The Administration Series (40 page)

She collected herself. "It doesn't matter what you do — there's nothing else I can tell you."

"Well, we'll see which of us is right about that."

He picked out a nerve induction probe from the bench. A level eight lifted all restrictions, but it was always better to start out on the basis of no tissue damage.

"Please."

After two hours of stubborn (and impressive) near silence, a significant moment at last. Some prisoners would've started pleading straight away, but that was the first time she'd said it. Toreth gave her a moment's respite, enough for her to think that it had stopped, and then carried on.

That first time she had been sufficiently in control to ask. By the time he stopped again, she was begging.

"Before we begin, these are the rules." He leaned on the back of the chair and spoke in a low voice, filling in the time while she regained enough control to produce a coherent narrative. "It can start again, whenever you want it to. If you don't answer a question, if you hesitate, if you tell me a lie, if you try to hold something back, I'll know about it and we'll go back to the pain until I'm satisfied you've learned the lesson. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, pleas held back now, but still shaking with tears.

"Good." He moved round in front of her, to where he could see her face. "Now — did you tell me the truth yesterday about how you carried out the killings?"

"Yes." A whisper.

"Think very carefully about that." He shifted the NI probe from hand to hand, and she flinched in the restraints.

"It was all true."

"Good. Did you tell me the truth about why?"

"No."

"Tell me what the lies were."

"There are no old results. No proof. Not really. They said they could create them, that they would be found. By you. Warrick would be disgraced. If the sponsors believed the sim could cause harm, that I was sure enough to kill to prove it, they'd pull out. But the sim . . . the sim
is
dangerous. I know it is. I had to stop it."

"The story about old results was a fallback, in case the killings weren't attributed to the sim?"

"Yes."

For procedure's sake, he ran through the previous day's answers again, getting nothing different at first.

Eventually, he asked, "Who picked out Keilholtz?"

"Me. His death was supposed to drive Pearl Nissim away from SimTech. She would have blamed the sim, because there was no way it could be anything else." She almost smiled. "They weren't very happy about the Legislator. Not what they wanted."

As he spotted the mistake, he caught the simultaneous flash of realisation on her face.

"Who wasn't happy?" he asked. "Who was behind it?"

"I — I don't know."

When he moved forwards, she closed her eyes and clenched her fists. Ready to resist. Toreth smiled. It was only a matter of time.

He waited until she opened her eyes again before he activated the probe.

Only a matter of time, but still more time than he'd expected. Toreth changed the angle of questioning repeatedly, trying to chip through the stubborn resistance, and cursing the useless pharmacy. Eventually he risked a low dose of one the newer additions to the pharmacopoeia, an antidote to which had presumably been beyond the expertise of whoever had supplied Tanit.

He'd never tried the drug before — he didn't have much faith in it. It was supposed to increase susceptibility to pain, and he'd always felt that could be more easily and reliably achieved by turning up the probe. At this point, he was willing to take a risk on something new.

After twenty minutes, he thought he might owe the pharmacist an apology. The prisoner had a worryingly pale and clammy look, from fear rather than from an adverse drug reaction — the monitors showed nothing drastically wrong. More importantly, the prisoner was finally becoming more cooperative.

"Your fallback plan was to confess to murder and taint Warrick in the process?"

She nodded, shivering.

"You expect me to believe that you were willing to be executed to destroy the sim?"

Another nod, but accompanied this time by a glance at the probe. Pitifully easy to read. Toreth shifted his grip again, and at once she was talking.

"They promised me a way out. When it was over — I wouldn't be tried."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know."

He shook his head, lowered his voice. "That is a lie."

"No! I promise I — "

Two minutes this time, as she struggled in the chair, screaming, all pretence of control gone.

"Psychoprogramming!
Psychoprogramming
."

A name at last, but not one he expected, or wanted to hear. Toreth clicked off the probe and stepped back.

"Say that again."

"Psychoprogramming. They wanted the sim. They knew where I was. They knew I was there, they knew I was trained; they knew about the paper on Tara, they knew I wanted to destroy it, they . . . please. Please. It was Psychoprogramming."

Distantly, he heard himself say, "A name. Give me a name."

"I don't know." She was crying again. Toreth watched with more than normal detachment. Psychoprogramming." I had one contact — a man with ginger hair. After my time. I don't
know
his name, I swear. Please."

"Fine." Psychoprogramming. Fuck.

"I don't — "

"Shut the
fuck
up!"

She stared at him, eyes wide, tears brimming on the lower lashes.

"That's enough — you've said enough." He threw the probe back onto the instrument bench. "More than fucking enough."

The next fifteen minutes were a blur: calling the guards, having Tanit taken back to her cell, going back up to his office and locking the door. Sara was away from her desk, thank fuck, so she wasn't there to ask what was wrong. That would have been an easy question, though — everything.

Psychoprogramming, obviously looking for a way past budget restrictions to get hold of the sim tech. He knew all too well what it meant — he was thoroughly and totally screwed.

Of course, there was always the chance that Tanit was lying. A slim chance, given that her description of a ginger-haired contact from Mindfuck matched the indigs' description of Yang's killer, but he'd take whatever chance he could get. A few minutes' consideration produced a possible way of confirming her story.

He called Carey, and got Phil Verstraeten.

Over the comm the man was more confident. "What can I do for you, Para?"

"Is Liz there?"

"I'm afraid Investigator Carey is out of the building."

Fuck. Toreth debated, but couldn't bring himself to trust a trainee he'd met for ten minutes. "Where? I need to talk to her now."

"I'll see if I can get hold of her, Para. Shall I ask her to call you?"

Of course, you fucking idiot. "Please."

He cut the connection and stared blankly at the darkened comm screen.

Toreth knew how these things worked. Mindfuck would never risk any hint of this escaping. Hell, the Administration top ranks would suppress it no less keenly. While corporates normally displayed the same sort of group loyalty as starving sharks, they would go berserk at such a blatant attack on corporate sanctity. That sort of thing brought down heads of department, or even more than that. Idealistically motivated resisters were less than nothing compared to a united corporate front.

Tanit would be dead as soon as the mindfuckers responsible for the mess found out she'd talked; he was the only living witness to her doing it, which gave him a life expectancy just marginally longer. The fact that heads would undoubtedly also roll at Psychoprogramming was no consolation at all.

The reason behind the unexpected annex was clear now. According to the plan, Tanit should've confessed quickly. The request for the higher-level waiver showed that either she hadn't yet, or that Toreth didn't believe her. The annex A ought to have ensured that in either case Tanit would die without Toreth examining her faked confession too closely.

He cursed himself for the stupidity that had landed him here. Tillotson should've given the case to Chevril, who had the dedication and animation of a whelk. In Chev's hands, Tanit would already be annexed and cremated.

The comm screen flickered, and Toreth composed himself in time to greet Elizabeth Carey.

"What's so urgent?" she asked.

"I need a file. A list of —" Not too specific. "Everyone who's tried to license sim tech. Successfully and unsuccessfully."

Luckily, she made it easy for him. "Corporate and Administration?"

He pretended to hesitate. "Sure. Sling in the internal budget requests while you're at it. Might as well collect the set."

"Don't go away — I'll only be a minute." She looked away, talking as she worked. "Verstraeten could've done it for you, you know. I think you hurt his feelings by asking to talk to me."

Toreth forced a smile. "I admit it — I just wanted to hear your voice. It's pure aural sex."

She chuckled. "Keep that up, I'll be applying for a transfer to General Criminal. Okay — it's all on its way to your screen."

"Thanks, Liz."

He skipped quickly through the summary file, praying not to find what he was looking for. On the first run through, he somehow missed it, but he'd barely had time to enjoy the first rush of relief before his eyes caught the link, and his stomach backflipped.

The details of the requests to purchase sim technology filled pages. Psychoprogramming had tried every damn thing they could to get hold of the sim. The Treasury must've had to take on an admin just to bounce the requests. When he looked at the sums involved, he couldn't believe they'd kept trying. Warrick was clearly stretching the licensing rules to the limit to keep Mindfuck at bay.

Why hadn't the stupid bastard given them what they wanted?

The requests had kept coming in until — what a fucking surprise — four months ago. The same time Marian Tanit claimed to have been contacted. Since then, they'd sent a couple more, just for appearances. No new justifications and no appeals. It was —

It was evidence. Solid evidence and a motive. Money. He'd always liked money as a motive.

One more thing to check. Where, specifically, did ownership of the sim technology revert? All he knew was Administration. He called up Asher Linton's carefully written files, and began tracing the links. The Human Sciences Research Centre fell under the umbrella of the Department of Medicine, and had been basically untouched by the reorganisation. However, as Marcus had told him, the Neuroscience Section project had been funded by the now-defunct Department of Security. On that basis, the rights would revert to somewhere within Internal Security, External Security or the Service.

That made him think of something else Marcus had said — that it was possible someone elsewhere in the Administration had deliberately killed the project after the reorganisation. Perhaps, even back then, it had been an attempt to gain control of the technology. Could that be traced to Psychoprogramming?

Was it worth trying to find out? It might take days to track the information down in the wake of the reorganisation, and he didn't even have hours. In the end he decided to try. It took only one call to locate the former head of the project — the man was still at the Human Sciences Research Centre.

"Doctor Le Tissiet? My name is Senior Para-investigator Val Toreth. I have a question about the Indirect Neural Remodelling project, if you remember that."

"Of course," he said, polite but wary. "I'll do anything I can to help."

"When the project was cancelled, did you think it might've been deliberately squelched by another department?"

Le Tissiet's expression closed down. "We had our suspicions, yes."

"Who?"

"I really can't remember." Open evasion now. "It was a long time ago, and it was nothing more than the usual rumours."

Toreth changed tack. "The rights to the technology were sold. Do you know where they would end up if the corporation who owns them now failed?"

"To you, of course. Don't you have that information already?"

To
I&I
? "I'm sorry?"

"Para-investigators are Psychoprogramming, aren't they?"

For a moment, he couldn't answer. Gold. He'd struck a great big shining vein of gold. "No. Part of Int-Sec, yes, but we're Investigation and Interrogation. Are you saying Psychoprogramming asked the same question?"

"Yes. A few months ago. Took us a while to trace the information, I can tell you. But I have all the details to hand now. Or closer to hand than they were."

"Do you remember the name of the person who put the request in?"

Le Tissiet frowned. "Ah . . . no, I'm afraid not. In fact, I didn't speak to anyone in person. The request arrived on a general information code. Shall I send it all along to you?"

With the 'please' on his lips, Toreth reconsidered. "Maybe later. And I'd be grateful if you didn't mention this to anyone."

Le Tissiet's eyebrows lifted, but he merely nodded. The I&I reputation was very good for deflecting inconvenient questions.

"Thanks for your help." Toreth closed the connection and sat back.

A case. An actual, solid case. A good confession and nice circumstantial evidence to back it up.

Now what the fuck was he going to do?

One option was to take it directly to an Administration higher-up. Now he regretted Nissim's death. He could try one of her friends in the Legislature, or even the Int-Sec Head of Department. What was the man's name? Toreth had seen him on a tour on the building once. Shaken his hand, in fact, and thought he looked like exactly the kind of untrustworthy political scum that rose to the top.

Of course, if the first person Toreth approached was involved, or reported him to someone who was, or thought the whole thing was best covered up very comprehensively, he'd be just as fucked as if Psychoprogramming found out what he knew.

On reflection, Toreth decided he'd rather have a plan where an optimistic outcome wasn't 'maybe they'll kill me quickly'.

Evidence of Psychoprogramming's involvement or not, what he really needed was a way to bury the whole mess deeper than the I&I waste recycling level.