An energized Keshu nodded approvingly. "Do you remember any thing else about them? Anything they said, perhaps? Some indication of where the two of them might have been going after they finished here?"
"No." The guard shook his head. "I didn't hear what they were saying." He stiffened slightly. "I watch the visitors. I don't eavesdrop."
Keshu was not disappointed. It would have been foolish to hope for anything more, and he had been a cop long enough to learn not to expect it.
"You said 'the two of them.' " The guard's expression had not changed. "Don't you mean 'the three of them'?"
Corporal Bubba looked up from his recorder, exchanged a glance with his superior. Restraining himself, Keshu addressed the elderly guard cautiously. "We only know of the two." He gestured at the spindle the old man continued to finger. "You say you saw three? There was a third person with these two? You're sure?"
"Yes." The oldster was wonderfully positive. "Another woman. Also a foreigner, I think, though she was dressed like a local. I have seen her here before." He hesitated. "This is important?"
Keshu kept calm. "Yes, it is important. What can you tell us about this third person?" Next to him, Corporal Bubba was busy with his recorder. "Can you describe her to us? Height, hair length or color, body shape, distinguishing marks: anything you can tell us about her will be most helpful."
The old man proceeded to provide an account that, given the time that had passed since he had last seen the trio of visitors, would have done proud any officer in the force hoping for promotion to the rank of detective. When he had finished and Keshu was certain Bubba had it all down for entry into the department's reconstructor, the inspector thanked the guard from the bottom of his heart. He did not also have to press the pair of bills into the old man's hand, but he wanted to. Not only did he know what a break like this potentially might be worth, he had a pretty good idea what the old man received in the way of take-home pay after forty years of standing around watching tourists.
Leaving the museum and stepping back out into the appalling heat, Bubba commented as he put away his recorder. "Good to have a lead on this one, sir."
"Yes. We were going nowhere fast." Keshu headed for their car, secure in the no-parking zone at the base of the entry steps.
"Do you think if we find this other woman she might lead us not just to the murderer of these two unfortunate visitors, but to the serial killer himself that everyone in the department is talking about?"
Avoiding the visitors both ascending and descending the steps around them, Keshu paused halfway down the marble staircase. He ignored the effusive, recorded greetings being spoken by virtuals of the Mahatma and assorted other Gandhis to stare hard at the junior officer. "What makes you so sure, Corporal, that the third person is not the killer we seek? Do you not think a woman could commit these crimes? Or is it because the very informative old guard-wallah said he thought she might be white?"
Bubba was not afraid to meet his superior's gaze as they continued toward their car. "Neither one, sir. But the pictures from Forensics show very extreme wounds. It would take an exceptionally strong woman, of whatever background, to inflict those even with a very sharp weapon."
Raising his right arm toward his lips, Keshu uttered a terse command toward his bracelet pickup. The police cruiser unlocked, allowing them both to enter. The silent fuel-cell-powered electric
engine started up instantly. Leaning on the accelerator, Corporal Bubba guided it toward the parking lot exit.
"We know nothing of the physical capabilities of this killer," Keshu made clear. "There are some physically very strong women in this world. There are also other ways of enhancing one's strength. Steroids, vitamins. Banned substances. Of course," he added with a nod, "you may be perfectly correct. This third woman may only be a lead in the deaths of the two tourists. Or she may have nothing to do with it at all. But she is by far the best lead we have had so far."
"I believe she is the only lead we have, sir."
"Thanks for reminding me of that, Corporal," Keshu said dryly. He gestured to where his subordinate's recorder now rested in its charging slot in the console between them. "Thank Rama for the acuteness of the old man's memory. When we enter it all into the reconstructor, we'll at least have an image of someone to look for. And if this other woman is not directly connected to the killings, maybe she can supply us with additional useful information."
Without activating the car's siren or lights, Bubba pulled out onto a main street and slid over into the services lane, heading north. Effort lessly, he eased in between a garbage truck and a service transport carrying a team of power line technicians. The in-dash AI smoothly synchronized the cruiser's speed to that of the other vehicles. Overhead, the double-decked lanes of the same expressway vibrated slightly with the hum of southbound traffic.
"I think she should not be too difficult to locate, sir, if the recon structor can re-create a reasonably accurate portrait. There are not that many Europeans who are resident in the city. I would think there would be very few tall European women."
Typically, Keshu was brooding again, always focused on the worst-case scenario. "She may not be resident in the city. Maybe she lives in Delhi, or Bangalore, and only comes here to visit. To kill-if she is our killer. Which reminds me that once we have an image, it must be disseminated to every police department in the country. So we have a country to search, not just Sagramanda."
"Yes sir." Bubba was clearly disheartened by his superior's coldly professional analysis.
"Furthermore," the inspector continued, "it is also possible that she lives outside the country and only visits to commit murder." He was deep in thought now, arguing with himself. "But I think that less likely, since it would be too easy to pick out such an individual at points of entry. No, I think our serial killer lives in the country, though not necessarily in the city. I am less certain the witness we seek is European. Perhaps she is mixed. That would extend the list of possible suspects into the many tens of thousands."
He sighed and leaned back against the cushioning seat. It had been designed and built by Maruti to comfort and protect a body at pursuit speeds up to 300k an hour. Given the population density within Sagramanda, however, chase speeds tended to be in the single digits.
"If our quarry is a woman," he went on, "it would go a long way toward explaining the killer's success. Most people would not expect from a woman the kind of violence on display in the official Forensics' recordings. And she might successfully slip in and out of places with a large knife or sword where local Security would immediately detect a gun." He could not keep from thinking of the ceremonial kirpan at his waist whose function was purely religious.
"She could be working with the actual killer," Bubba suggested as they dove off the expressway and back onto city streets. "Maybe she serves as the bait."
Keshu nodded slowly. "But to what end? None of the victims who have been slain in this manner, including our unlucky Australians, had anything missing from their person. So robbery is not a motive, either for a solo killer, a pair, or a group. Neither have any of the victims been sexually assaulted. They do not appear to be linked by anything: gender, age, ethnicity, caste-nothing. The only thing that ties them together is the method by which they were murdered." He looked over at the corporal. "We are faced with the worst kind of serial killer: one who slays arbitrarily, and generates no pattern."
"Well, at least now we have, if not a direct link to the killer, a potential witness, sir."
The corporal was being disingenuous, Keshu knew. Trying to offer a glimmer of hope to a senior inspector notorious for his pessimism. He ought to be grateful for the thought, but he was too depressed.
Instead of someone performing random acts of kindness they had someone, or several someones, at large in the city intent on carrying out random acts of murder. If resourceful in hiding their tracks and good at leaving no clues, such an individual would be difficult enough to track down in a town of ten thousand. In Sagrama
nda, such a task was more than daunting. It was also a challenge; something that had driven Keshu since before he had undergone the sacred Amrit ceremony. Whether the challenge would prove too great for him and for the entire department to handle remained to be seen. Meanwhile, he had already come to one certain conclusion about their killer or killers.
They were not going to stop killing of their own accord.
Motive, he thought furiously. If only they could come up with a motive. Even serial killers had reasons for the outrages they committed. What bound the blade-slain victims together? What link was he overlooking?
Corporal Bubba said nothing more during the remainder of the drive back to headquarters, addressing himself neither to the car's AI nor to its other human occupant. He knew that both were deeply engaged in the business of pro cessing information.
*7*
Chal was a patient man, but the lack of leads was beginning to irritate him. Never particularly fond of Indian food, he was also growing tired of eating at the numerous Western fast-food franchises that had extended their french-fried tentacles throughout the city. He could afford better, but preferred to avoid the fancier restaurants. For one thing, such destinations were among the few where despite his assiduous lifelong efforts to main tain his anonymity, he might be recognized. For another, he took an almost perverse delight in subjecting his body to the corruption fast food could engender. Lastly, the very act of eating wasted time. The dour tracker regarded eating as akin to putting fuel in a car: a necessity to ensure forward motion best completed in the least possible amount of time.
Yet it seemed as if the time thus saved was being wasted. None of his contacts had brought him anything useful. That was the conun drum he was mulling over in his mind as he walked down Park Street.
It was natural that he would take his time; not only because he enjoyed walking, but because he was on his way to report his lack of progress to Mr. Nayari. It was from Mr. Nayari's company that the much-sought-after researcher had taken his abrupt leave, and it was from a sizable if surreptitious account that Mr. Nayari was personally paying Chal for his services. Given the size of the daily retainer Chal was charging the company, it was not unreasonable for the vice president to expect results. While Chal could not yet supply these, he felt it incumbent on him to provide an explanation for his lack of progress thus far. "Sagramanda is a big city," he knew, would not be accepted as a sufficient excuse.
He was passing the old cemetery, with its stone monuments and thick vegetation, when the weapon was pointed at him. Its appearance was accompanied by a whisper.
"Step in here, please, sir, or I will have to shoot you where you stand."
From off to one side, another young man materialized out of the bushes to come up behind Schneemann. Eyeing the speaker and his weapon, Chal nodded tersely, wiped several fingers over the left breast pocket of his one-piece beige jumpsuit, raised his hands, and stepped off the sidewalk and into the underbrush. Once out of public view, he found himself confronted by three young men.
Defying the heat of midday, they wore long white leather pants electrostatically charged to repel dirt. Two flaunted matching white cotton tank tops while their companion, the one holding the weapon, wore a T-shirt emblazoned with the dancing image of a popular singer. All were shorter and considerably darker of skin than the larger, mixed-race Chal. One had the sloe-eyed features of a Nepali. If pressed by the police, they would smilingly insist that the stripes that streaked their pants legs were only decoration. Among Sagramanda's gang culture, such stripes stood for the number of people the owner of each pair of pants had beaten up or robbed. Red stripes for male victims, green for women. One of the trio displayed an inordinate number of green stripes, of which he was no doubt proud.
Chal's attention remained concentrated on the single visible weapon. It was a wire shocker. He had to smile at the irony of it. Whatever hath that multitalented dead American Thomas Edison wrought? he mused to himself not for the first time. It was doubtful the famous inventor had ever envisioned anything as compactly diabol ical as the wire shocker.
"Wallet," the young man nearest him demanded curtly. "Do not try to hide anything from us or it will go harsh with you."
Expertly feigning fear, Chal nodded again. "The decoy is in my breast pocket; the real, secured one is up inside my right pants' leg."
Seeing that their victim was going to cooperate, the youth holding the wire shocker relaxed slightly. His cronies advanced hastily, one kneeling to remove the outed security wallet from their impassive prey's pants' leg, the other reaching for Chal's top pocket. Being naturally anxious to conclude their mugging as quickly as possible, they worked fast and in tandem. Both made contact with their target at the same time. There was the sharp, crackling sound of a powerful electrical discharge. The two stunned gang members found themselves shocked backward, down, and out.
By lightly pressing his fingers in a particular pattern over his left breast pocket, Chal had activated the sealed superconductive wiring woven into the fabric of his jumpsuit. Fully powered up, the thin, flexible, lightweight batteries sewn into the back of his jumpsuit not only provided protection to his spine, they were also capable of delivering a charge of several hundred volts to anyone who touched him once the system had been activated. Their wearer was not affected because he was fully grounded through the soles of his special shoes, to which the jump suit's integrated defensive mechanism was linked.
Its effect was instructive. The youth who had reached for Chal's other top pocket was blown into a clump of bushes. Receiving a slightly bigger jolt, the kneeling Nepali now lay on his back. Several fingers on his clutching right hand were burned black. Smoke issued from the tips.
Motivated by a mixture of fear and fury, the third youth instinctively fired his weapon. Connected to its gun by a superthin conducting wire, the penetrating dart struck its target square in the stomach. Glancing down at where it had pierced his jumpsuit to embed itself in the Nanocarb-Kevlar undersuit he always wore, Chal eyed the dart with interest as its potentially lethal charge was dissipated by the combination of outer jumpsuit and inner defensive material. Had the dart packed an explosive instead of an electrical head, his unpretentious looking but very expensive clothing would have success fully dissipated its deadly effects as well.
Having shot his electronic wad, the wide-eyed surviving youth dropped his now-useless discharged weapon, turned, and ran. Chal could have shot him several times before he fled out of range, but there was no need. He had delivered a lesson that might or might not be absorbed. Whether it was or not was of no consequence to him. Sagramanda was home to thousands of such youths. Statistics showed that there were already enough who would not make it to adulthood. He saw no reason to add to the total.
Testing the wire that connected the dart in his belly to the gun lying on the ground, he made sure that it had spent its charge before yanking it out of his body armor. Without bothering to look down, he stepped over the supine body of the half-paralyzed Nepali. Gazing in unblinking shock at his burned fingers, the youth was already beginning to twitch spasmodically. In less than an hour he and his companion of the bushes would be back on their feet. Unsteady, in pain, but alive. Their delayed recovery would give them time to contemplate the ironic nature of their surroundings.
Emerging from the cemetery brush, an unperturbed Chal resumed his interrupted stroll up Park Street. From the time he had disappeared within until the time he had reemerged, his expression had not changed. None of the other pedestrians looked at him; no one glanced in his direc tion. What people did in the bushes was their own business.
Though clad in bronze-hued glass from New New Delhi and green marble from Rajasthan, the tower that housed the Sagramanda administrative offices of the company that had engaged his services had been designed to look like an ancient Chandela temple. Multiple smaller spires surrounded and supported the sixty-story main structure. Instead of the sculptures of sensuous apsaras, or celestial maidens, who decorated the
real temples in places like distant Khajuraho, the office tower and its subsidiary spires boasted glowing virtuals that promoted the giant multinational's many divisions and diverse products. While the virtuals did not stray far from their projection units they gave the structure, especially at night, the appearance of being under assault by angels.
Heavenly commerce, Chal thought as he entered the first of several double-doored layers of building security. How Indian.
With his suit deactivated, he set off no immediate alarms. The ultrathin, concealed superconducting wires that were part of the weave were of course picked up by detectors, as were the twin flexible battery packs that were woven into the back of his jumpsuit. When a swift, professional analytic scan by building security revealed that they were connected to nothing explosive and that the batteries had fully discharged, he was allowed to proceed. The woman who accepted his weapons for safekeeping while he was on business within the building kept looking from the sophisticated devices, several of which were beyond her experience, to their owner. Clearly, she wanted to ask about them, and about him. He left her unsatisfied, with only a polite smile.
He did not feel naked or unarmed as he walked toward one of two express lifts. Not every lethal weapon had been checked with building security. For example, he still had his arms and legs.
The live receptionist on the fifty-ninth floor greeted her sinewy visitor with a pleasant "Soobden"-good day. Jaded as he was, Chal tended to look at people once, size them up, and file the information. On this occasion he was moved to look twice. Not because the woman was exceptionally beautiful in her early maturity, which she was. Not because the full-length sari she was wearing rippled of its own accord, programmed as it was with its own integrated flex-breeze, to alternately stand away from and cling to her supple body. No, he looked a second time because one glance was not enough to enable him to identify the long, slender gun she wore strapped to her long, slender left leg underneath the distractingly motile sari.
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