Edge. Part 19

"Dr Suzanne d.u.c.h.esne. I'll send you her details."

"Well, I"

"Thank you, Kath. It's good to meet a teacher who really cares."

"Oh. Thanks."

He killed the call.

Christ, what a b.i.t.c.h.

After some ten seconds, the phone buzzed again She's calling back, for G.o.d's sake but it was his querybot, returning initial results. Only one instance showed an above-fifty-percent match: some three seconds of unfocused footage, a youth in white shirt and veil-cap ascending a staircase. The location was a college, so it should be filled with young people, and for a moment Josh did not understand how the probability rating could be so high it was his own algorithm, after all. But the timestamp was 19.57, far too late for normal cla.s.ses.

Two nights ago. Even if it's him, he could be dead.

Bad thinking. Useless pessimism.

The college was within walking distance another reason for the high probability and at close range he could redfang querybots into the building system without going through the Web. And the physical movement would help him forget about Kath Gleason, and the images she invoked in his mind, with a montage backdrop of Sophie-memories: playing in school, playing in the garden, giggling at a worm, lying in a bed surrounded by monitors.

He walked fast.

Perhaps it looked better at night, but in daylight the college exterior showed cracked paintwork and dull windows. Someone had smeared black goo over the spycams, which did not bode well for trawling through the surveillance logs. Josh decided to make the college's problems worse, just for the time being, by slipping interference bots into the building system and blanking out recordings for the yard and corridors he pa.s.sed through. Once inside, a garish display screen showed adverts salsa cla.s.ses every Wednesday, homemade cakes for sale tomorrow lunchtime and a searchable timetable.

In the brief footage of Richard Broomhall, this noticeboard appeared in the background, so the staircase over there must be where he ascended. But where had he been going? Josh flicked through the timetable. If Richard went up a floor, there would have been just one cla.s.s about to start: Intermediate Mandarin, room 17, Intermediate Mandarin, room 17, instructor T. Maxwell. instructor T. Maxwell. A trivial hack popped up a fragment of low-level data: A trivial hack popped up a fragment of low-level data:

Tarquin

Maxwell

100087TQ3598ML

W349 8AQ1 PT

Josh could have accessed the relevant schema to check, but PT clearly designated part-time employees. Maxwell could be anywhere, so rather than stake out the home address or manually search the college premises, a realtime GPSID hack was called for.

On resigning from Ghost Force and the Army in one go, Josh went through a series of exit interviews, including one with Lofty Young. They had sat inside the quartermaster's office next to Pre-Deployment Stores, and shot the breeze for a few minutes. Then Lofty had reached into a drawer, and pulled out a shoulder-holstered handgun, a black phone, and three iridescent memory flakes. Leaving them on the desktop, he stood up.

"Ah, the old bladder. Must go for a slash-ex." Ex Ex meant military exercise, and what he meant was, he needed to pee. "All part of getting old, like noticing how every little thing needs thumbprint and vocal confirmation these days. There's still shedloads of stuff floating around, mind, that's impossible to track." meant military exercise, and what he meant was, he needed to pee. "All part of getting old, like noticing how every little thing needs thumbprint and vocal confirmation these days. There's still shedloads of stuff floating around, mind, that's impossible to track."

"That's what quartermasters are for."

"Yeah." At the door, Lofty gave a half grin. "I'll be a few minutes. Too bad it's so hard to keep the inventory straight."

After he had gone, Josh had stared at the desktop.

Message received, boss.The shoulder holster felt snug, the phone and memory flakes disappeared into his pockets, and the desk was clear. When Lofty returned he nodded, talked about nothing in particular for several minutes, then shook Josh's hand, and that was that.

Now he used his phone not the same handset, but containing the same firmware and covert-ops enhancements and accessed GPSID via the "unofficial" portal whose URI was known only to retired operatives like Josh. Deep beneath the Chilterns, the MetaWatch team kept track of the portal's use. While Richard Broomhall's father was on a persons-of-interest list, using the portal to track Richard directly would flag up warnings; but there would be no reason to notice Josh tracking down an ordinary language teacher called Maxwell, however unusual the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's first name might be.

Having made the request, he had to wait while the verify-and-authorise procedures did their thing. Meanwhile, there were two messages waiting, and he played Maria's first.

"Hey, Josh. I know you're working, but I want us to meet. Not alone. There's Make it the Highbury Arms, would you? Leave me a message about which day, what time, and I'll confirm."

And the second, from Mr Hammond, the hospital consultant who had delivered so much bad news already: "I'm afraid there's something not so pleasant that we need to talk about. We have some notion of your intent, but in the case of a long-term patient it would be best for explicit permission from a parent, both if possible. While stem-cell regen is the opti mum choice, every week there are injured children whose organs need immediate replacement in order to"

He wiped the message.

You f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

So many battlefield injuries, his friends' liquefied flesh hot and sticky on his skin, and the time he pulled the trigger that blew away the, the don't think of it don't think of it with the spraying red and with the spraying red and G.o.d he was so young, G.o.d he was so young, scarcely more than Sophie's age. Not just firefights, but the desperate tragedy of men killed while hauling gear across mountains, driving or climbing far from hospitals. The reality of pain and imminent death, the necessity of triage, saving those who can survive, and there had been too many rifle salutes fired into the Herefordshire sky above Union Jack-draped coffins, the pomp and strength of military ceremony when it mattered most, keeping the survivors strong, but none of that would allow him to think of them splitting Sophie open for the organs inside her. scarcely more than Sophie's age. Not just firefights, but the desperate tragedy of men killed while hauling gear across mountains, driving or climbing far from hospitals. The reality of pain and imminent death, the necessity of triage, saving those who can survive, and there had been too many rifle salutes fired into the Herefordshire sky above Union Jack-draped coffins, the pomp and strength of military ceremony when it mattered most, keeping the survivors strong, but none of that would allow him to think of them splitting Sophie open for the organs inside her.

Something molten was roiling inside him, desperate for the blaze of violence and blood, and when the map appeared on his phone display with Maxwell's coordinates marked in red, the address in Gladwell Court, he hoped that this man had something to do with the boy's disappearance, knew information that needed to be beaten out of him, or would panic and fight so that the only option was to kill him.

No. Control.

Punch to the throat and leave him gagging as he There's a missing boy, and he's the objective.

Then his feelings were tight inside him once more, and he was on the move.

Bursting open the front door, Josh stalked straight into the living room. On the couch, a small man raised his hands, shrinking back and squeaking: "Who are you? Please don'tDon't."

"Tarquin Maxwell, three nights ago you met this boy." Josh flashed a still from the surveillance log. "What for? What were you up to, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"He, um, brought me. Something." Globules of sweat spread on Maxwell's forehead. He flicked his purplish tongue across his lips. "For the stress. Medicinal. It's, er..."

"Virapharm, and you know the penalty for possession, and what I want to know is where is the boy?"

"It was the first time IWait, no. He's from Mr Khan, but for G.o.d's sake don't use my name because they'll take my kneecaps" tears flowed "so don't say I told you, please."

"Tell about Khan."

"No, I"

"Tarquin, tell me or I'll rip the information from you, so choose."

"They'll use iron bars on my kn-kneecaps. They're like that. I didn't know, before. Before I dealt with him."

"Tell me."

"Businesses, he's got businesses."

"Where? What kind?"

"Shops, a taxi service, garages. He's"

"Where will he be?"

"I was about to... Oh, Jesus. To tell you."

"Where?"

"Corner store called, um... I can show you on a map." Fingers trembling, he tried to pull out his phone. "Sorry, I..."

"This one." Josh thumbed his own phone, and presented it face-first to Maxwell. "Tap on the places you know."

"Here's the store." Maxwell's teeth were cutting into his lower lip as he scrolled the display. "And he's got places there and... there. Don't know about the cabs."

Josh slapped the side of Maxwell's jaw, the torque producing shock. Maxwell had been starting to relax, getting the idea that he had some control in this situation.

"Describe Khan."

"He's oh, G.o.d dark, got a scar on his cheek here" he pointed "and a moustache."

"Height? Tall or short?"

"Same as you. Thin."

Asked to estimate Josh's height, Maxwell would exaggerate from the effect of fear; but then he was also scared of Khan.

"Will he have people with him?"

"Always." Maxwell's larynx worked as he nodded. "Big b.u.g.g.e.rs."

"Once I've gone, don't think we won't be monitoring every word, Tarquin. You understand, right?"

"IRight. Yes."

"Stay here, keep silent."

There was a kicked-in door that needed to be repaired, and the fear would not keep him here forever; but an hour or two was enough.

"Remember," added Josh.

A corner store, very traditional, if you didn't notice the armoured gla.s.s, the profusion of spycams. There was a possible route in through a back yard; or else through the shop like an ordinary customer. Scanning from his phone, Josh found the spycams shielded, impossible to redfang. But some part of the network would connect to the Web, and that would be his entry point, if he needed one. For now, he wanted to physically scout the shop, and see if Khan was inside.

Loading up subversion ware in case of opportunity, he crossed the street and went into the shop, accompanied by an overhead beep: a detector registering his knife. His image would be in the system; but his phone was already polling for available devices, seeking interfaces. Meanwhile, he extracted a bottle of hypercaffeinated Run! and a foil pack of j.a.panese chocolate. Behind the counter, a woman took his cash without comment, clearly used to doing phoneless business. p.o.r.no mags, little more than a folded poster with an embedded thirty-second movie, plus a malleable plastic attachment for that little kinaesthetic extra, were on the shelves above the cat food. Josh delayed, as though fighting an embarra.s.sed urge to browse, until his phone vibrated silently three times. He shook his head, as if pretending disgust a pretence of a pretence and left the store.

There was a pub across the street. Even though it was early, when he entered the dark lounge there were fifteen, sixteen drinkers inside. Hard looks followed him as he carried his c.o.ke to a corner and sat at a small sticky table. He got to work on his phone, following his subversion ware's progress as it mapped the network's topology. The system architecture was big, and so was the hardware net it ran on, far too extensive for a simple corner shop. Got it.

The shop was an end of terrace, a converted house, and one of four houses in a row that were conjoined: a single building inside, while from the street you could not tell.

They're watching me.

s.h.i.t. This was attention he did not need, as two of the men on barstools were staring at him. Pressing a bead into his left ear, he tapped the phone then leaned back against the wall, eyes almost shut as though listening to music. Then, with an idle motion, he sipped from his c.o.ke. In his phone, a surveillance image moved, overlaid with a transcript pane, showing their conversation as text, in time with the audio in his earbead.

unknown#1: "So who's this?" "So who's this?"

unknown#2: " This is Richie, Mr Khan." " This is Richie, Mr Khan."

/** >unknown#3="R" **/ /** >unknown#1="K" **/ K: "You're not local, are you, Richie?" "You're not local, are you, Richie?"

R: "Er, no, sir." "Er, no, sir."

K: "You know your way around?" "You know your way around?"

unknown#2: "I could help him, Mr Khan." "I could help him, Mr Khan."

K: "Why would you do that, Jayce?" "Why would you do that, Jayce?"