Montezuma Strip (27 page)

As he hunted for the given address Cardenas recycled the information Morales had supplied about the nature and activities
of the Order.
Miércoles
was a regular meeting day, during which reports were presented on successful collections, promises to pay secured, reluctant
merchants and individuals who required further cajoling, and so on. Occasionally large sums of money were disseminated among
the faithful. Cardenas was now Brother Cardenas. So long as no formal roll calls were run, and Morales had assured him they
were infrequent, he was convinced he could successfully infiltrate the gathering.

In the event of the unexpected, or the need to wrap up activities in a hurry, a pair of federal VTOLs cruised overhead, each
equipped to monitor the electronics that had been sewn
discreetly into his brown suit. He holstered a duplicate of the street gun Morales had favored, knowing he would have to surrender
it at the door. But for one in his position to arrive unarmed would be like showing up naked at a convention of nuns.

The churchfront was new, a quickie prefab job obviously slicked, sliced, and stamped to order. It had been superimposed on
the loading dock of an old warehouse located at the far end of a cul-de-sac, giving the consecrated facade the aspect of a
cheap vit set. The deceptive solidity of the burnished copper-hued spires and arched doorway doubtless imparted an aura of
reassurance to passersby, though the volume of both pedestrian and vehicular traffic in this part of the city at night was
small. The nearest induction tube station was half a kilometer away. The church was not an easy place to reach, which was
doubtless how the Brothers preferred it.

He lingered in the shadows until a pair of Collars alighted from an autocab and accelerated to fall in with them. Before they
could ask questions he initiated conversation, employing terms and code words supplied by the loquacious Morales. By the time
they reached the feign-grained double doorway, with its pseudo brass brads and sham wormholes, he had intuited enough about
his companions to the point where the three of them were chattering like confidants, energetically exchanging views on tough
sells and eager contributors.

Replicates of the security nodes the techs had found in Morales’s suit got Cardenas past the prominent scanner in the outer
hallway and into the inner sanctum. Other Brothers were assembling there, in an atmosphere of expectation and unholy conversation.
Women, liquor, and the psychowiles of the freshest recreational pharmaceuticals were mentioned far more often than God and
service.

When he finally arrived to call the assembly to order anon a blast from a semiserious synthesized organ, Brother Perote turned
out to be something other than what Cardenas had expected. But then, they usually did. He was even shorter than the inspector,
stocky and unathletic of appearance, probably in
his early thirties. Back and forth across the small raised stage he strutted, like a professional street urchin, his arms
and hands in constant motion. He looked like an overwound, overstressed antique child’s toy, and sounded like one, too.

Thanks to the generosity of local believers there would be a special distribution to the faithful tomorrow, he declared. This
announcement provoked the expected hoots of appreciation among the assembled, as well as some enthusiastic applause. Plans
for the forthcoming month’s work were discussed, with accompanying exhortations to increase collections and solicitations.
Several new members were inducted into the Order without a travesty of a ceremony. Perote simply introduced the newcomers,
who were greeted with a few good-natured catcalls and obscenities.

The Order appeared to be not only healthy but growing, Cardenas noted, as was to be expected with any successful, profitable
racket. Though Perote made an effort to act and sound like one of the boys, he was obviously a good deal smarter than any
of the acolytes hanging in the inspector’s vicinity. Cardenas was eager to run a check on him, but pulling out a scanner in
the midst of the assembled Brothers and aiming it at their leader would be more than likely to bring his investigation to
a violent and premature end.

There was some concluding conversation, including an exchange of questions and answers, before the assembly was finally dismissed.
Brothers began to file out the door, to waiting cabs or private vehicles. Perote had vanished early. A check of his watch
surprised Cardenas with the lateness of the hour. The meeting had gone on longer than he’d anticipated.

He drifted toward the left-hand wall, where empty shipping containers and old crates remained from the building’s previous
days as a storage facility, and found one unsealed. Slipping inside, he picked his way back into the depths, stepping lightly
among bundles of plastic and fiberboard until he found a pack bubble that would support him. Then he sat down to wait.

When his watch showed three
A.M
. he removed the night goggles from his interior breast pocket and slipped them on.
Very little light filtered into the church, but the amplifying goggles cast his naturally dim surroundings in an eerie twilight.
Making no noise, he emerged from the cluster of shipping containers into the assembly area and headed purposefully toward
the stage, confident in the knowledge that the shepherding VTOLs were hovering somewhere nearby.

The platform was deserted, the electronics crudely attached to the simple podium powered down. The back of the stage consisted
of a false wall erected out of dark quasistone sheeting. Walking around the far end he saw empty floor and a few scattered
crates, a small field kitchen that served to feed the faithful on those occasions when food was required, a quartet of portable
sanitary booths, and in the distance a back door. Nothing else.

From the belt-concealed beneath his jacket he removed a small tube, adjusted the slide controls on one side, and flicked the
button at its based. A pair of bright green LEDs came to life together with a small illuminated readout. Covering the LEDs
with his gripping hand, he shielded the readout with the other as he followed its directions.

The device led him to the third in line of the four one-piece, enclosed portable johns. There was a lock on the handle and
an “Out of Order” sign pasted to the door. He frowned at his handheld, then set to work. Another tool made short toil of the
simple lock. He lifted the handle and peered inside.

In place of the expected holed throne a ladder led downward.

Treading carefully, he started down. The steps terminated in a narrow hallway, which soon opened into a large room filled
with enough tech of sufficient sophistication to impress even a multinat Designer. Several sealed cases emitted steady, placid
hums, indicating that their contents were powered up, or at least in dormant mode. There were a couple of chairs, some well-marked
hard-copy maps on one wall, a pile of pornographic printouts heaped indifferently in one corner, a sink and chiller, and a
single rumpled bunk.

He started with the obviously expensive, state-of-the-art
tech, beginning with the satellite downlink. It was active and warm. Though the readout was coded he had no doubt that it
could be decrypted quickly enough, identifying both the satellite and transponder in use.

He was moving to the next pile of components when he felt a presence and sensed the light. It nearly blinded him and he clutched
at the goggles.

She was floating between him and the ladder, her etheric expression full of regret.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the image said. “You defile the holy places.”

“On the contrary,” he replied as evenly as he could, “I have tremendous respect for whoever set this up.” He tried to see
past the conflagrant figure. “Who’s controlling you? What alarm did I finally trip?”

“No alarm. And no one controls me. I sensed your presence, and I came to you. You do not belong here. You are not one of the
faithful. You come to work mischief.”

“Not me. I seek only enlightenment.”

The Madonna seemed to hesitate. “You seek it obliquely.”

“That’s in my nature.” He tried to anticipate what the deadly phantasm might do next as his fingers crept toward an interior
coat pocket. Within lay the broadcast unit that would instantly summon the VTOLs and help from outside.

“Your inner self remains closed to me,” came the cryptic whisper as he felt something prick the back of his neck. Whirling,
he saw a cowled shape step quickly back from him. He fumbled for the unit inside his jacket but his fingers didn’t respond.
Nerves and muscles had gone suddenly and completely numb.

He thought someone stepped forward to catch him before he hit the floor, but so rapidly was consciousness fading that he wasn’t
sure. Behind him he heard the specter say, “Be gentle with him. He is no less than a sheep strayed from the flock.”

“Yeah, sure,” came the terse and entirely compassionless male response.

He awoke on a cot not dissimilar to the one that he’d seen in the underground chamber. Muted daylight seeped in through a
high, unreachable, and small window set in the stone wall across from him. Real stone, he soon ascertained, not fake.

Furnishings consisted of the cot on which he lay and a simple polystyrene four-legged table on which rested a pitcher full
of water and a glass. He poured himself a drink and sipped slowly. His throat was incredibly dry. An aftereffect of whatever
they’d doped him with? He found he was shivering slightly. They had taken every last stitch of his clothing.

Words reverbed over a concealed speaker. “Good to see that you’re up and about, Inspector.” The voice went silent.

Moments later the sealed wooden door clinked as it was dragged aside. A tranquil Brother Perote entered. Cardenas intuited
the presence of two very large men flanking the entrance and placed his instinctive first reaction on hold.

Perote leaned back into a corner of the cell and crossed his arms over his chest as he studied his prisoner. His comparative
nakedness didn’t bother Cardenas, but the situation did. So did his captor’s nonchalance. It suggested that he was completely
in control.

“Where are my clothes?”

“You’re not going anywhere, so you don’t need them. I had them carefully scanned. The usual alert and alarm devices, antenna
pickups woven into the fabric of the suit; that sort of thing. We put it on a dummy and slipped it onto a highspeed cargo
induction to San Antonio. I figure it’ll get about halfway there before your baby-sitters get nervous enough to check in on
you in person.”

Cardenas kept his eyes on his captor as he sat back down on the bunk. He was still feeling pretty dizzy. “Where am I?”

“Not in Kansas.” Perote chuckled. “Not in Nogales, either. How’d you find the church?”

“An informant,” Cardenas told him. “There’ll be others.”

“Maybe. We can move quickly if we have to. Who was it?”

Cardenas smiled thinly in return.

Perote clearly had expected that response. “No matter. You’ll tell us in due time. An hour’s nothing but
una hora
.” He paused to consider something. “You’ll tell us everything.”

“I’m trained to resist all varieties of persuasion, physical as well as chemical. As an Intuit, I can sense what’s coming
and prepare for it.”

Perote’s eyebrows rose. “Never met an Intuit before. Heard of you guys, but never expected to meet one. It’ll be interesting
to see if you’re right.” His eyes glittered. “We can artery some real graphic juice.”

“Won’t make me tell you what the noh-man knows.”

Perote shrugged. “Then you’ll die.”

“You’d
muerte
me anyway.”

“That’s true. I won’t lie to you, Federale. Here, I don’t need to.”

“The satellite downlink in Nogales shackles you to a base station somewhere. Here?”

Perote nodded approvingly. “You’re fast, all right. Quick and dangerous. I’ll be glad to see you dead. Nothing personal. I
can see that you’re the kind of federale who could make real trouble.”

Cardenas was not to be diverted. “You generate the program at your base station. Here.” Perote did not comment, but neither
did he deny the surmise. “You use the downlink to relay it to Nogales. Then what? Hiflow short-form antennae fixed in trucks
parked outside each business you extort?”

“Man, you
are
good.” Perote admired his prisoner’s intuition.

“What made you decide to come up with a Madonna? I’ve seen tactiles before and this is easily the best of the lot. There’s
more control over form and movement, and you’re able to sustain density. Where do you get the requisite crunch and power?”

“For a condemned man you’re ripe with questions.”

“You’ll get the chance to ask yours in short order.”

Perote’s smile returned. “I like you, Federale, but not enough to let you live. You’re an unbeliever.”

“And you’re about as religious as a lobotomized lemur.”

“Do you intuit that about me?” Perote was enjoying this, Cardenas noted, like a sadistic lepidopterist lazing away a contented
summer afternoon with his pins and killing jar.

He nodded slowly, his mustache bobbing. “Yes. Also that you’re clever enough to set up and run an operation like this, but
not smart enough to devise it.”

“No shame in that. One of the traits I attribute my success to is never letting ego get in the way of business.” Perote stood
away from the wall. He was a lot calmer and more controlled than he’d been on the warehouse-church stage, Cardenas reflected.
He wondered what the man’s drug of choice was.

“I used to supply components, chips, nodules, protein storage cylinders, and a lot more to a nanker named Silvestre Chuautopec.
Ever hear of him?” Cardenas shook his head. “He was a little old, little old man who lived outside of… here.” The grin widened.

“I was fascinated by his work and used to hang around watching him. Eventually he asked if I’d be interested in helping out.
There were times when he needed another pair of hands attached to an unquestioning brain.”

“I suspect you fit the bill admirably. Why do I think that was a mistake on his part?”