Tek Money (11 page)

“Planning to send us there?” inquired Jake.

“I am indeed.” The agency head was perched on the edge of his desk with his saxophone resting across his lap.

Gomez, slouching in a lime-colored bubblechair, said, “Is the Widder Traynor going to pay for the jaunt?”

“Amy St. Mars, I'm pleased to say, is not the only well-fixed client interested in the Traynor killing.”

“Are we,
jefe
, going to be working for one of your sneaky government agency chums again?”

“Actually, Sidney my boy, for a pretty powerful, although unknown to the public, committee that oversees the actions of the intelligence agencies,” answered Bascom. “They want us to perform, for a tidy fee, a few simple chores for them.”

Jake asked him, “Such as?”

“Firstly, they'd like you to determine how and why the OCO is apparently engaged in helping to run illicit weapons from GLA to Spain,” the chief began. “Next, you're to get a list of all the main participants engaged in this caper, whatever side they're on.” Setting his sax aside, he left the desk. “Oh, and it would be nice—and bring us a substantial bonus—if you lads can get the Devlin Guns, every damned one of 'em, out of rebel hands and back into a safe storage spot.”

Gomez smiled at his partner. “That shouldn't take more than a couple days, do you think,
amigo?
”

“Three at the most,” said Jake. “We can spend the rest of our time in Spain going to robot bullfights and learning to play the guitar.”

“What was I just recently warning you guys about schoolboy buffoonery?” Bascom squatted next to a holostage. “It's bad enough when you hooligans get shirty with clients of the caliber of Amy St. Mars. But bear in mind that we've got a very serious group of people running this great land of ours and it won't do to razz 'em.”

Gomez produced a rude noise.

Jake said, “Are we allowed to hire some help over in Spain? Going up against Janeiro Martinez and his bunch is going to require some assistance, Walt.”

“We're, in a manner of speaking, working for the government. So spend whatever you have to.” Bascom tapped the keypad of the stage. “Here's some information I rounded up from a connection at the ID Central back in Washington, DC.”

An image of Janine Traynor, lifesize, materialized on the stage.

“This is what she really looks like,” continued Bascom. “And her real name is Janine Kanter. She's five foot four, weighs one hundred fifteen, has black hair, hazel eyes and is twenty five years old.”

“Told me twenty one.”

“Just one of her many bendings of the facts,” said Bascom, backing from the platform and studying the young woman. “Janine Kanter graduated from the University of NorCal's Petaluma Campus five years ago with top grades. She majored in International Political Science and had a minor in Dramatic Arts. She worked for a year in Frisco at a theater run by a group calling itself Politiks Playhouse.”

“She's a darn good actress,” conceded Jake. “Who's she working for now?”

Bascom shook his head. “Seems to be freelancing in the political area and nobody is sure who's backing her. She doesn't go in for terrorism or assassination—or if she does, nobody's ever caught her at it. What she's been up to openly in recent times is aiding causes that some folks consider far too liberal and radical.”

“Any examples?” asked Jake.

“She helped run guns into New Brazil to aid the guerrillas who were trying to topple the Furtado dictatorship, for instance. She spent some time in the Angola backcountry with Father Wepman's Christian Commandos.” Bascom bent, hitting another key and Janine was gone. “Things like that, Jake.”

Jake was still looking at where her image had been. “You say there's no indication she goes in for killing?”

“Nothing on her record, not even a suspicion.”

“This
mujer
sounds to me like she's an idealist, in it for what she believes and not what she can make,” observed Gomez. “If her record up to now is any indication, she sure doesn't sound like somebody who'd be working for the Teklords.”

“And she probably didn't kill any of the guys on our growing list of victims,” said Jake. “But she sure as hell must have had something to do with those smuggled guns. Especially since she seems to have been living with Dennis Barragray for the past few months.”

Gomez shifted his position in his fat chair. “As I perceive this, Barragray must've been helping to get the guns to the rebels—for a handsome fee,” he said. “The lady must've wanted those guns to get to their destination, so she should have been happy about what this
cabrón
was up to. Therefore, she wouldn't have sliced him up with a lazgun.”

“Unless he sold the guns to the wrong rebel faction,” said Jake.

Bascom cleared his throat. “You're booked on a skyliner flight that departs for Madrid at three this very afternoon,” he informed them. “I suggest that you save all further speculations until you're trotting around on Spanish soil.”

18

T
HE SCHOOL DAY
had long since ended at the SoCal State Policy Academy and the second-level corridor was empty. Outside the oneway window the misty evening showed. Dan moved rapidly along, came to the door marked
Background & ID
and tapped on it quietly.

The heavy metal door hissed open.

“Geez, you took your sweet time getting here.” A robot, large, wide and copperplated, popped up out of a wicker rocker.

“It takes a while to get to the Santa Monica Sector from our place,” said Dan, slipping inside the big room. “You said it was important that you talk to me, Rex. So?”

Rex/GK-30 lumbered over to the nearest wall, which was covered, floor to ceiling, with rows of infoscreens. “I was sitting and rocking here on my toke this evening—being both the librarian and the night watchman means I got a lot of time on my hands, so to speak. Anyhow, Daniel, I got to thinking about this latest case your old man is working on.”

“How'd you find out about that?”

Rex's metallic eyelids clicked a few times. “Hey, didn't Molly tell you she'd been—”

“Molly Fine's been consulting you again?”

“That Molly, yes. She wanted some material on the assorted goniffs and lowlifes connected with this opus.”

Dan sighed. “No, she hasn't gotten around to mentioning that as yet.”

“She's an exceptional skirt,” said the robot. “Feisty, independent. Not your standard confiding-type sweetheart.”

“Molly's not exactly my sweetheart.”

“Applesauce,” remarked Rex. “You're smitten and vice versa.” He pointed a coppery forefinger at one of the midlevel screens. It flashed alive. “To while away the lonely hours, I started digging deeper into the lives and times of some of the central characters in this mishmash. When I got around to the late Dr. Garret Devlin, I encountered something interesting.”

“That can't be very important, Rex. Devlin's been dead and gone for years.”

Rex/GK-30 gave a rattling chuckle. “Maybe yes, maybe no, kiddo.”

On the activated screen a fullface and profile shot of a pudgy, balding man of about fifty appeared side by side. “Is this Devlin?”

“Himself. Out-of-shape gink, by the looks of him. With proper exercise you can add years to your life, you flesh-and-blood types.”

“You were hinting that he isn't dead? That's impossible, Rex.”

The photos went away, replaced by printed copy that was slowly scrolling upward across the screen. “Here you have a dull and tedious account of the sky-tram crash that was supposed to have put out his lights.”

“Yeah, and it says right here—” Dan tapped a line of text that was slowly climbing by. “Says a DNA scan of the burnt remains positively established that the body was that of Garret Devlin, age fifty three. So?”

“Feast your glims on the next document.”

An InfoRequest sheet showed up.

“Who filed that?”

Rex's chest made a mild clang when he tapped himself with his thumb. “Me. I faked a very believable and official-looking inquiry pertaining to the SoCal Coroner's Office files on the deceased. That's where the test results on the DNA scan are supposed to be, plus a sample of the material used.”

A fresh document came onto the screen.

“‘No such file exists,'” read Dan. “What's that mean? They've got to have the Devlin file.”

“It's possible that the stuff on Devlin got misfiled somehow,” acknowledged the robot. “But, Daniel, I sort of doubt that.”

“Then somebody deliberately—”

“Dan, your condo told me you'd be here.” Molly Fine came hurrying into the big Background & ID room.

“What is it?”

“My Uncle Jerry—you know, the attorney from the shady side of the family tree—just phoned me at home.”

“You look very upset.” He took hold of her hand.

Taking a deep breath and putting her other hand on his arm, she said, “He still has contacts with some of the sleazy people he met while doing sneaky jobs for Gunsmiths, Ltd. And—well, he heard something about your father.”

“Dad? Is he in trouble?”

“That flight to Spain,” said Molly, talking rapidly. “Uncle Jerry doesn't have many details, but he heard they plan to try to do something to the skyliner.”

“Jesus, blow it up?”

“I don't know. What you've got to do is get in touch with him right now in flight and—”

“I'll take care of that,” volunteered Rex, trotting over to the nearest vidphone. “I got pals in the International Controllers Guild and they can patch us through faster than anybody.” He activated the phone. “Give me the details of his flight, Daniel.”

Dan did that as he hurried to the robot's side. “Who's trying to get at my Dad, Molly?”

“We don't know for sure. But my uncle is guessing it's Teklords.”

“Damn it, hurry up, Rex.”

The robot turned away from the phone. “No luck,” he said forlornly. “They lost all contact with the skyliner over ten minutes ago.”

19

T
HE MAN KNOWN
as Gardner Munsey was walking along a quirky lane just off Pennsylvania Avenue with his shoulders hunched and his hands clasped behind his back. There was, as he made his way through the chill, overcast DC night, a thin, satisfied smile on his tanned face.

He continued to smile as he double-timed up the stone steps of the narrow brownstone house that was his destination.

The red realwood door opened before he reached it.

A large silverplated robot in a glossy black tuxsuit was standing in the carpeted hallway waiting for him. “Not a very pleasant evening, sir,” he observed.

“On the contrary, Ramus, it's a splendid night.” He turned and allowed the bot to help him out of his misted grey overcoat. “Is Mrs. Spangler about tonight?”

“Unfortunately, sir, she had to escort two of the young ladies to a client's in Chevy Chase.”

“Sorry to have missed the lady.”

“However, sir, Miss Marie is in her usual room and awaiting you.”

“Excellent, old man.” He gave the robot an appreciative pat on the arm and headed up the carpeted stairway to the second floor.

At the third door on the right he tapped three times.

“Come in,” invited a youthful female voice.

“It's a pleasure to encounter you again, my dear.” Munsey entered the softlit, peach-colored room and shut the door quietly behind him.

The girl reclining on the antique four-poster bed was wearing only some frilly lingerie. She was lean, blonde and no more than seventeen. “How are you tonight, Mr. Munsey?”

“Just fine, dear.” He smiled at her as he walked around the bed. He pressed his hand flat against a painting of a naked young woman sitting on a rock.

A section of the bedroom wall made a very slight creaking before swinging open.

Munsey said, “Nice seeing you again, Marie,” and stepped through the opening.

After the wall had swung behind him, he crossed to the single chair, an antique nineteenth-century bentwood rocker. Stopping behind the chair, he rested his right hand on its twisted back. “Can we get going, old man? I've a rather full schedule this evening.”

The circular holostage a few feet in front of the chair made some low clicking sounds.

The man who materialized was about forty, short and redhaired. He was grimacing and the left sleeve of his striped shirt was rolled up to nearly the shoulder. His right hand was metal and he was touching the forefinger to his bare upper arm. “Trying out another new hand, got an injection gun built in.”

The dark metal hand popped twice. The redhaired man jerked twice, gritting his teeth, in his straight metal chair.

“Very impressive, Sam.” Munsey settled into the bentwood chair, causing it to rock gently a few times. “Suffering for the cause. If it were up to me, old man, I'd award you a medal.”

“Screw you, Munsey,” said Sam Trinity, scowling. “If I don't shoot myself full of painkiller all the time, I can't really function at all.” He picked up a white glove and began working it back over the metal fingers. “I wasn't in such lousy shape, hurting all the damn time, until I had my run-in with Jake Cardigan.”

“Relax and enjoy it,” advised the other agent. “It gives you a lovely excuse to dope yourself up.”

Trinity said, “Are you taking care of Cardigan?”

“Even as we speak.”

“I don't see why we can't just kill the bastard.”

“The directive I'm forced to follow states he and that whimsical sidekick of his are to be incapacitated only. My assumption is that somebody higher up the line doesn't want to risk killing a couple of Cosmos ops.” Munsey smiled. “Of course, old man, we're not prevented from putting Cardigan
seriously
out of action. My people have some leeway there.”