Metal Fatigue (10 page)

He shrugged. She alone knew the complete history of Roads' ambivalent relationship with the Head, and her confidence was strict. "I don't think so."

"But you're not sure." She turned. "He could be feeding us false information, trying to put us off the trail."

"Maybe."

"What do you suggest, then? Do we cancel Blindeye? I mean, if the Mole is as invulnerable as he seems — "

"He can't be."

" — then we'll be pissing into the wind." She came back to the desk. "Phil, we don't have time to play games."

"I'm sorry, Margaret. I really don't know. A few thoughts here and there, but nothing coherent. Really."

She sighed again and sat down. "So. Do we go ahead, or not?"

"We go ahead, I guess. We might as well."

"Tomorrow night?"

He smiled. "To beat the deadline, right?"

She didn't smile back. "If we don't catch the Mole, then either the MSA or the Reunited States Military Corps will take the case from us. And from there it's just a short step to dismantling RSD altogether."

"I know." It was a possibility he tried not to contemplate — not out of conservatism, but out of a basic disrespect for the military mind. He and the rest of the world had seen the damage it could cause in the past.

But he had to admit that the idea in principle was sound. Reassimilation would result in the closure of either RSD or the MSA. The city wouldn't need a defence force
and
a police force. Either both would be amalgamated into one unit, or one would become a local garrison of the RUSAMC and therefore no longer exist.

The current situation — with the MSA always the traditional favourite of the people, and RSD struggling to solve a string of major crimes — didn't look good at all for RSD. But no firm plans had been made, and with luck — and a couple of quick arrests at the right time — the situation could easily change.

"How ready are we?" Roads asked.

"We can do it. The Mayor has given us his blessing, and the complete set of access codes for every city department. With DeKurzak's support, we can start pulling data at any time."

"He
will
support us?"

"Yes. He agrees that it's the only decisive course of action left open to us."

"Good. He's not a fool, then."

"He shouldn't be. He comes highly recommended."

"By whom?"

"By the Mayor himself. And the head of the MSA. I get the feeling he's being groomed for promotion to the upper ranks; maybe even Councillor, one day."

Roads folded his hands across his lap. The position of liaison officer between the MSA, RSD and the RUSAMC was one of tremendous responsibility; it certainly wouldn't be handed to someone who hadn't proved to be capable elsewhere. DeKurzak seemed a little wet under the collar to Roads, but perhaps he would improve with time, given the chance.

Roads forced himself to concentrate on the topic at hand. "I suggest we wait to see what the Mole does tonight, then start Blindeye first thing tomorrow morning. That gives us over half a day to get everything organised down at KCU."

"That should be long enough." She scratched her head. "But it'll be messy."

"You're telling me." Roads was almost daunted by the thought: shutting down the entire city's data network, transferring the information to the main banks of Kennedy City University, and erasing everything else would bring administration to a standstill — all to catch one thief. It would be worth it, though, if it worked.

Chappel stood. "Get some sleep, Phil. You look like you need it."

"So everyone keeps telling me."

"I'll put Jamieson on in your place. Take the night off." She winked knowingly. "Barney, too, if you like."

He groaned. "It's nothing like that, Margaret."

"I know, but I can still hope for you."

"Don't. I'm not... I don't know. I'm getting old, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Actually, just to look at you, I wouldn't." She smiled. "You haven't told her?"

"No." He studied his hands for a moment. His feelings for Barney were uncertain at the best of times, and his past didn't make it any easier. "I'm not sure I'm going to. But thanks for the break anyway, Margaret."

"That's okay. You've earned it."

She patted him on the cheek and left. He lingered for a few minutes to shut down the computer and to gather a case full of files, then did likewise.

The streets were getting dark. At some point in the afternoon, Roads seemed to have lost an hour or two. He didn't remember having lunch. Or breakfast.

The evening was warm and the walk pleasant; the ache in his injured leg had vanished entirely. He stopped to buy some takeaway from an R&R vendor and ate it on a park bench halfway home. The inner city was extensively 'greened' in accordance with the original city plans, but the parks and nature strips had grown somewhat wild over the years. He remembered a time, not long ago, when they had been razed to the ground to kill a burgeoning rat population. The infestation had subsided in the city and reappeared not long after in the farms.

The hot dog was made from soya extracts and unidentifiable vegetable matter, but it tasted like meat. Almost as good as the ones before the War, back when they had seemed to symbolise everything the United States had stood for. All in all, given the city's limited resources, his diet was surprisingly varied. What couldn't be grown could be adequately imitated or synthesised. His only regret was a shortage of natural spices, and a deep boredom of all the places he had eaten many, many times before. He longed to go for a holiday, just to eat somewhere new.

When he had finished, he picked up his briefcase and moved on, feeling as though his body weighed a tonne. As he walked away from the park, he felt eyes watching him. Without breaking stride, he glanced over his shoulder.

Nothing. He was just imagining things.

He lived in a side street, on the first floor of an otherwise empty apartment building. The complex had been modelled on the stone architecture of the mid-twentieth century, with no yard and a sheer, box-like appearance. He had once had fellow tenants, but they had moved away over the years and RSD had seen fit to take the other rooms on his behalf. He preferred solitude and privacy to noisy neighbours. The people in the buildings to either side were close enough.

As he neared the main entrance, it opened and a uniformed RSD officer appeared.

"Hi, Charlie." Charlie Farquhar was Roads' official caretaker, assigned to him since the appearance of the Mole. Wispy white hair and wide, moist eyes crowned a scrawny body racked by age, overdue for retirement by almost twenty years. One of the few members of Kennedy's original security force to have survived the Dissolution, he dozed by day in an empty ground floor room, with one ear constantly alert for intruders; after nightfall he watched vigilantly from the doorway. If he minded the dull post, he never said; he rarely spoke in sentences longer than three words.

"Phil."

"Any problems?"

"Not today." Charlie shrugged.
Not ever
, the gesture economically conveyed.

Roads patted him on the shoulder as he passed. "Keep up the good work."

"Always."

Roads went up the stairs and unlocked the door to his rooms. His home environment was as comfortable as he could bear, but not overly so. His main extravagance was a small collection of watercolours by the two or three Kennedy-born artists that he considered talented. The unframed canvases, mostly of sweeping landscapes, lent the apartment a modicum of warmth; without them, it would have looked cold and heartless.

He stepped in slowly, scanning the lounge. Putting his coat and briefcase on a chair, he went through the familiar routine of checking each room, one after the other, looking closely at everything.

Then he found it: a kitchen stool stood out of place in the hallway. It hadn't been there when Roads had left that morning. He put it back where it was supposed to be without fuss, resigned to this sort of thing happening every now and again.

The mysterious break-ins had begun shortly before the Mole's first appearance, and Roads didn't doubt that the same person was behind them. The taunting visits only occurred when the apartment was empty, and no amount of passive surveillance had revealed how the thief gained entrance. Nothing was ever taken, but something was always moved, and gradually Roads had stopped reporting the intrusions.

He didn't have the heart to tell Charlie that his vigilance was fruitless. This was something he kept from RSD altogether. It was personal, between the Mole and him. As long as nothing was taken or damaged, Roads was prepared to tolerate the occasional intrusion. It was — he believed — simply the Mole's way of saying that he had been here, a reminder that there was nothing stopping him coming back any time he wanted.

He made himself a cup of coffee and went into the study. A message from Morrow, asking him to call, awaited attention on his home terminal's screen. Before he answered it, he sent a message to Barney telling her not to bother going to work that night, unless she wanted to. There was no response; he assumed she was still sleeping.

Then he tried Roger Wiggs, keen to swap information on the latest cases. The duty operator at RSD told him that the homicide officer was on duty and unavailable, still busy at the scene of the Yhoman assassination. Roads hung up and frowned. Still? It wasn't usual for Wiggs to remain behind after forensics had finished, which they should have by now. He made a mental note to try again in the morning.

Finally, he dialled Morrow's unlisted number. The Head appeared on the screen of his computer in full colour, looking much the same as he had earlier that day.

"We meet again, Phil."

"Yes." It seemed much longer than mere hours since their conversation in the bar. "I assume Raoul has kept you informed?"

"Naturally. As an observer, few are better qualified than he."

"Should I know him?"

"No. His, ah, field of expertise was not the same as yours."

Roads nodded, remembering his first sight of Raoul in the darkened cellar. The mutual recognition had been instantaneous — not of who they were, but of what they had once been. He'd hoped — and feared at the same time — that they might have had more in common.

Morrow's voice intruded upon his reverie. "I have some information for you."

"Go on."

"Raoul left Old North Street two hours ago to help me process the data he collected. It took us longer than we thought to check the list of hardware, but we made it in the end."

"And?"

"We found a discrepancy." Morrow's face shifted aside to make room for a text-box, in which appeared a single line of data:

EPA44210: 314,315, 318

The numbers made little sense to Roads. "Explain, please."

"Serial numbers for three missing items, and one part number."

"Of what?"

"That I can't tell you, I'm afraid, although I can describe them. Each EPA44210 is spherical, three centimetres in diameter, made of a silver metal, and weighs two hundred grams. The serial numbers are physically inscribed, and cannot be removed."

Roads scrawled the digits on a sheet of scrap paper. "Why can't you tell me what they are, Keith?"

Morrow winked. "Because I can't, my boy. You'll have to find that out for yourself."

"Thanks a lot." Roads yawned involuntarily. "Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

"No. Nothing that can't wait."

"Good. Then I'll speak to you later."

"Sleep tight." The Head vanished from the screen.

Roads rubbed his eyes and tried to think. His instincts nagged at him, trying to tell him something, but he couldn't force it through the exhaustion.

He stared at the information Morrow had given him for five minutes before giving up. The numbers meant nothing to him.

He loaded the fiche containing the new data gained from Morrow. Cross-referencing each break-in with those he had already been aware of — involving 'official' datapools rather than Keith Morrow's — he arrived at a comprehensive calendar of the previous forty-odd days.

On every night, the Mole had plucked information from various places in the city, apparently at random. Hospitals, community services, the MSA and RSD itself had been raided, plus the establishments that Morrow had not identified. The stolen data concerned disease outbreaks, population figures, defensive capabilities, staff movements, production estimates, policy decisions, financial flows, and so on.

There was no obvious link from one night to the next, almost as though the Mole had been aiming for a random overview of the city's combined datapool, and the Mole's drunkard walk became even more confusing when Morrow's data was added to the list. The Blindeye strategy gained credence the more Roads thought about it: the Mole's path was unpredictable, so RSD had to force him to a specific location where they could be waiting for him.

If it worked, they would have him. But, if it didn't, the Mole would have
them:
the city's entire datapool — anything he wanted — at his fingertips.

But what, Roads asked himself, sensing he was getting close at last, did the Mole
want
?

Much of the stolen information was sensitive, but much wasn't. One night, the Mole gained access to confidential records that listed every piece of equipment owned by the Military Service Authority; the next, he contented himself with the relatively petty list of inventories from one of Morrow's secret hideaways.

It made no sense. Why would the Mole bother with small-scale stocktakes, unless ... ?

Roads glanced higher up the list. The Mole had looked at the city's warehouses early, before checking the MSA and RSD stockpiles. At about the same time, he had lifted the first 'unofficial' inventory. A fortnight later, he had gained access to the records for the Old North Street residence.

From that point onward, no other small-scale inventory had been stolen.

Roads thumped the desk. He had it. The Mole had been looking for something specific among all the other data, something concrete. Then, as soon as he had located it, he had stopped looking. Three weeks later, he broke into Old North Street and took what he wanted without even a cursory glance at its data system.