Behold a Dark Mirror Page 7

  Outside the closed doors of the office, the Civil Defense was turning Jenus's lab into an even worse mess. Occasional crashes, loud voices—too many people were moving around with horsey grace.

  Jenus, sitting with his feet on the desk, donned his best poker face. "Good question. I don't think you helped them open the safe. I didn't. I don't know about Lane and Vance. For the rest, can you imagine what it is these criminals want from me?"

  "Are you going to tell them about the card?" Gus pointed with his thumb at the door behind his back.

  "Should we?"

  Gus shrugged, digging his head into his shoulders and raising his arms. The puzzlement in his expression was so sincere it could have been funny. "Why not?" He said.

  "Do you trust the Tower, Gus?"

  "Not really, no, but—"

  "Do you think they'll help us?"

  "Well, yes, I guess. Maybe they know what the card—"

  "They know what? They know how to stick their nose in every corner and fiddle with their damn reports, without doing a thing for anybody but themselves."

  "Yes, Jenus, but you've got connections. You can pull a string here and a string there. They'll do something for you. Won't they?"

  Jenus's face was now painted with uncertainty. "Dunno," he answered. "Whoever did this has better connections than I do. I'll cash in my overdue favors and in return I'll get hot air."

  "So what's your plan?"

  "I guess we'll keep this at face value. Vandals? Thieves? Let the CD work up their motives, round up the suspects. We'll play dumb and watch."

  "There's something pretty close to a corpse in the lab, Jenus. What about it?"

  "I didn't disfigure anybody." At least not personally, he thought.

  "What about the note? What is it they're after? These people have no scruples. You must be scared—aren't you?"

  "Scared? And why, Gus?"

  "You're the boss, Jenus. I don't think I agree, but this is your call. As for me, I've never heard anything about that note. From anybody. Never. That includes you, from now on."

  "Deal, Gus."

  "What do you want me to do next?"

  "Go home. Call the insurance. Get this place cleaned up. Call our customers, explain the problem, keep them happy. When you're ready, reopen shop."

  "That will take a couple of weeks or so. Where will you—"

  "And fire Lane and Vance."

  "OK, but how can I trace you, if I need you?"

  "I've other business to take care of. I'll be out of town for a while."

  "What?" Gus said. "Other business? After this?" He waved his arm around. "Jenus, what kind of trouble are you in?"

  "I'm taking a vacation, Gus. I can't stay here."

  "Sure." He looked at him. "This must be the end of our conversation now, Jenus. Say hi to Janet for me." Gus rose and went out. The commotion in the lab spilled into the office through the open door, then subsided again when it closed.

  Janet. Jenus's heart stopped for an instant.

  The door opened to let through a wave of noise and a captain of the CD.

  "Sir, the burn victim hasn't got much longer to live. The doctor says he's a man, and the anesthetic you gave him didn't hurt. The victim continues to repeat meaningless phonemes. The doctor says he may be delirious. Did he say anything to you before we arrived?"

  "Yes and no. He..." Jenus shook his head. "Just meaningless phonemes, as you very well put it.

  "Do you have any idea about his identity? The doctor will find out who he is, but it will take time to get a match. If you could help, our search will be faster."

  "No, I'm sorry, I have no idea."

  "The doctor noted the fourth finger of the victim's left hand was amputated..."

  Jenus's heart jumped.

  "...before the chemical defacement. We haven't found the missing finger yet. Do you have any insight on this, or other useful information for the Civil Defense?"

  With an effort Jenus kept his poker face. "No, not a clue."

  Part II: Mosso

  Being wrong in a bizarre manner is more entertaining that being wrong plainly

  Dr. Lucretia Ponti

  CHAPTER 8

  Bologna was a delightful city: Ayin Najjar gazed at the sprawl beyond the windows of her corner office. From the top floor of the Kenzo Tower, the city looked remote; yet, in its streets was the good life—if she only had more time to enjoy it.

  Ayin's mousey hair was carefully arranged, the styling a good match for the tailored clothing befitting her rank and status. Elaborate makeup tried to sculpt puffy cheeks and a prominent double chin into the appearance of beauty. Her eyes, however, needed no help. Ayin's eyes glowed with brilliance, and a dark shadow of vengeful intent. She had to live with merciless teasing through too many growing years, and her appearance still collected sophisticated disapproval; but at forty-five, she was now the financial officer of the Tower and she had decided that her looks needed appreciation rather than correction. And yet she didn’t look forward to her next appointment.

  A soft knock announced her secretary creeping in; Ayin turned to face him. He bowed: "Ms. Najjar, Mr. Eugene Galt is here."

  "Bring him in, I've been waiting for the last ten minutes." Her secretary bowed once more; behind him thick wooden doors opened to admit a slender man in elegant street clothes. Galt's presence was impressive: straight nose, expressive jaw, firm eyebrows, and dark eyes that would not expose the soul behind them. Not one brown hair on his head was out of place.

  "Please have my apology, Your Excellence. I insisted that your secretary announce me; I wasn't aware you'd been waiting." The Xenoinvestigation section chief walked smiling to her desk; her secretary slipped out of the room. Galt grabbed the back of a chair and leaned against it, waiting for an invitation to sit.

  It did not come. Ayin looked at him like a hungry cat at a rotten piece of meat. "What's the situation, Galt? Spare me the smoke and mirrors." She sat at her desk, accommodating herself in a padded brocade chair behind an expanse of mirror-polished hardwood.

  "Your Excellence, we are still probing."

  "Intelligence is staffed by a bunch of idiots, and you're the greatest."

  "I'm sorry, Your Excellence. This situation has spawned unprecedented circumstances."

  "Any leaks yet?"

  "Not to the general public. But if I theorize correctly, we've been betrayed. Nothing short of it could have wrecked our plan. Under this premise, we expect indiscretions."

  "Who's behind it?"

  "No hard evidence yet. ConSEnt may be involved."

  "No grounds for formal action, then."

  "I'm afraid not, Your Excellence."

  "I believe you've been taken for a ride. Keep your pretty opinions to yourself, and tell me once more what is going on."

  Galt ground his teeth: "Well, Your Excellence, as you may be aware..."

  "Don't assume I know anything! Go through the whole mess in baby steps, pretend that I am the moron. Let me hear this with a fresh mind."

  Still standing, but clear of the chair, Galt repeated a story that had embarrassed him too many times already: "Following an excessive number of fatal incidents on a recently opened virgin planet, the Tower decided to inv—"

  "What's the name of that planet, again?" She enjoyed irritating Galt. He was handsome, young, smart, and a few ranks her subordinate.

  "Virgil, Your Excellence. It was opened under license from Far Lands Mining Ventures after the commercial agreement was approved, that is—"

  "OK, OK, go ahead."

  "Because there were so many fatalities, we—the Tower decided to investigate. There are significant interests at stake for the Tower that—"

  "Do you know how much we have at stake on this, Mr. Gal
t? I bet you're clueless. I wonder if Far Lands was involved. Check them out, see if they come clean." Ayin Najjar knew Xee Eye had people on the job. If she could only get the section chief to lose his cool...

  "Your Excellence, we'll do so." He nodded, and continued: "So as not to compromise operations on Virgil, secrecy had the highest priority. We pursued several paths without results from any of them, except one, which—"

  "Meaning, we don't have a clue why people keep dying."

  "That is correct, Your Excellence."

  "How long can we keep it secret?"

  "Virgil is well guarded, all personnel are screened. We suspect foul play, however, and we are not as safe as desirable."

  "What do you mean?

  "Your Excellence, we let only desperate people go there, those nobody will miss or care about. All current staffing of Virgil is expendable. But we suspect the presence of a mole in our organization."

  "You mean a traitor. Your incompetence is abysmal: besides hiring double agents, you let them operate at will. Are you at least trying to figure out who the bastard is?"

  "Ma'am, I assure you that—"

  "Don't call me madam!" She yelled. "Your assurance isn't worth a bucket of muck to a pig, Galt. How is the investigation proceeding?"

  "Your Excellence, as privately as possible."

  "Well?"

  "One of our subcontracting operations went awry. Material was removed from our possession, and our contact was thwarted."

  "Tell me what happened."

  The section chief cleared his throat before going on: "Our lines of communications have been bypassed."

  "What the hell does that mean?" Ayin leaned forward on the desk, staring at the man. "Can you put it in plain words, or not?"

  A droplet of sweat appeared on Galt's temple. "We shipped our material, but could not recover the results."

  "Material? What material? Shipped to whom? What results?"

  "A sample of Virgil's surface soil, Your Excellence. Our contact was a member of the Guild of Chemists from whom we coerced collaboration. We shipped this sample to him for analysis to screen for environmental poisons."

  "You're an imbecile. Now the Guild will have a record."

  Galt grinned, tiny sweat beads trickling. "No it won't. Our contact agreed to proceed without informing the Guild."

  Ayin sank back to her chair, wondering how Galt had arranged that part. "Go on. Why and how did you lose the data?"

  "We delivered the sample to our contact, but we couldn't provide him information on how to return the results to us."

  "I'm not sure I follow: You forgot to use a return address?"

  "Not exactly." Galt's knuckles were white, his hands tight, gripping the back of the antique chair again.

  "Not exactly what? Are you going to talk, or do I need to call for help? You'll be on your way to Virgil next, if you irritate me on purpose."

  "Well," Galt cleared his throat. "After our contact received the sample—and we are sure he received it—all communications were lost. Even three frameposts were disabled."

  "ConSEnt?"

  "We suspect that ConSEnt was involved, Your Excellence. This would have been impossible without them."

  "How did the bastards found out about this?"

  "Considering their timing, by treason. Some two dozen suspects are under investigation."

  "You still had some time available after your delivery. Why didn't anyone act? Were your men all drunk?"

  "The chief of operations underestimated the outside interest in our affairs, Your Excellence. The officer in charge was too junior to understand or make a decision. It was a weekend, and he refrained from seeking help for what he thought was a technical malfunction. By the time he consulted senior authority, it was too late."

  To Ayin, Galt's body language revealed fear, but not humiliation. Not yet. She rested her palms on the desk, stood up and walked to the window, turning her back to the man.

  The Xee Eye chief continued: "Your Excellence, we shipped a sample to a lab, but could not talk to our contact at all. Phone and kernel connections to our contractor were severed as soon as the sample was delivered. All communications were halted for more than twelve hours. Later we attempted to recover our material, but we failed. We are now pursuing recovery by other means. Your Excellence, nobody but ConSEnt could carry out such a sabotage. Yet, we have no proof. Timing was perfect—they must have tapped the line waiting for the exact moment to act. They knew what we were up to."

  "Galt, by which 'other means' are you trying to recover your materials?" She said, looking at his reflection in the window's glass, fury in her voice barely controlled.

  "We kidnapped our contact's girlfriend, Your Excellence. He's very attached to her. If he still has the results we seek, we'll have them soon."

  She turned on her heels, arms akimbo. Ayin gazed at Galt like a panther stalking dinner but having second thoughts. She said: "Are you telling me that you hope your contact can thwart ConSEnt better than we can? Are you trying to say that the poor bastard is our best bet in this damn high-stakes investigation? You... Ah! I'll do the human gene pool a favor and use your tanned balls for paperweights before this year is over. Get out of here."

  "I assure you that—"

  "Out!"

  Galt turned and left her office without another word. Ayin paced for a minute, stopped at the wet bar, picked up a crystal tumbler and poured herself some water. She climbed a tall stool, elbows resting on the countertop, and sipped.

  She returned to her chair and pushed a red button under her desk. The video jig came to life with a beep: "Please provide your access code within fifteen seconds." Beep. "Fourteen." Beep. Ayin gave her identification sequence. A severe face filled the video: Its creased forehead and cheeks betrayed old age, yet flaming eyes and the curve of thin lips showed exuberant willpower, enough of it to fill a uniform where an old body would leave soft pouches; enough to taint an old man’s judgment. "Hello, Ayin," the face said. "I was waiting for your call."

  "Sir, the news about Virgil isn't what we hoped. There's no progress towards a solution, and we've had complications. In my opinion, however, we should still proceed and start recruiting the full complement of labor regardless of these impediments."

  The Chairman pursed his lips. "I appreciate your advice. The Tower needs Virgil; we can't stall any longer. Do you know whether ConSEnt is behind our problems once more?"

  "Not for certain, sir, but it's a strong possibility."

  "They're nibbling at our toes, Ayin. Our power base needs confirmation, or we'll be taken over. The next board meeting is due soon, and approval of the plan for Virgil should be a formality. Make preparations for your campaign."

  "Yes, sir." The jig shut down at the other end before she was done with her assent. Ayin collapsed in her chair, grinning at the ceiling. Tonight, state business or not, she was taking time off. Time to have some fun.

  *

  Eugene Galt strode through the paneled corridors to the framepost hall. The sooner he got out, the better he'd feel. The bitch was tough. After crossing the framepost to Xee Eye headquarters, he set off for his office. There, he locked himself in and poured a strong drink.

  He plopped into his antique task chair, which complained with a few squeaks. His feet on the desk, sipping his liquor, Eugene closed his eyes for a while; the situation, he considered, was complex. When the glass dried up, Galt reopened his eyes and contemplated the portrait of a lady on the opposite wall, caressing the fearful undertones of the Flemish original. That painting—the best piece of his collection—cost him a small fortune. Good art was unaffordable.

  Ayin was a bitch, and there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to try and recover that sample and the results. Tom Bruxvoort was the man on the job. Good agent; maybe t
oo rough at times. Tom said he was going to get their contact back on line. Good. He'd like to talk some sense into the guy—what was his name? Ah, Dorato, yes, Jenus Dorato.

  On the other hand, there was an opportunity for adding another good piece to his stash. A minor original from a master of the early Italian Renaissance was due on the auction block in a few months.

  He wanted that painting. Lust kept him awake at night. He could imagine the hands drawing images on the wood tablet now centuries old, filling the shapes with hand-made dyes and precious brushes. He could see the stony walls of the room where the painting sat while it was worked on, smell the smoke and the ash of the fireplace in the cold air of that room; see the landscapes of post-medieval Italy from its window. He could feel the history of the artwork, and the magic of a world on the brink of renewal in its shapes and colors and rich imagery, the golden tones, the deep reds, the sparkling yellows of that painting.

  He wanted it. His money was almost sufficient for a credible bid. Almost—and now, Ayin was on his tail. Eugene gave himself six months more with the Tower if he could recover the sample—or just one if he could not. He had to stay with the Tower a while longer. Once he left for ConSEnt, the goose with the golden eggs would be dead forever.

  Eugene rose from his chair and waved at the Flemish portrait, walking out of his office to the lobby, telling his secretary to take messages—no, he didn’t know when he'd be back. He made a call from a public booth, then dispatched himself to a luxurious restaurant, ordering white wine, caviar, crackers, and a private table. And yes, he was waiting for a friend, please show him to his table when he arrived.

  He was still chewing when his guest arrived, so he had to suspend his pleasure. The stocky visitor accommodated himself in the damask-upholstered booth.