Rock Killer (7 page)

***

The Frenchman, Philippe Thorez, was a large man. His clothes were tailor made out of expensive, natural fibers. It’s amazing the money to be made by selling death.

Thorez greeted the Baathist leader. “
Mah’hun ah’sah’hun
.”

Faruq smiled and ignored the man’s mangling of his language.

“The missiles?” he asked. English was the common denominator.

“Because of the sanctions,” Philippe began, “It is very difficult.”

“Yes, I know,” Faruq acknowledged. S
o the negotiations begin
, he thought with glee. He actually enjoyed this part of his job.

“But,” the arms dealer went on, “there is a shipment of ‘humanitarian items’ for the poor, suffering children of Oman from the generous people of the EU. The ship will leave Marseille in a few days. If my SRI account has grown substantially, a container full of powdered milk also will contain a crate of ten missiles.”

“How substantially?” the Arab asked.

“That is the question,
mon ami
.”

Chapter Four

“Marin County, wouldn’t ya know.”

The Frenchman snored like a pig. T
hat was a good metaphor
, Karen, the American that had majored in English, thought. He had sex like a pig, also. At least he had the decency to turn over and go to sleep immediately afterward.

What I’ll do for money
, she thought ruefully. But after graduating from Columbia with a student loan obligation just under the national debt, and the government throwing defaulters in jail, and the old rich man who gave her money for her company because she was pretty and willing…well, she just fell into it.

She slipped out of the Western-style bed. Philippe had made the mistake of keeping his luggage in this room and a short search produced his thin, paperback book-sized computer. She went to the bathroom, stopping for her one bag.

The Baathist enclave was really like a fortified hotel in some respects. That morning, she’d flown out of Tel Aviv to Athens and from there to Damascus. She was greeted at the airport by a greasy little man who threw her into the back of an old Mercedes (it burned gas!) and drove her to the enclave. She traveled the road to Damascus laying on the dirty back seat and climbing into a black
abaya
.

What I’ll do for money
, she thought again.

In the bathroom she looked at herself in the mirror. Her makeup was smeared by the pig’s brutal kisses. Her negligee was soiled and even torn. Karen gave herself a dirty look. What she did for money was unpleasant, and had a few inherent dangers such as disease or freaks. Still, what she was about to do could get her killed. But SRI’s money was too damn good. When that Morgan woman approached her, told her she was going to be called to Damascus, and offered enough money that Karen could vacation for a few years, she’d jumped at the offer.

She put the toilet seat down–the pig had left it up–sat on the lid and pulled her bag onto her lap. From her bag she removed a makeup kit. Turning it over, she pried off the back with her long thumbnail. The assortment of chips was impressive; four were labeled “hack” and about ten were standard data chips.

She chose one of the hack chips at random, slipped it into the appropriate slot, and turned on the computer.

Nothing happened.

She tried another chip, as Morgan had instructed.

Again the computer refused to boot.

“Damn,” she sighed softly. If none of the hack chips worked, she’d have to steal the computer to get her money, and that was very risky.

But when she tried the third hack chip, the computer immediately came on, its screen lit up and it let out a frightfully loud beep.

The screen displayed “wait” then “insert data chip #1”, and when she did the data chip light glowed a cheerful yellow.

“please remove data chip #1 and insert data chip #2,” the screen read and Karen complied. This continued for six chips and the screen displayed “download complete.”

Karen turned off the device and put all the chips back in the hidden compartment in her makeup kit. She flushed the toilet and washed her hands and face. Back in the room she replaced the computer where she’d found it and slid back into the bed, staying as far from the man as possible. She knew he would expect her to be in his bed in the morning.

***

Charlie didn’t like Tokyo and Mitchel’s request for her to come see him had her perplexed. She thought about it while trying to catch a subway from Haneda Airport. Tokyo was too damn crowded. She’d forgotten how bad the subways were, and missed her stop because she was packed in too tightly. She finally got off the train two stops late and walked back. The mega-crowds were bad but not as bad as being a human sardine in a subterranean can.

She was wearing civilian, casual clothes, comfortable for traveling, instead of her security uniform. The first person she met at the entrance to the SRI building was a security guard who stopped her with a raised hand.

“Excuse me,” he demanded arrogantly. “May I ask what your business is here?”

Charlie regarded the dirt-side security man. Like any person in any kind of position of power, he was implicitly demanding her respect. Silently she showed him her SRI identification. It was red: red for space qualified.

“Thank you,” he said sheepishly, his whole power base eroded.

“You’re welcome,” Charlie said offhandedly and strolled by. She passed through three detectors: metal, explosives, biological and chemical. She went to the receptionist and flashed her ID again. No power games here.

“Yes?” the pretty, young Japanese girl asked in very good English. “What can I do for you, Ms. Jones?”

“I’m here to see Security Head Mitchel. Would you inform his secretary I’m here? Also, I need a room. I just came in from the Moon.”

“Fine,” the woman replied, working her computer. “Here or the Arcology?”

Charlie was surprised. “Is the Arcology that much completed?”

“Yes,” the woman answered. “The SRI hospital has been moved there, making more room for offices here.”

“How long does it take to get there?”

The girl looked sympathetic, or she was hoping Charlie wouldn’t ask that. “The direct subway isn’t finished, yet. A helicopter trip takes about half an hour. But the rooms are much bigger.”

“Too long. I’ll take a room here.”

“Fine,” the girl said, as if it really was. “ID, please?”

Charlie handed it over and the girl put it in the computer.

“Room 2356-A,” she recited, looking at her computer. “Twenty-third floor.” She held out Charlie’s ID.

“Thank you,” Charlie said sincerely. She went to the bank of elevators, found the hostel express (floor 20 through 25), and took it to the prescribed level. Her ID card opened the room.

She’d seen closets bigger than the room, but she’d stayed here before and knew what to expect. First she used her computer—the room had an interface—to access the SRI company store. She looked over the dresses; her attire was a little too casual to be seen on the executive floors. Something appropriate but not necessarily business-like was what she wanted.

All the dresses had long, flowing skirts; apparently the current fashion. She picked one with a color she thought would look good on her—and was very close to SRI Security red—and arranged to have it delivered with corresponding shoes and foundation. Charlie enjoyed dressing in nice clothes but hardly ever got a chance in space. That, and Mitch was an old bachelor and friend. He’d appreciate the extra effort.

***

Charlie remembered when she met Mitchel what seemed ages ago, but was in reality only about five years. It was in Boulder; Charlie was in the SRI school. She’d been there long enough that her weekends were free and a group of girls had talked her into going out with them. Near the University of Colorado was the usual series of bars aimed toward collegiate clientele, and the SRI security trainees were going to try to pass themselves off as co-eds. But Charlie grew tired of the drinking and the behavior of the college boys. Even though she was the same age, they seemed so frivolous and self-possessed. Her friends didn’t want to leave so Charlie walked to the light rail terminal by herself.

There was an older man waiting for the train with a suitcase and a briefcase, marking him in her mind as a traveling businessman. Charlie assumed his destination was the expensive neighborhoods in the foothills of the Rockies. He was big and muscular with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. O
nly advanced age is ever going to widen his girth
, she mused. He had a large head and was bald except a circle of graying, reddish hair. His deep, intelligent blue eyes twinkled when he looked at Charlie. Charlie had dressed in the tightest pair of jeans she owned and a low cut sweater. But he looked her right in the eye, at least when she was looking at him.

“Hi,” Charlie said.

“Hello,” he replied.

“Late to be just getting in,” she offered.

“Yes, it was a long trip.”

“I hate to travel,” she said. “It’s arriving that’s fun.”

He laughed. When the train came they were still talking.

Instead of boarding they left the platform and went to a cafe. They ignored the stares and talked, so much that their food was cold before they began consuming it. Charlie was amazed that this older man–he called himself Eugene–was so interesting. He also seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. When the time came to pay the bill, Eugene used his computer to transfer the funds. As it sat idling on his wrist, Charlie noticed it displayed a familiar logo.

“Do you work for SRI?” she asked. The subject of employment had never come up in their conversation.

“Yes,” he said, somewhat apprehensive. “I didn’t tell you because some of the locals think SRI is a Japanese plot to buy up all the land.”

“I know,” Charlie bemoaned. “I get that all the time.”

“You work for SRI?” he asked more nervously.

She smiled. “Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a trainee at the school.”

Eugene’s eyes rolled up. “Wonderful. I thought…”

“You thought I was a student at CU?”

He nodded mutely.

“I was trying to look like one. Like you said, the locals sometimes don’t give SRI employees the warmest of receptions.”

He just looked at her.

“What do you do?” she asked innocently.

He hesitated.

“Are you in security?” she prodded. The SRI school specialized in security.

He nodded. “Yes, I’m in security.”

“So, what do you do for Mitchel?”

He hesitated, then smiled wryly. “I am Mitchel,” he said.

Charlie’s eyes grew wide. “You’re Chief Mitchel?”

“Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Oh, my,” she whispered. “I heard you’d be here Monday. I didn’t think...”

“I came early. I was going to visit a friend’s wife and get settled.” He paused. “This is a problem,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because, this isn’t…”

“Isn’t what?” Charlie asked. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to anyone.”

“It’s not that simple,” he protested.

“Yes it is,” she stated. “Just because you happen to be my superior—really my superior—doesn’t cause me any concern. I don’t think it should concern anyone else, either. Were you thinking I was going to try to use this to my advantage?”

“Well,” he said in such a way that she knew he was thinking she would.

“Well, I wasn’t. I don’t do things that way. I want to succeed for better reasons than, ‘I know the boss.’“

He looked at her for a few moments. “Trainee Jones, your career should be successful as hell.”

“Friends then?”

He nodded. “Sure. And my friends call me Mitch.”

“Okay, Mitch.”

“Although,” he said with a smile, “You’d better call me ‘Chief’ or ‘Mr. Mitchel’ around the school.”

***

Whether either of them meant for it to be, Mitch and Charlie’s friendship did help her career. When Mitchel found Charlie working as dirt-side security when she was space qualified he quickly got her an assignment on the Moon. When Takada, the Director of the Lunar Facility, protested that Charlie shouldn’t be living with Frank, Mitchel stepped in and made it possible for Charlie to stay at the lunar facility.

Charlie showered in the minuscule bathroom. She wondered if Mitchel was going to intervene in her career again and if so, how? If it weren’t for his help she wouldn’t have had the position she had on the Moon. Then he tried to get her a job on an asteroid. Charlie wasn’t sure if she’d turned it down because she resented the help or because she was afraid she couldn’t do the job.

The dress arrived by robotic courier a few minutes later. A message on her computer indicated her appointment with Mitch was in an hour. Charlie dressed, fixed her hair, and put on makeup, enjoying the luxury of feminine things again.

She left the room and took the elevator to the hundred and thirtieth floor. There were two men on the elevator. She noticed they were strangely quiet.

She had to wait a few minutes in Mitch’s outer office but that gave her a chance to chat with Meyoung before she showed Charlie in.

The office was expansive. One wall was a window with a view of Tokyo and the bay to drive any acrophobic batty. Another wall was a computer screen. The other two were almost bare except for a few mementos of Mitchel’s SRI career.