Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02 (23 page)

“Same time of day?”

“Of course. So what do I do?”

I shrugged and took another piece of cheese. “Easy. Go to the graduation.”

Louie looked perplexed. “How come?”

“You only graduate once.”

Louie couldn’t argue with flawless logic and helped himself to a slice of ham. As he dabbed mustard, he gave me an appraising look. “You know what I think?”

“Probably not.”

“I think you need to find somebody nice and settle down. That’s what I’d do if I was you.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. It’s an image thing, you know. PIs and women mix like toothpaste and orange juice. Besides, I already tried it once.”

“I dunno, Murph. There’s nothin’ better than the love of a good woman.”

“Good woman are extinct.”

Louie grinned. “Not extinct. Endangered, maybe. But not extinct. I think yer too young to be givin’ up hope.”

I took a sip of hot coffee. “I don’t know, Louie. Things have gotten much easier since I gave up hope.”

My unwavering pessimism seemed to have won the day. Louie retreated to the kitchen for the pot of Armageddon. On the television, a hideously attractive young woman was writhing on camera, wearing two beer coasters and a scowl and not much more. Louie burst from the kitchen like an Olympic torch bearer and refilled my coffee mug.

“Fou prend reine! Echec et mat!”

I didn’t know French, but something in the phrase caught my ear. I turned to see Rook’s chess partner downing a shot, apparently celebrating his victory. I leaned around Rook and addressed the other man. “What did you just say?”

“Fou prend reine! Echec et mat!” Bishop takes queen - checkmate!”

Something was clicking in my head. “Fou means bishop?”

The old Mutant nodded and spoke with a slight accent.

“It means bishop, in regards to the chess piece. Fou is quite an interesting word. It is mostly used as a - what is the word?…adjective…”

While the pedant babbled on about linguistics, I was busy checking my pockets for the almost forgotten blue index card. It suddenly occured to me that I might have overlooked an interpretation for part of the code. The card was still in my coat pocket. I pulled it out and read it again. BXK+A261184. BxK. Bishop takes king. I turned to the old chess player and interrupted him in mid-sentence.

“Fou means bishop. What is the French word for king?”

“Roi.”

Roy. Colonel Roy O’Brien. All signs pointed to him being murdered by Jacques Fou.

The code had to be a message from the Colonel. Maybe he knew that Fou was after him and stood a decent chance of getting him. So what did the rest of the code refer to? I handed the card to the old Mutant.

“Does this mean anything to you?”

The old man studied the card, rubbing his chin. “Well…I don’t know about the numbers on the end, but the first part could, perhaps, have something to do with chess notation.

Bishop captures king. Check. That is what the plus sign means. Then A2. That would be the Rook’s pawn.”

Rook’s pawn? I ran the words together. Fou captures Roi…check…Rook’s pawn…61184.

The message suddenly made sense. I turned to Rook and pointed to the last five numbers. “Could these be the numbers from one of your pawn tickets?”

Rook tilted his head back and peered through the lower half of his bifocals. “I suppose so.”

Even Rook seemed excited as the four of us bolted from the diner and hurried up the street to the pawnshop. Rook reached the door first, fumbled with a huge ring of keys, and finally swung the door open. Louie, the old Frenchman, and I followed him inside.

The smells here were not as warm and comfortable as those at the Brew & Stew, but they were not unpleasant. The shop reeked of water-stained maps, dusty steamer trunks, and crackling parchment.

Rook moved to the other side of the counter and reached underneath for a large ledger.

“What were the numbers again?”

“61184.”

Rook flipped open the tome and pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Let’s see.

Hmm…yes. Here it is. No name listed. I paid out fifty dollars.”

Rook looked up and peered at me over the top of his spectacles. “I will expect to be compensated for this item.”

Louie groaned. “For cryin’ out loud, Rook. Will ya just get the darn thing? I’ll give ya the fifty bucks if ya think it’s gonna put ya outta business.”

Rook wanted to argue the point, but was outnumbered. He closed the ledger and scuttled off into the back room. Less than a minute later, he reappeared and set a small package on the counter, wrapped in newspaper. Rook glared at me impatiently. “Well, don’t just stand there. Open it!”

I walked to the counter and nervously undid the wrapping. The box underneath was plain cardboard. I opened the box and looked inside. There was a watch and a folded piece of paper. I pulled out the watch and inspected it briefly before handing it to Louie.

Then I picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it. The note was handwritten. I scanned through the contents quickly, then saw the Colonel’s signature at the bottom.

“Come on, Murphy. Let’s hear it.” Rook was examining the watch carefully. I doubted that he, or the other men, would have the faintest idea what the contents of the letter meant, but the least I could do was humor them. I cleared my throat and started to read.

Tex

I hope you never have to read this. But, since you are, it probably means something has gone wrong. Now I need you to put aside any negative personal feelings you might have toward me and help a bigger cause. I’m asking you to do this for two reasons: One, I know you’re not already involved, which means I can trust you and the people who want to stop me probably don’t know about you. Two, I believe you’ve still got what it takes to pull this off.

I don’t want to tell you any more than you need to know, but I’m going to give you a little background information, so you don’t underestimate the importance of this.

For some time, I’ve sensed the presence of an evil force at work in this city. A web of violence and anarchy has been spreading, and I’m sure that in the center of that web is a single powerful faction. This person or group is carefully feeding the growing violence between Mutants and Norms, which has escalated to the point of civil war. Many of the recent random crimes, murders, and apparent suicides seem to be links in a dark chain.

Where that chain leads, I don’t know for sure, but I’m getting close.

I’m convinced now that there exists a small, powerful cult known as the Brotherhood of Purity. There are some who believe that this brotherhood has existed for centuries and has carefully masterminded most of the major social and political events throughout history. The cultists believe they are genetically superior and that they’ll inherit the Earth after some sort of cataclysmic event.

The cult is opposed by CAPRICORN. This agency is known for its work in civil rights, but its most important purpose is to infiltrate groups that pose a threat to society, then unravel them from the inside out. Dozens of cults, terrorist groups, and political cabals have been broken up before the public even knew they was a threat.

Over the past several weeks, CAPRICORN has been almost completely dismantled, from the inside out. Almost all of their agents have disappeared, almost certainly murdered. No one knows who is behind this treachery, but it’s been done quickly and thoroughly. There are only a few of us left to carry on the fight against the cult. One of these people is a man named Paul DuBois. It is absolutely imperative that you deliver to him the watch I included with this note. CAPRICORN chose me to be a courier because I was an outsider who could be trusted. Now I’m asking you to fulfill the same responsibility. The delivery is supposed to take place on December 9 at 10P.M. in a nightclub called the Land Mine.

Tell no one about any of this. The cult is everywhere, and they must not find out what you’re doing. There is no back up plan, Tex. Don’t fail me.

– The Colonel

I folded the note and looked around at my companions. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

The three Mutants looked confused.

“I’ll have to kill all of you.”

Back in my office, I inspected the watch. It had an inexpensive, though perfectly acceptable leather band. The face was quite large, round, and white, with old-fashioned hour, minute, and second hands that actually moved over roman-numeral-type-numbers.

The rim around the face had been painted gold, but it was slightly chipped and scratched. There was a winding knob on the side, which made it look antique, but it was just for show. The watch had a self-winding perpetual-motion mechanism. It was just the kind of portable timepiece I would’ve bought for myself.

After twenty minutes of jiggling, prodding, and winding, it still appeared to be exactly what it appeared to be. I fastened the watch onto my left wrist - it looked good on me.

Maybe I was too late to make the delivery to Paul DuBois, and maybe the Colonel’s dying request was a bust. At least I’d scored a nice watch.

And now I had a different perspective on the Colonel’s visit to my office. He’d probably dropped off the package at the pawnshop just before or after I’d spoken with him. And he was the one who’d sent me the index card, obviously assuming that I would figure out the code sooner than I had. Well, there was nothing I could do about it now. As far as I knew, both the Colonel and DuBois were dead. CAPRICORN was dismantled, and there were no connections left to the mole in GRS. If the cult actually existed, it looked as though it had nothing but smooth sailing ahead. As for the watch, I figured I’d hold onto it until I made contact with someone from CAPRICORN, and then I’d hand it over.

My musings were interrupted by a beep on the vid-phone. I glanced at my new watch - it was after midnight. I flipped on the viewscreen, and Eddie Ching’s face appeared.

“Ready to go?”

“That’s what all my good friends call me. Where are you?”

“The spaceport. Terminal G. Meet me at the courtesy phones in a half hour.”

UAKM - chapter twenty-two

Even in the wee hours of the morning, the New San Francisco Interplanetary Spaceport was a teeming jambalaya of humanity. Swarming mobs of disheveled and nicotine-deprived travelers from hundreds of countries and speaking dozens of languages created smelly, pell-mell pandemonium that would’ve made the aftermath of the Tower of Babel look like a quilting bee. I was reminded anew of how much I loathed spaceports. I also despised going to sporting events, concerts, and grocery superstores, all for the same reason: people. I was convinced that you could turn even the most decent and intelligent person into a complete idiot simply by putting them into a crowd. On second thought, most people were idiots one on one, as well.

I jostled and knifed my way through roaming clusters of imbeciles and eventually reached the bank of courtesy phones. Ching and her matching set of goons were waiting.

As the thugs cleared a path through the crowd, Ching informed me that she’d called in a few favors and gotten arrangements made for our flight. She certainly did work fast. It made me glad we were on the same team.

We made our way through the terminal to the gates. About five miles later, we reached the charter gates and exited the building. The night was clear, but cold, and our breath was steaming as we crossed the tarmac. Eventually, we reached an aircraft hangar and entered. It was chilly and dark inside, except for a rectangle of light spilling from a doorway in the back of the structure. When we reached the door, the goons waited outside while Ching and I entered.

The room beyond turned out to be a small office with one occupant - a rough-looking chap, reclining in a chair with his feet up on a desk. Ching introduced me to Karl Voorman and said that he would be handling the piloting duties on our little excursion.

Voorman shook my hand and nodded, without a hint of pleasantness. Ching began discussing arrangements with him, giving me a chance to scurtinize the pilot.

He wore a full beard, which was jet-black. Together with his dark, sunken eyes, it gave him a distinctly sinister look. His voice was low and sullen, and when he spoke, it was almost begrudgingly. I got the impression that he was a man of action and preferred to avoid talking whenever possible. It was trait I’d always admired and was number three on the list of characteristics I looked for in a woman. Unfortunately, in all my past relationships, I’d rarely gotten past the first two characteristics.

Ching and Voorman bartered briefly, then came to an agreement. Ching insisted that there be no questions asked and offered the pilot a handsome payoff for his silence. Five minutes later, we left the hangar and walked to a midsized shuttle-cruiser, parked just outside. It was the kind of spacecraft used by successful smugglers - very fast and maneuverable. I guessed that Voorman ran a lucrative operation.

The shuttle was no vacation cruise ship, but it was sufficiently equipped for the thirty-hour flight. We strapped in for takeoff and, forty-five minutes later, were officially off-planet. I’d only been on two spaceflights in my life, and the experience was still a novelty to me. Maybe that was why I didn’t feel particularly tired, even though it was almost 5 A.M.

Despite the moderate turbulence associated with breaking free of Earth’s gravitational pull, Ching’s henchmen were nodding off, snug behind their safety harnesses. Ching was awake and seemed somewhat jittery. I yawned and glanced at my new watch. I

wondered if Ching might have some idea as to its significance. There was nothing to lose by checking. I removed the watch from my wrist and handed it over. “What do you think about this watch?”

Ching looked it over without a hint of recognition, then gave it back to me. “Looks nice.”

Since it obviously didn’t mean anything to her, I decided to spare her the details. A few moments later, we broke free of the exposure six hundred miles up, and the ride smoothed out. Ching pulled out a large knapsack. Luckily, she’d shown considerably more foresight than I had, bringing along plenty of ready-to-eat foodstuffs. Her knapsack, however, contained an even more valuable treasure: two bottles of Black Bush Irish whiskey. She produced a bottle and held it up. “Got a use for this?”