The unaccustomed freedom felt peculiar, even unsettling, and he wondered how long it would last, or whether the frank unfamiliarity would drive the citizens of the Administration to demand a return to what they knew. A few resister attacks against the new regime would be enough.
Warrick's personal freedom was limited by the presence of Rob McLean. When Emma Queen, head of SimTech's security section, had found out about Warrick's plans for unescorted air travel, she'd arrived in his office unannounced and reminded him about the post-revolt travel policies. She'd been as polite as ever, but also clearly annoyed at being forced into the position of having to lecture her employer.
Warrick had argued against a bodyguard. As he'd told Queen, it wasn't as if Strasbourg was a foreign country — it was as much a part of the Administration as New London, and probably more secure, given that the Judicial departments had their headquarters there. He had surrendered when the head of security threatened to involve Asher and Lew. The less close scrutiny of his movements by friends and family there was, the better.
As the taxi drew up, McLean opened the door.
"You'll have to wait down here," Warrick said.
McLean shook his head firmly. "I've got my instructions from Emma."
He sighed and waited for McLean to check the street was clear before Warrick followed him out.
Warrick had confirmed the address three times with the taxi system. The slightly tatty office block was on the edge of the corporate district, and seemed to have suffered some damage in the revolt. As they walked through the doors, Warrick noticed the likely impetus for the resisters' attack on the building: above brand-new and very heavy security shutters, a screen announced the presence of a Service recruitment centre. The smell of smoke lingered faintly in the air; he remembered how long it had taken to eliminate it from the SimTech production facility after the fire there.
Carnac's office, on the tenth floor, had no sign outside, not even Carnac's name. The screen by the door was switched off and dark. The small room visible through the glass-panelled door wasn't at all what sprang to mind when thinking of a socioanalyst. The walls had an obviously fresh and hastily applied coat of plain white paint, with spots of it on the worn brown carpet and matching low, padded plastic-covered chairs. He could see only one door out of the room besides the exit to the corridor.
A vaguely familiar blonde woman sat behind a desk. Her lips were moving rapidly — dictating at speed onto the screen in front of her, he guessed.
She looked up as McLean opened the door, and Warrick noticed her hand slide under the edge of the desk.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
Warrick followed McLean into the room and crossed to her desk. "I've come to see Carnac."
Her expression changed from a wary welcome to dismay. "Oh, dear. Do you have an appointment?" She peered at the screen. "I don't think I have any appointments listed for this morning. Hang on a mo, cherie, and I'll look again."
"No need," he said quickly as she started to page down the screen. "I won't be there."
"Oh!" She transferred the accusatory frown from the screen to him. "The Socioanalyst is
very
busy."
"I've come — "
As he started to explain, the second door to the room was flung open, and Carnac appeared like a tall, blond genie. "Keir! How positively charming and delightful, and absolutely the last person I expected to find on my doorstep."
On the plane over, he'd imagined various openings to the conversation. Plainly, Carnac had decided to eliminate their last meeting from their mutual history. Fine by Warrick, as long as he got the information he wanted.
Carnac had crossed to the desk, still smiling. "Keir, this is my youngest sister, Colette, who has most graciously offered to help me out during some professional difficulties. Colette, this is Doctor Keir Warrick, who — "
Carnac paused delicately, and Warrick waited to see what relationship would be claimed.
"Who is someone I met for the first time a number of years ago," Carnac finished.
She didn't even blink at the odd phrasing. "Pleased to meet you, Doctor. Shall I cancel your appointments, Jean?"
"Do I have any?"
"A few." She glanced at Warrick and McLean, and Carnac gestured for her to proceed. This time the screen surrendered the information after only a few seconds. "General Thacker is due at twelve, with four guests he didn't give me names for."
"Ah, of course. The dear general. Keir?"
"I don't plan to be here that long."
Carnac nodded. "Then please — come this way."
The room Carnac had emerged from was packed with the contents of an office that must have been at least ten times larger. Tiny paths squeezed between furniture and locked filing cabinets. Half a dozen conference chairs were crammed round a magnificent walnut table, leaving barely enough room to sit in them. Warrick hoped General Thacker and his unnamed guests weren't heavily built.
He heard one of the chairs in the reception area creak as McLean sat down to wait. Then Carnac closed the door.
"Temporary accommodation, I'm afraid," Carnac said as he worked his way over to a coffee machine that perched precariously atop a stack of boxes. "Socioanalysis and I have had a difference of opinion."
"Oh?"
"Yes. They are under the impression that they have unceremoniously tossed me out of their little club. I believe I resigned. We are still working through the legal ramifications of our mutually exclusive versions of events. As you can imagine, lawyers are positively slavering with glee. However, the practical consequence is that I no longer have access to their premises. This was the best I could do on short notice, and the landlords were amenable to the idea of a short lease. I may be leaving Strasbourg soon. Please, sit, if you can."
Warrick squeezed his way into a chair.
"The coffee at least should be good." Carnac placed the cups on the table and then sat. "My own machine which came with me from my old office. As did everything else in here — I begrudged the idea of leaving any of it for Socioanalysis. On reflection, it would have been more practical to have put some of it into storage, but I think it has a certain je ne sais quois. A touch of the renegade, perhaps."
"A renegade being visited by generals?"
Carnac shrugged. "There is no doubt
someone
out there who would describe me as such. At the very best, my position is somewhat anomalous." He took a sip of the coffee and nodded. "Excellent. And I'd be grateful if you kept news of the general's visit between ourselves."
"You're the one who went out of your way to make sure I knew he was coming."
Carnac's obviously manufactured expression of indignation was as familiar as it was annoying. "I — "
Warrick held his hand up, and Carnac subsided, looking surprised. "I doubt you've genuinely forgotten an appointment in your entire life, which means that you wanted me to know. I'm not interested in discussing it. I didn't come here to play games."
"I see." The room was silent for a moment, then Carnac said, "So, in a spirit of both polite social enquiry and reconciliation, how is Toreth?"
Warrick counted to five. "Toreth is fine. He's moving into a new flat with me."
Carnac choked on his coffee, to Warrick's immense satisfaction.
"So I'm afraid to say that your plan didn't work," Warrick added when Carnac had stopped coughing.
"Plan?" His eyebrows arched again. "I had no plan. I merely spoke the truth."
Warrick considered the options — pursue it, which was what Carnac plainly wanted, or drop it. Word fencing with a socioanalyst was, to borrow a phrase from Cele, like getting into an arse-kicking contest with a centipede.
"I came here to ask you a question," Warrick said.
"My time is at your disposal." He gestured expansively, poise restored. "No charge."
"Is this office secure?"
Carnac's face didn't flicker. Since Warrick had come all the way out here unannounced, it must be obvious the conversation was something that couldn't be carried out over a comm. "To the best of my knowledge, which is the result of some time and expense."
"Toreth told me that you had a copy of Kate's security file. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Did it have the real name of the man who married her? Leo Warrick."
"Your father."
"I know who he is."
"Of course you do. Yes, it did."
"Do you remember the name?"
Carnac smiled. "I still have the file. The whole history of the operation, if you would like to see it. Her reports about Tarin, her comments on the rest of her family and friends."
And the temptation was so strong that he almost gave way. All that stopped him was the image of Tar in the flotation tank, so helpless, so hideously burned that it was impossible to believe that it could be the man he knew. Reading Kate's file would tell him far too much about her double life, and that was also knowledge that could never be erased.
Carnac was watching him intently, and Warrick knew that if he asked for the whole file Carnac would hand it over, even though he had to be aware of the consequences. For the first time, he wondered why someone so apparently cruel and concienceless would risk his life to engineer a revolt for the sole benefit of the masses he despised.
"I want the name," Warrick said. "Nothing more."
"Why do you want to know?" Carnac asked.
Warrick hesitated. He wondered if Carnac knew about Tarin. There was no reason why he should, and equally none why he shouldn't. "I want to know who my father is."
Carnac smiled slightly. "Perhaps the question should have been 'why now?' You've known for some time that Leo Warrick was alive. This sudden interest concerns me. In this delicate time — and with my current precarious political position — you're asking for a dangerous piece of information, as you well know."
"The only reason I knew he was alive was because I snooped in the computer of a Citizen Surveillance agent. Do you think I'd ever have wanted to risk my neck or Kate's by letting them know that? Now it doesn't matter. They already know — I told them I knew."
Carnac stared past him, lips pursed. "Acceptable." His gaze snapped back. "If doubtless not the whole truth. There is a price for the information, though. Dinner."
The anger he'd been keeping back rose. "I have an appointment at the Science and Technology Division of the Legislature, and then I'm returning to New London as soon as I can. I have a flight booked this afternoon."
Carnac shrugged elegantly. "If the information means that little to you, why should I put myself at risk to give it to you?"
"Very well. My hotel, seven o'clock?"
No doubt the standards at the hotel restaurant would occasion some sarcasm from Carnac, Warrick thought as he waited in the bar. It wasn't a slum, but it was as far below the socioanalyst's gourmet standards as his current office was below his professional ones. Warrick found the idea oddly satisfying. Carnac might be blackmailing him into a meal, but it didn't have to be an occasion. Serviceable food, a brief conversation, and that would be all.
At least that had better be all. Exactly how much was he willing to give Carnac for the name? Warrick liked to think that he'd draw a line at the bedroom door — if not for his self-respect, then out of consideration for Toreth. In honesty, he didn't know. He
did
know that Carnac sometimes coerced his partners into bed. Would he do the same to someone for whom he professed — or pretended — to have some feelings?
Seven o'clock passed with no sign of Carnac. It wasn't until almost eight that it occurred to Warrick that something unpleasant might have happened to Carnac. Even with his dangerous political dabbling — obviously still continuing — his renegade office and the possibility that Int-Sec was pursuing him, the socioanalyst had seemed as untouchable as ever.
In reality, if Socioanalysis had disowned him he was probably more vulnerable than most corporates. If his enemies had coincidentally chosen today to move, it would be annoying, but it would also be risky. By visiting Carnac's office, Warrick might have made himself a target of those same enemies.
However, McLean, no doubt, had already thought of that. If he hadn't raised it as an issue, then he presumably thought the risk was acceptable. In fact, McLean had said nothing during the wait. He was never talkative when on duty, but even by his standards he was currently unusually silent.
"Is being here a risk?" Warrick asked.
"Yes. But I can't give you an accurate assessment of the risk, because I don't know how dangerous he is or what the risk is from associating with him."
"I don't think anyone has come up with a metric to quantify it."
McLean winced. "I wish you'd told me who you were planning to see. Queen will have my hide for letting you walk in there."
"Lucky for you that you aren't going to tell her."
McLean stiffened in his seat. "That's against security procedures."
"I know. But nevertheless. This is nothing to do with SimTech — I would've come alone if I could, but SimTech's involvement stops with your presence here. Carnac was at my flat the day before he left New London. As you know."
McLean nodded.
"What I spoke to him about today was related to that. So you won't tell Queen, or any of the directors. You can tell them all about the Legislature, but no more."
Another nod.
"Well?" Warrick asked
McLean looked up from his mineral water and smiled wryly. "Well?"
"Was there anything you wanted to ask?"
"Not really. There's something I
ought
to ask, however. Does Toreth know that you're here?"
He'd been expecting a question about Carnac — which in a way it was, but not one he had a ready answer for. "I'm not sure. He may well have guessed. It's none of your concern, in any case."
McLean shook his head. "Your safety is my concern, and as you've already reminded me, I was there at your flat. Believe me, I don't like asking the question any more than you like hearing it."