Robert Charrette - Arthur 03 - A Knight Among Knaves (29 page)

Hagen's foot-dragging was only one of the obstacles Pamela saw hindering her efforts to define Mitsutomo's future role. Entrepreneurs and small companies were already developing preternatural resources. For the moment, the new companies dealt in fringe stuff and special interest pandering, but she knew better than most that those companies were just the beginning. Most of the Keiretsu's major partners had once been hungry young start-ups, each riding the crest of a single specialized product, technology, or service. She understood what catching the wave meant. She did not intend to get left behind.

At least as great a threat was the possibility that a rival with resources comparable to Mitsutomo's might have the same insights that she had so laboriously gathered through the Charybdis Project. Mounting evidence suggested that such a fear might be justified. Metadynamics, for example, had recently made some real estate acquisitions of questionable value—questionable, if one were not aware that their newly acquired parcels appeared to be loci of preternatural activity. And if one were aware, one found additional questions to ask. How much did Metadynamics know about the use of magic? What were their sources? What plans did they have to take advantage of the changing world?

Some of MetaD's recent actions had disturbed Hagen enough that he had come to her, even though, by his own admission, he had no idea of their rival's goal.

"What makes you sure that Metadynamics is involved?" she asked him.

"At the moment, the evidence is admittedly circumstantial, but I expect confirmation within forty-eight hours. However, considering how formidable Metadynamics has proven in less, ah, esoteric arenas, we cannot afford to take any chances."

She didn't like to take chances, and he knew it. "We cannot afford to create unnecessary enmity, either."

"Agreed, but a prompt response may be necessary. A recent report suggests that Metadynamics may be about to step up their programs. Several of our street contacts confirm that one of their regular freelance agents—Benton by name—is

once again in the Providence area. You may recall that he

was involved with last year's attempt by Metadynamics to acquire a certain property in that district." the Pickman holding."

"Exactly."

She remembered the case because it had been her first hint that someone at Metadynamics was aware of the changes. the property was an old factory, completely outdated, belonging to a nearly defunct, family-held publishing firm. She had seen no obvious value to a conglomerate of MetaD's size and interests—unless she assumed that they had observed what Mitsutomo's own agents had observed, and that the property was indeed a locus of otherworldly activity. MetaD's attempt to buy the property outright had failed. Pickman Publishing had rejected MetaD's generous offer out of hand, and that had seemed to end the megacorp's interest in the property.

But now it seemed that Metadynamics had not been discouraged. Hagen had uncovered a systematic buyout of nearby real estate. Piece by piece, the properties surrounding I the Pickman Building were being purchased by holding companies. Hagen had electronic records showing several of those holding companies to be controlled by members of the Metadynamics family, and he said that he would soon be able to prove that all of them were tied to MetaD.

"So now they're trying to acquire all the property surrounding it?" None of Hagen's documents suggested a reason. "To what end?"

"Observation? Containment, perhaps?" Hagen shrugged uncomfortably. "We have insufficient data."

"Then we must obtain some data."

"Efforts are being made, but I do not think we will see timely results."

How could she know what was timely if she didn't know what was going on? "Perhaps there is another way to forestall whatever it is our friends at MetaD are planning. I'll have Duncan arrange an offer on the Pickman property."

"Any offer will be refused," Hagen said confidently.

Why was he so sure? "Is there something you're not telling me, Mr. Hagen?"

"I am not prepared to discuss the matter further at this time, but be assured that the property will not be sold."

More of his dwarven secrets? She disliked being prodded to action while information—possibly vital—was withheld. So far Hagen had always steered her in a direction that offered some significant gain or avoided some pitfall, yet something about the dwarf's attitude hinted that this time the interests of Mitsutomo and Hagen's secret masters might not be coincident. It would be best to have Duncan arrange some independent verification of the situation. In the meantime ...

"We'll make the offer nonetheless." Hagen might be wrong, and if that was the case, she would enjoy telling him so. "However, just in case you are right, we will buy whatever adjacent properties MetaD has not already acquired."

"A reasonable course of action."

She hoped so. She was involving Mitsutomo primarily to satisfy Hagen's interests, though any chance to hinder a rival like MetaD was not to be snubbed. Such holding action was unlikely to harm the Keiretsu, but she didn't see the profit in it. Yet. Once she learned what MetaD was after, she would make sure there was profit for the Keiretsu, and for herself.

Hagen rose from his seat. "If that is all?"

"Have we begun to work at cross-purposes, Mr. Hagen?"

Her question clearly caught him off guard. He schooled his expression, studying her stonily for several moments before replying. "I remain as committed as ever, Ms. Martinez."

Committed to what goals? To hers and Mitsutomo's, or to those of his fellow dwarven conspirators? She had never thought to doubt his dedication, just his allegiance.

"I recently received a message from Detective Gordon," she said, calling a copy and the attendant files to the wallscreen. "It seems that he has been ordered to close his investigation of the
Wisteria
killer. I would like an explanation of your role in this."

Hagen read Gordon's note. He didn't bother to open the accompanying files. "I had no role in this."

"You wanted the investigation stopped."

"I discouraged
your
interest in the matter, yes, but I have not interfered with the police investigation. The matter more properly belongs in their sphere. Let
them
deal with this aberration inflicted upon us by the otherworld."

"This particular aberration is being ignored." Which had not turned out to be the problem she had feared it might be. the killer's destination had not proven to be Brookfield or the facility where Quetzal had been held, and none of the recent incidents had touched upon Mitsutomo or any of the Keiretsu's dependents. The killer was one problem that had not come knocking on her door. Since she had apparently been wrong about the creature's connection with Quetzal, perhaps her suspicion of Hagen's motives was wrong as well. "So you had nothing to do with burying the investigation?"

"Nothing. Gordon cites federal interference, which implies I
sa
and Dark Glass. That
is
an issue of concern. I will look into the matter."

Her source, a congressman on the FSA oversight committee, had told her that the investigation was being dead-ended, labeled a hoax, by Dark Glass. She declined to tell Hagen that bit of information, preferring to see if his "look into the matter" would uncover it. She'd give him a chance. What he reported would tell her something about where he stood.

The outside of the office building gave no sign that Holger's destination lay inside. The lack of an identifying logo gave him a moment of doubt, but only a moment. The street number on the wall confirmed that he had found the right building. What had he been expecting?

What
was
he expecting?

He was no more sure of that than of why he had come.

But come he had. He was here. He gave a tug on the outer door and it swung open on well-oiled hinges. The supposedly silent screech of the security system drilled at his head as he entered. He wasted no time in the entry, ripping hard on the inner door to open a way into the lobby. There were people there, staring at his precipitous entrance, but he didn't care. The closing of the inner door cut off the annoying whine. Unknotting his facial muscles, he blinked a few times and looked around. The people were gone, leaving him alone in the lobby.

The lobby area was T-shaped. He stood near the entry, at one end of the cap. An anonymous door lay ahead at the opposite end of the cap. To his left, down the upright of the T, two pairs of elevators. To his right, a glassed wall revealed a reception area with an untenanted desk. The letters on the door proclaimed it the law firm of Cohen Masters and Norton.

Not who he was looking for.

The wall of reconstituted marble framing the elevator en-

nances held the usual controls and a set of bronze plaques thai had the names of the building's occupants, organized alphabetically by floor. All the names were presented in subdued serif letters, one plaque to each of the organizations. There were eleven names, thirteen if he separately counted Cohen Masters and Norton. The plaques were of varying sizes: small where several organizations shared a floor, larger where one had a whole level to itself. The largest, proclaiming possession of the top three floors, was also the newest. The screws holding that plaque were still shiny brass, not chemically aged as was the nameplate itself. No artificial dignity for them. The letters on the plaque were no larger than those on any of the others; they seemed almost lost in the expanse of the bronze. Holger nodded as he read the name: Pend Foundation.

he punched the call button and the doors immediately opened on a waiting car. He was not asked which floor he wanted, so he looked to the controls. The two uppermost lonchpoints were covered by a panel, inaccessible. The Pend Foundation offered only one point of entry. He touched the button and stood staring blankly at the elevator opposite until the doors closed, then at the doors of his car. The ride was smooth, almost unnoticeable. No stops interrupted his transit; he was pleased.

The doors opened on a reception area furnished in greens and golds and browns. The space was crowded with verdant growing things and caressed by soft, indirect lighting. He might have stepped into forest glade, or an advertisement for the foundation's Re-Green
^SM
program, or—
No!
He didn't want to think about that possibility, even if he did associate it with the man. The man hadn't liked being
there.
He wouldn't have duplicated
that place
here. To put thoughts of that place out of his mind, Holger focused on the ordinary, twenty-first-century things around him: the Cavendell™ wood-trimmed dish chairs, the stone-and-stump table with its vid readers and flimsy zines, the Glazz™ receptionist desk with its Sonymac Escritoire™ system.

A secretary sat behind the desk, a university-issue vid reader propped before her. She was dressed in the old-fashioned style of frilly, high-necked blouse and long skirt in vogue among female radical Greens of her age group. She even wore glasses. He flashed on ID shots of similarly dressed women. Hardened, harsh women committed to a dangerous program of reform by terrorist threat. He hadn't seen her face before but her lack of makeup, long hair, and clothing was their look. Idealistic fashionable imitation or ideological livery? The answer to that question would tell him much about the foundation's practices, hiring and otherwise.

The furtive glances she threw his way while he stood and stared at the reception area were those of a nervous young girl ill-prepared to deal with someone of his appearance. Her discomfort at his approach was apparent. He didn't care. He wasn't here to see her. He stood at the desk until he tired of her pretense that she was so engrossed in her reader that she hadn't noticed that he was there.

"I want to see him."

She looked up then, but still didn't meet his eyes. Afraid to, he supposed. Dangerous trash from the streets. He wanted to smile. He might be just that sort of thing now. She seemed to think so, but her voice was polite when she spoke. He gave her points for that.

"Whom do you mean, sir?" she asked.

Which name? He wasn't sure. Without making a decision, he answered, "Bear."

"We have no Mr. Bear on staff, sir."

Something flashed on her console; Holger saw its reflection on the lenses of her glasses. The secretary excused herself and picked up a handset. What she was being told wasn't for him to hear, but he heard it anyway. The secretary was to be calm, reassuring, and to take him to office C. Did she understand?

"Yes, sir," she said into the handset.

Holger hadn't recognized the voice of the man who had spoken, but he went along. She led him to a door bearing the letter C. The room's lights came on as the door opened. She gestured for him to enter, and stepped clear so that he wouldn't have to pass too near her. The office was dominated by another Glazz desk, this one an executive model smoked to near opacity. Beyond the desk was another door, closed and unmarked. Wooden paneling made the room dark, the opaqued windows darker still.

"Please be seated," she said. There were only two chairs in the room, one on either side of the desk. No mistaking where he was supposed to sit. "Someone will be along to see you in a moment."