Striper Assassin (13 page)

“Forgive me,” he murmurs.

“Of course,” Frédérique croons, gazing into his eyes. “How could I not?”

“You are always in my thoughts.”

Softly, she whispers. “You lie.”

“In my heart, then.”

“That I believe.”

Again Enoshi smiles, again without forethought. The moment seems right for him to present his little gift. “This is for you.”

Frédérique smiles, tenderly, exquisitely, as if moved to the brink of tears. “For me?”

Enoshi nods and leans close to kiss her cheek. She rings his neck with her arms and kisses him back, then accepts the slim white box with the gold foil insert. Inside she will find a small and artfully arranged bouquet that Enoshi has personally assembled at the Kyoto Florist downtown. The small pink foil card bears ideograms that read, “Art is truth, love is more…”

“How beautiful,” Frédérique breathes. “Thank you.”

No thanks are necessary.

“Let me make you tea.”

“Of course.”

They share a brief kiss, then Frédérique is leading him through the apartment and into her salon, a kind of den walled on two sides by windows, full of light and plants and comfortable furnishings, equipped with a bar and immense trideo screen, and dominated by a huge hearth. Frédérique seats him along one plush sofa unit facing the windows, removes his shoes, then proceeds to make him tea, all with an artist’s attention to detail.

“It’s so wonderful to see you in the daytime,” she says.

“Really? Why so?”

“Must there be a reason?”

“Yes, tell me.”

She smiles and then slowly nods. Of course there is a reason. Why is she glad to see him in the daytime? “Because of the sun,” she says. “Because I love you. Because the two go together so well.”

Enoshi smiles with pleasure.

After tea, after more talk, when the proper moment finally arrives, he takes her hands in his and says, regretfully, “There is something I must ask of you.”

Of course, she smiles, smiles and looks at him with eyes that gently inquire what it is that he might possibly desire. “Anything,” she whispers. “Ask me anything.”

“I must meet with Sarabande again.”

The look in her eyes turns curious, but that is all the inquiry she makes. Without another word, she rises and goes down the hall toward her bedroom. Enoshi hears the quiet tapping of telecom keys. Then Frédérique returns, padding quietly across the floor on naked feet. She sits beside him on the sofa, shaking back the soft thick hair that hides the side of her face. She smiles at him, saying simply, “Done.”

Enoshi lifts her hands to his lips.

18

The sun is little more than a smoldering red-orange globe hanging low over the vast suburban expanse to the west of the city when Enoshi pauses on the bustling sidewalks around the Thirtieth Street transit center. He checks his watch and tries to maintain his focus on the biz immediately before him.

The brief time he spent with Frédérique served only to distract him from his mounting concerns about his superior, Bernard Ohara. The man’s continued reliance on methods at variance with prevailing social values—covert, illegal methods—can only be viewed by any rational person as most dangerous. The extraterritorial nature of multinational corporations might prevent local government entities from preferring criminal charges or launching lawsuits, but that would never protect a corporation’s image.

Immunity to prosecution could never save face.

Now, a sleek silver Rolls Royce Phaeton limousine swings toward the curb and glides to a halt as smoothly as a maglev train pulling into Kyoto station, stopping precisely in front of Enoshi. He waits, hands at his sides. The door to the passenger section immediately opens. A man in a black synthleather trench coat steps out. His long white hair and pale complexion suggest the elven metatype, but this is of no special significance. The elf is merely a servant of the personage whom Enoshi has come to meet. The elf consults a small scanning device, but Enoshi is carrying no weapons.

“Está bien. Entre.”
The elf nods toward the limousine.

Enoshi nods, gets in. The elf follows on his heels. The limousine is swinging away from the curb and moving off even as Enoshi settles into the rear-facing seat. The elf sits at his left. Facing him across the center console, fully equipped with portacom/stereo/wetbar and possibly a satellite uplink, is the woman known as Sarabande. She is
kuromaku,
a fixer, one who arranges matters from behind the scenes. She appears to be pure human, European, Spanish, or possibly Italian—Enoshi is not sure which. Her black hair is drawn back sleek and flat from her face and brow. Dark, visor-style shades conceal her eyes, but clearly visible is the black wire-lead of a data-jack descending from her right temple. She wears a black jacket adorned with swirls of gold over a tight-fitting black blouse and matching slacks. Her low-heeled black boots shine like mirrors.

Seated to her left is an enormous ork and to her right a huge Asian male. Both wear mirrored shades, sharply tailored suits, and show the massive builds of weight lifters or
sumotori.

“Your business?” Sarabande says.

“Yes,” Enoshi replies, with a nod. “I have the details here.” He extends his left arm fully, then draws back the sleeve of his jacket and dress shirt to display the chip-carrier case strapped to his arm just above the wrist. He opens the case and passes the chip carrier to the elf, who inspects it before handing it to Sarabande. Experience has taught Enoshi never to make any sudden moves or do anything that might be perceived as threatening. In his first meeting with Sarabande, he suddenly found himself staring into the muzzle of a gun, an extremely large automatic pistol, merely because he had reached rather suddenly toward his inside jacket pocket.

Without further comment, Sarabande slots the chip carrier into the computer deck set into the center console, then sits back, briefly lifting a hand to the datajack at her right temple. Several minutes pass. The limousine seems to pick up speed. Enoshi glances out the dark-tinted windows to his right and sees that they are riding up onto a highway, the section of I-76 that loops around the southern end of the central city.

Abruptly, Sarabande is asking him, “What is your interest in the person referenced on this datafile?”

“The person must be invalidated.”

“What are you willing to pay?”

“What price do you ask?”

“The shadows are very busy. Talent is coming at premium prices. How much talent are you willing to buy?”

“Whatever will be adequate for the work to be done.”

“First-rate talent serves the global market, is always in demand, and is unlikely to be available on short notice.”

“Time is of the essence.”

“The price will then be approximately double what you paid for your last run.”

Price is not a major concern. The funds generated by Ohara-
san’s
illegal BTL production lab were significant, in the millions of nuyen, and provided Exotech with a much-needed infusion of cash. The cost to destroy that same lab, to do all that was required by Operation Clean Sweep, was trivial by comparison. Enoshi’s only concern regarding the price of the run he is now trying to arrange is that the
kuromaku,
the fixer Sarabande, should not think him foolish or gullible.

“The price you suggest seems somewhat high,” he says. “The task in this case seems much simpler. I would expect the price to be lower.”

“Then you do not realize what you are asking.”

Enoshi hesitates a moment, then catches himself, suppresses a rush of irritation. Sarabande’s manner has always been rather curt, in his limited experience. His impression is that she is merely
to the point,
rather than intentionally rude. He composes himself, and says, “Please explain.”

“The individual in question is extremely dangerous. And known to be eccentric. Unpredictable. What you want will therefore entail a high risk. The individual must also be found. Locating the SINless takes time.”

And time takes money. Enoshi had presumed that this new run would cost more than the last, more than Clean Sweep, but had wanted to hear the fixer’s reasons for quoting higher fees. “You will guarantee completion?”

“I will guarantee only that the attempt will be made,” Sarabande replies. “If it fails, the loss is yours.”

“You guaranteed success on the last run.”

“The point is not open to negotiation.”

“May I have some reason?”

“I’ve already given you the reason. The individual who is the focus of this new run is extremely dangerous. Eliminating that person will entail a high degree of risk.”

Enoshi nods. Fortunately, he had some idea of what to expect during this meeting and was able to decide on possible contingencies ahead of time. “I believe I must split my options.”

“Continue.”

“I would like to go ahead, arrange for the run as we have discussed, for immediate execution and using available talent. At the same time, I would ask that you make inquiries, ascertain whether first-rate talent is available, and when, so that if the first attempt fails, another first-rate individual or team will be ready to act at once.”

“You want back-up.”

“Quality back-up. Yes.”

“That is no problem. However, first-rate talent will require compensation merely to open a window of availability. This may increase your cost by a factor of four. I will act on your behalf to obtain an equitable price, but where elite skills are concerned, the room for negotiation is limited.”

“That is understood.”

That first-rate talent should require such a premium is no surprise to Enoshi, and the point would not sway him in any event. Time is the critical element. Ohara-
san
had said, “At once.”

To Enoshi, that meant,
“Now!”

“Then our negotiation is concluded,” Sarabande says.

“I will require an immediate payment of one hundred-kay nuyen.” That is easily arranged.

19

The glaring trid screen set into the wall at the rear of the booth jammers about some suit chewed up by a machine gun inside a parking garage. Neona ignores it. The bar is Humphrey’s Jack Zone, and from her booth near the street entrance it has the wild-eyed ambiance of an arcade. A billion multicolored lights flash and flare from the mirrored ceiling, walls, tables, and bar, and from at least half the people crowding the place, all wearing mirrored NeoMonochrome. The band is wired for sound and playing frantic-time from the semicircular stage up behind the U-shaped bar. Holographic images of impossibly proportioned naked and semi-naked women dance along the top of the bar, in alcoves along the walls, and on top of the few unoccupied tables. Every table has a bowl of Nerps, a paycom, a Matrix port of deckers, and headsets for those who want to sample the bar’s 1,000+! Dir-X! Theatrical! Masterpiece! simsense recordings, including
Monochrome Dreams
and
The Summoning of Abbirleth,
looping twenty-four hours a day. The roaring music, the jammering trids, and the bells, buzzers, and sirens of the games being played everywhere blend into a deafening electronic babble that threatens Neona’s head with static.

That static is about all that’s keeping her from a babble all her own. Her chiller thriller Amerind biker dude, Ripsaw, got her into the city, then just bugged out. She can understand that. In the short time they spent together, she wasn’t anything but baggage. Neona never had a chance to show him what she could do, except in bed, and that’s never enough by itself. Getting dumped might not be so bad if she hadn’t found him so exciting, so totally massively intensely male that she couldn’t help herself. At least he saved her a long goodbye. Slot and run. It hurts less like that.

Between her and the wall at the back of the booth is the black nylon bag holding her Fuchi-6 cyberdeck in its gray macroplast case. If she’s gonna eat anytime soon, she’s gonna have to put the Fuchi to work.

She wipes at her eyes, and glances around.

Walking toward her is a group just emerged from the crowd at the rear of the bar. They go straight past her table, heading for the door to the street. Three of them look like razorguys. One has gleaming silver cybereyes to go with his cool, smirky smile and NeoMonochrome duster. Another has an Ingram smartgun dangling from one hand down along his side. Another of the slags has razorcut hair sliced into fins and a datajack in his right temple. The one girl with the group could be a mage. She wears a lot of dull metal jewelry—necklaces, pins, bangles, and rings—and once, just once, she lifts a hand and does something funny with her fingers.

They gotta be runners, shadowrunners. Neona’s sure of it. She scrambles out of her booth, hustling after them, calling, “Yo, chummers! Hoi!
Hey,
hoi!”

Her voice seems totally drowned by the thundering noise of the club. Yet, suddenly, the shadowrunners turn to face her, and the one with the Ingram smartgun is pointing it directly at her. The mage girl has both hands raised and flickering with blue energy like eldritch lightning. Neona freezes, wide-eyed, heart pounding, but manages a shaky smile—what she hopes is a
friendly-looking
smile.

“Uhh… hoi.”