Robert Charrette - Arthur 03 - A Knight Among Knaves Page 5

  His agent narrowcast him another alert being sent out on the monitoring system. His testers were putting out a general notice. Case D-23. Holger didn't recognize the code, but the prefix indicated a technical glitch. Not his problem if they were having trouble.

  The rain let up just before he reached Southampton's old city gate, Bar Gate, but no bar to him. Almost there. Traffic was almost nonexistent as he headed down High Street, doing an impression of a cautious, poky, tired driver, to give himself a chance to assess the site. The streets were empty of people even though the rain had stopped. Given the hour and weather, the only civilians to be encountered would be those caught somewhere by the evening storm—or those who would have even less desire to encounter Holger than he had to meet up with them. That was good.

  The Red Lion was ahead on the left. Light showed in the barely translucent old glass windows, advertising the pub remained open, but there was no one loitering in front, nor anyone in sight on the sidewalks. Holger could just stop the car, get out, and walk into the pub. The whole thing could be over in a matter of minutes.

  He doubted it would be so easy.

  Proof of his suspicion came when he spotted the lurker in an alley across the street. Any attempt at a simple, bold approach would be intercepted. Holger drove on past. He would come back on foot.

  He ditched the car in the new carpark built out into Southampton Water next to Canute's Pavilion, a large structure enclosing a maze of restaurants, shops, and entertainment facilities that thrust out onto the Water. Though the rest of the old city seemed asleep there was still a crowd in th tourist attraction; the Pavilion blared sound and light into the night. Tourists, it seemed, didn't care about following the rhythms of the town. He left them to their pointless frolics and set his course away from the light and noise and towar" the quiet city. He headed toward God's House Tower, intending to work his way through the back streets to the rear of the Red Lion. In the Middle Ages there would have been guards awaiting him at the God's House Tower gate; the town had crept out beyond the gate, and the gate itself was gone, and the tower had been made into a museum. A relic— as he would be if he failed the test.

  The guns of the two men who stepped out of the shadow thrown by God's House Tower were not relics. They were Smith & Wesson Equalizers™, fourteen-round, semiautomatic, 12mm handguns. Powerful. Expensive. Reputed to be highly accurate, especially when fitted with the TRW Night-fighter™ targeting system, as these were. The muzzle of the weapon thrust into Holger's face was clean, showing very little wear. The weapons were new, their matte combat finish unscuffed except for small laser-cut channels where the manufacturer's serial number and the owner's registration number had been. That last datapoint told him that he was not dealing with run-of-the-mill street toughs.

  Obstacles in the test? The weapons weren't standard issue, and the faces weren't familiar. He'd thought that he knew all the possible opposition. Whoever they were, they had caught him off guard. His own fault.

  "Give us the chip," said the one with his weapon in Holger's face.

  Holger could hand over the chip. Containing nothing more than bogus files, the chip wasn't worth anything. But that wasn't the point. The point was that he had been entrusted with it. The chip was not his to give up.

  "Since you ask so politely, I don't see how I can refuse," he said mildly, in an attempt to put them at ease.

  He slowly opened the left side of his greatcoat and lifted his right hand, as if to reach in and get out the chip. Instead, he struck out and snagged the talker's wrist. Holger pulled the man closer and drove his left fist into the talker's solar plexus. There was armor there. Not enough. The power of Holger's strike drove the air from the man's body.

  His partner reacted, raising his pistol to fire. Holger pulled back and away from the man. The Equalizer's throaty cough sounded, a three-round burst. Holger felt two slugs hit thee talker, his shield. One round ripped through the talker's sleeve and struck Holger in the ribs. Hard. It hurt!

  Real bullets weren't part of the test specifications.

  Red anger flashed in Holger's mind. He heaved the talker into the other man. The two of them went down. Holger was on the partner before he could recover, foot smashing into the man's chin as he struggled to rise. Holger felt and heard hone crack in the man's jaw. He went back down on the pavement, hard. More bone cracked as his skull connected with the concrete.

  No movement. No breath. No pulse. Just the stink of feces, urine, and blood.

  Dead.

  So was the talker. One of his partner's bullets had found a chink in his armor.

  Something was wrong.

  Holger checked the bodies. He found no identification. Cards, yes, but only certified debit cards. Like the weapons they carried, nothing they wore had identifying marks. The communications gear they carried was not standard ECSS issue, and like the Equalizers, it was expensive stuff.

  No ID. No standard-issue gear. Nothing obviously traceable. It all added up to corporate style, which raised other issues. Corporate special operatives might be unprincipled thugs, but they didn't go around jumping on random victims either.

  Something was very wrong.

  Holger crossed back to Canute's Pavilion, where he would be a more difficult target for any backup supporting the

  thugs. Once inside, he made his way through the meandering clumps of tourists and late-night revelers until he found a public perscomp bank. He selected the one with the best view of its surroundings, ran one of the thugs' cards through the reader, and punched up access. He added a security code that would identify him to the Department. The agent receiving the call asked for two more levels of confirmation before it transferred the call to a living being. Kun was surprised to see L'Hereaux, the big man's security expert, answer.

  "About time," L'Hereaux said. A frown crossed his face. | "Why are you using a public comp?"

  "Read the ident on the card I used."

  A moment's wait while L'Hereaux called up the data. "There is no ident."

  Holger nodded. He'd expected that. "I borrowed the card from what I thought were two obstacles. They weren't part of the program, were they?"

  "Where are you?"

  "Use the backtrace if you really need to know. I won't be here long. Just tell me, were they on the program?"

  "No one on the program has cards like that."

  "Thought not."

  "Wait," L'Hereaux said. "Don't disconnect."

  Holger almost did anyway, but something in L'Hereaux's voice suggested more than a stratagem to keep him on the line while operatives were vectored toward him. That would certainly be happening, but there was more at work here. Holger was curious. He would listen.

  "You didn't get a message, did you?"

  Only from his agent. He'd locked out other codes to preclude tracing of the carrier signal.

  "I see," L'Hereaux said. "There's a problem. We've discovered that someone made a substitution on the package you're carrying. It's something we'd rather not have out of our hands."

  "You calling an abort on the test? You want me to come in?"

  No. Make your meet. We're compromised here. Your contact was to take you on to another step anyway. Meeting

  your contact is the best option you have at the moment."

  Calling off the dogs?"

  If they are attempting to use the test for their own ends, that would tip them to the fact that we know."

  Aren't you afraid that they're listening now?"

  I don't think that likely," L'Hereaux said, without offering any reason for his confidence.

  I Inlikely, eh, but not impossible.

  He careful. If they managed the switch, they may have specialists working with them." L'Hereaux cut the connection.

  Wonderful. If. May. L'Hereaux had no more information than Holger. And specialists—Holger's stomach soured at the possibility.

  A "specialist" was what the Department called a magician—and not the stage kind, either, but the kind who did
real magic. The Department's heads had long feared that someone else would acquire or train specialists to rival the department's own. They had especially feared that one of the immoral megacorporations would be the ones to do so. The megacorps, with their global spread, were uncontrollable by any one nation, possibly even by a group of nations.

  There had been nothing special about the two who had accosted Holger, but that didn't mean the affair wasn't tainted by such dangerous malignancy. Whether magic was involved or not, those two would have backup lurking about somewhere. There was no time to loaf.

  Holger cut across Queen's Park and headed up High Street, thinking about the new factors in the equation. The new players were serious. Unfortunately, as far as tools went, he didn't have much to stop determined opposition who were playing for keeps. The Viper was loaded with tranqs, and a single load at that. He would have to rely on his personal abilities and skills, and though he knew how very lethal he could be without tools, the most effective applications required close physical proximity. Thugs were one thing, specialists something else. He had no desire to achieve close physical proximity to any specialists who might be working with this new opposition.

  Magic, thank God, was rare. He wished it were rarer.

  The possibility of specialists continued to bother him. Such people preferred to hide in the shadows; they didn't like anyone knowing of their unnatural abilities. Such a predilection could be turned to Holger's aid. If he could assure the presence of witnesses, the new opposition might hesitate to use anything unusual against him. If they tried anyway, he could try to make enough fuss to expose them. The emptiness of the streets no longer seemed fortunate. If he needed attention, he would have to draw. Gunfights made a lot of noise, attracted a lot of attention. But the Viper was rigged for quiet operation. He could fix that easily with a little time and attention, but he doubted that he had that time.

  Besides, he had his own constraints. The Department wouldn't like him exposing magical things, even those arranged by enemies. Did that matter? Not just now. Holger's survival was somewhat more important to him than the Department's preferences. Alive, he could help them pick up the pieces, even help them focus any adverse publicity on the shadowy opposition. But only if he was alive.

  At least his armor was real and reliable.

  It stood him in good stead when he moved to take out the lurker watching the Red Lion from the alley across the street. Holger was easier on him than he had been on the thugs with the Equalizers. Fast and quiet. He looked down at the sprawled body, satisfied that the man was still breathing. This was Linkwater, an agent of the Department. Part of the test and not some unknown hostile agent. That comforted Holger, suggesting that the whole operation had not been compromised.

  Time to finish the test.

  He crossed the street and entered the Red Lion. He could hear someone in the back, in the kitchen, rattling dishes.

  there were a few people in the front room. A couple at a table, huddled in a private world. A handful of working men at the bar. They ignored him. He recognized one despite his

  seedier-than-normal appearance: Pankhurst, another Departmental agent. Like the other patrons and the bartender, Pankhurst ignored Holger's entrance. That meant that Holger could expect trouble upstairs. The last part of the test would be there.

  Warned, Holger started up the ancient, uneven stairs.

  The floorboards above creaked under a heavy load, masking any sound that Holger made. Unwise of them not to be ready and waiting quietly. He could hear something being dragged across the floor. Holger's first glimpse of the upper story showed a pair of feet. They were quickly dragged out of his line of vision.

  He freed the Viper and continued up.

  A shadow fell over him as he made the landing. Something hard hit his arm, jarring him. Involuntarily, his hand opened. A hairy paw smacked against his fingers and the Viper went flying away.

  Hairy paw?

  Holger sprang ahead and to his left, away from his attacker at the head of the stairs. Holger caromed off the wall in his haste to get away. Not much space on the landing. He had lost his weapon. It would be hand-to-hand. He needed a chance to ready his defense. The old flooring moaned as he turned to face his opponent. Holger's eyes went wide as he saw what had attacked him.

  The monster was a foot taller than Holger and stood hunched in the low-ceilinged room. It was massive, at least half again Holger's weight, and strange lumps distorted its outline. Dark, shadowed, piggy eyes glared from under shaggy brows; shaggier hair stuck out from beneath the red leather cap that it wore. A lopsided, snag-toothed grin distended its face.

  Holger could hear himself panting.

  A troll.

  No tools.

  Only himself.

  "Come on, little man-thing," the troll said in a bass rumble. "Give me the chip and maybe I won't grind your bones."

  There was a body on the floor behind the troll. The feet Holger had seen as he came up the stairs belonged to that body. No movement. No breath. No heartbeat. Dead. Evidence of how the troll would deal with Holger, probably whether he complied or not. Holger had to fight, even though the result was foredoomed.

  Holger's breathing was shallow, rapid. His skin tingled Everything he saw seemed sharp-edged, with digitally enhanced clarity. Someone—who? No time to think about that Look at what's in front of you!—had once told him that you can't change anything you don't try to change. Heat crawled along his veins, exploding into flames. He launched himself at the troll.

  Holger used all the combat arts he had been taught in basic training and every dirty trick he had learned since. He kicked and punched and clawed. The troll was pummeling him, but he put aside the pain. Pain wouldn't stop him. He couldn't let it stop him, not even slow him down. He fought harder. Smashing. Ripping. Tearing. He felt muscle and bone part under his assault. He felt his fingers go slippery with blood.

  Then, without apparent transition, he was standing still, panting; this time from exhaustion rather than fear. He was looking down at the broken, bleeding body of the troll.

  Somehow, he had beaten it.

  The monster was defeated. By him. It had bled like a real animal, cried out in pain. It had been real. Too, too terribly real, but...

  He had beaten it.

  He felt... tired.

  And worried.

  This monster was evidence that another of the Department's fears had been realized. The troll was evidence that their shadowy opponent had done a deal with the otherworld andd sent this minion here to intercept Holger. Who knew what other creatures might come to their call? There were things that physical force couldn't touch. Dangerous, deadly things. He knew.

  Holger heard a door open behind him. He tensed, ready lor a further assault, but it was only his contact Chalmers. the man looked as surprised as Holger had been to see the Troll. Chalmers was fortunate that Holger had arrived when he did. Likely Chalmers would have been the troll's next victim.

  At least the test was over.

  Pankhurst came pounding up the stairs. Gaping, he stared at the troll Holger had vanquished. Kneeling by the body, he examined the wounds. "God, Kun, what did you do to him?"

  "Took it out." It was a damned troll. What was he supposed to do? Kiss it?

  "It?"

  "The troll."

  "Jesus." Pankhurst tugged at the skin on the troll's neck.

  With a sucking, ripping sound the skin tore free. Pankhurst peeled the troll's face away. There was a man's face beneath it. Holger didn't recognize the face. No man's face belonged

  there.

  "This is no bloody damn troll," Pankhurst screamed. "It's Leftenant Barkins from MI6. He's wearing a bloody costume, you maniac!"

  Not a troll? But—

  Holger looked to the body of the agent the troll had overcome. He saw what he should have seen in the first place. The body was not a body, but a dummy. No breath or heartbeat because it had never had any. And the troll—barely breathing, heart fluttering—
the troll wasn't a troll at all.

  "You do the same to Linkwater?" Pankhurst asked angrily.

  "No." Holger blinked, confused. He shook his head. No. Not to a man. "No."

  "Thank God for small favors." Pankhurst touched his head, behind the ear, where his implant would be. "Man down. Medical evac, stat. Make it bloody fast or just send a body bag."

  Pankhurst stood, shaking his head. He was no more a doctor than Holger. There was nothing either of them could do for—was Barkins the name?

  "Better check on Linkwater," Chalmers said to Pankhurst.

  Pankhurst nodded and left. He left bloody footprints on the stairs.

  Chalmers stepped up beside Holger. The man avoided looking down at the bloody mess that was Barkins. Yes, Barkins was the name. Leftenant Barkins, MI6. Not a troll at all.

  "Looks like you've overcome your fear of the things from the other side," he said. "Do you still have the chip, Kun?"

  Holger nodded.

  Chalmers held out his hand. Holger placed the chip carrier in his palm. The last part of the test completed. Chalmers looked grim.

  "I think Monsieur L'Hereaux will want some words with you."

  CHAPTER

  5

  7

  9

  13

  15

  34

  41

  Epilog

  5

  Ben Wiley was president of Datapik, the major information resource firm under the Metadynamics corporate umbrella. He wore the right suits, maintained the right home and the right friends, bribed the right politicians and media hacks, and never, ever left behind enough evidence to tie him to anything that might be deleterious to the company or to himself. Wiley lived up to his name, being sharp in his dealings and quick to take advantage of his opponents' failings Young, ambitious Wiley was a rising star in the Metadynamics firmament, and a rival to Anton Van Dieman.

  Van Dieman didn't care for rivals.

  More than once Wiley had forced Van Dieman to restructure his plans. Had Wiley been more than mundanely oriented, he would have been a dangerous rival. But Wiley time was passing, as was the mundanely oriented world. Van Dieman's stars were in the ascendancy.