The Lazarus Drop

by Paul Moomaw

  I stared at nothing for a while, then finally managed to shake the images and return my attention to the tape, which was telling me of the existence of “potentially available human resource” in the form of a revolutionary underground in Michoacan. The report didn't specify where they might be found. I assumed Nordeen would have the details there.

  The government was very interested in having Imry in the United States, as his work presented an obvious political, military and economic advantage to whatever country he allied himself with. The government took a special interest in dissuading Imry from taking up residence in Brazil, which had been flexing its already considerable political, military and economic muscle to the discomfiture of the United States in recent years. At the same time, the government was very interested in keeping its interest in Imry under cover, as Brazil had laid claim to Imry already, and Brazil and the United States were officially great friends.

  The government was also very interested in providing assistance to the aforementioned Michoacan underground. When nature replaced Japan with a string of smoldering volcanic fragments earlier this century, scattering the Japanese to the ends of the earth and terminating their substantial economic presence in the world, Washington learned two vital lessons: First, a fragmented country does not offer a threat to American interests; and second, if the United States doesn't fill the resulting vacuum, someone else will. In the case of Japan, the Chinese moved in.

  Mexico was a fragmented country. That was good. Noriega threatened to unite it. That was bad, especially as Brazil—already disturbingly powerful on its own continent—was already casting covetous eyes on our southern neighbor, and might see Noriega as a useful tool. So if the underground could help get hold of Imry, if the underground could in turn be assisted in dumping Noriega, and if all of this could be done without anybody being the wiser, the government—my government—would be very happy.

  That was where I came in. It was like the old gangster films at the Twentieth Century Pavilion. When the mob's big boss wants somebody burned in those films he always provides a clean gun—one with no identifying marks, that can't be traced back.

  My job was to be the clean gun.

  I slipped the bubblecorder back into my pocket and finished my whiskey. Across the way the rollerbabies were still toying with their fat tourist. Suddenly he was moving in six different directions at once, and then the rollerbabies were all down, one writhing and shrieking like the end of the world, one just twitching a little, face down in a smear of blood, and one lying on his back, his head at a funny angle, not moving at all. I had a feeling he never would again.

  Then the tourist was moving rapidly toward the energy wall. He paid his way through the gate, and walked toward my table. He stopped a meter away, looking back over his shoulder and wringing his hands. He was tall, easily two hundred centimeters, and you would say he looked soft if you hadn't seen what he had just done. He turned back and gazed down at me with glossy black eyes that bulged on either side of a huge nose, curved and fleshy, which threw everything else on his swarthy face out of proportion, especially his small, pursed mouth.

  “I am so afraid I was not gentle with those persons. But I could see that you were about to leave, and felt a great need to speak with you.”

  He looked back at the rollerbabies again, bouncing up and down a little and twisting his hands together again. “I simply could not seem to make them understand."

  He settled at the table next to mine and stared intently at me, the way a vulture looks at an animal when it's waiting for it to die. If the rollerbabies hadn't been too stoned to see that look, I thought, they would have left him alone.

  Most of all, he smelled. It was an odd, sweet-sour, musky smell that seemed to be compounded of sweat and some awful perfume. He had a sweaty look to him, for that matter, and I had the impression you could store him in a cryobank for a week, and he would still look sweaty.

  “You have just had conversation with a Mister Paul Nordeen,” he said. “My name is Chandra Beg.” He stood up, gave me a comical little bow, and sat back down again. “Of the Indian Ministry of Science, New Delhi. At your service.” He dug into the inner pocket of a seedy looking jacket and handed me a grimy card, which said he was who he claimed he was, and contained a vidcom access code. I put it into my pocket without comment.

  “Mister Nordeen and my government have a common interest,” Beg went on, “although he might not see it that way. But we are both interested in the whereabouts of a man named Erno Imry.” He paused. “Perhaps you have heard that name as well."

  “I hear a lot of names."

  Beg smiled. “One can see you are a cautious man. And perhaps Erno Imry is not what you and Mister Paul Nordeen have in common. More likely it is sailboats, or women, or....” he paused again and cocked his head, which made him look more like a giant bird than ever, “starships?”

  He stood up. “But if it should happen that you decide to throw caution to the winds, perhaps you will remember that I have given you my card.”

  He gave me the little bow again, and walked away, taking the smell of his perfume with him. Beyond the gate, two of the rollerbabies had gotten up and fled, leaving their companion to his fate. As he passed the still body, Beg looked down and wrung his fingers together again, shaking his head and pursing his lips. Then he moved quickly into the crowd and was gone.

  That evening I called Stuart back and told him I had met Nordeen.

  “He makes me believe in androids,” I said. “I bet if I stuck him with something sharp, he'd bleed lubricating fluid."

  “Are you going to take the job?"

  “Sure. I don't have to like him. Meantime, there's something you could check out for me.” I told him about Chandra Beg. “He's looking for Imry, too. I'd like to know why.”

  Stuart nodded. “I'll check my sources. Ministry of Science, he said."

  “He said."

  I ended the call and settled down with a drink and the bubblecorder to make sure I hadn't missed anything that would make me change my mind about taking on Mister Paul Nordeen and his missing person.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 2

  Nordeen was still at The Hole in The Wall, padding his government expense account, and I still didn't like him.

  “You took long enough,” he said, and motioned me to the same chairs by the window. He brought a large, black attaché case over and sat down.

  “This is a receipt for $75,000, already deposited in your account.” He handed me a piece of paper. “Another $75,000 will be deposited when you finish the job. If you finish the job."

  “Your confidence is touching.” I looked the receipt over. It was actually for 230,000 Rupees, converted to US dollars upon deposit in my account. I didn't ask how he had gotten my account number. I didn't really want to know. I still like to have a few fantasies about things like my right to privacy. I was the oldest kid in my neighborhood to stop believing in the Easter Android, too. The receipt said it was payment for services rendered, but not specified, and the payment came from something called Worldnet Interface, Ltd, with offices in Phoenix, Manaus, and New Delhi.

  “There's also the matter of the $2000 it will cost to get wired for Spanish,” I said.

  “I assume you understand the concept of expense accounts?” The little sneer was in his voice again. “If you don't, we can always put you through our clerk's training course.”

  I didn't bother to answer.

  Nordeen reached into the black case again, and pulled out a shiny silver pyramid, about five centimeters square at the base and eight centimeters high.

  “When you get Imry out—excuse me, if you get Imry out—use this. It's a simple transmitter. The switch is in the base. Just put it someplace with a clear shot at the sky—a flat roof or something like that—and turn it on. It will send the same, thirty-second message for twelve hours, so you can let me know you have Imry whether there's a satcom station functioning in Morelia or not. Then take our
man, find yourself a boat, and go here."

  He got up, came back with a map, which he spread out between us. His finger touched the city of Morelia, then followed the blue line of a river.

  “This river goes right through town. Twenty kilometers downstream a powerline crosses it, with a transmission tower at the water's edge. Just beyond that is a piece of beach and a meadow. I'll be waiting for you there."

  He folded the map and placed it in the attaché case along with the transmitter. He pulled out a tri-di snapshot.

  “This is Imry."

  The three-dimensional effect didn't match a holocube, but the subject's features were clear. He was a little plump, with a beardless, heart shaped face and a straight, short nose that came to a sharp point just above a thin-lipped mouth. The mouth was set in a smile as thin as the lips. His hair was sandy brown, unremarkable. In fact, the whole face was unremarkable except for the ears, which were large, and stuck out like handles.

  Nordeen gave me a minute to inspect the picture, then tucked it away.

  “You don't get to take that with you.”

  He said, and pulled a flat, black handgun, barely palm-sized, from the case. “This is a weapon.”

  “No shit."

  “This is a weapon,” he repeated with exaggerated slowness. “It's Brazilian, Carvalho Arms, so if you should get picked up, there's no connection to us. It's non-metallic, so you should be able to get it past any detector you run into in Mexico.” He bounced it up and down softly in his hand. “It isn't real accurate, but it fires explosive flechettes. There's an extra clip of them in the case.”

  “I prefer to live by my wits."

  “I don't basically give a shit whether you live or die, Blue. The only reason I'm screwing with you at all is that there's no time to look for someone else right now, and we don't know how much longer Imry will be in Michoacan. But I have to give you the gun, and you have to take it. And sign for it. After that, you can stick it up your ass for all I care."

  I took the gun. And I signed for it. I pointed at the transmitter. “Is that Brazilian, too?"

  “Chinese. I understand they give us a good price because we buy so many."

  He handed me a wallet. “This should help with your expenses down there. It's currency. The blue and green stuff spends in the Federal District. The brown bills are for Michoacan. Don't get them mixed up. Especially not in the Federal District. It's against the law to have subversive material there, and that includes anything printed or minted by the breakaway states."

  I opened the wallet. “It looks like a lot."

  “It is. You could live on that for a year, as long as they don't find out it's counterfeit."

  I guess I gave him a look, because he grinned like a crocodile. “Don't worry, Blue, they won't. This stuff is Chinese, too. Absolutely foolproof. Even we can't pick it out from the real stuff.”

  A piece of paper with an access code was next. Nordeen held it up in front of me. “Memorize this."

  I locked it away. “Got it,” I said.

  “Good. That's me. You can reach me with that number any time you have to, and you can reach that number from any machine that ties into the hypernet. Even in Mexico that should mean at least some machines.” He leaned back in his chair, gazed out the window for a moment.

  “There's supposed to be a contact in the city of Morelia,” he said. “All we have is the name Cruz. We assume it's a man. If you can locate him, he's your ticket to the underground, and the underground should be your ticket to Imry."

  “How?"

  “You remember the name Noriega?” I nodded. “The underground wants Noriega. We can help them. And we wouldn't mind seeing him go down. He's cozy with the wrong people, anyway. But in return they have to deliver Imry. If you can make contact with them, and cut a deal, call that number you just memorized.” He paused. “You did memorize it?"

  I did the mature thing and repeated it back to him, instead of telling him to screw himself. He nodded.

  “Good. Whatever they need, we'll see they get it. Within reason, you understand? No nukes. No biologicals. Maybe some chemical stuff, we'd have to see about that."

  “What if they turn out to be worse than Noriega?"

  “Who gives a shit?"

  “Maybe the people who have to live with them."

  Nordeen dismissed the subject with a tight wave of his hand. “There's a glider ticket in here, too. No name, open date, one way. It will get you from Los Angeles to Mexico City. It's up to you to figure how to get from there to Morelia. The Federal District doesn't forbid travel to the breakaway states, it wants the hard money from the tourists who pass through. But on the other hand, they don't make it convenient."

  “What about the trip back?"

  “Do you understand the concept of a Lazarus drop?” Nordeen said. “It means that, from the moment you step into the glider bound for Mexico, you are dead as far as we are concerned—never even existed, in fact. If you make it to the pickup point—with Imry—we bring you back to life, just like Lazarus, pull you out, and pay you the rest of your money."

  “A veritable miracle,” I said. “And if I don't make it to the rendezvous with my cargo?"

  Nordeen didn't bother to answer. He went back to the case and pulled out another wallet, thin and black.

  “This is the last item, your passport."

  “I already have a passport."

  “That one has your own name on it. This one has your cover ID. New name, new history, the whole works.”

  “I shook my head.

  “No.”

  “What the shit you mean, no, Blue? We went to a lot of trouble creating this guy. We covered deep. You could go to Walla Walla, Washington, right this minute, and there's a retired school teacher, delightful old lady, who would tell you all kinds of wonderful tales about a boy named Norman Burrows when he was her pupil. That's you. You want to waste that kind of effort, Blue?”

  “I never use an assumed identity, no matter what kind of job I'm on.”

  I have a good reason for that. Early on in my work for Stuart I used false papers on three different jobs, and I screwed up all three times. I just can't keep that kind of thing straight, and sooner or later, I blow my own cover. So now I always use my own name.

  But I didn't explain all that to Nordeen. I just shook my head and told him, “No,” again, and enjoyed watching him have to eat it.

  I could tell he didn't care for the taste. He picked up everything and put it back into the case, including the passport, and locked the case up, then erased the lock.

  “Give me your thumb, Blue,” he said, and pressed it against a recessed diamond on the lock plate.

  “Secure,” he said.

  “Let's see if it works.” I pressed my thumb against the lock plate and pushed the button next to it. The lock snapped open. I opened the case wide, pulled out the passport, and tossed it into his lap. Then I closed the case and stood up.

  “See you around, Nordeen."

  “Sooner than you think, Blue. I'm running you all the way home on this one. When you deliver Imry, if you can, you'll deliver him to me.”

  “How exciting,” I said, and let myself out.

  I couldn't know when I might get a taste of good whiskey again, so as soon as I left the hotel I strolled back down to the Pavilion of Strangers. I wasn't halfway through my first drink when Chandra Beg showed up. He came at me from upwind, and I smelled him before I saw him.

  “Ah, it is Mister Nathaniel Blue, isn't it?” He sat down at the table next to mine and fixed his glittering black eyes on me. “You see, I have learned your name. Isn't that clever of me?” He smiled like a delighted child, then gave me a slow, conspiratorial wink.

  “And you have been to see Mister Paul Nordeen again. I know that, too. And it wasn't about sailboats at all."

  “You're a regular one-man intelligence operation, aren't you."

  Beg ducked his head and spread his palms in mock self-abnegation.

  “I can clai
m no special skills, I fear. I have a cousin who works at The Hole in the Wall, and he tells me many things. And even that is only because our government sends him a little extra money from New Delhi."

  “I don't have the slightest idea of what you're talking about, of course,” I said.

  “Of course not, Mister Blue. But do me the pleasure of letting me sit here with you, enjoying the sunlight and the ocean breeze, and speaking of things hypothetical."

  I nodded. “Things hypothetical."

  Beg pointed to my glass. “But that is empty. How could I be so unobservant? You must allow me to have it refilled for you.” He called the roboserver over and ordered my favorite brand of whiskey for me, and a glass of tea for himself. I was impressed, and I also stopped believing in his cousin. A hotel employee might learn my name, but not the name of my whisky.

  Beg hitched his chair a little closer to my table.

  “Now, Mister Blue, hypothetically speaking, if a man, any man, had knowledge that could take us to the stars, many people would be interested in that man, would you not agree?”

  “Certainly. Even if the man were a woman.”

  “Absolutely. And if this man, or this woman—this generic person, shall we say—were to disappear very suddenly, there might be a great hubble and bubble and crying about in the night, looking for this hypothetical person.”

  “Could be."

  “Most certainly, it could be. Even governments, perhaps, might go looking for such a person. My government, perhaps. And the Brazilian government. And the American government.”