even quietly admired the way Tarlo had bluffed him into cooperating; that the Californian surfer could actually hit someone had been a mild surprise, but it had certainly produced a result. They were so close now to cracking the whole Guardian case open. Around the office, it was rapidly becoming a mantra; they had so much information that all they needed was the one lucky break that had eluded Paula Myo for a hundred thirty years. Her mouth lifted in a bad girl smile: the break just happened to be Beard’s nose.
Her e-butler told her Paula Myo was calling. Gwyneth grunted in surprise and told the e-butler to accept.
“Gwyneth, would you please acknowledge my authority certificate.”
A file icon with the Senate Security seal popped up in Gwyneth’s virtual vision. Her virtual hand in the colors of the old Welsh national flag reached up and touched it. For the life of her she couldn’t think what Paula was doing. The file opened up, containing Paula’s verified Senate Security authorization. “That checks out,” Gwyneth said. “What’s this about?”
“I am officially reassigning you to my interdiction team,” Paula said. “As of this moment.”
Gwyneth sat up fast, sloshing water over the edge of the big bath. “What interdiction team?”
“Senate Security has been watching Tarlo for some time. He’s just warned Bernadette Halgarth that Renne’s team is observing her.”
“He did what?”
“He’s a traitor, Gwyneth.”
“No. He can’t be.”
“I’m afraid I can’t debate this with you. We are going to arrest Tarlo.”
“You’re here?” Gwyneth slipped and slithered out of the bath, grabbing her towel.
“Yes. I require your assistance. Is there anybody in his room with him?”
“No. I don’t think so. We’re all supposed to be resting. Beard’s in custody at the precinct, and we’re not due to pick up the Agent until this evening.”
“Very well. I suggest you get into your force field suit. Don’t activate it. He’s next door, and will probably sense you switching it on.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No. Once you have it on, please call him. He won’t suspect you, and it will enable us to verify his position. The call may also provide a small distraction.”
“Oh, God.” She hurried back into the bedroom where her case was sitting on the bed. The force field skeleton suit was an awkward bundle of bands that was difficult to put on around a wet naked body. “It can’t be Tarlo; he’s got us so close to the Guardians.”
“I know this is difficult, Gwyneth. Just trust me for a few minutes more.”
Had it been anyone, anyone else, she might have doubted, and Senate Security be damned. But not Paula Myo. “All right,” Gwyneth said. The skeleton bands were chafing badly, but they were all in position and switched to standby mode. She didn’t like to think what she looked like. Surely there had been time to put on some underwear? “I’m in the suit.”
“Leave this channel open, and make the call.”
“What about?”
“Whatever, it only has to last a few seconds.”
Gwyneth took a calming breath. Her virtual hand reached out and pulled Tarlo’s icon from her grid. “Hi, Chief. I was just checking in with you before I go to bed. Any developments?”
There was a long pause.
“Why are you in your force field suit?” Tarlo asked.
Gwyneth jerked her head around to stare at the wall between the rooms.
“Shit!” Her virtual hand swiped at the suit’s activation icon as she dived for the floor.
The middle of the wall exploded in a gout of dazzling white plasma. Long ion flames seared across the room. One of them licked at Gwyneth. Her force field wasn’t quite established; it flared purple around her, allowing a weakened gust of the energized atoms to rake across her bare skin. She screamed at the pain, thrashing around as the force field stabilized, deflecting the rest of the blast. Flames burst out of the furnishings and carpet.
The room vibrated to the bass roar of more weapons being fired. Blinding light flared through the wrecked wall. Gwyneth rolled over, tears blurring her vision. She risked a glance down at the side of her rib cage where the ion stream had penetrated. Her flesh was blackened, with red cracks splitting open to weep blood and fluid. It was an agony so intense it was actually dull. She knew she was going to throw up. The sprinklers came on, spraying a glutinous blue foam. Nozzles automatically sought out the hot spots, directing the foam to the worst of the blaze. Steam and smoke churned into the air, obscuring the room.
More explosions sounded. One actually produced a quake in the floor that tumbled her about. The ceiling sagged, and what was left of the ruined wall collapsed completely. She tried to stand, but somehow her limbs didn’t respond. The best she could do was roll over into a crouch. An alarm was howling.
Three armor-suited figures materialized out of the thick smoke. Two of them pointed fat stubby weapons at her.
“Do not move, lady.”
Gwyneth almost laughed.
The third circled around her warily, and held a hand out flat toward the bathroom door. There was a dull thud, and a pressure wave knocked Gwyneth back onto her stomach. She groaned at the fresh outbreak of pain in her side. The bathroom door had vanished, along with most of its frame.
“Clear,” the suited figure said.
“Did you see where he went?”
Gwyneth blinked in confusion. A galaxy of colored lights that weren’t quite part of this universe were flashing at her through the smog.
“Gwyneth! It’s Paula. Did you see him? Did he come through your room?”
“I…No.” She gritted her teeth in the effort to concentrate. “No, there was just the plasma grenade. He didn’t come this way.”
“Okay, hang on. We’ve got a medic team on standby. They’ll be with you soon.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m all right,” she said, and fainted.
The sun was just high enough to send a pale light along Tridelta’s long straight streets as Alic Hogan’s taxi pulled up outside the cordon that had been set up around the Almada hotel. He got out of the vehicle with Lieutenant John King and stared at the scene with a rising sense of dismay. Alic wasn’t a religious man, nor even superstitious, but some days it did seem as if the Paris office had been cursed.
Five big fire tenders were drawn up outside the modern concrete and glass edifice of the hotel. Firebots had crawled up the walls to the fifth floor, trailing their hoses after them. They were clustered around a series of holes that had been ripped through the neat mosaic pattern of windows and concrete panels. He recognized them as weapon blasts. The edges were melted, with little soot scarring the wall above, which meant the plasma had punched out horizontally. That was confirmed by the amount of debris littering the street below. Water and blue suppressant foam was smeared all the way down the wall below the holes, spilling onto the pavement to run into the gutters. There were a couple of shallow craters in the road, where plasma grenades had struck, and a number of smaller pocks from ion pulses.
Outside the area where tenders and force field–clad fire department staff were supervising the damping-down operation, the police had established a cordon that they were enforcing with armed officers and patrolbots. Clusters of patrol cars were blocking the street a block back from the hotel, their red and blue strobes bright in the leaden dawn. Several other vehicles were stationary along the road, cars and a few early morning delivery vans halting where the city’s traffic management arrays had injected their emergency stop orders. The hotel residents, a couple hundred people, were all huddled together at one end of the building, wearing their pajamas, or dressing gowns, or less. A lot of them had bare feet. Police officers were moving through them, listening to the questions and protests. Kids were crying.
A couple of ambulances and a medic command bus were parked behind the fire tenders.
“Dear God,” Alic muttered.
“He was determined not to be caught, wasn’t he?” John King said.
“Right.” All Alic could think of was what the Admiral would say.
The first person Alic saw when a police officer led them into reception was Paula Myo. His jaw clenched at the sight of her. She was wearing full assault armor, with the helmet held under one arm. Even in the bulky dark suit she managed to appear orderly, with her hair neatly held back from her face with a blue Alice band. Several of her Senate Security team were positioned around the reception area, also in armor, with their force fields active, and rifles held ready.
A couple of the paramedics were working on Gwyneth, who was lying on a crash trolley with a green medical smock around her. Vic Russell was holding her hand, the big man’s face white with worry and anger. Renne was also there, along with Jim Nwan, both of them standing back a polite distance from the cart, but peering at their fallen colleague. The police precinct captain was talking quietly to Paula, while a detective sergeant called Marhol hovered at his side.
Alic took a breath and walked over to the crash cart. “How is she?” he asked the senior paramedic.
“Heavy burns on her side where the plasma struck. There will have to be some regeneration, but it’s not critical. We’ve cleaned the injury and sealed it in healskin.”
“So she’ll be all right?”
“A few days in the hospital, then a fortnight recuperating. She was lucky.”
“Great.” He leaned over the crash trolley, trying not to look at the stains and flecks of crisped flesh.
“Hi, Chief,” Gwyneth said. Her face was very pale, sweat glinting on her brow.
“Hi, yourself. When you get back, the first thing I’m doing is sending you on a refresher course on how to duck quicker.”
“Fine by me.” Her dreamy smile was mainly due to painkillers.
“Go with her to the hospital,” Alic told Vic. “Take as long as you want.”
“I’m coming right back,” Vic said. “I will be on the arrest team when we track that piece of shit down.”
“Okay.” Alic wasn’t going to argue in public, but there was no way he was going to allow Vic any part of the case. Right now his priority was to get the big man out of the way.
He finally turned to Paula, and smiled like a prosecuting lawyer. “Would you care to brief me now, please.”
“Certainly.” She thanked the precinct captain, who walked off with Marhol. It was just the Paris office team who were left in a group.
“Tarlo is a traitor,” she said flatly.
“I really hope you can prove that.”
She glanced meaningfully around the reception area and through the huge glass doors at the scene outside. Alic reddened slightly, but held his ground.
“I’ve been running elimination entrapment operations on both Tarlo and Renne,” Paula said.
“Me?” Renne yelped.
“Of course,” Paula replied urbanely. “Our observation was both visual and electronic. As soon as Tarlo was informed that Renne had Bernadette Halgarth under observation he called her. We intercepted that call. When we moved in to arrest him, he fought back and managed to elude us. His armament wetwiring is not registered. Next time we will field a more appropriate arrest squad.”
Alic knew what the answer was, but he had to ask, just for the record. “Who do you believe Tarlo has been working for?”
“The Starflyer.”
“Goddamnit. The Admiral doesn’t accept the Starflyer is real.”
“Don’t worry,” Paula said, with more sympathy than Alic was expecting, “he will have to acknowledge that Tarlo was a traitor. Your conduct has not been compromised; Tarlo dates back over two decades in the Paris office. Your priority now is to launch a review of his cases to see which have been compromised.”
“Right.” Alic didn’t want to think how much work that was going to involve, nor where he was going to get the resources. Another navy intelligence office would probably have to be brought in, and they would put everyone at Paris under review, himself included. “Why was Bernadette under observation?” he asked Renne. “I thought we agreed that aspect of the case was closed.”
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