Tek Money (12 page)

“Bastard.”

“Me?”

“Cardigan, I mean.” Trinity leaned suddenly forward, grinding his teeth. Yanking the glove free, he administered another shot of narcotics. “It's bad tonight.”

“Maybe you ought to use it to predict the weather,” Munsey suggested. “I had an uncle with a cyborg leg who could tell when it was going to—”

“Fill me in on the Cardigan deal. I'm still, keep in mind, your superior.”

“For now.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Not a thing, Sam, merely idle chitchat.” Munsey smiled. “Still, with an organization as volatile as our particular branch of the OCO—Well, one never can tell.”

“Have you heard something, damn it?” Trinity was pulling the glove back onto his metal hand.

“No, not at all,” Munsey answered. “Quit fretting and concentrate on Cardigan. Any moment now his skyliner is going to be making an unscheduled landing. We'll take care of him then.”

“We ought to dump the whole damn plane in the frigging ocean.”

“That's inhumane, Sam, and against agency policy,” reminded the agent. “You can always hope, however, that my people become too zealous and kill him, quite by accident.”

“If I was running this operation, there wouldn't have to be any hoping about it.” Trinity stood up. “Report to my office soon as you hear how it turns out.”

Munsey left the rocker. “Of course, old man.”

“Do you ever spend any time with Marie?”

“No more than I have to.”

“She's not bad in the sack. You ought to take the time to try her.”

“Thanks for the recommendation, old man, but I think I'll pass.”

“Your mistake.” Trinity vanished from the platform.

20

G
OMEZ HAD BEEN
up in the galley of the skyliner as it sped through the increasingly dark sky high above the Atlantic. “But I'm sincere,
chiquita
,” he was telling the pretty blonde android attendant who was in charge of the nearcaf machine.

“You really do think so?”

“Absolutely. You're completely believable,” he assured her.

She wrinkled her slightly upturned nose. “Oh, I just don't think so,” she said. “I'm cute and all, but anybody can tell I'm an andy, just a dumb old machine.”

“Not at all,” the detective assured her. “You had me completely fooled. I mentioned to my associate earlier in the journey that it was interesting to note that the Quixote Air Service was using human attendants instead of—”

“He's very attractive.”

“Why are you talking about me in the third person,
cara?
”

“Not you, Mr. Gomez, although you're sort of okay looking in an odd sort of way. I mean your handsome friend, Mr. Cardigan.” She filled another plazcup with nearcaf. “He's my idea of a really impressive man. He's obviously led a rough life, but he's still—”

“Hey, that's just a reaction they built into you, Suzi,” cut in Gomez. “If you ever want to be taken for a real human being, you've got to go beyond these traditional judgments. When you can honestly appreciate an offbeat charm such as mine, then you'll be a real person inside.”

“Have you known Mr. Cardigan long?”

“Since before you were built, but we're straying from the topic.”

“Oh, don't be offended. It's …”

He waited, eyeing her. “It's what?”

Suzi stiffened, arms dropping to her side. Her eyes went wide before they both clicked shut.

Gomez shook her by both arms. “Snap out of it.”

But the pretty android had ceased to function and already her very believable flesh had started to cool.

Shaking his head, frowning, he hurried across the small gallery and into the passway that led to the cabins.

A few feet ahead a male attendant was standing rigidly against a wall, eyes closed.

“
Muy malo
.” Gomez started to run.

Jake came out of their cabin before Gomez reached it, having slid the door open with his hands. “Something's wrong, Sid,” he said. “Just about everything except the aircirc system has shut down in there.”

“At least two of the flight andies are defunct, too.” He gestured at the frozen attendant.

Someone started banging on the door of the cabin across the corridor. “My lights have gone out and my door's stuck,” cried an elderly woman.

Jake crossed, prying her door open. “Some kind of emergency, ma'am.”

“We're going to crash?” she exclaimed. “You can feel this plane losing altitude.”

“Now that she mentions it,
amigo
, we are dropping.”

Jane started moving toward the front of the sky-liner. “Better talk to the pilot.”

More passengers were shouting and crying out. Some of them managed to force their doors open and were spilling into the long grey corridor.

“Mostly ocean down below, if I recall my geography,” remarked Gomez as he followed Jake.

“We ought to be over the Azore Islands about now.”

“Not much chance of hitting one of those dinky islands when you're plummeting toward the deep blue sea.”

“We're not exactly plummeting. This feels more like a descent.”

“Descent or plummet, I expect to be mighty soggy any minute.”

Jake knocked on the door to the pilot cabin.

There was no response.

He tugged the door aside with both hands.

The greyhaired woman in the pilot seat was absorbed with the control panel, tapping keys, twisting knobs, even whacking a dial with her clenched fist now and then. “No time for conversation, folks,” she said without turning around.

“What the hell is going on?” Jake stepped into the small cabin.

“Feel like something's taken over the control of the ship,” the pilot told him. “But that's not possible. All of Quixote's systems are tamper-proof. So this can't be a parasite box or—”

“According to this course screen,” said Jake, tapping the oval panel, “we're scheduled to land on one of the Azore Islands.”

“I know, but I had nothing to do with that,” she assured him. “I can't, though, get the ship to respond at all. Somebody else is flying it.”

“Looks like we'll set down in less than six minutes.”

“
Amigo
, you've often heard me lecture on the scarcity of coincidences in the universe.”

“I agree, Sid. This has to have something to do with us.”

“
Sí
, meaning we can expect some sort of unpleasant reception down there.”

“Yeah,” said Jake. “And we've got about five minutes to get ready for that.”

Dan said, “That's not possible, is it?

Rex/GK-30 spread his metal hands wide. “Kids, I've checked with everybody I can think of, including a bosom buddy up in the International Flight Monitoring satellite,” said the robot. “Nobody can find a trace of the Quixote skyliner carrying your pop and his partner.”

“But it has to show up on the satellite scans.”

“Not necessarily,” said Molly, who was holding Dan's hand. “If the people who are behind this are sufficiently clever, there are several electronic tricks they can rig—all of them illegal
and
expensive. But neither of those things is a block to the Teklords.”

Dan said, “We've got to talk with your uncle, Molly. See if he knows anything else about this.”

“That's not going to be especially easy.” She made a perturbed face. “He phoned me from Mexico and didn't bother to give me his number or mention where exactly he was.”

“I can track him down,” offered the robot.

“You better do that.” Dan let go of Molly and hurried over to another vidphone. “I'm going to talk to Bascom if I can.”

The agency head was still in his office. “I already heard, Dan,” he said before the young man had finished speaking.

“So what do you know about Dad? Did they crash or—”

“We're not sure.” Bascom was sitting behind his desk, leaning forward. “My guess, however, is that the crate was hijacked in some pretty sophisticated way. If it had simply crashed in the ocean, we'd know about it by now.”

“The Teklords are involved in this,” said Dan, explaining about what Molly's shady uncle had told her.

“They're involved in much of what befalls your father,” said Bascom. “There may also be a government angle, which I'm pursuing with some of my intelligence contacts.”

“You mean maybe the Office of Clandestine Operations is in on this, too? They've never liked Dad or—”

“Too soon to tell. Keep in mind that Jake and Gomez are damned good at taking care of themselves.”

“Sure, but—”

“I'll call you soon as I find out anything.” The screen blanked.

Rex announced, “Hot dog, I've located Jerrold Fine in the Borderland area.”

Molly brightened. “Let me call him, then,” she said.

21

T
HEY STOOD AT
the edge of the clearing, watching the Quixote skyliner being brought down through the warm night. Rising up behind the three figures was the immense plastiglass dome that covered the Fayal Fruit Company's #3 banana plantation.

The small field's landing lights splashed streaks of yellow across the darkclad watchers, two men and a woman.

The tallest of the trio, a lanky black man in his middle thirties, was arguing with the woman.

She was small, a shade over five feet, and wore her dark hair long. “I'm not going to do that, Charlie, no.”

“I'm afraid, Almita, you're going to have to,” said Charlie Lunden, holding out his hand to her. “No lazguns allowed on this mission, so give it to me.”

“No lazguns for you OCO buttwipes,” she said, shaking her head, angry, and backing away from the agent. “But I don't have a damn thing to do with your agency or your halfass government.”

“Carlos Zabicas guaranteed your good behavior, which is the only reason you were allowed along,” reminded Lunden. “Now, quick, the ship is setting down. We've got to get aboard right now and take Cardigan and Gomez.”

“They're both rough bastards,” insisted Almita Santos. “I'm not giving up my gun.”

“Almita, dear,” said the other OCO agent, a tall, husky blond man, “this is a stungun you feel in your pretty little back. Take out your lazgun, drop it. That will be more than enough crap for tonight.”

“Listen, Helton, Carlos won't like you—”

“It would be a shame,” said Bayard Helton, jabbing the gun barrel into her spine, “if you were seriously incapacitated—perhaps permanently—during this operation. We can blame it on Cardigan and—”

“Okay,
cabrón.
” She tossed the lazgun toward the brush and the night swallowed it up.

“Cardigan and his partner are in Cabin 14,” said Lunden. “But they'll be expecting trouble. Come on, let's go.”

“Try to keep in mind, dear,” said Lunden, prodding her with the gun, “that we're a team.”

Jerrold Fine told everybody he was forty seven, but shaving that six years off his age hadn't improved his appearance any. He had a sallow, deeply wrinkled face and his eyes were dull and deeply sunk. Very carefully, he ducked into the phone booth in the lobby of the Hotel Borderland. “This is Jerrold Fine,” he said, almost in a whisper. “There's a personal call for me from GLA.”

“What's that,
señor?
” A ball-headed gunmetal robot had shown up on the screen. “I can't hear you at all clearly.”

“First—are you absolutely certain this damned vidphone is tap-proof?”

“Of course,
señor.
”

“Some of these backward Borderland setups claim they're absolutely bugfree and then it turns out—”

“I assure you,
señor
, that no one can eavesdrop on your conversation. Not even myself.”

“I'm Jerrold Fine,” he repeated his name in a louder voice. “There's a call from Greater Los Angeles waiting for me.”

“
Sí
, from Molly Fine.
Un momento.
”

Molly showed up on the screen, replacing the bot. “Uncle Jerry, you've got to help us find—”

“Hold on just a minute, pet,” cautioned her uncle as he scanned the hotel lobby through the one-way plastiglass side of the booth. “Are you completely certain you're on a tap-proof phone on your end?”

“Of course, I'm calling from the academy.”

“The SoCal State Policy Academy, you mean? Oh, I don't know if I want to—”

“Please, calm down, Uncle Jerry. This is darned important to—”

“Explain who that is standing immediately behind you.”

“Dan Cardigan. Dan, my uncle.”

“Good evening, sir.”

“Jake Cardigan's boy? Oh, I don't know about this, honey. Having direct contact with—”

“You're having direct contact with
me
,” his niece told him. “Now, about that warning you gave me about—”

“I shouldn't have done that.” He shook his head. “That's the trouble with still having a vestige of conscience.”

“Something
has
happened to the skyliner Jake and his partner were traveling on,” she said. “Do you know any more details, Uncle Jerry—more than you told me?”

“I told you too much as it was, pet. These people don't like informers.”

“What people?” asked Dan.

“I don't want to be seen talking directly to Cardigan's kid.”

“Tell me, then, darn it. Who, specifically, rigged this?”

“A very powerful Tek cartel, for one.”

“Zabicas?” asked Dan.

After a few seconds of waiting, Molly asked, “Uncle Jerry, is it the Carlos Zabicas cartel in Madrid?”

“So I've heard.”

“Who else?”

Fine studied the lobby again, watched a robot bellhop in a bright serape go hurrying up a ramp. “There's an element inside the OCO—a rogue group that doesn't always toe the line when it comes to official policy,” he said. “They have had something to do with this as well.”