Tek Power (20 page)

“Gabrielle Kastle?”

“The same. Have you talked to her already?”

“Nope, I haven't been able to track her down yet. Got people working on it.”

“I know where she's hiding out.” Bascom gave him an address and a password. “Get to her quick, find out what she knows and then help her get the hell out of Nicaragua intact.”

“How's Richard doing?”

“Growing up, which can be painful as hell. He trusted that woman and …” Bascom didn't finish his sentence.

“Don't blush, Walt. I see the parallel between your son's faith in his wife and mine in Kate,” said Jake. “You can talk about stuff like that to me now and I won't scream, yell or swoon.”

“Sorry. What about Gomez—what's he up to?”

“He's tracking down an informant named Dreamer Garcia.”

Bascom said, “Both of you lads take care of yourselves.”

“You're sounding almost paternal.”

“Ignore it,” advised Bascom. “I'm not myself lately.”

31

D
OMINIC
H
ERSH HAD
been an exceptionally good boy and this picnic this afternoon was his reward.

The day couldn't have been better, all sunshine and crystal blue skies.

And the best part of it all was that his mother was going to attend the picnic.

Sitting stiff and straight in the skylimo, Hersh smiled in anticipation. He was eight days beyond his tenth birthday. His mother hadn't been at his party. That wasn't her fault, though. Hersh's father had made her go to Europe someplace.

It wasn't really fair, but his mother had asked him, please, not to make a fuss. It upset his father when he did that.

Shit, just about everything upset his father.

But the picnic was going to be great. The day was wonderful and he'd be seeing his mother any minute now.

He felt the excitement growing inside him as the gleaming silvery skylimo began its graceful descent toward the bright green fields below.

If Hersh hadn't been such a well-behaved little boy, he would have laughed out loud, bounced up and down on the deep soft seat and shouted for joy.

But, as his mother had pointed out more than once, well-mannered boys didn't do things like that. She was certain he'd always be a good boy and that it wouldn't be necessary, as it had been with his older brother, to send him to the Willingham Military Academy.

Dominic had promised her he'd always be good. She'd smiled, kissed him fleetingly on the cheek and assured him that he'd never have to go to that place.

The landing was so gentle that the boy wasn't immediately aware of it.

“Hey, kid,” said Grooms, the huge android chauffeur, “get off your ox. We're there.”

“I'm sorry, I was daydreaming.”

“Like always.”

The door whispered open.

Laughing quietly, the boy hopped politely from the vehicle.

Down the slanting green hillside, near a small shimmering pond that lay at the edge of a woodland, a bright red-and-white tablecloth had been spread neatly on the ground.

A big yellow picnic hamper sat square in the middle of the checkered cloth.

The boy laughed again as he began running. He was careful not to be clumsy, because his mother didn't like him when he was clumsy or awkward and stumbled or fell down.

He reached the bulging hamper without a mishap. He glanced over at the trees, an anticipatory smile on his face. In the shadows between the trees he saw someone standing and watching him.

“Mom?”

Twigs crackled and dry leaves rustled as the figure approached him. “She couldn't make it, Hersh,” said Frank Dockert.

The boy clasped his hands together, puzzled. “You aren't supposed to be at my picnic,” he protested. “I don't even know you yet.”

The husky black man entered the sunlight. “This was my idea,” he explained. “It appeals to me, showing up in your little Tek fantasy this way, Hersh.”

The boy was afraid. “No, go away. This is
my
dream, bought and paid for,” he said, angry. “I'm the only one who can program the Brainbox.”

“Not true actually,” Dockert said, smiling. “We jobbed your Brainbox about an hour ago—some of my boys did. Put in a very special Tek chip that's rigged to do a couple of unusual things.”

“My mother's supposed to be here, not you!”

“This chip allows me to make this little appearance, Hersh, and inform you that your services are no longer needed.”

“What are you talking about? I'm a good boy and …” He clenched his fists, shivering. “Listen, Dockert, I helped you on this whole thing, you and McCracklin. The president trusted me and that's why—”

“Exactly. Brookmeyer trusted you and you doublecrossed him. McCracklin figures, down the road apiece, you'll do the same damn thing to him.”

“He knows I wouldn't do that.”

“There's another thing this special chip does. It induces a fatal stroke.”

“No, that's impossible.”

“Not at all, Hersh. Tek junkies are suffering strokes, seizures and assorted fits all the time.” Dockert smiled. “You'll be found—with an innocent chip substituted for ours—dead amidst your Tek paraphernalia.”

“No! I'm not going to let you get away with this, Dockert.”

“Now, now, Dominic. What have I told you about temper tantrums?” His mother, beautiful as ever, was standing next to the black man.

“Mom. Please, you won't let them hurt me.”

She shook her head sadly. “It can't be helped, dear. You have to accept this like a little man.”

Then she was gone.

Night suddenly closed down on the field and the woods.

Hersh's life ended.

T
HE DAMPNESS WAS
thick all around them. You could feel it, smell it and it seemed to be waiting for the chance to take you over.

Rita Garcia edged closer to Gomez on the rear seat of the landvan. “
Malo
,” she said in a small uneasy voice.

The heavy vehicle was rolling slowly through the long, dark tunnel, its dimmed headlight beams struggling to cut into the musty blackness.

“I can understand,” Gomez said to the huddled blonde, “why this isn't included on the regular scenic tour of Managua.”

“Do enclosed places bother you, Señor Gomez?” Professor Mentosa asked from his seat next to the broadshouldered driver.

“Tunnels that burrow under the waters of a lake aren't my favorite spots,” he admitted. “Especially tunnels that don't look as though they'd won any architectural prizes lately.”

“Oh, I assure you this tunnel is perfectly safe,” said the greyhaired professor. “Up until less than six months ago it was used regularly to transport supplies to the Isla Chanza facility. Then, chiefly because of some clever manipulations by a relative of General Alcazar, a fleet of watercraft took over the job.”

“Foolhardy,” said Rita, taking hold of Gomez's arm.

The professor shifted in his seat so that he could look directly back at her. “This raid was planned, and all the details carefully worked out,
before
your unfortunate brother was arrested, child.” He gestured at the van that was following them through the underwater tunnel. “We have sufficient personnel for this. And, more important, allies inside the detention station. There will be, if we're lucky, no fighting and no bloodshed. Your brother will be added to the four prisoners we were already intending to get out of here. We'll pick them up at the agreed rendezvous spot, then make our way safely back through this tunnel.”

“I'm not,” she told him, “feeling especially lucky.”

“All will go well, you'll see,
paloma
.”

Gomez asked, “Who are the other four, Professor?”

“Political prisoners, all loyal rebels,” he answered. “I'm especially eager to free Nestor Gonsalves, a respected colleague of mine.”

Rita's grip on Gomez's arm tightened. “You're certain, Professor, that Gonsalves is still there?”

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “We heard from him only yesterday, when he was able to smuggle a message out to us. In fact, Gonsalves is playing an important part in the inside aspect of this whole operation.”

Leaning closer to Gomez, the young woman whispered in his ear. “Gonsalves was killed a week ago in Granada. I
know
.”

32

T
HE NIGHT RAIN
hit at the landcar as it moved along the Boulevar De Los Mártires. Bev was driving.

They were passing a large park, a mixture of real and holographic trees and shrubs. The storm was causing the projectors to malfunction and a long, high hedge of flowering yellow blossoms kept vanishing and reappearing, giving intermittent glimpses of a heroic, larger-than-life-size statue of General Alcazar.

“Even larger than life,” remarked Jake, “the general looks short.”

“I appreciate your letting me tag along on this interview with Gabrielle Kastle,” she said, guiding the car through the rainy night.

“You shared the Shannon stuff with me,” he pointed out. “Besides which, we're not having a contest or a race.”

“We work for rival detective agencies.”

“The people who arranged the murders of Eve Bascom and Junior Maxfield will never go to trial,” Jake said. “There are too many political angles, too much Tek cartel influence. What I want to do is get the whole story on what happened and why.”

“And then try a little vigilante justice?”

“Depends. You're working for Maxfield, Senior,” he said. “He's somebody who can get the truth out in the open.”

“MaxComm doesn't always deal in the truth.”

“I'll settle for a close approximation,” said Jake. “I just don't want to see Brookmeyer and Hersh and Dr. Morgana and the rest of them get away clean.”

She turned onto a wide side street. “I've been wanting to talk to you about the last time we encountered each other,” Bev said, watching the wet night street ahead. “The whole mess with Alicia Bower.”

“Over and done,” he told her.

“I was working on her disappearance for the family,” she said. “Much as I hate to admit it, I let people con me.”

“That's because of your sweet and trusting nature.”

“The point I'm getting at, if you'll quit interrupting me with smug remarks, Jake, is that I never tried to sidetrack you,” Bev told him. “I gave you fake information, but, trust me, I really did think it was true at the time.”

Jake nodded, grinning. “I know,” he assured her.

After a moment she asked, “Are you seeing her?”

“Alicia Bower, you mean?”

“I've been hearing rumors that you and the girl are—”

“We aren't,” he said. “Although she did give me some information on this case. Mechanix International, you know, whipped up Surrogate 13 while her father was still above the ground.”

“She's pretty young,” mentioned Bev, eyes on the wet road. “Compared to you, that is.”

“True,” agreed Jake. “There's the church we're looking for. Up ahead on your left.”

T
HE LANDVAN ROLLED
to a stop a few yards from a high, wide dark-metal door. Smiling amiably, Professor Mentosa looked back over his seat at Gomez and Rita. There was a coppery lazgun in his right hand. “I'd appreciate it,” he told them, “if you'd both, very slowly and carefully, get out of the van now,
por favor
.”

“So much for one of the few trustworthy
hombres
in Nicaragua,” remarked Gomez.

Rita said, “The
cochino
has sold out to them.”

“Now, now, don't think badly of Ignacio Mentosa.” The greyhaired man made a get-moving gesture with the lazgun.

“A sim,” said Gomez, sliding toward the door. “I'm turning
muy inepto
in my old age. I should've spotted you a couple reels back, Prof.”

“I'm a testimonial to the skill of Mechanix International.”

“So you've been playing decoy, Judas goat,” said Gomez.

“
Sí
, and rounding up quite a collection of traitors and enemies of the state,” he said. “Go along now, move into the tunnel.
Pronto!
”

As they stepped out into the musty shadows, Rita asked, “Where's the real Mentosa?”

Chuckling, the android dupe climbed out of the halted van. He pointed a thumb at the dark ceiling. “You'll be meeting the respected gentleman very shortly,” he promised. “It'll be a brief encounter.”

With considerable rattling and ratcheting, the big metal door swung open. Standing in the yellow-lit corridor were ten uniformed men armed with lazrifles.

“My brother,” said Rita. “Is he really here on Isla Chanza?”

“In a manner of speaking,
cara
.”

She took a step toward him. “What do you mean?”

“Dreamer, alas, managed to annoy some of the officials and …” The android shrugged. “You can, possibly, view his body before—”

“
Cabrón!
”

Before Gomez could stop her, the angry young woman went charging at the false Professor Mentosa.

Chuckling again, he swung out with his free hand.

The slap hit her on the chin, caused her head to jerk back and her teeth to click.

Slumping, she started to fall to the stone floor.

Gomez lunged, catching her and holding her up.

The android eyed him. “Are you going to try anything, Señor Gomez?”

“Not yet,” he answered.

33

G
ABRIELLE
K
ASTLE WAS
a plump redhaired woman of forty. “Does this place give you the willies?” she asked them.

“Not especially,” answered Jake.

“We'll get you moved somewhere less gloomy,” promised Bev.

They were in one of the crypts beneath the ancient San Norberto Church. On three sides of the stonewalled room were stone shelves holding sturdy handcarved coffins. Effigies of angels, saints and warriors adorned the coffin lids.