Ivan caved, as Glen had expected. “What can we do for you?”
“You rented out Warehouse #117,” Glen said. “I imagine you know it’s been raided?”
“Yes,” Doyle said, flatly. The reports had stated that the firm had attempted to demand answers, but for once they’d been unable to learn anything from the Civil Guard. “And we need it reopened ...”
“That may not happen for quite some time,” Glen said, cutting him off. It was always a mistake to let someone like Doyle think he was in charge. “I require access to all the documentation from the rental, everything. You will have it sent to this office and I will go through it, now.”
Doyle looked reluctant – Glen wondered, absently, what a search of his office would reveal – and then started to bark orders to a team of secretaries. They were all achingly young, Glen noted, wearing uniforms that left very little to the imagination. Ivan didn't seem to care about their opinions, Glen decided, or their feelings. Given how hard it was to get a job now, the secretaries probably had no choice, but to put up with his lecherous feelings as long as he wanted to favour them with his attentions. And some of them might well have thought they had no choice, but to go further.
He sat down in front of Doyle’s personal terminal and opened the display, then started to read through the documents one by one. Doyle stood in front of him, pacing backwards and forwards as if he were too nervous to leave Glen alone in his office, which was a worrying sign. But then, Glen would have been nervous if Internal Affairs had started investigating his terminal too. There was nothing so innocent that a suitably motivated investigator couldn't turn into a damning piece of evidence.
There was less than he'd expected, although there were some interesting tips. Warehouse #117 had been rented by a transhipment firm, claiming that their cargo was merely being stored on the ground and would be returned to orbit when they charted their next freighter. It was believable, Glen had to admit; storage fees for orbital space were far higher than fees for warehouses on the ground, and if the material was marked for transhipment it would attract less attention from the customs officers. Hell, if the warehouse was secure, they might not pay any attention at all. There was so much freight being moved from orbit to the surface for local distribution that they might not have time to check out Warehouse #117. And a few bribes would definitely ensure that anyone who was interested lost interest shortly afterwards.
“You didn't check out their company,” Glen said, looking up at Doyle. “Why not?”
“Ah ... that was an operational decision,” Doyle said. He didn't know precisely what had been found in the warehouse, Glen was sure, but he knew it had to be bad. Passing the buck was standard procedure for any middle-ranking corporate executive. Given time, the intern on the desk would wind up with the blame and would be summarily fired. “And they paid up front.”
“So they did,” Glen said. He checked the manifest, then frowned. “You didn't think there was something odd about them paying for four months storage?”
“That’s not uncommon,” Doyle objected. “We have some long-term storage sites that are prepaid for up to a year ...”
“But how many of them,” Glen asked, “are transhipment warehouses?”
He snorted. “It seems a little uneconomical,” he added, darkly. “Or did they want to make sure the warehouse was never inspected?”
“We don’t inspect our warehouses unless the bills are left unpaid,” Doyle said. “Our customers value their privacy.”
“So it would seem,” Glen said. He looked back at the manifest. “I think by now you’ve realised the warehouse wasn't storing farming equipment for new colonies.”
Doyle made a face, but said nothing.
“You rented out the warehouse to terrorists,” Glen added. “I need all the contact details they gave you, now.”
“They’ll be in the files,” Doyle said. He walked around his desk, then pointed to the tab. “That’s what they gave us.”
Glen frowned as he scanned the file. It didn't take more than a casual sweep to realise that the transhipment company simply didn't exist. Hell, the Nihilists hadn't been very careful about constructing their bogus identity. A quick call to the Department of Commerce would have revealed that it was nothing more than a fake. The handful of testimonials on their datanet site were so bland they had to be fake. And the address they’d been given was nothing more than an office anyone could rent, in the heart of the city. Glen would investigate, of course, but he would be very surprised if he found more than an abandoned office complex.
“I want you to make sure you didn't rent any other warehouses to the same people,” Glen ordered. He plugged a datachip into the terminal and made a copy of each of the files. It was unlikely they’d be able to learn anything else from the files, but the WebHeads would go through them anyway. There was a datanet presence, after all, and it might just lead them to the terrorist support network. “Go. Now.”
“I'm sure they wouldn't have dared,” Doyle protested. “Marshal, I ...”
“Go,” Glen snapped.
He waited until Doyle had retreated, then keyed a hasty command into the terminal. Marshal-issue datachips had much more storage space than civilian modals and, combined with hacking software, could copy the entire contents of a terminal within seconds. It felt like hours before the datachip bleeped once, revealing that it had completed its task. Glen let out a sigh of relief, then pocketed the chip. There would be time to investigate Ivan Doyle’s role in the whole affair later.
“There weren't any other contracts,” Doyle said, as he stepped back into his office. His eyes were very nervous, suggesting he had something to hide. “But we have quite a few warehouses reserved for long-term storage.”
“Then give me those files too,” Glen said. “In fact, I think you should tighten up your procedures. Check out everyone who asks to purchase warehouse space and see if they’re actually legitimate.”
“But that would dissuade others from using our services,” Doyle protested. “And ...”
He broke off. “Sharon Wright was the booking agent,” he added. “She’s in the building, if you wish to speak to her.”
“Please,” Glen said. There would be time to check out the other applications for long-term storage later. “Show her into your office, then leave us.”
Doyle flushed, but obeyed. Glen took advantage of his absence to scan the office for bugs, a brief scan which revealed next to nothing. Doyle, it seemed, didn't want to be recorded at his desk, something Glen had to admit was understandable. There were cameras in the station, he knew, but they were meant to cover the security staff’s asses if a prisoner got rowdy, rather than spying on the marshals. Although Glen had sometimes wondered if Patty watched her subordinates through the cameras ...
He broke off that chain of thought as the door opened, revealing a tall woman with long brown hair and a grim-faced expression of defiance. There was no way to be sure, but Glen had a feeling that Doyle had told her she would be the scapegoat if the company was threatened with legal sanctions for allowing terrorists to use their facilities. The look in the woman’s eyes – a mixture of tiredness and despair – certainly fitted. She was old enough to be blacklisted for life if she were fired without notice.
“Take a seat,” Glen said. he waved for Doyle to leave the room, then sat down facing her. “Miss Wright ...”
“Please call me Sharon,” Sharon said. Her voice was Earth-accented, the curious mumble that afflicted much of the planet. It meant nothing – Earth had produced most of the entertainment flicks that were distributed through the galaxy – but it was interesting. “I prefer not to be called by my mother’s name.”
“I understand,” Glen said. He paused, then silently clicked on his recorder. “You’re not under arrest, but I have to warn you that your cooperation – or lack of it – will be taken into account during the investigation and charges may be filed against you if it turns out that you have concealed information that later b
ecame important. Do you understand me?”
Sharon nodded, but said nothing.
“I need a verbal answer,” Glen said. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Sharon said.
Glen smiled. “Good,” he said. “I understand you were responsible for renting out Warehouse #117?”
“I was responsible for showing the renters how to access the building and set up the facilities,” Sharon said, quickly. “I wasn't responsible for renting it out to them in the first place.”
“Noted,” Glen said. He sighed, inwardly. Doyle had definitely hinted Sharon was going to take the blame. “What happened when you met them?”
Sharon took a breath. Glen understood; it was the age-old problem when interviewing witnesses and potential suspects. Even the most cooperative witnesses had problems recalling what the interviewers needed to hear, even without false memories and the understandable desire to please the listeners getting in the way. Sharon had had no reason to pay close attention to the renters, so she hadn't – and now she was being forced to recall every last detail from hazy memory.
“There were four of them,” she said, finally. “I thought they were all young men, although one of them might have been a woman. The only one who spoke was the leader, who insisted on asking a number of questions about the air conditioning and other systems before signing the lease and making the first payment to the company’s credit account. I didn't see the questions as particularly unusual, sir. Everyone asks how to manage the facilities before they take over the building.”
Glen nodded, then pulled his terminal from his belt and opened it to show the faces of the dead men. “Do you recognise any of them?”
“That’s the leader,” Sharon said, after paging through five faces. “I don’t recognise any of the others.”
“I see,” Glen said. The leader had been one of the mystery men, which meant ... what? Assuming Sharon was correct, there were at least three others running around on Terra Nova and probably more. They’d always known the Nihilists had an interstellar presence, but the reports had definitely suggested the strangers were ex-military personnel. “Did they ask you anything in particular?”
“They talked about renting a shuttle,” Sharon said. “We don’t get that request very often, because most of the stuff we store in those warehouses comes from the planetary surface. I had to tell them that the shuttles were fully booked up for the week.”
“Probably for the best,” Glen said. He briefly considered inviting Sharon to the station for a full interrogation, then decided against it. Instead, he leaned forward. Women were often more observant than men, he’d been told. And sometimes they saw more than they realised. “Did you see anything else you want to mention?”
Sharon hesitated. “I’m not sure if it’s worth mentioning,” she said. “I could be wrong.”
“I won’t hold it against you,” Glen said. “What did you see?”
“They seemed very comfortable with each other,” Sharon said, finally. “Perhaps a little too comfortable. I had the impression they were homosexuals, but two of them were definitely staring at my butt when they thought I wasn't looking. Maybe they were bisexuals.”
Glen kept his face expressionless. She might be right, but he could think of another explanation for their appearance. A trained commando team, one that had worked together for years, might be equally comfortable with one another. And they wouldn’t be hesitant about admiring a pretty girl either. The suspicion that a rogue team was precisely what they had on their hands was too strong to be ignored.
If they’re actually rogue, he thought. Who might have sent them to Terra Nova?
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said. He reached into his pocket and produced a contact card, which he passed to her. “If you think of anything else, anything at all, feel free to contact me at once. Until then, keep what we talked about to yourself.”
“They’ll want answers,” Sharon said, jerking a hand towards the wall. “And what do I tell them?”
“That the whole affair is classified,” Glen said, rising to his feet. There would be time to go through the files he’d borrowed – stolen – later. “You won’t have to worry about losing your job.”
Sharon looked doubtful. Glen didn't blame her. It was illegal to dismiss someone because they’d been called to the colours, let alone interrogated by the Imperial Marshals. But Doyle could probably find another reason to dismiss her, if he tried. Glen sighed, then made a mental note to have a short talk with Doyle afterwards. The whole affair couldn't be left in the past until Glen and his superiors confirmed that there were no suspicions levelled at the shipping firm. He could delay clearing them for as long as he chose.
And how, he asked himself as he rose, does that make you any different from all the others who exploit their positions?
He watched Sharon leave the room, then had a long heart-to-heart with Doyle. The man seemed somewhat relieved, leaving Glen convinced he had a guilty conscience about something. But there was no time to follow up on it, not now. He checked his watch, then walked out to the car and climbed behind the wheel. There was just enough time to go home to check on Helen before driving to the office the terrorists had hired. It was unlikely they’d left any clues behind, but he had to check. And then he could start going through the remaining files from Doyle. Who knew what else the man had been doing?
But only if it’s a major crime, he reminded himself. You don’t have time to waste.
Chapter Thirteen
Legally, the older one in the partnership will be guilty of statutory rape (an act that is always criminal because the victim is assumed to be incapable of granting consent) and thus can be charged with child molestation. But if one person is sixteen and the other fifteen, with both parties having raging hormones, is that actually a criminal act? Many readers would, I suspect, argue no. It is not a criminal act.
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.
“I was surprised to hear from you again,” Thomas Augustus said.
Belinda gave him a charming smile. She was surprised he’d answered her message so promptly, inviting her to dinner at the largest revolving restaurant in Landing City. Indeed, she’d barely had time to catch a few hours of sleep before his personal car arrived to transport her to the restaurant. Clearly, she’d made a much greater impression on him than she’d thought.
Or he’s embarrassed about falling over in a drunken stupor, she thought, privately. I’m surprised he even wants to look at me after embarrassing himself so thoroughly.
“You left your code with me,” Belinda said. “And I don’t know many other people in Landing City.”
“Well, I’m glad you did,” Augustus said. He stood and waved a hand towards the window, indicating the towering skyscrapers outside. “What do you make of our fine city?”
Belinda had several answers for that, but most of them would be far from helpful. “Old,” she said, after a moment. “Living history.”
“That’s true,” Augustus said. “The other cities on this planet might be alarmingly like Earth, but Landing City is spread out for miles. Government House” – he pointed to a block of lights in the distance – “hasn’t really changed since the planet gained self-government. It’s a piece of living history too.”
Belinda nodded. She had no idea what building on Earth had served as the model, but she had to admit the towering white edifice was very impressive. And, compared to some of the skyscrapers, it looked tiny. The building would be very hard to defend if an insurgent force took control of some of the surrounding buildings and used them to pour fire into the heart of Government House.
She looked around the room as Augustus sat down. The restaurant was very impressive, although there was a creaking sense of age that reminded her of some of the Imperial Navy’s older battleships. There were gold and silver artworks everywhere, while the waiters were dressed up to the nines, with snooty expressions they directed towards every
guest who didn't have at least a million credits in the bank. Even reserving a table in advance, according to the datanet, cost a thousand credits. Belinda was morbidly impressed that Augustus had been able to organise one on such short notice.
“But enough of that,” Augustus said. He smiled at her, then picked up the menu. “Order whatever you want, my dear. My treat.”
And then you plan to lure me into bed, Belinda thought, sardonically. But she wasn't too surprised. If you knew what I was would you still want to go to bed with me?
She pushed the thought aside as she opened the menu. The prices were literally staggering, even something as simple as fish and chips cost over a hundred credits. A quick scan of the wine list revealed some bottles that were unique, so rare she had a feeling that they were literally impossible to price. She was mildly surprised they hadn't been scooped up by a collector and stored in a high-security vault.
“Eat whatever you want,” Augustus said. “I’m paying.”
Belinda lifted the menu to hide her smile. On Greenway, her first date had cost her boyfriend – she couldn't remember his name, only that he’d been one of the few to match her sharpshooting skills – a handful of credits. They’d packed a picnic and taken it into the mountains to eat, well away from anyone else. She rather doubted that the richest man on her homeworld could have afforded to eat with Augustus. But he seemed confident.
“I’ve never eaten anything like this before,” she said, instead. “What should I try?”
“The Chef’s Special is always unique,” Augustus said. “Or, if you want something really fancy, you could try the fish. They cook it in a special sauce, then serve it with vegetables – all naturally-grown, of course. None of that vat-grown muck here!”
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