Striper Assassin (38 page)

“She does not know you,” Raman says.

“That is why I have been so tolerant.” Eliana tosses her head, then looks from Raman to Tikki. “Who is the man you work for?”

Tikki wonders how this magician knows she is working for anybody. How does any magician know anything? Is there no way to escape the magician’s power?

“Tell her,” Raman says.

Tikki takes a deep bream. “Adama.”

“His full name,” Eliana says.

“Adama Ho.”

It’s a matter of survival. That’s why she gives the name. She cannot fight and she strongly suspects that running would do no good either, even if she could run. The magician is simply too powerful. That is a frightening thing, but one Tikki can deal with now. It is a reality she absolutely
must
deal with if she is to survive.

“Adama Ho is a mage,” Eliana says.

“No.”

“I’m telling you that he is a mage. He has used his sorcery to veil your eyes. He has used it to control you.”

Tikki considers that impossible, and opens her mouth to say so, then recalls the power Eliana has demonstrated without even breaking a sweat. Could Adama be a mage? Worse, could he be controlling her? Maybe that’s possible. Anything seems possible. Some would say that her own existence is proof of that.

Tikki recalls her encounter with Hammer, who she killed, perhaps unwisely, and the news snoop and the camera-guy, who she allowed to escape, but wanted to kill, needlessly. She recalls, too, her trouble with Fat André and his underworld bank. She could swear that the money she deposited with him was the very money that Adama paid for her services. If what Eliana says is true, she might never have been paid at all. She might have been working for free. She might have spent most of her time in Philadelphia performing as Adama’s puppet.

She remembers, too, how she found Adama waiting for her at her weapons cache in Chinatown.

That should not have happened.

“His power over mind and spirit is great, but limited against the power of flesh. That is why he needs you. You are his weapon.”

Tikki says nothing, holds her reaction in check. Eliana’s words surprise her, especially that last word. Adama always refers to her as “his weapon”. His principal weapon. Does Eliana know that, does the fact prove what Eliana’s saying, or is the magician’s choice of words merely coincidental?

“I can counter the mage’s sorcery,” Eliana says. “But to break his hold over you, the power of the spells must be attacked at their source.”

Tikki smells nothing of lies. Would a mage as powerful as Eliana even have need of lies? To strike a deal with her would be breaking one of Tikki’s cardinal rules, but if Eliana is right…

If she’s right…

“What do you want from us?” Raman asks.

Eliana smiles. “Listen closely.”

45

The alley is pitch black. The Lambourg Fiaccola rumbles smoothly, softly, lights off. From her place in the Lambourg’s passenger seat, Ingrid lowers her light-intensifying shades and looks around. The interior of the car is so black that Ivette, straw-colored hair and all, is no more than a vague shape behind the Lambourg’s steering wheel, barely distinguishable even though she and Ingrid are sitting side by side.

“We should get away,” Ivette says. “I’m sick of the city. As soon as we finish here, I want to go on vacation.”

“Where would you like to go?”

“The Carib, maybe.”

Getting away on vacation should be no problem, nothing like the effort it took for them to get away from Ohara this evening. That had turned into a major undertaking. Fortunately, their days with the covert-action staff of Fuchi security have served them well. Specifically, Ingrid’s knowledge of drugs and Ivette’s talent for teasing. Together, they conned the skell into jetting a large enough dose of MV-28 to put him out for a couple of hours.

“Let’s go someplace where there aren’t any men.”

“Sure,” Ingrid says, smiling. “Here’s our date.”

“Yeah.”

Their date is an elf, a slim little girl with black hair and Asian features. She comes toward the Lambourg, then deliberates for a few moments before coming around to the window on the passenger side. Ingrid draws a satin kerchief around the lower half of her face, checks that Ivette’s done the same, then with a touch lowers the window, just enough to look through.

The elf girl leans toward the opening and says, “Hoi, I’m Joi Bang from WHAM! Independent News. You called me?”

“Where’s your camera-guy?”

“In a bar across the street.”

Good. “I’ve got a scoop for you,” Ingrid says. “The police are sitting on a story.”

“Yes!” the elf girl says. “I knew it!”

Ingrid doesn’t really care. “Listen closely. Three execs from Exotech Entertainment have been assassinated. The media’s only talked about one, Robert Neiman. Two others have also been killed. Steven Jorge and Thomas Harris. Jorge was killed at the Gingko Club.”

“I heard about that! The police never released any names!”

Ingrid already knows that. “Harris was killed in much the same way, machine-gunned, at the Ardmore Royal Residence Plaza.”

“Who ordered the hits?”

“All three of the dead men used to work in Exotech’s Special Projects Section. That’s the department that conducted the ritual summoning for
The Coming of Abbirleth
simsense chip.”

“The hit chip’s related to the killings?”

“The head of S.P.S. reported directly to Exotech’s CEO. Bernard Ohara.”

“Ohara killed his own people?”

Ingrid hesitates, then keys the window shut. She’s said enough. Exactly what she was told to say. Presumably, the infamous Joi Bang will do the rest, all that need be done.

“Okay, hon,” Ingrid says. “Drive.”

Ivette does just that, taking them out onto the street and away.

46

The noodle stall is just north of Washington Avenue in the middle of the South Market. Raman stands with his back to the service counter, munching on a bowl of noodles so heavily seasoned that the smell alone is enough to make Tikki’s eyes water.

Tikki stands by the telecom at the side of the stall toking on a slim Hoyo de Monterrey panatela. She isn’t really expecting trouble, not right now, which is why she allows herself the indulgence of a cigar. She keeps her eyes moving anyway. The maze of passageways between the vendor stands and stalls are crowded with people, all of them jammering, walking, turning to and fro, moving their hands, reaching inside jackets and into pockets. A killing stroke could come from any one of a hundred directions.

One thing works to improve her mood: Raman’s eyes move as frequently as her own.

Trusting him doesn’t come easy. That he’s a Were like her and moves like a pro helps. That he tried killing her hurts. That he’s done nothing to rouse her suspicions since trying to kill her helps. That he’s apparently worked with a mage on a routine basis hurts. Trust him? She feels like she ought to trust him, and yet that is easier said than done. She’s choosey, and not in the habit of trusting. Tikki is keenly aware that the bulk of the planet’s population determine their loyalties by the nuyen in the offing. For much of her life, she trusted no one but her mother. Now she trusts Castellano, and to a degree, also Black Mist. There are others she considers more reliable than not. Trust Raman? Maybe. She’s trusting him right now. What happens an hour from now depends on how he handles himself between now and then.

The telecom bleeps, and Tikki picks up the handset.

The display remains dark, the visual pickup covered with gum.

“Yeah,” she says.

A pause, then, “The name is not found.”

She hangs up.

This concludes her final check. The message is from Black Mist, her fixer in Chiba. She’s already heard from Castellano. All her sources say the same thing.

Three blocks away to the west, Tikki steps through a door into a private room at the back of a bar. She isn’t expected, but that’s all right. The Kang in her hand serves as an adequate invitation. She slaps it across the back of the head of the muscleguy who precedes her through the door, dropping him to the floor.

The room is swathed in burning orange synthleather. A muscleguy stands by the bar on the right. Beside him, a biff in white spandex and heels sits on a tall stool. She’s either a decker or a whore, probably both. Both rent sockets. The man on the sofa at the rear of the room has slicked-back hair, a skinny little mustache, and is wearing a black tieless suit. He’s called Nickels. One eyebrow flares upward as he spots the Kang. He flashes a smile as the muscleguy ahead of Tikki drops to the floor.

Tikki doesn’t smile.

“Hoi. Striper,” Nickels says.

Raman steps up at her right, drawing a Scorpion machine pistol from a shoulder-sling under his duster. Tikki takes a moment to screw a silencer onto the muzzle of the Kang.

“You set me up with Adama Ho,” she says. “There is no Adama Ho.”

The name is a lie. The suggestion that “Adama” has ties with the Green Circle Gang and Hong Kong’s 999 Society was also a lie. Why she didn’t investigate this till now, Tikki isn’t sure, but the fact’s a fact and there’s no arguing with it.

Nickels opens his mouth as if to protest, but Tikki is in no mood. She was slaggered, by both Nickels and the mage masquerading as Adama Ho, and that’s all that matters. She can’t allow that to go unanswered. Pointing the Kang at Nickels’ legs, she fires twice in quick succession. Nickels jerks and falls sideways on the couch, shouting and bleeding freely. The biff in white screams. The muscleguy at the bar makes a bad move. A quick burst from Raman’s Scorpion sends him banging back against the bar, then spinning to the floor. That concludes their biz. They’re gone.

* * *

A trid screen in the Federal Street subway station shows a skinny elf female with black hair and Asian features talking about a series of killings, of executives of something called Exotech Entertainment. Tikki gets a funny feeling about that. The circumstances of the killings sound very similar to certain assassinations she carried out for Adama. The names of the victims are similar, too. Almost mirror images. Robert Neiman, Ryokai Naoshi. Steven Jorge, Saigo Jozen. Thomas Harris, Tomito Haruso. She wonders if the men she killed were really yakuza. She wonders if everything Adama has told her from the beginning has been part of a calculated plan to jerk her strings.

She’s very, very unhappy.

Raman follows her off the subway at Spring Garden Street. They head toward Seventh. Time for another meet with Chey, the weapons specialist.

“What do you need?” she asks.

“Ares MVR-7 demo pack with twenty-amp time-delayed igniter.”

A standard model. Tikki approves. A familiar melody slips into her thoughts: Good. Very good. Where has she heard that before? She thrusts it out of mind. “What else?”

“That will do.”

“You’ll have to wait somewhere.”

“There are some things I should do,” Raman says. “Gear to collect. Before we go any further.”

They’ll rendezvous later.

They set a time and place.

47

The directors’ meeting room is located on the fortieth floor of the KFK tower. The room is large and furnished with rich simplicity. The wall paneling looks like teak, the carpeting is plush pile. Set into gilt-edged wooden frames and dominating the tripartite paneled wall at the head of the room are hand-painted color portraits of Kono Koreyasu, Furata Morimoto, and Ko Akifusa. The conference table running up the center of the room is huge and gleams as if freshly waxed, shining like the synthleather-backed chairs lining both sides of the table.

The men seated in the chairs are junior directors of the board of KFK International, charged with presiding over the organization’s North American affairs. Conspicuously absent are Bernard Ohara and the two members who sponsored Ohara’s admission to the board.

Standing just beyond the head of the table is a huge trideo screen. The image on that screen makes the table before Enoshi seem to extend beyond the limits of the room, directly to the conference table inside the board room of KFK headquarters in Japan. The men seated there are the senior members of the board. At the head of the table in Japan sit the two vice-chairmen of the board of KFK, Shimazu Iwao and Torakido Buntaro. Electronic windows ranging across the top of the trid screen provide close-up views of the vice-chairmen and various of the senior members.

Then a new window appears and a pre-recorded vid begins to play, running on for almost thirty minutes. Enoshi waits patiently, standing rigidly at the foot of the table. He has testified to the accuracy of this vid because, although the vid images are utter fabrications, the video as a whole portrays only the truth.

Enoshi may have arranged for the destruction of the BTL lab used to boost Exotech’s finances, as well as the elimination of the individual known as Striper, but he did these things on the direct orders of Bernard Ohara. In truth, as Enoshi sees it, Ohara arranged for these eliminations no less than if he had personally made the necessary contacts.

Enoshi merely did his corporate duty, just as he does his duty now. One’s duty may require the performance of actions that are regrettable, even abhorrent, but duty is duty.