The Administration Series (251 page)

Avis looked between them. "Who are you?" he asked McLean.

"He works for me," Warrick said. "His name is Robert McLean, of the SimTech security department."

McLean lowered his hands and the I&I guards released him and backed away slightly.

"Then unless he wants to get arrested for obstruction, he should go back there," Avis said.

The demand to speak to Toreth had been an irresistible impulse, but Warrick knew his arrest training better than to follow it up. He turned to McLean. "Go," he said firmly. "Call Queen, Linton and Marcus, then go back to the main office. You can't do any good here."

"I want to see ID and warrants before I let you leave with
anyone
," McLean said.

Avis sighed and offered his ID. Warrick turned his attention to the screen in his hand. The details on the warrant were infuriatingly vague — 'pursuit of an investigation into activities falling within the remit of the Computer Crimes Section of I&I' — but that was enough to shock him badly. 'Computer crimes' could mean practically anything. Most likely was his abortive forays into the security files on Tarin's behalf, but there were many older incidents. He'd also made forays into other, corporate systems on behalf of SimTech, and while those wouldn't automatically be I&I business, the recent political upheavals made anything possible. Exposure of any of it could mean financial disaster for SimTech.

Beside him, McLean was working his way steadily through the group's IDs, to Avis's obvious and mounting impatience.

"McLean," Warrick said. "Leave it." He turned to Avis. "I'm ready."

Warrick had never been arrested before. He'd considered the possibility during the investigation into the murders at SimTech, especially toward the end, but it had stayed hypothetical. For most of his adult life, he had suffered from the low-grade fear that permeated all levels of the European Administration. Even further up the social scale, everyone with a gram of common sense feared the knock on the door that might herald arrest.

Since its foundation, I&I had become the core of that fear for most citizens. The years with Toreth had dulled the edge for Warrick until he had begun to think of the black uniform as normal, no longer a cause for comment or worry. Now, as the group formed around him and escorted him through the building, the fear was back manyfold.

McLean was shadowing them, which Avis seemed prepared to tolerate as long as the security man kept his distance. He had his comm out and he was talking urgently. Warrick tried to keep his breathing regular. Once SimTech knew what was going on, the legal wheels would be put in motion.

The main exit hall had even more marble — white, red, black and green — and high windows that poured sunshine into the open expanse. The front doors of the airport were in Warrick's sight, but not as accessible as they looked. Two-thirds of the way down the room, a thick, clear barrier ran seven or eight metres up towards the distant ceiling; it was marked only by two reflective strips at hip and shoulder height. Guarded openings pierced the barrier at intervals, with clear doors ready to be slammed down in case of trouble. It provided bulletproof security without spoiling the look of the corporate exit.

As they approached the barrier, Avis pointed him left, towards a side exit. Halfway there, Warrick spotted a familiar dark-haired figure hurrying towards them on the far side of the plastic.

Hell. He'd forgotten all about Dilly. "McLean," he called over his shoulder. "Ms Aven is over there. Get her somewhere safe. Take her to SimTech if she'll go."

At the possibility of trouble, the I&I guards took hold of his arms and started walking him quickly towards the exit. Warrick wondered vaguely why they hadn't cuffed him yet. They were almost at the doorway — thankfully there were no more open gaps in the barrier.

"Keir?" Dillian was keeping pace, her voice muffled by the barrier. "What's happening?"

McLean had doubled back to find a way through the barrier and Warrick felt suddenly isolated.

"Don't worry, Dilly. Everything will be fine. Go with McLean."

"No!" She had her hand on the barrier as she jogged to keep pace. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, bumping down to her elbow. "I'm not leaving you. What's going on?"

Then they had reached the door, going into a darker corridor, no marble or high windows. Dillian's voice faded — from the sounds of it, McLean had caught up with her.

As the guards escorted him out to the waiting car, he thought not about Toreth but about Marian, leaving her office flanked by investigators, head held high. She'd gone through the same gates he'd soon be driven through, and emerged only in a coffin.

An anonymous note would do the job quite adequately, and be safer. Making the call in person would be spite, Carnac acknowledged, pure and simple. Or possibly spite mixed with pique and the remains of the second-worst hangover of his life.

Or possibly he was lying to himself about all of it, and the real reason was more distasteful still. When had he become so mendacious?

Last night might not have been his most eloquent performance, but he thought it had deserved a better reception that it had received. He'd hoped — and it had been hope, not expectation — to find a crack in Keir's defenses. And yet . . . and yet, he couldn't blame Keir for his coldness. Not 'didn't want to', but
couldn't
. What was it about the man that had brought a trained socioanalyst to this pass? As a purely intellectual observation, it was fascinating. As a state of being, it was becoming intolerable.

However, given the devastation wrought on the Psychoprogramming Division during the revolt, he had no option but to tolerate it.

Carnac checked his watch. Keir's plane had now landed, meaning that he would be safely on his way to SimTech, where he would be surrounded by well-trained security. That left the perfect opportunity to spread a little misery, as well as actually do some good. Much as it galled him, he had to admit that the one person best suited to saving Keir from his own determined efforts at symbolic self-immolation was also the last person in the world Carnac would dream of asking for a favour. That didn't matter — the information could be conveyed in less direct ways, and Toreth's unerring selfishness would make sure he tried to stop Keir.

Toreth answered his office comm looking slightly distracted. He still had his gaze fixed on something to the left of the screen as he said, "Senior Para T — "

Then he caught sight of his caller and the word stopped midsyllable, frozen on his parted lips.

"Wait, please," Carnac said before he could cut the connection. "This is important."

"It had better be the end of the fucking world, because if it's not, I'm going to — "

"Please. I called to discuss our mutual acquaintance. I shall be brief: he is doing something dangerous, which is not entirely unheard of for him, and foolish, which is far rarer."

"How the fuck do
you
know what he's doing?"

"Well, I will leave that up to you to work out, Para-investigator. Although since the abolition of movement notification, I suppose that aspect of your job has become far harder."

"Don't try that crap. I know he's here in New London. He's . . . "

Carnac relished the dawning uncertainly. Really, it was too easy. However, he did have a serious purpose. "Did you know that he has developed a potentially unhealthy interest in genealogy?"

Toreth said nothing, which was as good as a yes.

"I hope you are not encouraging it," Carnac continued.

The direct goad worked better. "
Encouraging
? Do I look suicidal? Or stupid?"

Sometimes it was such an effort to leave the easy ones alone. "If he pursues this, he will be in danger, or rather in even more danger. And so will others whose identities I'm sure I have no need to spell out. He must stop it, and soon."

"No
shit
. I can see why people pay you so much."

"It's a serious warning, honestly meant."

"This is all your fault," Toreth said with a hard-edged certainly that was actually rather unnerving. "If you hadn't come up with that fucking file in the first place, none of this would be happening. Was this in the plan? Did you work out a probability for getting him killed?"

"I, ah." Annoying as it was to admit, he had to say — "No. There is a limit to the outcomes I can consider. I work best with organisations, not individuals."

"An excuse. Big fucking surprise. If anything happens to — if this all fucks up because of you, you know what? I'll find you and I will tear your throat out." He smiled nastily. "Or maybe I'll do that anyway."

Distance, that was most definitely key to baiting Toreth. "This is rather straying outside the scope of my call. I don't wish to spend all day on the comm."

"Fine. So did you give it to him?"

And that went beyond easy. This time he couldn't resist. He arched an eyebrow. "Did I what?"

It took a moment for the innuendo to sink in before Toreth went absolutely white with fury and Carnac had to suppress a chuckle.

"Did you give him the fucking
file
?" Toreth gritted out.

He didn't feel like sharing his inability to refuse Keir's requests. "He didn't ask to see it."

Toreth relaxed slightly, and Carnac wondered why it was so significant. Worry about the price Keir might have paid for it? Well, he had delivered his warning, so he could wrap up with a little self-indulgence.

"Keir mentioned that he was moving into a new flat. With you." On-screen, all the tension returned to Toreth in a rush. "That must be a frightening thought. Placing yourself into a domestic situation with a dominant presence over whom you have no control. It must . . . resonate for you."

Toreth simply stared for a moment. It took an obvious effort for him to unclench his jaw enough to speak. "You know what? Fuck you."

Oddly less satisfactory that he had hoped, Carnac mused as he stared at the abruptly blank screen. Petty revenge almost always was. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, which had little effect on the dull pain behind his eyes. After a moment, he opened the comm again.

"Coll? I don't suppose you have anything to mend a broken heart?"

"A . . . I'm sorry, Jean? A what?"

He smiled bleakly. "Do you have any painkillers? I have a perfectly appalling headache."

Toreth leaned back in his chair and gripped the edge of the desk, because his hands were shaking with rage.

"
Bastard
," he said out loud. Unbelievable, arrogant — "Lying fucking
bastard
."

Even that much coherence was costing all his concentration. It took a full minute before he could calm himself enough to start wondering where Warrick was. Not in Strasbourg, that was obvious. Carnac had been baiting him. Somewhere in New London, then. Somewhere he would call Carnac from, which probably meant the flat and not SimTech. Somewhere Toreth could find him and —

The comm chimed — an internal call, not that prick back for the parting shot he'd no doubt had ready.

"
What
?" Toreth snapped as the screen brightened.

He recognised the woman as one of the receptionists downstairs. "Para?" she said uncertainly.

Toreth frowned, reaching for a name. "Madeleine? Is there a problem?"

In the background, he could hear raised voices, and Madeleine glanced quickly sideways.

"Yes, Para. There's a woman in reception demanding to speak to you. She says that her name is Dillian Aven. She's rather agitated."

Toreth's heart sank. "I'll come down for her right away."

In reception, Dillian was waiting by the reception desk, apparently still arguing with Madeleine. A security officer stood nearby, on alert, his eyes fixed on her. Toreth wondered if she'd actually hit anyone, and whether he'd be able to smooth things over if she had.

"Dillian?"

She turned quickly. "Did you have anything to do with this? What were you two arguing about?"

Oh, Jesus. Whatever had happened, he needed to get her out of here.

He crossed the space quickly, caught her by the wrist and led her to the side of the room. The guard looked at Toreth questioningly as they walked away, but he seemed happy to let them go. Of course, if Dillian took a swing at anyone now it was likely to be Toreth.

"What the hell's going on?" Toreth asked in an undertone.

At least Dillian had the presence of mind to lower her voice too. "Keir's been arrested."

The words weren't the shock they ought to have been. He'd known, somehow, as soon as he'd seen her.

"I was at the airport when it happened," Dillian was saying. "There was a group of men in I&I uniforms. I followed here as quickly as I could, but they won't let me see him."

"Of course they won't," Toreth said absently while his mind raced. "There's twenty-four hours before there's any external contact at all except with Justice reps." Or was that under the old system? He thought it still applied.

"What are you going to do?" Dillian demanded.

'Don't expect me to risk my neck pulling you out of
your
messes'. That's what he'd told Warrick. The temptation to stick to the resolution lasted only a few seconds.

"Whatever I can. I'll need to find out some details first." Something she'd said suddenly registered. "Why was he at the airport anyway?"

"I don't know. He was on a flight back from Strasbourg, I think. He was supposed to be back yesterday, then he called to say he had to stay overnight. I went to collect him because we had to be at the hospital this morning to speak to the consultant . . . "

He lost the rest of the sentence in the resurgence of anger. Strasbourg. Carnac had been telling the truth for once in his miserable life. More than that, Warrick had spent the night in Strasbourg and although every rational fibre in Toreth's body told him nothing could have happened between them, it couldn't stop the twisting in his guts.

He held up his hand, and Dillian halted in the middle of whatever the fuck she'd been saying. "You get out of here," Toreth said. "I'll find him."