The Nexus Series: Books 1-3 (27 page)

“Can we blow
through it?” another agent asked.

The analyst
laughed.  “You may remember we’re in the depths of a satellite careening
through space; not exactly the sort of place to set off an explosion, no matter
how contained it may be.”  He took out his phone and dialed.  “Get me
the director.”

“THEY
may
not have known who Jillian was,” Holiday was saying on the phone in his office,
“but they knew she’d found the door.  There was always the possibility
she’d return.”

“They didn’t take
any chances,” the analyst said on the other end of the line.  “Whatever
their operation was down here, they’ve abandoned it.”

“It looks that
way.”

“Sorry to report
bad news, Director.  I guess this is another lead gone cold.”

“Not entirely,”
Holiday said when he’d hung up.  He dialed another number.

“Janice Moeller,”
a croaky voice answered.

“Don’t you ever
sleep, Janice?”

“I
was
asleep.  Why aren’t you?”

“I need you to
set up a meeting for me.”

“A meeting? 
Do you know what time it is?”

“Let’s see; the
big hand is on the I-I-I, and the little hand is near the X-I-I, so....”

“A meeting with
whom?”

When he told her,
she asked him to repeat himself.

13

THE
Viola & Rose was one of Anterra’s snobbier restaurants.  It took up
most of the fiftieth floor of the
Corrina
Building on
the Avenue of Towers.

It was never open
at four o’clock in the morning unless the head of a government agency happened
to know the owner and ask her for a special exception.  She greeted Holiday
personally as he entered the stylish reception room.

“Tell him to meet
me at our usual table when he arrives,” he told her.

“He’s already
here, sir.”

“Ah.  Even
better.”

Holiday crossed
the dimly lit dining area to the corner.  The walls were floor-to-ceiling
windows offering a panoramic view of the surrounding skyscrapers.  The
corner table was covered by a red cloth and set with silver and crystal. 
The man sitting at the table had his back to Holiday.

“Joseph,” the
director greeted, sitting across from him.

“Giles,” the big
man nodded a greeting.  He was African by birth—Ugandan, Holiday
recalled.  His face and head were smoothly shaven.  He wore a white
tailored suit with a black shirt and red tie.  He hardly had the look of a
man who had been rudely awakened and beckoned to a nighttime meeting.

“I appreciate
your coming at such short notice,” said Holiday, “and at such an ungodly hour.”

“Our line of work
does not recognize regular business hours,” the deep-voiced Ugandan replied
with a perfect pearly smile.  “I will gladly allow you to treat me to
dinner at any time of the day or night, my friend.”

“I don’t recall
saying I was treating.”

The man
shrugged.  “It seemed a reasonable exchange for whatever assistance you
are about to ask of me.”

Holiday smirked. 
“Fair enough.”

“I hope you do
not mind; I have taken the liberty of ordering for the both of us.  Your
favorite will be arriving shortly, as will a mug of strong black coffee.”

“You know me too
well, Joseph.”

The Ugandan’s
face grew serious.  “I know you well enough to perceive that a crisis is
afoot—a crisis in which you are about to involve me.”

“Well, you don’t
have to be so bleak about it, do you?”

The man leaned
forward.  “Let us, as you Europeans say, ‘cut to the chase.’  What
bit of devilry has Sherlock dug up for you this time?”

Holiday glanced
around the empty room.  “Try not to speak that name so loudly, if you
don’t mind.  You’re not exactly supposed to know Sherlock exists.”

“And you are not
exactly supposed to know Section 46 exists.  But then, what are friends
for, if not to exchange mutually beneficial information?”

A waitress
arrived, set a steaming mug in front of Holiday, and vanished.

“A map,” Holiday
said, taking a slow sip.  “That’s all I need for starters.”

Joseph
scoffed.  “Come, now, Giles; I do have
some
scruples.”

“You know I
wouldn’t ask unless it was absolutely necessary.”

“And if it is
absolutely necessary, I won’t refuse.  But such a violation of protocol
requires more explanation on your part.”

The waitress
returned.  In front of Holiday she set down a platter containing a fine
cut of steak and a generous dollop of mashed potatoes.  On the other man’s
plate was a vegetable Holiday didn’t recognize, along with a fish whose head
was conspicuously still attached.  The waitress disappeared again, and
Joseph began peeling back the fish’s skin.

“It’s Sketch,
Joseph,” said Holiday.

The Ugandan
paused.  “Rumor has it you have put him behind bars at last.”

Holiday began
cutting his steak.  “And we’d like those rumors to continue.”

“A phantom?”

Holiday nodded.

Joseph
frowned.  “And you believe his ring is operating in my domain?”

“You doubt me.”

“Our security is
thorough, Giles.  We’ve no evidence of any unauthorized presence in the
tunnels.”

“But we do.”

The Ugandan
studied a bite of fish at the end of his fork.  “How strong is this
evidence?”

“Give me the map,
and I’ll show you.”

“Sherlock is not
allowed any of our information, Giles.  That was decided before your
department formed.”

“I’m not asking
you to give the map to Sherlock.  I’m asking you to give it to me.”

Joseph
hesitated.  After a moment he slowly pulled his mobile out of his
pocket.  He tapped at it for a moment and slid it across the table.

Holiday studied
the screen, manipulated the image, and slid the device back.  “That
stretch of the tunnel system is thirteen meters beneath ground level. 
Five meters away from this particular section of tunnel is a secret room—also
thirteen meters beneath ground level, according to our diagnostics.”

Joseph looked
thoughtfully at the screen.  “You’re certain Sketch is making use of this
room?”

“The phantom’s
information led us to the room.  One of our agents personally encountered
two more of Sketch’s operatives there earlier tonight.”

“You’ve found
some connection between the room and the tunnel?”

“A
door—barricaded before we could open it.”

Joseph looked
gravely at Holiday.  “What is it you are asking?”

“We need to
examine your security video records to track the movements of these
operatives.”  Like Joseph’s mobile, Section 46’s security system was not
linked to Sherlock.

“As I told you,
we’ve observed no unauthorized persons in the tunnels.  However, I will
ask my security team to recheck—”

“They can’t know
about this,” Holiday interrupted.  “No one in your department can, besides
you.”

“You wish me to
review the records myself?”

“Let my people to
do it.”

Joseph shook his
head as he swallowed his last bite of fish.  “Even if I wanted to—which I
am not certain I do—I could not pass such information along to you.  Our
security system is closed.  You know this.  Sherlock is not allowed
access to it.  Even I don’t have access to it.”  He dabbed at his
face with a napkin, threw the napkin on the table, and stood.  “It’s much
safer that way.”  He began walking away.

“Then give us
permission to enter the security hub for that section,” Holiday called after
him.

He shook his
head.  “Far too irregular.”

“Of course. 
Better to let Sketch’s people roam free in your tunnels.”

Joseph
stopped.  He spoke without turning to face Holiday.  “If the department
discovered I was sanctioning such a procedure, I would be back in Africa before
the sun rose.”

Holiday
sighed.  “Sorry for wasting your time, Joseph.  I didn’t know where
else to turn.”

The Ugandan
remained still.  “I will not give you permission to enter that particular
security hub—which, incidentally, is located in a basement office at 2417
Parsons St.”

Holiday typed the
address on his mobile.

“However,” Joseph
went on, “something tells me no one will be on shift there tonight between the
hours of ten and midnight, and that the evening shift will forget to lock up,
as they tend to do sometimes.”

Holiday put away
his phone.  “When the midnight shift arrives, they’ll have no reason to
think any trespassers were there.  You may count on it.”

“I hope
so.”  The Ugandan began slowly walking toward the exit again.  “Don’t
scrimp on the tip, Giles.  You always were a bit stingy.”

“Wonderful to see
you too, Joseph.”  Holiday sat back to enjoy the rest of his steak.

“NEVER
heard
of it,” said Bradley from his usual back row seat in Conference Room D.

“Almost no one
has,” said Holiday.  “Section 46 is at least as classified as our own
beloved department—probably more so.  It is critical that the inner
workings of Anterra be a well-guarded secret.  Only a very select team of
scientists resides and operates in the bowels of our satellite.”

Dizzie wrinkled
her nose.  “Could you possibly use a different metaphor than ‘the bowels
of our satellite’?”

“What kind of
work do they do?” asked Amber.

“Anything you can
think of.  The tunnels allow access to the mechanisms that create
Anterra’s atmosphere, gravity, and so on, not to mention more basic operations
such waste management, generating electricity, things of that nature.  Our
city floats, functions, and survives because of Section 46.”

“And now Sketch’s
people are down there,” Corey said grimly.

“Most likely
they’ve been there for some time.”

“How have they
gone unnoticed?” asked Jill.

“Section 46
security focuses almost exclusively on watching and guarding the known
entrances leading into the tunnel system,” Holiday explained.

“So they didn’t
know about the entrance from the room under the conservatory,” said Amber.

Holiday shook his
head.  “And there may well be other access points being used to infiltrate
the tunnels unnoticed.  It’s yet another way ours is not a city like any
on Earth.  We don’t have solid ground beneath our feet as we walk our
streets; MS9 is a mass of working parts, large and small.”

“But there should
be
some
video evidence that Sketch’s people have been in the tunnels,”
said Bradley.

“If there is,
we’ll find it.”  Holiday proceeded to tap at the computer and project two
photographs on the conference room’s screen.  One was a young Korean man,
the other a young blond European or American woman.

“Who are they?”
asked Amber.

“You and
Bradley,” Holiday answered.  “Sherlock analyzed the photographs of Section
46 personnel in order to find the closest facial matches with our own
department.  The two of you will enter the security hub of the section of
the tunnels which run beneath
Durnham
Park. 
Your task is to review the security records for any sign of unauthorized
activity in the tunnels.  You will pose as Section 46 employees in case
you’re seen by any actual department members, unlikely as that is. 
Bradley, tonight you will be Joshua Paik, assistant head of department
security.  Amber, you will be Stephanie
Luvinsky
,
atmospheric generation expert.”

“He’s got a
goatee,” said Bradley.

“
You
,”
Holiday said emphatically, “
had
a goatee, until you shaved it off
recently.  Any other comments, or questions, Mr. Paik?”

Bradley
grunted.  “No, sir.”

THE
2400 block of Parsons St. was a row of drab brick office buildings.  The
lot was empty when the black department van pulled up and parked in the shadows
across the street.

Bradley and Amber
emerged from the van, wearing white lab coats with their Section 46 ID badges
clipped on the front.  They crossed the street and strode up a small
juniper-lined walk to Building A.  The glass front doors, as promised,
were unlocked.

They were in a
carpeted hallway with dimmed lights.  A sign just inside the door
indicated that Suite 2417 was down the staircase to their left.  They
descended the steps and reached a small, unfurnished room.  The lone door
at the end said ANTERRAN GOVERNMENT, RESEARCH DIVISION.  The window panels
on either side of the door had shades drawn over them.  The door was
unlocked.

The spacious room
beyond was lined with desks.  Each reflective black desktop contained a
single lamp.  Only one lamp was switched on. There was a note on the desk
just beneath the lamp.  “Switch off,” it said in hastily scrawled writing.

Bradley shrugged
and pulled the desk lamp’s chain.

“A trick switch,”
said Bradley.  “It turns the light off.  Ingenious.”

“Just wait,” said
Amber.

In the darkness,
the desk behind them began tilting on its side, along with the section of floor
it sat on.  Fluorescent light glowed from the revealed space, where a
staircase twisted downward.

They began descending. 
A line of pale light gleamed from the edge of each step.

They were several
stories below ground level by the time they reached the end of the
stairway.  It emptied into a dimly lit hallway.  Directly across the
hall was a door marked SECURITY.  It was opened a crack.

The dark room
beyond contained the expected array of screens.

“So these are the
tunnels,” mused Amber, looking at the live video feeds.  Some passages
were closed in by concrete walls.  Others were suspended metal walkways
through forests of machinery.

“Let’s get busy,”
said Bradley.   From his pocket he took out a small, flared device
and found the appropriate socket to plug it into the central computer.  If
it worked properly, it would link the closed security system to The Nexus.

The light on the
device remained red.

“What’s the
deal?” Bradley demanded.

“They’re
firewalling us,” said Amber.

“Why firewall a
closed system?”

“To protect it
from people like us.”

Bradley
frowned.  “I thought the director of Section 46 was supposed to set this
all up for us.”

“He let us in,”
said Amber impatiently.  “The rest is up to us.  Move.”

“What?”

She pushed his
desk chair until it rolled out of the way, and rolled her own chair in its
place.  “Let me handle this.”

Bradley looked at
her doubtfully.  “How do you know how to—?”

“Shut up a
minute.”  Amber tapped at the keyboard.

A green light
began blinking on the device.