A Prince Among Men Part 6

The stranger waited several heartbeats before he spoke.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for John Reddy."

Police was John's first thought. Winston, his second. Was this about the fight? Had Winston.. . died? The man's intense stare didn't leave any doubt that he knew he'd found John Reddy, so there didn't seem to be any point in denying it.

"I'm John."

"I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"You a cop?" Kelley asked nervously. Her sidelong glance at John suggested that she had seen at least part of the afternoon's fight.

"Not exactly, miss. But I am part of an ongoing investigation."

"You with the feds?"

"I'm not really at liberty to say."

"Oh, man." Kelley looked frightened. "Look, John. I gotta go. Okay?" She started to shuck into her jacket, then looked nervously up at the cop.

"This doesn't concern you, miss," he said, and Kelley looked visibly relieved.

She gave John a look that was a cross between pity and sympathy. "I'll, like, I'll see you around."

She slid out of the booth, skinned past the cop, and practically ran out of the Cow. And that was the end of it. Thank you, Mr. Federal Policeman. Then again, maybe you just finished off what I had already started. In any case, here's another date shot to h.e.l.l, another big score for John.

"May I sit down?" asked the man pointlessly as he sat in Kelley's vacated seat. Flas.h.i.+ng something that looked like a badge and a federal ID card, he said, "My name is Bennett."

Mr. Bennett was not your usual federal investigator, or so John supposed. Weren't those guys supposed to be inconspicuous? Beyond his slick good looks, noticeable enough in any crowd, this guy was tall and thin like John, and John knew from personal experience that such a physique did not blend easily into a crowd. Bennett's eyes were as clear and gray as John's, but they had a hard quality that would have frightened John if he had seen them staring back at him in a mirror.

"They pick you special to come talk to me?"

"Excuse me?"

John waved a hand up and down. "Your look. The pale-scarecrow effect. Not too many people with our phenotype. This a coincidence, or what?"

"I don't believe in coincidence," Bennett said quietly. "Matters of appearance are trivial. John, there is a very serious matter to hand."

It had to be Winston. Had Mitsutomo disowned him? Was he being turned over to some kind of federal rehabilitation program? "Look, Mr. Bennett, I'm really sorry. It was, like, an accident. I didn't mean to hurt him."

"Hurt him?"

"Winston."

"Ah, the other student. That's not important." Bennett pulled a photograph out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. The false three-dimensional image showed a woman with long hair. "Ever seen her?"

John stared stupidly at the photograph. What was this? Bennett wasn't here about Winston? It was something else entirely. What was going on? Bennett had to ask again if John had ever seen the woman before he paid attention to the image in the pic.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

The intensity in Bennett's voice made John look up. The federal agent was staring at him. The ice in those gray eyes made John uneasy. "What did she do?"

"It's not so much what she has done as what she might do." Bennett gathered up his photograph and tossed a business card down to replace it. When John picked it up, he saw that there was nothing on the card but a number. "I would appreciate it if you would call me if you should happen to see this woman. Please feel free to call at any time."

Knowing that Bennett was not after him was strangely liberating. John felt light-headed, c.o.c.ky. "What's this all about?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that."

" 'Not at liberty' seems to be your chorus. What can you discuss?"

Bennett ignored the question. "John, this is a very serious matter. I'd appreciate it if you would take it seriously. This woman is potentially dangerous. Call me if you see her." He slid out of the booth. "And don't try to do anything yourself."

Bennett walked out of the Frilly Cow, leaving John alone. The waitress, who had never bothered to come for the cop's order, stayed away as if John had been contaminated by Bennett's presence. John's head was full of questions.

Who was Bennett, and why had he come to John?

Bennett's looks had to be more than coincidence. John knew he had relatives on his father's side somewhere, even if his mother never talked about them much. He'd never met any of them. Whenever he'd asked his mother, she had always said it was too painful for her to spend time with them. John had accepted that answer. Sometimes it had been better to have a mysterious, dead father. One could always make up suitably heroic pasts for an unremembered father.

So Bennett might be a relative.

His mother had once said something about one of his relatives being some kind of cop. Just now, he couldn't recall which side of the family this cop was supposed to be on, but he remembered the reference. Sometimes people called special investigators "cops," as if they were ordinary policemen. Also he'd heard about federal agents claiming they were undercover detectives when they couldn't get away with the old "I work for the government" dodge. The special ones had to keep their real jobs quiet. Maybe Bennett was John's cousin, a special investigator on a secret federal mission, who had come to seek out a relative because there was no one else he could trust. Only John would be able to help him find this woman and save the country from some dire peril. Maybe she was a mole for the Sino-Asian Alliance, or maybe she was a connection for a Latin cartel.

This was exciting.

He wondered who the woman was and what she had done. Wait a minute: Bennett had said that what she might do was more important. John wondered who she was and what she was going to do.

This was better than a date.

Wasn't it?

He looked at the empty seat across from him.

It was better, wasn't it?

CHAPTER.

5.

The sign said that the Schmidt Inst.i.tute was a Psychological Trauma Center, but Holger Kun knew better. He knew a nut house when he was in one. Better than most people. This place made the back of his neck itch. And the insides of his elbows. He suppressed the urge to scratch. Not good form, that. Made the orderlies notice. They knew. They knew.

The woman at the reception desk gave him directions to the research department. Having no desire to get lost, he followed them precisely, even though it meant waiting five minutes for the elevator. He could have burned off some of his nervous energy climbing the stairs, but she had said, "Take the elevator to seven." Explicit directions. He followed them.

The entry to the research department was secure. Holger buzzed and waited for the orderly inside the first door to open the lock. Once inside, he showed the man his pa.s.s. The man's mouth twitched and he spent an inordinate amount of time reading the pa.s.s. Finally he nodded and, using the controls at his desk, closed the outer doors. The inner doors wouldn't open until the outer panels were locked again. A decent enough system, though far better for keeping people in than out. But then, that's what this system was supposed to do.

A blast of chemical stink hit him when the inner doors opened. Underneath it, he could smell the vomit and the p.i.s.s and all the other foul odors that went with these places.

"First left, then last door on the left," the orderly said just before the inner doors closed behind Holger.

Those doors wouldn't open again until the orderly gave them the command. Or until Holger did something about them. But there wouldn't be any need for that, would there?

The doors along the corridor were all fitted for security and observation. They had heavy locks with keypads, pa.s.s-through drawers, and peepholes to supplement the monitors set into the walls beside each frame. Holger avoided looking at the monitors.

The rooms were well insulated; he heard nothing save the sound of the air-conditioning equipment.

He took the turn. The door he was looking for would have been obvious even without the orderly's directions. It was the only one that was open.

The room was bigger than he expected, part of it out of his sight around a comer. There were several workstations scattered around, but only one was occupied. The woman seated there was middle-aged; her hair, cropped tight to her head, was more gray than brown. She wore no makeup to soften the lines of her face. From what he could see beneath the obligatory lab coat, she was well formed, if skinny. She matched the ident file perfectly.

His new boss.

Yeah, but he didn't have to like it. His request for transfer to another department had only gotten him an internal s.h.i.+ft to Spae's team. A demotion, too, since he was Spae's team. The doctor was in no better odor with the big b.u.t.ts than he was. He knew why he was on their s.h.i.+tlist, but her file didn't show what she'd done to p.i.s.s the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds off. Spae had been one of the Department's first recruits. What had she done to fall from favor?

He stepped to the side of her chair.

"Dr. Spae?"

She made a noise without bothering to look up from the console she studied. After a moment, he decided that she probably had meant her noise as a confirmation that she had heard him. Self-important whitecoat.

"I'm Kun."

This time she looked up. She showed no sign of recognition.

"From the Department."

"Kun?" The light of understanding lit in her mismatched green and blue eyes. "Ah. The new bullyboy. Sit down. I'm working now, we'll push the papers later."

Holger found himself a place where he could keep an eye on both the door and the unseen portion of the room, pulled a chair over to his chosen spot, and sat. There wasn't much you could do with whitecoats. At least not when you were under orders to protect and a.s.sist them.

A whitecoat rounded the corner from the other part of the room. The stethoscope around his neck said M.D., and old-fas.h.i.+oned to boot. The frown of annoyance on his bearded face was old-fas.h.i.+oned, too.

"What are you doing here? Let's see your authorization."

Holger just stared at him. They didn't like that.

The doc bl.u.s.tered up, armored in his importance. Holger let him blow. Well before he got on Holger's nerves, Spae noticed.

"It's all right, Kevin. He's Department."

"Oh," Kevin said.

Bright boy, the doc.

Naturally, it turned out that the doc had come to talk to Spae. About a patient named Lambe. Holger listened closely; Lambe was the sleeper they were supposed to be investigating. From the way Spae was talking to this Kevin, he knew almost as much about the Department as Holger did. Certainly more than Holger had known when he had requested transfer to the then newly formed Department M. Back then, all he'd known was that the Department was where all the hotshots in the European Community Special Services were headed. Supposed to be the fast track.

Fast track to h.e.l.l.

He cut off the memories. This was no time to dredge them up. This place was too much like where he'd spent the last two years. Focus, he ordered himself. Focus on the current mission. There is nothing else.

Like h.e.l.l.

h.e.l.l was where you lived when you died.

You and all your friends.

Friends die.

And go to h.e.l.l.

Like h.e.l.l!

Do you like h.e.l.l, Mr. Kun? Is that why you stay there? No, Doctor. I hate h.e.l.l. Very good, Mr. Kun. We're making progress.

On h.e.l.l?

Like h.e.l.l!

Focus! The mission! Nothing else!

He pictured his orders, grabbing for the memory as if it were a rope and he was in water over his head. He hated water. He didn't think much of his orders either.

a.s.signment: Dr. Elizabeth Spae, thaumaturgic theorist.

Holger Kun to a.s.sist as resource specialist and expediter.

And bullyboy.

That part was never in the orders.

But then, there was a lot that wasn't in the written orders. The Department was a covert group, which meant they put nothing in writing unless forced to. Paper trails made covering your a.s.s more than usually difficult.

The Department's putative mission was to investigate unusual phenomena. They were supposed to be a scientific inquiry operation. And they were that. That and more. The Department's whitecoats worked to gain an understanding of so-called magical effects. It was the expediter's job to acquire anything that the whitecoats confirmed for the use-preferably exclusive use-of the ECSS in specific and the European Community in general.

All without letting anyone know what they were doing.

Beyond all the usual reasons for secrecy, there was the issue of credibility. Who would vote for a politician who believed in fairies? Beyond that, or maybe it was just an extension of the credibility thing, was the issue of power. It always really came down to that, didn't it? The bosses of the ECSS wanted power in the EC, and the bosses of the EC wanted power in the world. And who would have more power than the saviors of the world?