Evil Genius (16 page)

"Titus is alive and well and working on a South American container ship," Luther interposed. "We've got proof that he is. No one else has got proof that he
isn't.
You get my point? Hmm?"

His gaze traveled from face to face. One by one the class nodded, solemnly.

"Anything else you've heard, it's a rumor. No one can even prove that he was ever
here.
That's the way I work, and it's the way I expect
you
to work." Luther cracked an unexpected half smile, which broke up the planes of his jaw like a chisel. "There's a rule around here:
No killing on campus,
" he said. "Well, that holds as long as you can't prove that it didn't happen. Sloppy assassinations cause us a lot of trouble. They're as bad as shooting your mouth off. Smart assassinations—they're called accidents. And we all know that accidents happen. It's a part of life."

There was a subtle shifting of bottoms on seats.

"But let me warn you," Luther added, his smile fading, his eyes narrowing. "We're not stupid. We've seen it all. So don't think you're going to pull it off, whatever it is, because you won't. You might fool the police, but you won't fool us. Not ever. You'll come to realize the truth of what I'm saying this semester, when I tell you what happened to the other punks who thought they were smarter than the faculty."

Without warning, he flung himself onto a bench. Cadel realized, with a start, that he had finished. Thaddeus stood up. He smiled benignly at his colleague.

"Thank you, Professor," he beamed. "Most illuminating. And may I add, ladies and gentlemen, on the subject of sloppy work, that while cheating and lying are encouraged at the institute, there is no place here for incompetent cheats or transparent lies. If we should
detect
anyone cheating or lying, or breaking into staff offices, there'll be hell to pay. Am I right, Luther?"

"Absolutely," Luther replied.

"And that's all I have to say at this time
except
"—Thaddeus raised his voice above the surge of chatter and shuffling of feet that greeted his dismissal—"
except
this. Quiet, please! Quiet! There's one more thing!"

The noise eased slightly. Thaddeus extended his hand, pointing at Cadel. "Can everyone see this lad over here?"

Everyone could, though Cadel shrank back in alarm. He didn't want to be singled out.

"This lad here is Cadel Darkkon," Thaddeus revealed. "He is Dr. Darkkon's son. Of course we don't want this fact to be generally known in the wider community, so if anyone tries to spread the news, you can guess what will happen." He wagged a finger at the class, almost playfully. "What's more, while you can compete as fiercely as you like
among yourselves,
Cadel is off-limits. Do I make myself clear?"

A few grunts were the only response.

"
Do I make myself clear?
"

His question was so sharp, so abrupt, that it was like a whiplash—like a slap in the face. It made everybody jump.

"Yes!" the students chorused.

"Very well, then. Off you go." It was startling how quickly Thaddeus could transform himself from a stone-faced dictator into a suave academic. Now he was smiling pleasantly, adjusting his glasses. "Good luck on your first day, and a word of advice from someone with experience." He waited until the whole class was looking at him. "The refectory's sweet-and-sour pork," he said, "is
poison.
"

And he laughed.

Cadel's next class was with Brendan Graham. It was held in Brendan's office, on the first floor of the seminary building, so Cadel didn't have to pass through any security scanners to get there.

Brendan's office enchanted Cadel. When he poked his head around the door, he was confronted by a room in which the walls were plastered with calculations. There were computer printouts of number sequences, handwritten algorithms on scrap paper, and pages torn from printed textbooks. Even the ceiling was covered with balance sheets.

Three people were sitting in the room. One was Brendan himself, recognizable because of his red hair and chalky, freckled face. Beside him sat a stiff, elderly man in a gray suit, and a plump, glossy woman who confused Cadel. Although she was very well groomed, with lots of shimmering makeup and flashy jewelry, her eyes had a lost, slightly fretful look, as if she were wandering around, ragged and starving, in a scene of utter devastation.

"Uh—hello," said Cadel. "I'm Cadel Darkkon."

No one said anything.

"I'm—I'm new?" he stammered. "I've got a class here?"

"Oh." Brendan frowned. "You're the addition."

"I guess so."

"Come in."

Cadel did as he was told. He was aware that, owing to the small size of the institute, many of its elective subjects were taught to composite classes made up of students from different years. Thaddeus had told him that he would be sharing his embezzlement class with one second-year undergraduate and one student in the final year of his degree.

"Douglas Prindle," Thaddeus had declared, "is an old accountant with lots of experience and nothing to show for it. He's very embittered. Nursing a grudge. Wants to enrich his remaining years and ruin a few clients in the process. Brendan seems to think he has a lot of potential. Phoebe Christos..." Thaddeus had shrugged. "Well, she's your standard bottomless pit. Banking background. Has to have her designer clothes and her fancy cosmetics and her trips to Paris. Brendan says if she can keep out of jail long enough to finish her degree, she'll be a handy little mole for us to have. Well placed in the banking system."

Cadel decided that the gray-suited man and the plump woman must be Douglas and Phoebe. They weren't introduced. Brendan simply waved Cadel into a spare seat and said, "Know much about accounting?"

"Uh—no. Not really," Cadel replied.

"Thaddeus says you're good with numbers. Top marks in mathematics."

"Well, I guess so."

"Accounting is different. In this class, we're not trying to find numbers. We're trying to hide them. We're trying to disguise them. Fake numbers. Hidden numbers. That's what it's all about." Brendan's rapid-fire voice was rather toneless. "Do you know anything about tax law?"

"No," Cadel admitted.

"Bank procedures?"

"A bit. Mostly credit cards."

"Then you'd better do some background reading." Brendan got up, went to a filing cabinet, and dragged a large book from the stack of publications that teetered on top of it. He poked around in the cabinet's bottom drawer and pulled out another book. Finally, he plucked a slimmer, smaller volume from the papers on his desk and added it to the pile. All the chosen books were photocopied, bound in ring binders, and covered with sheets of stiff, transparent plastic. Each bore a code as its title:
TL1:#1a-42e,
or
>4:base1-27.

"Okay, that's most of what you need to know about tax law," Brendan declared, dropping the largest book into Cadel's arms. "Practical loopholes, basically. Things to remember. This is a procedural handbook that covers most financial institutions in Australia, though not in too much detail, of course." The second book joined the first. "And this is your basic accounting textbook, nothing fancy, though I've added an appendix on offshore instruments. You know—tax havens. Offshore instruments are
very
important." Brendan surrendered the smallest book, while Cadel felt his heart sink. The weight of his load was some indication of the work that lay ahead.

"There's no point staying," Brendan went on, dropping back into his chair, "unless you've got a grip on the stuff in these texts. Thaddeus says you're a genius, so you shouldn't have any trouble. Go away, read them, and come back. When's your next class with me?"

"Thursday," Cadel muttered.

"Come back on Thursday." Brendan didn't seem to think any further explanation was required. His tone was monotonous, his expression rather blank. Douglas and Phoebe rolled their eyes at each other when the word
genius
was mentioned, but Brendan seemed to regard it as an unremarkable term.

"If you've got any questions," he continued, "I'm usually here. Do you know anything about computers?"

"Lots," Cadel retorted.

"That'll help. It's mostly computers, these days, especially with foreign exchange and account processing. But we'll cover that a bit later." Having provided Cadel with all the information due him, Brendan appeared to forget that he even existed. As Cadel sat openmouthed, the red-haired lecturer resumed his interrupted conversation with Douglas. They had been talking about something called "abnormal items" before Cadel had interrupted them.

"So what you're saying is that you've got a $54 million write-off of future tax benefits on foreign losses," Brendan mused, restoring a stapled document to his lap and studying it closely, "which was recognized as an asset last year, is that right?"

"In a nutshell," said Douglas.

"But now you're not sure about the recovery."

"Right."

"I don't know. I agree it's got potential, but what's your documentation like?"

Cadel realized that he wasn't wanted. Phoebe was staring at him with raised eyebrows, as if wondering why he was still there.

Quietly, he got up and slipped from the room.

Cadel's next class was with the lawyer, Dr. Deal. But it was scheduled for eleven, and he had some reading to do before then. If it had been a sunny day, he would have taken his reading out to the lawn. Since it was wet, however, he went down to the library, where he took his load of embezzlement texts over to one of the tables. He sat down and began to leaf despondently through the book on basic accounting. As far as he could see, it looked fairly straightforward, but awfully dull.
Net interest income is simply the difference between interest income and interest expense,
he read.

"Hello," said a muffled voice.

Cadel looked up. He saw Gazo Kovacs standing in front of him.

"Hello," he replied.

"You're Cadel Darkkon."

"Yes."

"I'm Gazo Kovacs."

"I know."

Gazo dragged out a chair and sat down. He moved rather awkwardly, with a great rustling of man-made fibers. Through the transparent plastic of his headpiece, his face was thin and spotty, with big, pale, watery eyes.

"I'm super grateful to your dad," he said, his accent heavy with cockney vowels. "Your dad finks I've got potential." He pronounced the last word carefully, as if he wasn't very familiar with it. "He brought me all the way from England. He paid for the trip."

"I know," Cadel answered.

"Gave me a room upstairs, and I get all me food. But I afta work hard." Gazo leaned forward suddenly. "What's he like, your dad? I never met 'im."

"That's because he's in jail."

"I know. Dr. Roth told me. Have
you
met 'im?"

"I've spoken to him."

"What's he like?"

Cadel regarded the spaceman figure across the table. Thaddeus had been correct; Gazo clearly was
not
very bright. But even more strangely, he didn't seem very dangerous, either. Unless his dopey, puppylike demeanor was just an act.

"My dad's really smart," Cadel rejoined, cautiously.

"I know! He's the smartest guy in the whole world! That's why they put 'im in jail. So he wouldn't become president of the United Nations."

Astonished, Cadel stared at Gazo. "
What
did you say you were studying?" he asked.

"I'm studying to be a superhero. I've got powers, and your dad says I should learn to channel 'em."

"Yes, I know. The stench." Cadel waved this information aside. "But what else are you studying?"

"Um ..." Gazo began to count the subjects off on his clumsy gloved hands. "Loopholes, forgery, disguise..."

All the core first-year subjects, in other words. Cadel wondered how Gazo was going to cope. It didn't seem likely that he would pass even the simplest subject. That stench of his, Cadel thought, must be pretty amazing.

"You're real smart, too," Gazo went on. "Just like your dad. How old are you?"

"Fourteen," Cadel lied.

"Wow! You must be a genius. I wish I was a genius." With a glance at Cadel's pile of books, Gazo added, "I can read, but I dunno if ... what I mean is, it's gonna be hard for me."

"You'll be all right," said Cadel, though he didn't really mean it. He had learned to be supportive and reassuring at school, when he was researching social interaction. Being nice, he had discovered, usually paid off when you were collecting information and hunting down gossip. Now he often found himself being sympathetic automatically. Even when he didn't care at all.

Gazo responded with a grin so big that Cadel could see it through the foggy plastic panel.

"Thanks," said Gazo. "I hope I'll be all right. I don't want to let your dad down, not after what he's done for me."

Cadel grunted.

"So what do you finka the others?" Gazo continued. "The Bludgeon, and them? They're not too friendly, are they?"

Cadel peered at his companion in genuine disbelief. Surely the silly sod couldn't
really
be so clueless?

"They're not here to be friendly, Gazo," he pointed out. "If they wanted to be friendly, they would have gone somewhere else."

"I's'pose so." Gazo nodded solemnly. Then he perked up again. "But
we
can be friends, eh? I mean, you and me?"

Cadel blinked. He glanced around, but there was no one else in the library. He wondered what Thaddeus's advice might be. Was Gazo a tiresome, thick-skinned idiot who would prove impossible to shake off, or would he be a useful person to have on his side?

Cadel chose to take a chance.

"Okay," he murmured. "We can be friends."

Another big grin from Gazo. "I can look after you," he promised. "I'm a lot older than you are, and I've got this power. You ain't got no power, eh?"

"Only mind power," Cadel retorted.

"Then I can look after you, because you're so little. That's what I want to do, anyway, when I finish me course. Look after people. People like your dad, who want to make the world a better place."