The Mandel Files, Volume 1

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Greg switched on the communication module’s external mike. ‘Tell me about Clarissa Wynne.’

  ‘Clarissa? God, that was years and years ago. I’d almost forgotten about her until the other day. That newscast brought a lot of memories back.’

  ‘Ten years ago. What can you remember?’

  Knebel closed his eyes, slim eyebrows bunching up. ‘Ten? Are you sure? I thought it was eleven.’

  ‘It could have been.’

  ‘Well, what does it say in her file?’

  ‘That is the reason I’m here, Knebel. Someone has erased every byte of Clarissa Wynne from Rutland’s memory cores; police, council, local newspapers, you name it, the lot.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right. You say you thought she died eleven years ago?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it was eleven.’

  ‘OK, what orders did you get from the Ministry of Public Order about her death?’

  ‘To wrap it up immediately, make the coroner enter a verdict of accidental death, not to cause any ripples, especially not to antagonize Kitchener and the other students.’

  ‘Why not? Why was the PSP so anxious to hush the girl’s death up? What made her so important?’

  Knebel gave him a humourless smile. ‘Important? Clarissa Wynne wasn’t important. God, the Ministry didn’t even know her name. She was an embarrassment. You see, eleven years ago, the PSP was applying to the World Bank for a very large loan, billions. You remember that time, Mandel; the seas were reaching their peak, we’d got hundreds of thousands of refugees pouring inland from flooded coastal areas, we didn’t have any food, we didn’t have any industry, we didn’t have any hard currency. It was a fucking great mess. We needed that loan to get the economy started again. And the Americans didn’t want to help a bunch of Reds. No matter we were elected—’

  Teddy growled dangerously. Greg held up a hand, sensing just how hostile Teddy’s mind was.

  ‘OK. All right. I’m sorry,’ Knebel said. ‘No politics. But look, the point was, the PSP couldn’t afford a human rights issue. The Americans would have leapt on it as an excuse to block the loan, destabilize the Party. Kitchener, for all he was bloody obnoxious personally, was internationally renowned, someone whose name people knew all over the world. Can you see the disinformation campaign the Americans would have mounted if I’d started questioning the students and Kitchener thoroughly? Their friend and colleague has been tragically drowned, and all the PSP does is persecute them with inquiries and allegations. It would have been Sakharov all over again. We needed that money, Mandel, people were starting to starve. In England, for God’s sake! Pensioners. Children. So I did what I was told, and I kept my mouth shut afterwards. Because it was necessary. And to hell with you and your rich bitch mistress. I don’t care how wise after the event you are.’

  So much anger, Greg thought, and just from one question. Will we ever heal the rift? ‘Morgan? Did you hear all that?’

  ‘Yes, Greg.’

  ‘OK, check the date for that World Bank loan application, please. I’d like some verification.’

  ‘Right.’

  Knebel had cocked his head to one side, listening to Greg’s side of the conversation intently. He still had his arms around the woman, cradling her. A ribbon of saliva was leaking from the corner of her mouth, eyelids fluttering erratically.

  ‘Now,’ Greg said, ‘why were you so upset about having to close down the inquiry? I was told Clarissa drowned in the lake after some sort of drinking session. Was it an accident?’

  ‘I’m not sure. At the time I didn’t think so. You get an instinct, you know? After you’ve been on the job long enough you can tell if something’s not quite right. And I was a good detective, back then. Before it all … I cared,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Yeah. Keith Willet told me.’

  ‘Keith?’ Knebel brightened for an instant. ‘God, is he still at Oakham? How is he?’

  ‘Just get on with it, Knebel.’

  ‘All right.’ He shot Teddy another twitchy glance, then cleared his throat. ‘I wasn’t happy with the circumstances around Clarissa Wynne’s death. The students said they found her floating in the lake first thing in the morning, that she must have gone for a swim sometime in the night. Apparently the students always went swimming there.’

  ‘Still do,’ Greg said.

  ‘Yes? Well, anyway, on the surface it was pretty clear cut. She’d been drinking, she’d infused some syntho. That was the first time we’d ever come across the stuff at Oakham. She must have got into difficulty in the water. Those lakes aren’t particularly deep, but you only need five centimetres to drown in.’

  ‘So what was wrong about it?’

  Knebel sighed. ‘She hadn’t drunk much that evening, a couple of glasses of wine. And the syntho, we couldn’t be sure, we didn’t know much about it back then, but it looked as though it was infused very close to the time she died. Almost as if she took it and dived straight in. Which I don’t believe anybody would do, certainly not a bright girl like that. I was going to have the pathology samples sent to Cambridge for a more detailed examination, then the shut-down order came through.’

  ‘Suicide?’ Greg suggested.

  ‘Nope. First thing I thought of. We did get to ask the students and Kitchener a few preliminary questions. Clarissa Wynne was one happy girl. She enjoyed being at Launde. Her parents confirmed there were no family problems. In any case, there was some light bruising on the back of her neck.’ He shrugged limply. ‘It could have been caused by bumping in to something in the water.’

  ‘Or it could have been caused by someone holding her under,’ Greg concluded.

  ‘Yes. If the attacker had put her in a Nelson lock on the side of the lake, the bruising would have been consistent with her head being forced under the surface. Especially if she was conscious. She was young, strong, apparently she was in the woman’s hockey team at university, a sports type, she could have put up quite a struggle. The attacker would have had to use a lot of force.’

  ‘Any sign of a struggle?’

  ‘No. The grass around the side of the lake was all beaten down. Like I said, the students used it each day.’

  A dire chill slithered through the combat leathers to prickle Greg’s skin as he thought about Clarissa Wynne’s death. She would have struggled, that night eleven years ago, fighting her attacker under the silent, beautiful stars, without any hope of success or help. Terribly alone as her head was shoved under the cold muddy water. She would feel her body weakening, be conscious of the syntho breaking her mind apart. And all the while the red ache in her lungs grew and grew.

  No fucking wonder he’d been drawn to the lake. It was a focal node of horror and anguish.

  Did her soul haunt it? Was that what I sensed?

  But whatever the source of the misery, it still didn’t explain how her death tied in with Nicholas Beswick.

  ‘Who did you suspect?’ he asked Knebel.

  ‘God, I never had time to find a possible suspect. That Ministry order came through in less than a day.’

  ‘Well, start thinking about it now, Knebel. What about Kitchener himself? I mean, he was sleeping with his female students the night he died. Sixty-seven years old. Eleven years ago he would have been even more capable sexually.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He was reasonably fit, but not really what I’d call physically powerful. And if Clarissa was held down, it was done by someone stronger than her.’

  ‘One of the other students, then?’

  ‘Yes, possibly.’

  ‘Was there anyone else staying at the Abbey that night?’

  ‘No. And Clarissa was still alive when the housekeeper and the maid left, we confirmed that.’

  ‘OK, can you remember the names of the other students?’

  ‘I think so. There was five of them. Let’s see: Tumber, Donaldson, MacLennan, Spencer—’

  ‘Wait! MacLennan? Ja
mes MacLennan? Dr James MacLennan?’

  ‘Yes. That was his first name, James. I didn’t know he was a doctor.’

  ‘Shitfire,’ Greg whispered.

  23

  Julia could barely see the far side of the rooftop landing pad. The fog was pressing in, turning the circle of close-spaced white lights around the perimeter of the pad into a hazy line of phosphorescence. The edge of the Event Horizon headquarters building was lost completely.

  She was wearing a light nylon windcheater jacket over her plain amethyst-coloured stretch jersey dress. It was too warm to zip it up, but the fog was almost thick enough to be called a drizzle. Her hair was already hanging limply, sprinkled with a sugar coating of droplets. Rachel stood at her side, suede jacket buttoned up, collar raised around her neck. The rest of the reception party – Eleanor, Gabriel, and Morgan, plus some security people – were huddled together a couple of metres away.

  Eleanor’s smile was blinking on and off; the outright relief on her face making Julia feel like an intruder just for looking at her.

  Thirty seconds, Juliet. Can you hear it?

  Not yet, Grandpa, she answered silently.

  She saw Morgan raise a palm-size communication set to his face and listen for a moment. ‘They’re coming in,’ he announced.

  Now she heard it, the whine of the turbines, low-frequency hiss of air escaping from the fan nacelles. It grew louder and louder until the dove-grey security division tilt-fan was suddenly there above the landing pad. Landing gear unfolding, small red and green wingtip strobes flashing. Its fuselage was coated in water, shining dully.

  In the end she simply couldn’t stay away. She didn’t approve. She had made that quite clear. But ultimately it was her responsibility. Greg was only on the case because she asked him. There was no way she could go out clubbing in New Eastfield while he was risking his neck on her behalf.

  Another night lost to duty.

  The tilt-fan’s broad low-pressure tyres touched down, hydraulic struts pistoning upwards as they absorbed the weight. The forward hatch hinged out and up, airstairs sliding down. The pilot cut the turbines. Micro-cyclones of steam poured out of the nacelles as the fans wound down.

  Greg was first out, his black leather combat jacket open to show a white T-shirt, his hair sweaty, clinging to his forehead. He had a stunshot with a shoulder strap riding at his elbow, ’ware modules clipped round his belt, skull helmet thrown back, photon amp band hanging over one shoulder. He looked so … dangerous.

  She watched Eleanor walk over and embrace him, arms going round his waist, a brief kiss, then resting her head on his shoulder. He hugged her tightly. It was far more eloquent than whoops of joy and backslapping.

  How she’d love someone to greet her like that. Not to be, though. Although perhaps Robin …

  Teddy came down the airstairs, scowling round suspiciously.

  ‘Hello, Teddy,’ she said brightly. ‘Thank you for going in with Greg. I’m really very grateful.’

  He grunted in disgust. ‘Goddamn fucking stupid thing to do, you ask me, gal. Still, we’re back in one piece.’ He patted one of the ’ware modules on his belt. ‘An’ these guido bytes gonna come in mighty useful sometime soon.’

  She smiled warmly. Teddy always used to intimidate the hell out of her, with his size and his menacing authority. Not any more. He was a pushover. ‘Oh? Going to impress a lady friend with them?’ She batted her eyelids.

  ‘Je-zus wept!’

  Then the security crash team started to emerge from the tilt-fan. They were wearing suits similar to Teddy’s, all of them in their mid- to late-twenties. They shouted a few boisterous greetings at her, and she grinned back. She knew most of them by their first name; they treated her almost as though they were a rugby squad and she was their mascot.

  Morgan always kept one team on standby in case there was ever any attempt to kidnap her. She had watched them training a few times. Lord help any tekmerc who ever went up against them.

  ‘Gabriel?’ Greg was looking at her, one arm still around Eleanor. ‘Where’s Colin?’

  ‘One of my people drove him home,’ Morgan said.

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Not too bad, considering,’ Gabriel said. ‘He’ll need to rest for a week or so. Proper rest. I said I’d pop in tomorrow, make sure. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Shall we go in?’ Morgan said. ‘In light of what we learned from Maurice Knebel, I believe we have quite a bit to discuss.’

  ‘And no messing,’ Greg said gloomily.

  Julia led them into the big executive conference room, her pumps treading soundlessly on the pile carpet. Biolums came on ahead of her, banishing shadows. Grey tongues of fog licked at the windows. Westwood could be in a different universe by now for all she could tell.

  The conference room was empty with just the seven of them, no secretaries, no aides. She shrugged out of her windcheater and hung it on the back of her chair before she sat down. Freshets of cool air trickled across her bare arms, carrying away the perspiration.

  Grandpa, bring Royan in on this. I imagine we’ll need him. Besides, she wanted all her true friends together.

  Plugging him in now, Juliet.

  Teddy lowered himself gingerly into one of the padded chairs around the table, nodding approvingly. His combat leathers squeaked softly as he put his hands behind his head and sat back. ‘Man, now this is the life.’

  ‘Do you want anything to drink?’ Julia asked.

  ‘Hey, my kinda gal, you gotta beer?’

  ‘I’ll look,’ Rachel said. ‘Anybody else?’ She sauntered over to the mirrored nineteen-twenties drinks cabinet.

  Julia opaqued all the windows, cutting off the sight of that austere fog.

  ON LINE, her recessed flatscreen printed. HI SNOWY.

  ‘Hi.’

  Morgan raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m here as well,’ Philip’s voice announced.

  Julia enjoyed the startled look on Teddy’s face, the way his eyes darted round. Greg had told her Teddy took his religion very seriously indeed. Grandpa was a little bit too much like reincarnation.

  ‘Everybody’s up to date?’ Greg asked. ‘Julia? Royan?’

  ‘Yah.’

  YES YES YES.

  ‘OK,’ Greg said. ‘We have a new player on the field, James MacLennan.’

  ‘I’m assembling a profile,’ Philip said. ‘Every byte I can find, public and private files; plus a financial run down. Should be ready in quarter of an hour.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Julia asked. ‘Did MacLennan let Bursken out for the night?’

  ‘I was thinking about that,’ Greg said. ‘We’re faced with the same problem for Bursken as we were with a tekmerc penetration mission. How did he get in and out of Launde Abbey without leaving any trace?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she felt silly for asking.

  ‘And in any case, Eleanor and I saw Nicholas do it.’

  ‘It could have been an alternative past,’ Eleanor said; she sounded doubtful.

  ‘No. If you ask me,’ Greg said slowly. ‘I think it was Nicholas Beswick who actually physically murdered Kitchener.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Eleanor murmured.

  He patted her hand, receiving an exasperated glance.

  ‘Physically, he did it. And that was what threw me the first time. Nicholas Beswick isn’t the type. We all know that. He couldn’t harm a fly, not ordinarily.’

  ‘Ah!’ Gabriel slapped a hand against the table. ‘Now I get it, the laser paradigms.’

  ‘Right!’ Greg said. ‘At some time during that Thursday, Nicholas Beswick was targeted by a laser which loaded a paradigm into his brain. One which ordered him to kill Kitchener. And I think I know what the paradigm was: Liam Bursken’s memories, his personality.’

  ‘You told me the Stocken Hall team were constructing artificial memories from scratch,’ Julia said. ‘Like a perfect virtual reality recording. How could they know what Bursken’s memories cons
ist of?’

  Greg grinned. ‘Philip, you listening?’

  ‘I’m still here, m’boy.’

  ‘Care to tell your granddaughter exactly what you are?’

  ‘Oh,’ Julia groaned. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m not saying MacLennan copied every last thought from Bursken’s brain,’ Greg said. ‘Just the basics would do. That unique psychotic behavioural trait. That’s what he was after.’

  ‘If paradigms are that sophisticated, why didn’t MacLennan simply load a straightforward kill order into Beswick?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Because they’re not that sophisticated, not yet,’ Greg said. ‘All the Stocken team have so far is a few ersatz sensorium experiences, nothing more. That’s why MacLennan needed Bursken, as raw material. I told you Nicholas wasn’t the type. If MacLennan had just given him something like an advanced version of a hypnotic order to kill Kitchener he might have refused to do it when the moment actually arrived. Not everybody can kill; we can, you, me, and Teddy, because we’ve been trained to. In battlefield combat situations it’s pure reflex, we don’t even think. In counterinsurgency or ambush situations it becomes harder, you have time to think, to moralize; but if you hate your enemy enough it’s not much of a problem. That’s why company commanders always had such trouble finding genuinely good snipers, it’s not just marksmanship, it’s a question of temperament. It’s a rare person who can kill without any qualms.

  ‘I kept asking myself all through this case, who could do such a thing? Cold-blooded butchery on a sixty-seven-year-old. The only person I knew was Bursken. Out of all Stocken’s inmates he is the one who can kill without hesitation or remorse every time; he actually enjoyed it, he believed what he was doing was right.

  ‘I’d say MacLennan recorded Liam Bursken’s thoughts from a neuro coupling, and then combined them with an order to kill Kitchener. Then after Nicholas Beswick committed the murder the paradigm wiped itself from his mind, presumably along with his recollection of everything he did under its influence. The Stocken Hall research team has already developed a treatment they call magic photons, which can erase a memory, providing they know exactly what it is. And MacLennan certainly did, he made it.’