Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (43 page)

"I think Rupa wins the pool," Hiraki murmured with amusement.

Sandy rolled her head back and frowned at him. "What?"

"Some people made bets on how long you'd take to ask someone. There is much amazement you've lasted so long."

Sandy snorted. "Vanessa's rumours, I bet, no respect for my self control."

"Pity you're not gay," Bjornssen said in her ear.

"God, I've heard that sooo many times lately." Pause. And she realised why he'd said it. And, in a further flash of insight, what else they must have talked about, behind her back. "Look, it's just as well I'm not, it wouldn't be real smart for Vanessa to fall in love with me. Don't worry about her, she'll be fine. She's hot for that techie girl down in Ops-mech, anyway. Lopez."

"No no no," Bjornssen said with quiet amusement. "She just wants a woman again after so long. She was very good for a very long time. We were all amazed. But she likes girls. It was very hard for her. Lopez is the first target, that's all."

Sandy thought about that for a moment. Gazed out the windows to the right, at the multi-storey, blazing lights of the Central compound, the major offices of admin and Intel. All awake with endless activity, despite the increasingly late hour.

"And," added Bjornssen, "it has been extra frustrating for her having you around."

"Frustrating?" She didn't like the sound of that. "Why?"

"Because you are exactly her type, Sandy." Brushed some loose, damp hair back from her ear. "Exactly. But she knows she cannot have you, and so she goes hunting for others."

"Why am I her type?" Suspiciously. SWAT grunts who played psycho-analyst. She didn't trust it, this newly discovered side to Bjornssen. Some over-confident types reckoned they knew everything. Bjornssen was certainly confident.

"Pretty. Strong. Dangerous."

"Unattainable," Hiraki added with nodding certainty from along-

side.

Sandy gave him a long look. "I think you're underestimating her."

Hiraki shrugged again ... a controlled, precise gesture on him. Relaxed.

"We have known her much longer. You are new here."

Sandy shook her head. "You're forgetting I'm a GI. You saw her just now when I cramped, she nearly panicked. And she never panics. No way has she come to terms with what I am yet. No way. She's intrigued, sure, but she's not attracted."

"Now it is you underestimating her," Bjornssen replied, "our LT is not so easily put off, believe me ..."

"Would you fuck me?" A moment's consternation from Bjornssen. "Oh, come on, you're Scandinavian, you like blondes with nice arses, I heard you say so-that's me."

Hiraki was looking at him now, mildly curious. Bjornssen gave an exasperated sigh.

"Well ... I mean, Sandy, you're very pretty ..." Mildly patronising, Sandy thought dryly, tolerating another light shake, "... and you smell very nice ... but no. No, I do not think I could." A light shrug against her back. "I'm very sorry. I don't mean any offence, but I'm ... I'm just not attracted to GIs."

"Now there's a wild generalisation," Sandy retorted quietly. "If no one had told you, you wouldn't even realise ..."

"But I am not the LT," he continued, ignoring her. "She is extremely stubborn and she is not scared of anything ..."

"Bullshit, everyone's scared of something."

"You," Hiraki said. Looking at her, calm intent in dark, slanted eyes. "What are you scared of?" Sandy met his gaze, firmly. And decided she would not be drawn into such personal revelations at this time.

"Of going more than a month without sex. It's bad for me. I'll wear out my fingers." There was a pause in the room, other conversation halted. Bjornssen put a hand on her face and turned her head toward the front of the room. Senior Intels were looking at her. Several of the team turned to look, too. Someone had asked her a question. Ooops. "What?"

She managed to say it with incredulous innocence, and several grunts sneezed laughter.

"Agent," said the head Intel ... Richter, Sandy recalled her name was ... "I appreciate that you've had a long and hard day, but we're on rather a tight schedule and we'd like to be done here as soon as possible, so could you please pay attention?"

It was all Sandy could do to keep from smiling. She had never, in all her memory, been caught not paying attention in a briefing. Probably because she always had been paying attention. There had been an undercurrent of contempt, back in Dark Star, for civilian ill-discipline. Strange now to find herself becoming one of those unruly, undisciplined few. Strange, but not unwelcome.

"But, Marlie," someone protested, "you're so damn boring." Tired, repressed laughter around the room. A few of the Intels hid smiles with difficulty. Richter waited impatiently for it to finish.

"I'm sorry," Sandy said, with a diplomatic smile. "What was the question?"

She was directed into Ibrahim's office by a weary staffer, who murmured something about her being expected ... further down the waiting foyer, the main Ops hall was buzzing, screens alive and displaying to all surrounding alcoves and offices. A warren of early morning activity at three in the morning. Like a Chinese ghost story, someone had said to her recently-things only get really nasty when the sun goes down. She pushed through the main doors, the inner corridor all deserted, as were the meeting rooms and adjoining offices behind glass walls. Ibrahim's office was the one you couldn't see into, a plain door with "Director" on it. Real flashy. It suited the man entirely.

She knocked, and thought to do up her old duty jacket properly, at least, and close the zippers on the shoulder pockets-her old military reflexes remained very much intact, she thought wryly, reaching further to zip her thigh pockets too. The realisation failed to bother her. She was what she was. No reply, and she knocked again. Uplinked to the local security grid-an old reflex-and found everything very much in order, and totally impenetrable. Glanced about the corridor again ... everyone was either out consulting, working or resting. She grasped the door handle and found it unlocked.

The office was dark. Her vision switched accordingly, and she walked in, unneeding of the light. A dark bundle lay on the floor along the right-hand wall ... a person, wrapped in a blanket, on cushions borrowed from the room's one sofa. She closed the door behind her, blocking out the light from the corridor, but with vision tuned to IR that made it easier to see. Only the compound lights gleamed brightly through the windows, casting faint, multi-directional shadows across the floor.

"Sir." No response. His breathing was deep and steady beneath the blankets. "Sir." She padded softly over, not wanting to startle him. Knelt on the floor beside the improvised bed of cushions, and shook gently at his shoulder. "Mr. Ibrahim." He caught a breath. "Sir, it's Cassandra Kresnov. You wished to see me."

"Hmmm." A low, waking groan. "Cassandra." Another deep breath. "Just a moment."

"Can I get you a glass of water? Or there was a drinks dispenser in the corridor, I think?"

"No ... no, I shouldn't want to wake more than necessary." He pulled himself half upright, wincing and rubbing at his eyes. His dark hair was shaven too short for disarray ... shorter than she'd remembered. She decided he must have had it done recently, to avoid precisely that appearance in days when he had so little time for grooming. Practical solutions from perhaps the most practical person she'd ever met. And one of the most complex.

She remained kneeling, to avoid him having to stand. Ibrahim leaned himself back against the wall, collar open and shirt rumpled. Looking, to Sandy's curious interest, suddenly a man. Flesh and bone, dishevelled, tired and newly woken from sleep, instead of the formal, implacable figure of authority to which she'd become accustomed. He leaned his head back and fixed her with a heavy-lidded gaze, an arm hooked about an upraised knee for support.

"What compelled you to join the mission in Junshi?" he asked, direct and to the point, as always.

Sitting on her heels was uncomfortable, and pulled at recently sore muscles she did not want pulled. She shifted to sit on her backside, arms about drawn up knees, mirroring her boss.

"I don't know." Ibrahim evidently didn't believe that. She sighed, lightly. "Vanessa. The whole team. I was nearby, I wanted to see that they were okay, or if I could help. As it turned out, I could."

She half expected a reprimand. A warning against breaking procedure, or upsetting the local cops.

"It was well done," he said instead. Not elaborate praise. But coming from Ibrahim, it was better than a medal. And she was surprised at how pleased she was to hear it. "What did you think of the operation in total?"

"Fortuitously successful," she replied, analysis reflexes kicking in, knowing well what Ibrahim expected from her. "Highly chaotic, far too disorganised, far too little chain of command. It worked this time because the opposition were poorly trained and equipped, all they had on their side was motivation. Against more formidable opposition I feel the operation would more likely have failed than succeeded, with losses suffered and the objective not completed."

"Hmmm." Ibrahim nodded, lips pursed. Appearing hardly surprised at the assessment. Thoughtful. "Suggestions?"

"Streamline," she said automatically. "Individual Tanushan departments appear generally competent. The CSA is mostly so, and SWAT in particular. SWAT Four is as good a strike team as I've seen, among straights-that's my unbiased military opinion. The police function well enough, and all the in-betweens do their jobs effectively. There's just too many of those in-betweens. Cut the numbers by a half to twothirds and you'll have a force that functions with the absolute minimum of wasted energy, and the maximum possible focus upon the mission at hand. Right now, everyone's just getting in each other's way."

Ibrahim said nothing for a moment. It was a moment longer before she realised he was smiling. To her astonishment, the smile grew broader. He restrained it with difficulty, and put hand-to-mouth, like a man with a troublesome cough. Sighed, heavily, and fixed her with a look of as pure and genuine amusement as she'd ever seen from him, head back against the wall.

"If only you could help me run this agency," he explained. "I have this argument constantly with my political superiors. I am frequently informed ..." with heavier sarcasm than she'd ever heard him use, "... that my views on the operational brief of the CSA, and thus its structural requirements, are out of step with the current political trends." Sandy blinked. His eyes fixed on her with tired bemusement. "Less muscle, more analysis. In this information age, I am told, the emphasis should be upon prevention. I attempt to convince them that human beings cannot be prevented from anything. That, most of all, is a legacy of their information age-people will do what people will do, in all their varied, wonderful and not-so-wonderful extremes, and no amount of prevention, short of dictatorship, can stop them. But this is what happens in a society run by technocrats and utopian idealists. They fear the chaos, but the chaos is life." A shrug. "A city must be allowed to live. A people must. And I fear most of all that the present alarmist climate may precipitate far more prevention than is war ranted. As a student of history yourself, Cassandra, you would know the dangers of too much prevention."

Sandy repressed a smile. "I've only read a little, sir. I haven't been alive long enough to read more. But I've seen the beginnings of a League autocracy at work in a system that always lauded democracy even more strongly than the Federation. I know what you're saying."

"Indeed." Ibrahim nodded, amusement lingering in his lidded gaze. "All bureaucracies intend to create order, Cassandra. That is their nature. Too little order is to be feared. Too much order, even more so. Alternative possibilities are necessary, but too many of the wrong kind can be dangerous. The balance is delicate. And so I distrust my own professional nature. It haunts my sleep."

Such confessions to her from Ibrahim were not unknown. She sometimes wondered if he were testing her moral judgment. Searching for her agreement or otherwise. Or merely seeking her comprehension. Comprehension of what, she was not sure. Of moral dimensions, perhaps. Of complexities. Perhaps he worried, as did many members of the Senate and Congress, that she did not fully appreciate the human delicacies of the Callayan democratic system. Or maybe he felt that he understood better than most the pressures that she was under from the workings of that system, and sought only her understanding. And, perhaps, her forgiveness.

"Good that I woke you then," she said lightly, "if your sleep was so troubled."

Ibrahim smiled, and ran a hand over tired, angular features, rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn. Afghani features, from the hawk nose and prominent cheekbones to the cut of his trimmed beard.

"Did you meet Ambassador Yao?" he asked.

"I did." And in the expectant silence that followed, "He seems civil enough. Pleasant, actually. He appeared very pleased to see me."

"What did you discuss?"

"Very little, actually. He was busy with meetings-financiers and bankers, he said." She paused. "Most of my time was spent in discussion with a high-designation League GI. The same GI whom I tracked from the Zaiko Warren to the Cloud Nine establishment, the one who shot me." A moment's sombre consideration from Ibrahim. No great surprise. Doubtless Ari had already briefed him on the salient points. And probably a great deal more besides. More, certainly, than Ari had chosen to share with her.

"How high a designation?" Little to her surprise-the man rarely missed a thing.

She took a deep breath. "GI-5182-IT. He said." More sombre consideration. "Attached to the Internal Security Organisation, League version of the FIA. That's why I never knew he existed, I never had full access to ISO files. It never occurred to me that the military was not the only department drawing resources from Recruitment."

"Do you think there may be more GIs in the League intelligence circles? High designation or otherwise?"

Sandy let out a small sigh. "I suppose it's possible. Ramoja wasn't forthcoming on that. Or rather I didn't have time to ask him, the Junshi situation cut our time short." And to Ibrahim's querying look, "That's his name, Mustafa Ramoja. Rank of Major. He said."