A Night Without Stars (39 page)

It was Jenifa's third interview that morning. They were using two of the eight cells on basement level one for interviews, with the Eliter suspects crammed into the remaining six. Rasschaert had known a surprising number of people, so after spending a night with nine other people in a small space with only two cots and one shared toilet, the suspects were now crabby as well as frightened. It wasn't a good combination.

Terannia was led in, and the handcuffs removed before the guard pushed her down into a chair. The club owner was taller than Jenifa, and probably weighed twice as much. If their positions around the table had been reversed, Jenifa might have been quite intimidated by that. As it was she took a minute to check through Terannia's file again, make the suspect wait. It didn't seem to unsettle Terannia. She looked tired and bored rather than cowed. Which was interesting.

“Do you know why you're here?” Jenifa asked.

“I can think of several reasons. But everyone you're half suffocating in the cell says it's about Rasschaert.”

“What are the other reasons?”

“The PSR doesn't have a gram of imagination, so you blame Eliters for everything. It's pathetic, you know.”

Jenifa glanced at the file, seeing Terannia had been brought in for questioning a dozen times in the last fifty years. No charges had ever been brought. They were all routine investigations into Eliter radicals. “The PSR protects Bienvenido. If you've done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear.”

Terannia let out a bitter laugh. “I'm being told that by a brainwashed child. Giu help us all.”

“Do you deny you knew Rasschaert?”

“I don't remember him specifically, but if you say he's been in the club, I'm not going to dispute it.”

Jenifa slid a photograph of Rasschaert over the table. “To help your Eliter memory. He didn't simply visit your club; he worked there for three months. I also have a copy of his employment record, which you filed.”

Terannia glanced down at the photo, and cocked her head to one side. “Nine years ago. He was behind the bar. Not much good.”

“Is that why he left?”

“Seriously, girlie? A reason from nine years ago? How many people have worked at the club since then? Is that in your records?”

“Seventy-two,” Jenifa answered immediately, enjoying the startled look that sprang across the woman's face. “Actually, I don't care why you got rid of him, but I'm pleased you do remember, because this next question is critical.” She took out the photo of Florian. “Did Rasschaert bring this man into the club? Did they ever meet there?”

Terannia stared at Jenifa for a long moment before studying the photo. “This is Florian, isn't it? The one you're all after. He looks young, just a bit older than you.”

“Yes, that's Florian. Did he visit your club?”

“No.” She sighed. “He's never been to the club.”

Jenifa studied her keenly. “You're sure?”

“Yes,” Terannia said decisively, then hesitated. “This picture was taken nine years ago?”

“Seven. It's from his regimental service file. Why?”

“So what does he look like now?”

“Much the same, apparently.”

“Oh. Okay. Still a no, then.”

“So what about this week?” Jenifa asked. “Has there been any talk about him in the club?”

“Ha! Are you kidding, girlie? The way you lot have disrupted the city, nobody's talking about anything else.”

“Did anyone say where he might be?”

“It's got to be Port Chana.”

Jenifa lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Well, he must be, right? Nobody would stay in Opole with this kind of hunt going on. You'd be crazy.”

“The city is sealed.”

“He got in, didn't he?” Terannia smirked. “He beat you, girlie.”

“One, he has not beaten us; we are preventing him from carrying out his subversion. Two, don't ever call me girlie again. You can go back to your cell now.”

The amusement vanished from Terannia's eyes. “How long for? I have a business to run. I answered all your questions.”

“Until I say you can go. Which will be when we've finished cross-referencing everyone's statements.”

“But there's dozens of us. It'll take you all day.”

“Yes.” Jenifa tidied the papers on the table. “It will. The PSR is very thorough. Don't ever forget that.”

The phone on Yaki's desk had a speaker attachment. Chaing sat on one side of the desk, trying not to show Yaki how discomforted he was by Stonal's voice.

“Do you even know if Florian and the girl are still in Opole?” the director of section seven asked.

“I'm reasonably certain,” Chaing said. “The checkpoints around the city are secure.”

“It's a wide perimeter, and you have the river to consider as well. A small boat at night could go unnoticed, as Florian has already demonstrated.”

Chaing glared at the innocuous Bakelite speaker grille with the blue secure line light shining below it. “It's not possible to guard the exit routes with any greater degree of security, sir. If he's gotten past us, it was with considerable help.”

“Opole has a large Eliter population.”

“It does, sir,” Yaki said. “But there is one piece of information we received last night that would indicate Captain Chaing is correct.”

“Which is?” Stonal asked.

Chaing gave Yaki a grateful nod. “Gorlan's assets reported that the Eliters have started broadcasting general calls for the Warrior Angel to help Florian. They're telling her the PSR is persecuting him.”

“I see. Interesting.”

“She might be coming here.”

“Which is inconvenient, to say the least. I cannot leave the capital right now. Besides, we would require a considerably longer lead time to lay a trap for her.”

Chaing shuffled to the edge of his seat. “Sir. With respect, I don't think we can afford her coming to Florian's aid. They cannot be allowed to join up.”

“Then you have a simple task, don't you, Captain? You must acquire Florian before the Warrior Angel.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I find it hard to comprehend why you released Castillito. She is his major possible contact point in Opole.”

“He can't contact her if she's in our custody,” Chaing shot back. “I have her under constant surveillance.”

“If Florian hasn't contacted her by now, after four days in Opole, he isn't going to. Someone else is sheltering him. Someone who is willing to risk everything. To me that speaks of a very close bond.”

“We have had considerable success bringing in Rasschaert's known associates,” Yaki said.

“And have they produced any leads? No? Then bring Castillito in again. Extract the name of Florian's father from her. That's where you'll find him.”

“Yes, sir,” Chaing said.
Crud!

The tenement block was on Quilswith Road, just off Broadstreet, but at the opposite end of the thoroughfare from the PSR offices.
Ironic,
Jenifa thought as the car pulled up outside. She got out and looked up at the blue-brick façade of the elegant old building. Unlike a lot of the city's tenements, this one was fully occupied and well maintained.
Perfect for a civil rights so-called leader; no living in the slum-zones with the lower orders for her.

A van parked down the road had a couple of PSR officers inside, watching the front of the block. She knew another van was covering the alley at the back. A command post had been set up opposite, with cine-camera lenses focused on Castillito's window. Neighboring apartments had been used to place listening devices against her walls. The sound wasn't good, but they could still hear most of what went on. And a tape recorder in the basement was wired into her telephone line.

Jenifa went into the big lobby. The floor was black-and-white marble tiling; large brass and crystal lights hung on long chains from a high ceiling. A house manager came out from his office to stand at the polished reception counter.

“Can I help you?”

Jenifa simply held up her PSR badge. “Castillito. Which apartment?”

“Third floor, number four.”

She climbed the wide curving stairs. Far above, the afternoon sunlight was shining brightly through a circular lantern window. It was easy to imagine Void-era aristocrats living their decadent lives in such a place. Her disapproval of Castillito grew with every step climbed.

Jenifa took a second to straighten her uniform and compose herself before knocking on the door to number four. People always judged her by her size and youthful features, never quite respecting her, which was a constant source of anger. Although the PSR uniform sometimes mitigated that casual disregard.

Not with Castillito, who looked her up and down with a dismissive expression. “Yes?”

“You really want to do this in the corridor?” Jenifa asked flatly.

“Come in, why don't you.”

The apartment was as Jenifa expected—large, clean, and bright, furnished with perfect antiques.

Castillito walked into the lounge, standing in front of the tall balcony windows, preferring to look out onto the street rather than at Jenifa. “What is it now?”

“We need more information from you, and we need it fast. So this is how it goes. You either tell me now, or I take you in to the PSR office where I will personally extract the information from you.”

“What was it with you, I wonder?”

“Excuse me?”

“You're all very damaged people, so I'm wondering what happened to you to make you like this. A relative abused you during your childhood, perhaps? That's quite common.”

“It's not me sheltering a Faller! That's what I call damage.”

Castillito turned from the window and smiled contemptuously. “The recruiters deliberately seek you out. Did you know that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The PSR recruiters. They sift through court cases, looking for a specific type of victim. People who have had their moral compass broken. They're no different from your original abusers, you know; you're still being used.”

“This is ridiculous,” Jenifa said. “The only reason I joined up is to protect Bienvenido from Fallers.”

“Really? In that case, look me in the eye and tell me Florian is now a Faller. Can you do that?”

Jenifa was instantly cross with herself for the traitorous flush coloring her cheeks. “Who is his father?”

“Is that what all this is about? One of your forms I didn't fill in properly?”

“His father must be sheltering him. Who is it?”

Castillito chuckled. “That's the best the PSR can come up with to excuse your failure to find him?”

“Who is the father?”

“All right. I can see you're serious about this, so I'll offer you a deal.”

“We don't make deals, especially not with you. Florian will face the full consequences of his actions.”

“The deal doesn't concern Florian.”

“What?”

“I'll tell you here and now on one simple condition. Aren't you even going to ask what it is? Even you won't be able to force the answer out of me straightaway in your torture chambers. Can you afford to lose that time?”

“What's the condition?” Jenifa ground out.

“I want you to deliver a message to your boss, Captain Chaing.”

“What message?”

“So you will do it?”

“I'll report everything you say to me. Believe that.”

“Very good. The message is this: I know why Chaing sent you instead of coming himself.”

“That's it?”

Castillito gave her a sardonic grin. “See, that wasn't so difficult, now, was it?”

“The father!”

“Rafferty.”

Chaing, Yaki, and Jenifa stood in Ashya Kukaida's shiny white office as clerks hurried in with files she'd requested. Each folder was opened, and the contents spread methodically across her pristine desk. When they were all laid out, she would put on her thick glasses and slowly scan the paperwork.

Chaing knew that, just like him, Yaki wanted to shout at the old woman to get a move on, but even she held her tongue in this realm. Everything depended on Kukaida.

What do we do when she gets too old for this?
he wondered.
Is she even training a successor?
And there was another, more uncomfortable, thought nagging away in his head.
Does she have that amazing memory because she's an Eliter?

He watched as Kukaida ran a finger down a column of reference numbers, then beckoned a clerk over. The man was given an index code, and he hurried off into the records hall.

She can't be. Can she?

He'd been tense ever since Jenifa had returned in triumph from Castillito's with the name. And the message. She'd been puzzled by it, but Chaing knew all too well what it meant. Castillito wasn't letting him off the hook that easily.

The clerk returned with another gray cardboard folder. Kukaida painstakingly gathered up the sheets on her desk and returned them to their file before the new paperwork was put out for examination.

“Ah,” she exclaimed. An index finger tapped the guilty line of typing.

“Who is he?” Yaki demanded.

“Fetch this one,” Kukaida told a clerk before looking up. “Rafferty isn't an Eliter, which is why we didn't have an open file on him. I thought that was odd.”

“But Florian and Lurji are still Eliters, aren't they?” Jenifa asked.

“In eighty percent of cases, when an Eliter has a child with a non-Eliter, the offspring are functioning Eliters,” Kukaida said. “The other twenty percent are mules; their macrocellular clusters don't work. They're dying out, you know: Eliters. In a thousand years there'll be none left.”

Which explains a lot,
Chaing thought miserably.
It must have been Mother who was the Eliter.