Metal Fatigue (3 page)

Barney glanced at her watch. "That's right. But that doesn't mean we won't. Sometimes it takes a while for a break-in to — "

"I have just had word from one of my subordinates," Morrow interrupted. "An entry alarm was triggered twenty minutes ago. Our friend has been busy."

Roads gripped the edge of the table. "Where?"

"One hundred and fourteen Old North Street. If you hurry, you might catch him on the way out."

Barney lifted her coat into her lap. "It'll take at least ten minutes to get there."

"I know," Roads said.

"And he has an annoying habit of triggering alarms when he leaves, not as he enters." The Head shrugged with his eyebrows. "Still, someone will meet you there. Call in the troops and see what you can find, but remember: I didn't tip you off."

"Of course not. Thank you." Roads clambered across his seat.

"A pleasure — and to have met you, my dear." Morrow smiled at Barney. "Do keep in touch."

The Head flickered once, and vanished.

2:45 a.m.

The rain had gone as suddenly as it had come, leaving nothing but dampness in the air and swirling water on the streets. In places, storm drains had been overloaded or blocked, and mirror-flat puddles shattered into spray as the RSD patrol car passed.

Roads drove while Barney arranged the rendezvous with HQ, using the secure phone in the dash rather than the radio. The duty officer confessed to being slightly overwhelmed with requests: more than just the Mole had been busy. It took five minutes to confirm that a footsquad and van would be dispatched to Old North Street as soon as possible, and that curfew would be lifted in the area once power loads could be juggled across the city to accommodate the extra demand.

When she had finished, Barney collapsed into the seat and slicked back her still-damp hair. The alcohol slowly dissolving in her stomach didn't ease the sensation that her world had suddenly been turned upside down. Watching Roads drive wasn't helping, either.

Kennedy Polis had been designed and built with an emphasis on new ways of managing resources, waste, and movement. The last, in particular, gave the city a unique shape. Instead of a complicated tangle of roads and freeways, Kennedy had boasted a massive twin-track personal rapid transport system arranged in seven concentric rings — designated A to G — spaced one kilometre apart, web-like, around the nominal heart of the city. Each elevated guideway, not much wider than a conventional sidewalk, had originally carried six- or two-seater cabs that could be summoned from numerous stops and junctions along the network. Powered by linear induction motors, the cabs had been computer-controlled, quick and safe, designed as a compromise between buses and taxis. Armed with a smart card, a commuter could have summoned a cab at any time from anywhere in the city — arrival within two minutes, guaranteed — and taken it wherever he or she liked.

The annual cost of regularly using such a service had amounted to little more than the cost of maintaining a private motor vehicle to travel the same distance, so patronage of the system — nicknamed the 'Rosette' — had been high. As an added incentive, the city's streets were deliberately narrow — with priority lanes given to bicycles and service vehicles rather than general traffic — and followed the path of the Rosette almost exactly. These long, curving maintenance roads provided the only relatively uninterrupted stretches of tarmac in the city, apart from radial freeways pointing the four directions of the compass.

Following the War and the enclosure of the city, private vehicle ownership had been banned and use of the Rosette rationalised. New outer sections, once intended as complete additions to the original ring structure, had been turned into loops connecting the inner rings with more distant sites, thus allowing commuters access to their workplaces. Little-used segments had been shut down completely, their reaction plates and control systems cannibalised to repair others. The only vehicles allowed on the roads were those performing the work of the Mayoralty.

The streets were, therefore, empty for the most part, maintained irregularly, and ill-lit at night. Rusting hulks left over from the old days had long since been recycled, but there were still plenty of other hazards. Where tarmac had crumbled, a new surface compounded from old rubber tyres filled the gaps. Traffic lights no longer worked at all. The motorist's only advantage lay in the assumption that all wheeled traffic was important, and therefore had right of way.

Roads, accordingly, drove as though he was the only person on the road. The harbour lay to the south of the city, with Old North Street perversely to the south-west, in an area that had fallen into disrepair after the deactivation of the nearest segment of the Rosette. Following maintenance roads along J loop back to G ring, he pushed the patrol car's small electric motor to its limit, growling around bends and accelerating across intersections without even pausing.

Along a relatively straight stretch, Roads fumbled with one hand inside his coat and handed her the data fiche.

"We'll have to decide what to do about this later," he said. "Until then, keep it safe for me."

"Will do, boss." She tucked it into the breast pocket of her shirt. The sharp edges of the card nagged at her. Accepting help from a known felon smacked of corruption, and contradicted everything she thought she knew about her partner.

"You really surprised me tonight," she said.

He glanced at her, then back to the road. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, Phil." She studied his face closely in the dashlight. "When the hell did you start dealing with Keith Morrow?"

"A long time ago," he said, his expression fixed. "But it's not as bad as it looks."

"Are you sure? For someone who swears he's not crooked, you keep the damnedest friends."

"Is that what's bothering you?"

"Well, you've got me worried, I'll admit."

"Don't be," he said. "I haven't spoken to him for almost twenty years, until tonight."

"But you
did
deal with him?"

"In a way. We helped each other out, once." He shrugged. "It's a long story, and not particularly relevant."

She wanted to believe him — and did for the most part — but the question had to be asked. He was so much a part of her life that the very thought of him betraying her made her stomach turn.

"Promise me you're telling the truth," she said.

"Easy," he said, and smiled. "You've never met a straighter cop."

Her doubts ebbed at that. They had been partners for long enough to know when they were telling the truth, as well as their games.

"I know," she said, returning the smile and adding a suggestive leer. "At least, that's what I've heard."

"So believe it."

"As long as you tell me the full story one day."

"Maybe." He returned his attention to the road. "But not right now, okay?"

She took the hint.

Roads directed the car along a cross-route between G and F rings. The headlights seemed to disappear into the gloom, sucked away from them by the night and returning only in brief reflections off broken glass. Whole blocks had been left to the elements, abandoned for more convenient locations closer to the Rosette. Decaying facades gaped back at her like mocking skulls, blank and impersonal yet eerily animated all the same. If buildings could look wild, untamed, then these did, as though the dead blocks resented the intruder that had so rudely disturbed their brooding, uneasy rest.

Then, as they neared the address Morrow had given them, Roads flicked off the headlights.

"What — ?" she began.

"No need to let the Mole know we're coming," Roads said, his voice soft. "If he's still around."

Barney put one hand on the dash. Privately she doubted that the Mole would be anywhere near the address Morrow had given them: not because Morrow had lied, but because the Mole had an uncanny knack of slipping away well before anyone came close. That wouldn't stop her from trying, of course — but the possibility of crashing into something in the dark concerned her more. The road ahead was utterly dark.

"Jesus, Phil — "

"It's okay. I can see fine."

The car swerved to the left, and she clutched the dash hard. "Are you
sure
?"

"Positive."

Dark buildings loomed on her side of the car, and she flinched instinctively away. Roads had been RSD's champion marksman for more years than she could recall, but that didn't make her feel any safer.

Suddenly Roads spun the wheel and brought the car to a sudden halt.

Barney jerked back into her seat. "Now what?"

He pointed past her, through the window on her side of the car. "We're here: 114 Old North Street."

"How can you tell?"

"Would you believe I'm psychic?" He opened his door and stepped out of the car.

"Sure." She unclipped the holster of her pistol, grabbed a torch, and did likewise. "And I'm General Stedman."

"Pleased to meet you." Roads indicated the low, iron fence that separated the tangled yard from the pavement.

Barney's eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Now that she looked, she could see a corroded brass plate on the fence with the building's number.

Not psychic, then. She cursed him under her breath, feeling stupid and resolving to be more observant in future.

One hundred and fourteen was large, forbidding, and seemed to have been carved from a solid lump of stone two storeys high. The ground-floor windows were boarded shut, like the warehouses of the harbour; its facade was similarly weathered. Someone had painted "RUSA OUT!" across one wall. An open gate leading to a short flight of steps granted access to the yard. The main door of the building was ajar.

"What now?" she whispered.

"We go in."

"Okay. But after you, this time."

He led the way through the gate and up the steps. At the entrance, he nodded her to one side, then nudged the door open with his foot.

Barney clicked on the torch she had brought with her and swept the beam across the rubble on the floor. The light revealed old food cans, empty; rotten cardboard boxes and a pile of yellow newspapers; a sofa that had seen better days, half a century ago. The house had obviously escaped the usual scouring for recyclable resources. The next room was similar. Roads pointed to split up and edged into the darkness of the building, torchless.

The ground floor was empty. They met at the base of the stairs and headed upward. The first floor was empty too, and the second.

"Cellar," said Roads, his breath thick with dust-laden air. They found the entrance in a closet off the unused kitchen. The door was locked.

Barney took position on one side as Roads kicked it in. The lock splintered with a loud crack. She pointed the torch through the open doorway.

Dim light cast faint shadows at the bottom of a flight of stairs, its source out of sight. Movement in the shadows coincided with the sudden cessation of sound, as though someone had quickly moved for cover.

"Who's there?" she called.

"You tell me," floated back a voice.

Roads gestured for her to cover him as he went down the stairs. She moved to another position, juggling torch and gun in both hands, trying to get a better angle. From the top of the stairs, she could only see two or three metres across the room below, and Roads obscured much of that. When he had descended a half-dozen steps, she dropped to her knees and aimed over his shoulder.

"Morrow sent us," Roads said. He stopped as something moved out of Barney's line of sight.

"What a coincidence," said the voice in return. "He sent me too."

Barney saw Roads' shoulders tighten as someone stepped out of the shadows and into the light. Roads' pistol snapped up, ready to fire. She craned for a better view, but could see little above the waist of the person confronting him.

"I'm your consultant," said the man. "And you must be Phil Roads. Come on down and I'll show you what I've found so far."

Roads didn't respond immediately. His posture remained tense, as though he had seen something that bothered him. But just as Barney was about to ask what was wrong, his pistol slowly fell, and he took another step down the stairs.

Then the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside the house reached her. She listened briefly, until she recognised the familiar whine of an RSD engine.

"Phil," she hissed into the cellar. "The squad's here."

Roads stopped on the last step and looked up at her. "You go," he said. "Have them seal the house and set up a cordon — you know the drill. Just talk to me before letting anyone else down here."

"Are you sure?" She frowned at his concerned expression. "I can — "

"No." He cocked his head. "I'll be okay. Git."

The squad had already begun unloading equipment from the van by the time she left the house. Komalski, the officer in charge of the footsquad, greeted her warmly, despite the hour. Cleaning up after the Mole was a familiar job for both of them, and under normal circumstances she would have responded in kind. But the fact that Mole might be only minutes away — plus her misgivings about Roads being alone in the cellar with one of Keith Morrow's gangsters — dispelled any pleasantry she might have attempted.

She briefed Komalski as quickly as she could. As soon as she was sure he knew what to do, she hurried back into the house.

The cellar door had swung shut since she had left, but no attempt had been made to seal it again. It opened easily, and she craned her neck through the doorway to listen for movement. Voices floated up at her from the pitch-black space below, too faint to be understood but not indicative of trouble.

"Phil?" she called.

The voices stopped for a moment, then he replied: "Barney?"

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. Come on down."

With the aid of the torch, she negotiated the narrow flight of steps. The wall to her right vanished as she descended. She swept the light across the cellar. It seemed to stretch forever into the shadowy distance, cluttered with benches and inactive computer terminals. A hurricane appeared to have blown through the room, emptying filing cabinets, searching through cupboards and opening boxes at random.