The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1) (15 page)

“Call your manager,” Glen said. “I need to speak to him.”

The girl hesitated, then reached for the panel and tapped a button. There was a long pause, then the far door sprung open, revealing an older man wearing a suit that didn't – quite – manage to hide the bulge of his chest. Glen suspected it was a statement, either that the man didn't care about his appearance or that he was wealthy enough not to have to care, but he didn't have time to worry about it. And besides, he didn't really care.

“I am Marshal Cheal,” he said, mentally comparing the man’s face to the files he’d accessed on the shipping firm. “Director Doyle?”

“Yes, Marshal,” the man said. “Ivan Doyle.”

“Then we can go into your office,” Glen said, before the man could object or start threatening him with lawyers. “We need information from you.”

“Our files are sealed,” Ivan said. “It would require a court order ...”

Glen reached for the sheet of paper he’d taken from the station and passed it to Doyle. It was a blanket warrant for information, signed by the Governor himself after the warehouse had been located and raided. There were lawyers who would probably try to argue that it wasn't legal, but Glen had a feeling they wouldn't get very far. The Governor had considerable powers to handle terrorism, including detaining suspects without trial and seizing records if necessary. Besides, even if they
did
win the case, it would be enough to blacklist them with the Governor and the military, which would utterly destroy their business.

Doyle read it carefully, word by word. “I will have to consult with my lawyers ...”

“And you can, afterwards,” Glen said, firmly. “I don’t have time for you to try to hide records while your lawyers stall.”

He looked around the office, resisting the temptation to make a snide remark. Patty’s office was bare, apart from a handful of photographs and awards. Doyle’s office was large, decorated in a fashion that suggested the occupant had money to burn and crammed with various artworks, several of which had to be copies. Glen wasn't sure if the whole design was meant to demonstrate Doyle’s taste, or lack thereof, but he wouldn't have trusted anyone who crammed so much fancy decor into his office. It reeked of someone trying to pretend that he was more important than he actually was.

Ivan caved, as Glen had expected. “What can we do for you?”

“You rented out Warehouse #117,” Glen said. “I imagine you know it’s been raided?”

“Yes,” Doyle said, flatly. The reports had stated that the firm had attempted to demand answers, but for once they’d been unable to learn anything from the Civil Guard. “And we need it reopened ...”

“That may not happen for quite some time,” Glen said, cutting him off. It was always a mistake to let someone like Doyle think he was in charge. “I require access to
all
the documentation from the rental,
everything
. You will have it sent to this office and I will go through it, now.”

Doyle looked reluctant – Glen wondered, absently, what a search of his office would reveal – and then started to bark orders to a team of secretaries. They were all achingly young, Glen noted, wearing uniforms that left very little to the imagination. Ivan didn't seem to care about their opinions, Glen decided, or their feelings. Given how hard it was to get a job now, the secretaries probably had no choice, but to put up with his lecherous feelings as long as he wanted to favour them with his attentions. And some of them might well have thought they had no choice, but to go further.

He sat down in front of Doyle’s personal terminal and opened the display, then started to read through the documents one by one. Doyle stood in front of him, pacing backwards and forwards as if he were too nervous to leave Glen alone in his office, which was a worrying sign. But then, Glen would have been nervous if Internal Affairs had started investigating his terminal too. There was nothing so innocent that a suitably motivated investigator couldn't turn into a damning piece of evidence.

There was less than he'd expected, although there were some interesting tips. Warehouse #117 had been rented by a transhipment firm, claiming that their cargo was merely being stored on the ground and would be returned to orbit when they charted their next freighter. It was believable, Glen had to admit; storage fees for orbital space were far higher than fees for warehouses on the ground, and if the material was marked for transhipment it would attract less attention from the customs officers. Hell, if the warehouse was secure, they might not pay any attention at all. There was so much freight being moved from orbit to the surface for local distribution that they might not have time to check out Warehouse #117. And a few bribes would definitely ensure that anyone who
was
interested lost interest shortly afterwards.

“You didn't check out their company,” Glen said, looking up at Doyle. “Why not?”

“Ah ... that was an operational decision,” Doyle said. He didn't know
precisely
what had been found in the warehouse, Glen was sure, but he knew it had to be bad. Passing the buck was standard procedure for any middle-ranking corporate executive. Given time, the intern on the desk would wind up with the blame and would be summarily fired. “And they paid up front.”

“So they did,” Glen said. He checked the manifest, then frowned. “You didn't think there was something odd about them paying for
four months
storage?”

“That’s not uncommon,” Doyle objected. “We have some long-term storage sites that are prepaid for up to a year ...”

“But how many of them,” Glen asked, “are transhipment warehouses?”

He snorted. “It seems a little uneconomical,” he added, darkly. “Or did they want to make sure the warehouse was never inspected?”

“We don’t inspect our warehouses unless the bills are left unpaid,” Doyle said. “Our customers value their privacy.”

“So it would seem,” Glen said. He looked back at the manifest. “I think by now you’ve realised the warehouse wasn't storing farming equipment for new colonies.”

Doyle made a face, but said nothing.

“You rented out the warehouse to terrorists,” Glen added. “I need all the contact details they gave you, now.”

“They’ll be in the files,” Doyle said. He walked around his desk, then pointed to the tab. “That’s what they gave us.”

Glen frowned as he scanned the file. It didn't take more than a casual sweep to realise that the transhipment company simply didn't exist. Hell, the Nihilists hadn't been very careful about constructing their bogus identity. A quick call to the Department of Commerce would have revealed that it was nothing more than a fake. The handful of testimonials on their datanet site were so bland they
had
to be fake. And the address they’d been given was nothing more than an office
anyone
could rent, in the heart of the city. Glen would investigate, of course, but he would be very surprised if he found more than an abandoned office complex.

“I want you to make sure you didn't rent any other warehouses to the same people,” Glen ordered. He plugged a datachip into the terminal and made a copy of each of the files. It was unlikely they’d be able to learn anything else from the files, but the WebHeads would go through them anyway. There
was
a datanet presence, after all, and it might just lead them to the terrorist support network. “Go. Now.”

“I'm sure they wouldn't have dared,” Doyle protested. “Marshal, I ...”

“Go,” Glen snapped.

He waited until Doyle had retreated, then keyed a hasty command into the terminal. Marshal-issue datachips had much more storage space than civilian modals and, combined with hacking software, could copy the entire contents of a terminal within seconds. It felt like hours before the datachip bleeped once, revealing that it had completed its task. Glen let out a sigh of relief, then pocketed the chip. There would be time to investigate Ivan Doyle’s role in the whole affair later.

“There weren't any other contracts,” Doyle said, as he stepped back into his office. His eyes were very nervous, suggesting he had something to hide. “But we have quite a few warehouses reserved for long-term storage.”

“Then give me those files too,” Glen said. “In fact, I think you should tighten up your procedures. Check out everyone who asks to purchase warehouse space and see if they’re actually legitimate.”

“But that would dissuade others from using our services,” Doyle protested. “And ...”

He broke off. “Sharon Wright was the booking agent,” he added. “She’s in the building, if you wish to speak to her.”

“Please,” Glen said. There would be time to check out the other applications for long-term storage later. “Show her into your office, then leave us.”

Doyle flushed, but obeyed. Glen took advantage of his absence to scan the office for bugs, a brief scan which revealed next to nothing. Doyle, it seemed, didn't want to be recorded at his desk, something Glen had to admit was understandable. There were cameras in the station, he knew, but they were meant to cover the security staff’s asses if a prisoner got rowdy, rather than spying on the marshals. Although Glen had sometimes wondered if Patty watched her subordinates through the cameras ...

He broke off that chain of thought as the door opened, revealing a tall woman with long brown hair and a grim-faced expression of defiance. There was no way to be sure, but Glen had a feeling that Doyle had told her she would be the scapegoat if the company was threatened with legal sanctions for allowing terrorists to use their facilities. The look in the woman’s eyes – a mixture of tiredness and despair – certainly fitted. She was old enough to be blacklisted for life if she were fired without notice.

“Take a seat,” Glen said. he waved for Doyle to leave the room, then sat down facing her. “Miss Wright ...”

“Please call me Sharon,” Sharon said. Her voice was Earth-accented, the curious mumble that afflicted much of the planet. It meant nothing – Earth had produced most of the entertainment flicks that were distributed through the galaxy – but it was interesting. “I prefer not to be called by my mother’s name.”

“I understand,” Glen said. He paused, then silently clicked on his recorder. “You’re not under arrest, but I have to warn you that your cooperation – or lack of it – will be taken into account during the investigation and charges may be filed against you if it turns out that you have concealed information that later became important. Do you understand me?”

Sharon nodded, but said nothing.

“I need a verbal answer,” Glen said. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Sharon said.

Glen smiled. “Good,” he said. “I understand you were responsible for renting out Warehouse #117?”

“I was responsible for showing the renters how to access the building and set up the facilities,” Sharon said, quickly. “I wasn't responsible for renting it out to them in the first place.”

“Noted,” Glen said. He sighed, inwardly. Doyle had
definitely
hinted Sharon was going to take the blame. “What happened when you met them?”

Sharon took a breath. Glen understood; it was the age-old problem when interviewing witnesses and potential suspects. Even the most cooperative witnesses had problems recalling what the interviewers needed to hear, even without false memories and the understandable desire to please the listeners getting in the way. Sharon had had no reason to pay close attention to the renters, so she hadn't – and now she was being forced to recall every last detail from hazy memory.

“There were four of them,” she said, finally. “I thought they were all young men, although one of them might have been a woman. The only one who spoke was the leader, who insisted on asking a number of questions about the air conditioning and other systems before signing the lease and making the first payment to the company’s credit account. I didn't see the questions as particularly unusual, sir. Everyone asks how to manage the facilities before they take over the building.”

Glen nodded, then pulled his terminal from his belt and opened it to show the faces of the dead men. “Do you recognise any of them?”

“That’s the leader,” Sharon said, after paging through five faces. “I don’t recognise any of the others.”

“I see,” Glen said. The leader had been one of the mystery men, which meant ... what? Assuming Sharon was correct, there were at least three others running around on Terra Nova and probably more. They’d always known the Nihilists had an interstellar presence, but the reports had definitely suggested the strangers were ex-military personnel. “Did they ask you anything in particular?”

“They talked about renting a shuttle,” Sharon said. “We don’t get that request very often, because most of the stuff we store in those warehouses comes from the planetary surface. I had to tell them that the shuttles were fully booked up for the week.”

“Probably for the best,” Glen said. He briefly considered inviting Sharon to the station for a full interrogation, then decided against it. Instead, he leaned forward. Women were often more observant than men, he’d been told. And sometimes they saw more than they realised. “Did you see anything else you want to mention?”

Sharon hesitated. “I’m not sure if it’s worth mentioning,” she said. “I could be wrong.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” Glen said. “What did you see?”

“They seemed very comfortable with each other,” Sharon said, finally. “Perhaps a little
too
comfortable. I had the impression they were homosexuals, but two of them were definitely staring at my butt when they thought I wasn't looking. Maybe they were bisexuals.”

Glen kept his face expressionless. She might be right, but he could think of another explanation for their appearance. A trained commando team, one that had worked together for years, might be equally comfortable with one another. And they wouldn’t be hesitant about admiring a pretty girl either. The suspicion that a rogue team was
precisely
what they had on their hands was too strong to be ignored.

If they’re actually rogue
, he thought.
Who might have sent them to Terra Nova
?

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said. He reached into his pocket and produced a contact card, which he passed to her. “If you think of anything else, anything at all, feel free to contact me at once. Until then, keep what we talked about to yourself.”