Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men (12 page)

What?

Two men over by the concession stand.

John thought they looked more interested in the magazines than they did in him.

But they haven't been more than a block away all morning.

Really?

Really.

Dredging his memory, he realized that he had seen those two before. One or the other of them had been somewhere nearby all morning. Coincidence, surely. They had business on campus and just happened to be in the same places. Yet there was something ominous about their presence.

His watch beeped. He had lab in ten minutes, and he'd be late if he didn't hurry. Enviro lab in the Dunstan Building. Just like last week. But not like last week—Winston wouldn't be carousing along the walk when John got out.

Telling himself that the past was behind him, he gathered his stuff. He noticed that the two men finished looking at the magazines about the time he went past the concession stand. They didn't buy anything.

They walked on past when he entered the Dunstan Building. Though they had apparently gone on about their business, they stayed on John's mind throughout the lab. After he'd turned in Ms assignment, he decided he wouldn't go out the usual way. He took the side door he used on rainy days; the cut across to the trolley station was shorter that way. Before leaving the building, he took a look around. He didn't see anyone.

While he was waiting for the trolley, the two men showed up again, one at a time. Neither approached him and neither paid attention to the other, but they both boarded the trolley when John did. To see what would happen, John got off before his regular stop. The two men got off as well.

The men of grim intent stay on your trail.

That was obvious.

He headed up the street toward Stetson Mall. There were always a lot of people at the mall. Bad guys didn't start trouble around lots of people.

What was he expecting from these men? He didn't even know who they were. Why was he assuming they were the bad guys?

Pretending to make a phone call just outside the mall gave him a chance to look them over. They were nondescript fellows: average height, average build, ordinary haircuts, regular features, and simple, slightly conservative suits. One was a blond Caucasian, the other an Asian. The suits were (he only thing that made them stand out on campus. John couldn't remember seeing either of them before.

Were they cops? Mitsutomo men checking on him? Associates of the mysterious Mr. Bennett? Did it matter who they were? Of course it did, especially if it involved Winston's death. The only safe assumption seemed to be that they were not thugs out to rob him; thugs didn't wear tailored suits.

So why were they following him? The answer would be intimately tied to who they were, the one answering the other. Whoever they were and why ever they were tailing him, he didn't like the idea of strangers following him around, watching everything he did. There wasn't much he could do about it without knowing who they were. There might not be anything even he could do if he did know, but knowing was better than not knowing.

There was no one available to ask about these guys except the guys themselves. Confronting them in the middle of the street seemed inappropriate; this was some sort of cloak-and-dagger game. John started looking for a suitable place. As he approached the mall entrance he remembered a serviceway that ran behind the Lechmere's. It was a narrow place, usually Ml of trash, private but still near enough to the crowded bus stop at the mall entrance that any shouts for help would be heard.

He passed the mall entrance, checking in the glass to see if they were still following him. They were. The walk along the wall under the Lechmere sign seemed longer than usual. He spelled out the store's name, whispering each letter as he passed under it. Two steps past the last "e" and a couple yards from the entrance to the serviceway, he started to sprint. Three strides put him in the alley, moving at speed,
but instead of racing down the lane, he kept turning, fetching up against the wall of the building.

Stay still.

Okay.

He leaned against the wall, folding his arms and adopting a casual posture. The shadows should hide him from immediate discovery. The guys came around the corner, moving faster than he had seen them do so far. They slowed and stopped just inside the alley mouth. They scanned their surroundings, looking for their quarry. For him.

He kicked his heel against the wall to attract their attention. "Nice day, guys. What brings gentlemen like you to this part of town?"

They started. The Asian started to reach under his jacket, but aborted the action. The looks on their faces were priceless. Surprise, anger, frustration, embarrassment, and just the faintest, most fleeting hint of fear. Annoyance surfaced and took over.

Probably directed at themselves.

Deservedly.

They'll have to be better to catch us, won't they?

Assuredly.

The blond one interrupted John's conversation. "John Reddy?"

John felt annoyed himself. Here were more strangers who knew who he was. He didn't like it. "Yes."

"I'm Agent McAlister. This is Agent Surimato. FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Damn, the guy recovered quickly. Agent McAlister was talking as if he was standing in an office, not an alley. "About what?"

"There's no reason to be upset, Mr. Reddy. We're not after you."

"Then why were you following me?"

The two agents exchanged glances. McAlister said, "We are investigating a series of terrorist attacks. We have been given reason to believe that you might have had contact with one of our suspects."

"I'm not a terrorist."
"Of course not, Mr. Redely. We are aware of that. But you may have had contact with one or more of these people without knowing their true aspect. We need your help in this matter. Would you be willing to look at some pictures and tell us if you've seen any of the people in them?"

"Do we need to go to your office?"

McAlister smiled. "If you like. Or we can do it here. It shouldn't take long."

"Let's see them."

Agent Surimato reached into his jacket, the other side this time, and pulled out a handful of four-by-sixes. He held them out, and John took them.

The pictures were of varying quality, but all were cropped to show no more than a head and shoulders. Some of the pictures were very grainy, clearly computer-enhanced versions of other photographs. Halfway through the stack, he came across a picture of the woman in Bennett's photograph. It was a different angle and she looked younger, but John was sure it was the same woman.

"You know, you guys ought to keep better track of your investigations. I've already talked to an agent."

The agents exchanged glances again, concerned looks Hashing across their faces. McAlister gave a slight nod. Surimato said, "Could you describe this agent?"

"A bit taller than me, pale, blond. Why?"

"Very thin?" Surimato asked.

"Male?" McAlister asked.

John nodded yes to both questions.

"You don't see him in the pictures, do you?"

John shook his head. "Naw."

"Did he give you a name? Show you a badge?"

"Said his name was Bennett. I didn't get a good look at the badge. Come to think of it, I haven't seen your badges either."

"Sorry," McAlister said.

Both of them pulled out wallets, flipped them open, and handed them to John. John looked carefully this time. The badges said Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the ID
cards looked very official. The photos on the cards matched the two agents exactly. He handed them back.

"This Mr. Bennett is not a federal agent," Surimato said solemnly.

"If he is who we believe him to be, he is a very dangerous man," McAlister added.

"And just who do you believe him to be?"

"We're not at liberty to say," McAlister said.

"How did I know you were going to say that?" John thrust the stack of photos back at Surimato. "I haven't seen any of these people."

"You're sure?" McAlister asked.

"Yeah. I'm sure."

McAlister held out a card. John could see a phone number printed on it. "It's very important that you call us if you see any of these people. It would also be wise to call us if this Mr. Bennett contacts you again. Be very careful around him, and don't take any chances. Most especially, don't let him know you have spoken with us."

"You guys afraid of Bennett?"

The agents exchanged looks again. McAlister smiled reassuringly at John. "As I said, this man may be very dangerous. He could get you into a lot of trouble."

"I'll be careful."

"Good boy." Surimato started to leave, but McAlister lingered. "Remember to call that number if you see any of these people."

"I won't lose the number."

"Good boy."

Of course I didn't say I'd use it, either, John said silently to the backs of the departing agents.

The advice to be cautious was good advice. Something strange was going on, and more than one party thought that John had some connection to it. Intriguing. And a little scary. He was getting worried all over again.

What the hell is going on?

Some people are never around when you need them.

John cut back around to the mall entrance. The federal agents were nowhere in sight. He went inside. The noise and people made a comforting blanket So very, very normal. He dropped by the arcade. Slipping his card into The Dragonknight, he bought himself some safe adventure for a while.

Worcester looked like a nicer district than Tewksbury. It was less built up, less paved over. There were more parks, more grass. The streets were cleaner, the people less unkempt. In many ways, it was more like the Massachusetts she remembered.

The driver dropped her off where 190 split from 290. He was going north, away from where she needed to be. The only payment he took was a smile.

Yes, Worcester was a more pleasant place.

She hiked down off the highway and skirted the fence separating it from the local streets. Up beyond the interchange she could see the Mitsutomo Light Metals fabrication facility spreading out along the base and lower slopes of the hill. At the upper boundary of the facility, the antique steel and glass structure of the Woodman Armory Museum stood silhouetted against the sleek sides of the rezcom units that topped the hill.

The streets here were a snarl of passageways passing over and under each other and snaking every which way. She walked along one that seemed headed in the direction of the hill.

There was still time.

Dr. Spae insisted that she had detected a ripple in the ambient psychic aura. Holger was just her bullyboy and no expert on such things, so his opinion of the reasoning behind the rush trip didn't matter. No one cared to listen to his opinion that she was just playing a hunch, Spae herself least of all. It only confirmed his opinion that she really didn't have a good reason to drag them to this corporate exurb.

"You're an expediter," she had said after deciding that they go directly to one of the sites of alleged activity. "Expedite our trip."

He had. Now here they were in downtown Mitsutomoland. All the maps said Worcester, Massachusetts, but maps always lagged behind reality.

The security at the airport had been lax; they hadn't seen what they should have seen, which suited Holger fine. He hadn't been obliged to produce his UN permits, always good for at least a half hour of hassle while the locals proved to themselves that they still had some authority over their jurisdictions. The easy pass-through meant that he and the good doctor had a lower profile. The Department appreciated low profiles.

The Department also appreciated results, which they didn't seem to be achieving. Of course, he couldn't be sure, because he was only a bullyboy and Spae was the special expert, but cruising the town seemed an unlikely way to turn up much of anything. Still, he followed the doctor's vague directions as best he could. Moving in a straight line was not easy while driving through the warren of one-way streets and narrow cowpaths-turned-roads that was the heart of the exurb's transportation net. The layout of the city reminded him a little of home, which was odd; he'd thought all American cities were served by broad highways and grid-planned streets.

One always has to adjust expectations in new places.

The morning had vanished and the afternoon was well on its way to following. Holger had stopped excusing himself when his stomach grumbled, but the doctor didn't seem to notice the difference. The sun was almost touching the western hills when she finally agreed to one of his suggestions that they stop for some food.

"May as well, I've lost focus anyway," she said, massaging her forehead as though she had a headache. She vetoed the restaurant when he pulled into the parking lot, saying, "I'm not sure we'll have enough time to sit down."

"Why not?"

"I don't, know."

He nosed the rental car back out onto Park Avenue. He hated working with specialists. All vague feelings and no hard data. "McDonald's?"
"Hate the place."