“As long as you’re still paying, you can come up with all the matters you want. What’s this one?”
Levin looked at the paper again. “I need to talk to another Paladin.”
38
Counterinsurgency Task Force
Temporary Headquarters, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
17 December 3134
Heather GioAvanti refilled her coffee mug from the galley-sized urn that somebody on her ad hoc staff had set up in the task force’s basement headquarters and made a mental note to find out whose idea it had been so that she could officially commend their initiative. As soon as she had the coffee cream-and-sugared to her taste, she withdrew again to her private office to meet her ten o’clock appointment.
A message from Jonah Levin had come to her private number late last night—early this morning, really—asking for a meeting and an exchange of information. She’d thought at first about using her proper office, which was located on the same rarified level of the building as those of the other Paladins, but upon reflection had decided against it.
Up there, access was restricted, which meant that people’s comings and goings would be both noted and logged. These lower-level rooms, on the other hand, had a number of different ways leading in and out. If Jonah Levin wanted to arrive discreetly by the building’s service entrance instead of taking the elevator down from the main lobby, he could do it.
Levin arrived on the hour, without fanfare, looking like a man who hadn’t had much sleep in quite a while. Heather welcomed him into the windowless cubbyhole that served her for a private office. The room had two chairs and a door, which was more than the rest of her task force possessed; it wasn’t much, but it would do. A small video screen in a corner showed looped footage of the riot in Plateau de St. Georges, which Heather had been studying earlier.
“You look like hell, Jonah,” she said.
“It’s not that bad,” he said. “Nobody’s shooting at me, and I actually had time for breakfast.”
“The two signs of a good day,” she agreed. “I got your message—woke up from a sound sleep to get it, in fact—so here we are. You said something about an exchange?”
“Pooling our information, really.”
“You’ve got something to share?”
He nodded. “I do. You may have heard that I’ve been asked to look into Victor Steiner-Davion’s death.”
“I hadn’t heard anything official about that, no.”
“But unofficially?”
Heather smiled. “I’ve heard about it from at least a half-dozen sources. How’s the investigation going?”
“Classified,” Levin said sternly. Heather stiffened in reaction to his tone, but then relaxed as Jonah’s face lightened. “That always sounds better than saying ‘Slowly.’”
“I always tell people I’m just too busy to update them right now.”
“I’ll have to try that one next time. Anyway, it hasn’t all been fruitless. I came across some information you’ll find interesting.”
If this were Duncan talking, Heather would be bracing herself for another piece of useless information along the lines of “The White Heat Consortium has decided to have pasta for lunch,” but she knew Jonah Levin wouldn’t personally deliver inconsequential information.
“Whaddya got?” she asked.
“I have a contact who has a man inside a St. Croix warehouse, where he stumbled upon a hidden weapons cache.”
Heather sat bolt upright in her chair. “You’re joking. Where’s the cache, and what kind of weaponry are we looking at?”
“Pistols—lasers, flamers, you name it—shotguns, rifles, even an armored car. And ammunition, if my informant’s description is to be believed. Here’s the where.” Levin passed across a slip of paper with a street address written on it in neat, regular handwriting.
Heather took the paper and, after a glance at the address, rose from her chair. “Just a minute.”
She went over to the office door and opened it. “Koss!”
The junior of her two assigned Knights left her desk and came forward. “Yes, ma’am?”
She thrust the paper at her. “Check and see if this warehouse is on that list I had you draw up.”
Koss’ eyes went bright. “The where-would-I-hide-things list?”
“That one. If it’s on there, give yourself a pat on the back. If it isn’t, start tweaking your criteria until that address does show up, and get me a revised list ASAP. Santangelo!”
The senior Knight came forward and joined them. “Ma’am?”
“Get together a three-person crew and check out all of Koss’ addresses, starting with this one. Discreetly. We don’t know what’s up yet, and the last thing we want is to spook people into action before we’re ready.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Heather stepped back into her private office and closed the door, shutting out the noise of sudden intense activity beyond. She turned again to Jonah Levin.
“That should keep them busy for a while.” She sat back down. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything quite as high-grade as that to offer in exchange. Unless you’re interested in some dossiers on the Kittery Renaissance and assorted other fringe political groups?”
“They can’t hurt,” Levin said. “I don’t think that Victor’s death was faction-related—no group with any credibility has claimed credit, for one thing—but you never can tell. And the Kittery people certainly weren’t very fond of Victor.”
“I’ll send the files over. I’m sure you’ve been anxious to spend more time in front of your data screen anyway.”
Levin didn’t respond. He didn’t even seem to be looking at her, and his mouth was slightly agape.
“Jonah?”
He kept staring off to her right, looking like he’d just had a minor stroke.
“Jonah?” she said again. “What’s the matter?”
His hand fluttered upward until it pointed at the screen in the corner of her office.
“What is that?”
“My video screen. What’s the matter with you?”
“No, no,” Jonah said, leaning forward so far that he was no longer sitting. “What’s on?”
“Oh, that. Did you hear about the riot in Plateau de St. Georges the other day? A few places—banks and the like—got some pieces of the action on video. I’ve been watching it, seeing if I could pick out any possible Kittery Renaissance members.”
“Move it back. A minute ago, I saw something. Move it back.”
Heather stared at his face. Whatever he had seen, it was more compelling to him than the weapons cache.
She picked up a small controller, pressed a button, and the images on the screen flew backward. She watched the timer until she had reviewed nearly a minute of footage.
“There!” Jonah exclaimed. “What was that?”
“What?”
“No, dammit, he’s gone again. Go back, then play it slow.”
Heather obeyed. She watched the screen.
The camera was posted over the entrance to Bank du Nord, looking down broad steps to the street below. The woman Mandela had called Norah was little more than a tall blur in this shot, gesticulating wildly, pushing away someone who came too close. But she wasn’t what Jonah was watching.
The doors below the camera flew open and two guards ran out. Instead of running straight down the steps, they veered wide to the left, quickly moving out of the camera’s sight. They must have ran right at someone on the steps, because he had to jump quickly to the right, into the camera’s range, to avoid them. Just as quickly, he bounced back left, out of sight.
“That man!” Jonah said, now fully standing. “Get a freeze on that man!”
Heather fiddled with the buttons until the screen held a reasonably clear image. She zoomed in on his face as much as possible.