Matrix Man (6 page)

Kim watched as Carla Subido shook her head in wonderment and looked into the camera. "As I hit the floor, the president pushed me out of the way and grabbed for Jenkins. The two of them rolled around on the floor and I heard a second shot. The president got up and Jenkins didn't."

Suddenly released from the obligation to listen to her, out the press went for the juicy details. The questions came fast and furious. "Is it true the president was wounded?"

Subido nodded weakly. "Yes, the first shot passed between his right arm and side. It's a flesh wound, but the doctors have placed him under observation just in case. They say he'll be up and around in a day or so."

"What about Jenkins? Why did he do it?"

Subido shrugged as a hardness came into her eyes. "Why are crazy people crazy? We don't know why he did it, but I
can
tell you this, some nationalistic propaganda was found on his body. There's no way to be sure, but when the president endorsed the concept of a single world government, it's possible that he angered members of the lunatic fringe."

"Nationalistic propaganda?" Kim recognized Barbara Lansing's pretty face behind the News Network 56 mike. "What sort of nationalistic propaganda, Ms. Subido?"

Kim noticed that other reporters were asking what seemed like more important questions, like, "How could a member of the lunatic fringe wind up as a Secret Service agent?" but Subido chose to ignore those and answered Lansing's instead.

"The sort of nationalistic propaganda put out by certain organizations more interested in leaving Earth than living on it," Subido said bitterly.

"Do you mean the Exodus Society?" Lansing asked brightly.

"No comment," Subido said, clearly suggesting that Lansing should look into that possibility.

"When will we see the president?" someone shouted. "Will he appear at the press conference scheduled for Friday?"

Suddenly a big man in a dark blue double-breasted suit was pushing his way between Subido and the press. "That's enough. Ms. Subido's been through a lot today. Let's give her a break."

Subido smiled gratefully, but held up a hand in protest. "That's okay, Stan, I'll take that last question. All of you know the importance the president places on regular visits with the press, but given what happened today, his staff has recommended that he cancel all public appearances."

An audible rumble of dissatisfaction ran through the crowd, to which Subido raised a quieting hand. "If his doctors agree, the president will be available via two-way video and will take your questions at that time."

At that point the man in the double-breasted suit pushed back in and, with the help of some Secret Service agents, hustled her away. Seconds later a second-echelon news anchor appeared to begin the inevitable rehash, and Kim killed the audio. She didn't want to hear what Jenkins' mother had to say about her son's attempt to kill the president.

Man, what a news day. She was no journalist, but you didn't need a degree in political science to see Corvan was right. The day's events would build credibility for the WPO and damage the opposition. Especially the Exodus Society. But what if they were stacking the deck somehow? What if they'd staged the Canadian raid? What if they were staging other stories as well?

Something caught Kim's eye and she picked Neely's video disk up off the counter. She threw it up into the air and caught it. A glance at her wrist term showed she still had a couple of hours before her shift officially began. She slipped the disk into the slot once again and told Val to play it. Snow appeared on the program monitor and Kim went to work. Maybe, just maybe, there was something on it after all.

 

 

 

4

 

 

Dietrich had the limo drop him a few blocks from his destination. He'd never been to Seattle before, and a hunter, especially a hunter of men, should know his quarry's territory. The look of it, the feel of it, even the smell of it could be important.

And in this case the streets smelled like urine, an unpleasant side effect of overcrowding, a hallmark of big cities everywhere. The smell of urine combined with the stench of uncollected garbage made Dietrich breath through his mouth. Most people wore nasal deodorant plugs when venturing forth, unless they lived on the streets, in which case they simply got used to it.

A pair of hard-eyed cops looked him over, noted his nice clothes, and marked him down as a pimp or a fool. Of the two they preferred pimps, who were less likely to get rolled and scream for help.

Like most American cities, Seattle was divided into economic zones, with the most expensive real estate occupying the top ten to fifteen stories, the medium-priced space just below that, and the low-rent district extending down to the second floor. At ground level the rents began to skyrocket once again due to the business opportunities available there. Endless fast-food outlets, convenience stores, and cut-rate retail stores lined the streets.

Looking up, Dietrich could see the spidery network of sky bridges and tubeways that connected various floors with their economic counterparts in other buildings. Many people lived and worked in the same building and rarely ventured out. Why bother? The shops and restaurants which catered to their needs were conveniently located in the same band as they were.

There was a steady flow of pedestrian traffic and it was picking up as the ants poured out of their metal anthills and headed for lunch.

As far as Hans Dietrich was concerned, they were visual wallpaper, happenings with little or no meaning, variables to be stepped around or over.

Across the street a commercial graffiti artist went to work spray painting a freehand likeness of a water-beaded Coke can over a similar picture of an ice-cold Pepsi. Within hours, days at the most, another commercial artist would spray paint something else over those until the city sandblasted the wall and the whole thing started over again.

A ray of sunshine found its way down through the labyrinth of metal and glass to touch Dietrich's face. He smiled. Life was good. The kind of good that goes with money, power, and interesting things to do. Subido might be an ice queen, but she was a generous ice queen, and between the salary
she
paid and the stipend Numalo gave him to keep an eye on her, Dietrich had lots of money. More money than he could spend.

But the money was nothing next to the power. Ah, the power. It was the thing which had first attracted him to the military, to the uniforms, to the symbols of rank. But now he had something even better.

Now he had
invisible
power, the kind which means more because nobody's sure how far it extends, so they assume that it goes all the way.

But power is nothing unless it's used. So the lucky man has power
and
a purpose, and thanks to Carla Subido, Dietrich had both.

He grinned, checked a street sign to make sure he was still on course, and allowed the crowd to carry him along. All around him lights flashed on and off, electronic billboards hawked their wares, and the occasional cop car whirred by.

Regular motorized traffic had been banned from the city's streets years ago to make room for more foot traffic and to reduce pollution. Now only official vehicles like police cars and Dietrich's limo were allowed to enter the downtown area. Everything else, the buses and the light rail, were underground.

Two blocks later Dietrich arrived in front of the WPO's Seattle headquarters. It was a short building by modern standards, only twenty stories or so, and sheathed in black glass. In many ways the structure was typical of the World Peace Organization, because while it performed a function, it was a good real estate investment as well. The WPO was not, and never had been, a nonprofit organization. Quite the contrary.

Frustrated by constant regional and religious wars, a consortium of large multinational companies had pooled their resources and founded the WPO some twenty years before. Their goal was more specific than that of the United Nations and therefore more attainable. The founders of the WPO sought to promote world peace not as an end in itself, but as a means of fostering predictable world markets.

And, like the hardheaded business people they were, the founders had conceived of an organization which would break even, and if well managed, might turn a profit.

Well, the profit had taken awhile to develop, but develop it had, and now the organization produced a regular surplus. The WPO accomplished this by charging for its services, ironically the same services the United Nations had once provided for free but with far less success.

Over time the WPO had evolved into a multinational, quasi-governmental organization which hired troops from member countries, integrated them into a single force, and made them available for a price.

Client countries got more than just troops, however, and in most cases, way more than they bargained for. What they got was a team of economic advisers, advisers of their own nationality and religion, who had been selected while children and educated abroad. And during that education they'd been thoroughly indoctrinated, so that when they returned to their native lands they remained loyal to the WPO and acted with its interests in mind. Years would pass, and many of them would make the transition from adviser to citizen, and little by little they would weave WPO companies and organizations into the fabric of the local economy. The result was a worldwide network of stable markets which functioned to enrich WPO companies and supplant all others.

Dietrich was a graduate of that system, as were Subido and Numalo, although the African had moved up through the ranks so quickly that it was hard to say who worked for whom, Numalo or the WPO.

But unlike the other two, Dietrich's talents were deemed to lie in other areas, the activities euphemistically known as "market design" and "market discipline," but really meant killing anyone who got in the WPO's way. And that accounted for his presence in Seattle.

As Dietrich made his way up a short flight of stairs and into the building, he marveled at the WPO's power and reach.
His
power and reach since he was the embodiment of the organization itself.

The uniformed receptionist almost had a nervous breakdown when she saw the T clearance on his ID card. She took him to the VIP elevator and ushered him inside. She rarely saw anyone with an S-clearance, much less a T.

Leather-covered walls oozed a rich odor and amber numerals flickered quickly by as the elevator rose to the top floor and glided to a stop.

As the doors hissed open, Dietrich stepped outside and found two people were waiting for him. One was balding, with the sleek, slightly overfed look of a minor functionary, and the other was blade-thin, with greasy, slicked-back hair. He was armed and liked to let people know it. There was a visible bulge under his left armpit.

The functionary spoke first. "Welcome, Mr. Dietrich. My name is Christian Fawley, and this is Nicolai Slovo. Nicolai will serve as your bodyguard during your visit to Seattle. Your limo arrived a few minutes ago and your luggage has already been transferred to the VIP suite."

"Thank you, Mr. Fawley," Dietrich replied calmly. "Is the information I requested ready?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," Fawley replied eagerly, dry-washing his doughy hands. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you what we have so far."

Fawley led him down a richly paneled hallway and into the vast quietness of a large conference room. Banks of sophisticated electronic gear hummed along one wall; green indicator lights signaled their readiness to serve as the computer-controlled lights gradually turned themselves on.

"Please take a seat," Fawley said smoothly, indicating the chair at the head of a long conference table. Dietnch smiled internally. This guy was a world-class ass kisser.

Dietrich settled himself into the power-assisted chair. He saw Slovo complete a circuit of the room and take up a position by the door.

"So my new bodyguard takes his duties seriously," Dietrich thought to himself. "Laudable, but somewhat disturbing."

Was he really in danger? Or was Slovo just for show? Dietrich felt something heavy drop into the pit of his stomach.

It could be real. After all,
he
was the one who led the raid into Canada,
he
was the one who had killed members of the Exodus Underground, and
he
was the one Corvan had splashed over video screens worldwide.

He'd heard rumors, allegations of Exodus Society hit squads, and some of their enemies
had
disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Still, there was no proof, and no reason to believe that he'd been singled out for a hit.
Unless
the two men knew something he didn't. What if the Exodus Society had threatened to assassinate him? What if Subido was using him to bait a trap? The resulting propaganda opportunities might be more valuable than he was. The power seemed to suddenly fade away, leaving Dietrich alone and extremely vulnerable.

But if the military teaches you anything, it teaches you to hide what you're feeling, and Dietrich used that training to conceal his fear. He waved a casual hand in Fawley's direction.

"Show me what you have on Corvan." Even though Dietrich had met the reop face-to-face, he knew very little about the man. Another rule for the hunter. Know more about the quarry than the quarry knows about himself.

Fawley cleared his throat and said, "The Corvan video, please."

The conference room's primary computer heard the instruction, loaded the proper disk, and played it back. The far wall swirled with color and locked up into a 3-D passport shot straight out of the State Department's files. Fawley rocked back and forth on his heels as he spoke:

"The subject is thirty-six years of age, six-one, and weighs one ninety. He was born and raised right here in Seattle."

The shot changed to show an upper-middle-class condo complex. Then it dissolved to a shot of a man in a swimming suit standing behind the wheel of a Boston whaler and smiling into the camera.

"That's Corvan's father, Tom. He died in a diving accident when Corvan was five."