Internecine (44 page)

“Yeah,” said Zetts. “I mean, otherwise, we might as well see if the flick is any good, right?”

We got our tickets torn and entered the lobby of the Chinese. Zetts had been right; it was a waste, considering how admission prices had pole-vaulted since the last time I had gone to a movie theatre . . . which had been about the last time I was on a shooting range.

According to the Mole Man, there was a curtained niche near the narrow stairs leading down to the men’s restroom. Inside was a door labeled
EMPLOYEES ONLY
. Instead of a keyed lock, there was a cardswipe slot mounted next to the door.

We ducked inside the curtain; it was a close fit for two men. “Okay. Put ’em on and remember—”

“Dude, I got it, okay?” Zetts cuffed himself with the bracelets I had provided.

I popped the snap closure on the shoulder holster that secured the gun, then ran my fake
NORCO
ID through the card slot. The LED blinked red, then green, and the door gave you about as much time to enter as the average key-carded hotel room, which meant I had to run the card twice.

Inside, metal stairs led down about two stories, judging by what we could see from the landing.

Zetts held both hands up to point, and I acknowledged the camera lens angled down at us, out of reach in the concrete shadows. We switched positions so he could move down the steps ahead of me, since he was supposedly my prisoner. He was playing my part, from Dandine’s backup plan for the First Interstate building, where
NORCO
. . . wasn’t.

Below was more bare cement—buttressing, foundations, heavy rebar and bolting, and foam-insulated pipes. Nothing more mysterious than what you’d see in a newly constructed parking garage. Something
was amiss but I couldn’t place it. Left of the foot of the stairs was a single bank of elevator doors and a bored-looking theatre usher, leaning against the wall, reading a comic book.

Not reading, not really. Watching us approach. Not an usher. Too big. His jacket was unbuttoned.

I flashed the ID prepared for me by the (obviously talented) Rook. Then I opened my jacket to display the gun in my armpit, the same way Dandine had at Park Tower. The man nodded coolly, twigging up one eyebrow at the sight of my cast, then produced another key card. His and mine were required to scan through double slots next to the elevator doors, the way a safety deposit box needs two keys. The doors slid back and he resumed not-reading his comic.

Not an elevator, not yet. It was a short corridor with an identical set of doors about fifteen feet distant. Once the doors behind us closed, the others opened. It was like an airlock, or a great place to rabbit-trap a possible threat. When I crossed under the threshold, a two-note beep sounded.

The next room was a reception area with no attempt at charm. A grizzled man with a fairly lush handlebar moustache was stationed at an aluminum console full of TV monitors and phone lines. Off to his left, two security men sat browsing magazines in a punishingly severe waiting area—stone table, glass top, vinyl furniture. I was conscious of moving my hand
very slowly
to my pocket to exhibit my ID. The man with the moustache barely glanced at it, but nodded. He resembled an old cowboy gone corporate, or a retired stuntman.

“Reference?” he said.

“This is Declan Morris Zetts,” I said. “But Gerardis will want to see me.”

“What’s this?” He was looking at Zetts, noting the handcuffs.

“I wound up with a detainee. That’s why Gerardis will want to know about it.”

“Armament?”

“Standard
SIG
Super .40, from inventory.”

The man typed a few instructions and waited to see something he didn’t like on a screen, or hear it in his phone headset. “One of ours, plus one guest,” he reported into his mike. “Reference was Declan Morris
Zetts. Requesting Gerardis.” He listened as someone in his ear delivered quite a long sentence. His eyebrows went up.

“You guys must be important,” he said. The two men across the room stood up as though snapping to attention. “You need escort?”

“No,” I said. “Situation’s not dynamic.”

“Remove your glasses, please.”

I showed him my damage and he blew a little whistle of awe. “You can see, though, right?”

“No problem.”

“All-righty.” He pointed idly toward the three sets of elevator-style doors on the far side of the chamber. “Know how this works?”

“I’m not really used to it yet.”

“Yeah, most of us aren’t, and there’s still some bugs in the system. Take the first set of doors. You’ve got a priority tag. Good luck.”

The doors parted. Awaiting us was a sleek capsule that resembled a private subway car, or one of those minimonorails used by some airports. To his credit, Zetts waited until we were inside, and the doors had hissed shut, before he said
what the fuck?!
under his breath.

The car bumped smoothly into motion. The tunnel was illuminated by twin rows of blue lights, which we could see blur past fore and aft, through Lexan windows, as we felt the slight press of acceleration. Our conveyance could have accommodated about six people.

“You’ve never seen any of this?” I asked.

“News to me, boss.” He looked around as though we had just been abducted into a flying saucer. “It’s like a secret subway.”

“You’ve got it.” The proposition was so huge and obvious that my mind had trouble encompassing it. But I already knew when it had been built . . . and who had built it. It was a practical underworld, not in the gangster sense, more in the Dantean mold. Our travel time was thirty seconds, tops.

We were remanded to another detail-deprived waiting room, and virtual clone of the first, but with more humorless sentries filling it, in a huddle pattern that reminded me of the catastrophic fumble at the airport. I finally recognized what seemed “off” about the whole matrix: No signs, anywhere. No framed pictures. No company logos—not on the consoles, not on the walls or the doors. No stickers advising what not
to do, nor warnings, nor danger symbols or hazard/restricted iconography. No admonitions to
keep your hands in the car,
or
do not attempt to force the doors,
or
use your damned seat belt.
We’re so surrounded and engulfed by signs and symbols that our brains are now tuned to register an alarm if they are absent. Even day-to-day clothing is drowning in logos, and it’s all pitch-meistering, the constant low undertone of sell-sell-sell. Think of the product placement all over your sunglasses, your wristwatch, your running shoes. Under normal circumstances, we’re all mobile billboards for a variety of preferred products and services.
NORCO
didn’t even bother to acknowledge itself. It seemed transient and tentative, as though waiting to be labeled, and hence, stamped into real-world validity.

There weren’t even big numbers differentiating walls and rooms and doors. I suppose I expected them, like deck and catwalk levels in a starship movie, the better to keep track of geography during the chase scene. The absence of benchmarks suggested a kind of vaunting arrogance to me, a superiority to the world of the walking dead that oozed from every crevice—almost a programmed psychological intimidation, very subtle, very potent.

When our little bullet car stopped, we found ourselves staring through another Lexan airlock at another sentry, sitting console. If not for the fact that the man did not have the handlebar moustache of his predecessor, we might have just whizzed around a closed track in a big circle. The door slid back with a soft, pneumatic exhalation.

“What do you think?” said Zetts.

“I think we can’t outthink these guys.”

We sat there like dopes for a couple of beats, until the man at the console waved us in.
Hey, c’mon, what are you waiting for?

I let the pistol drop from the holster into my grasp. I cut the safety and chambered the debut round. Then I decocked—I didn’t want to sneeze or something and accidentally put a bullet into good old Zetts. Difficult enough, to do all this one-handed; impossible if my fractured wrist had been my shooting hand. We stood up together and I let the console man see me snug the gun into Zetts’s neck as we moved forward. His expression went wary and he extended a hand, fingers splayed, as if to imply
that’s not necessary; be careful.

A group of men stood in the Naugahyde nightmare of the waiting area: three gymsteak meatballs twitching in place, eager for attack commands, and their keeper, a tall man in a double-breasted suit with a pricetag that was easily north of two large. He was one of those follicle-free bald men whose pates appeared buffed, and seemed quite pink under the uncomplimentary fluorescent lighting. He had watery lavender eyes, an almost lipless mouth like a deft incision in his face, and large, powerful hands. When his enforcers saw my gun, all three moved as though Bob Fosse had choreographed them—they widened their stances and reached for their armpits. One of the bald man’s big hands came up to belay their action.

“Mr. Maddox,” he said.

“You’re Gerardis?” I asked.

“Thorvald Gerardis, yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Oh, boy, his tone was enough to make me want to start shooting indiscriminately.

“Skip the butter,” I said. “Please tell those gentlemen behind you to sit down and put their hands on their knees so I can see them.”

My own armpits felt cold. I fought not to blush. I could feel Zetts go guitar-string tense. My position did not allow me to track the bulldogs and hope to keep an eye on the console man at the same time; I already felt outgunned and outclassed.

The bald man jerked his head to one side; his sentries immediately complied. “As you wish. Incidentally, Mr. Maddox, we have permitted you to keep that weapon as a sign of our good faith. I’ll presume you are here to negotiate.” He shrugged as though none of this was any big deal to him. “So . . . let’s bargain. Let’s exchange information for our mutual benefit. There’s no need for any unpleasantness—”

“Stop it,” I said. “Please shove that paternal politician act straight up your ass.” I had had a lifetime’s fill of politicians and their placating schmooze.

He closed his eyes and gently shook his head at my misbehavior. “What do you want? Or rather, what do you want us to do?”

I exhaled, imagining I could smell the stink of adrenaline and fear on my own breath. “I want a secure room; no bugs, no cameras. Then I want Dandine. I want you to bring Dandine to the secure room.”

The bald man frowned and pursed his non-lips, which were slightly darker than the rest of his complexion, and as unappetizing as two animated strips of liver. “Why?”

“Because I don’t know if you’re really Gerardis or not.”

“Do you know what you’re asking?”

“Do you know what you’re risking? I was at the airport, so stop trying to sweet-talk me.”

“Don’t fuck with this guy!”
Zetts blurted, with perfect timing. “This dude is
not
the lame you think he is!”

The bald man snapped his fingers toward the man at the console. “Do it,” he said. “Call Processing.” Then he targeted Zetts with his unforgiving gaze. “You’re the last person I expected to see here.”

“Yeah,” grumbled Zetts. “Eat me.”

The possibly-not-real Gerardis kept on Zetts. I recognized the tactic. He was trying to force us into a defensive posture. “Perhaps you should ask your little friend here what
really
—”

I overrode him before his words could get a grip. “I’m not stupid enough to believe that anything you say will let me walk out of here, now that I’m trapped,” I said. “This is pretty much a one-way trip no matter how we play it. So tell your men to stand down and lead us to the secret room. Please.”

There had to be a secret room. There is always a secret room. I was toast if there
wasn’t
a secret room.

“What you request will take a while,” said Gerardis, if that’s who he was. “You can appreciate that we’re dealing with sensitive issues. I don’t suppose you would lower that weapon?”

“No chance. Mr. Zetts, here, is my asset, and he’s the only thing keeping you from erasing me right now.”

Our host seemed amused by that.

“One more thing,” I said. “Open up your jacket. Hike it up and show me the back of your waistband. Then pull up your pantlegs, one at a time, and do it slowly.” I backed up, keeping Zetts in front of me, trying to better cover the room while the bald man complied. His aura of weary tolerance reminded me of Jenks, in the limo, and I was aching to hit him in the face.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

“Okay. Now, find us that room. One where we aren’t monitored.” He nodded again at the console man, who entered some data and spoke low into his headset. The center set of elevator doors rolled open.

“After you,” I said.

The bald man abandoned his entourage. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Shut up.”

It was impossible to walk down the featureless corridor with anything akin to adequate cover. I settled on making the bald man lead, while I kept Zetts in rein and put my back to the wall, scooting along one step at a time so I could watch the doors at both ends of the passage. Our host walked ahead (hands in pockets, as I had instructed) and never turned to address us directly, although that did not stop him from comment.