One month later - April 11, 2008
The click of Misaki's low heels echoed starkly down the concrete corridor. The boots of her escort were duller, though just as loud.
"Just one last checkpoint, ma'am," the guard said.
"I know; I've been here before," Misaki told him. That single visit had been depressing enough to make her wish that she'd never entered the super-maximum security prison at all. She'd always been aware that a few of the contractors that her team arrested had been sent here for holding, but she'd never had occasion to go herself; by that time they had been long out of Section Four's custody.
Her team was still knee-deep in the prison's files, but so far it was looking as if those particularly dangerous contractors had all been transferred out not long after their arrival, or had never arrived at all. Superintendent Suzuki had declined a polygraph interview on the subject, and voluntarily resigned shortly after; they hadn't charged him with any criminal activity yet, but Misaki was sure that they'd come across something incriminating. The remaining staff had been thoroughly vetted, and she was reasonably sure that the new superintendent was clean - at least as far as the Syndicate was concerned.
At last they reached a steel chain link gate, positioned halfway down the long hallway. CCTV cameras caught every angle of the final checkpoint, as if an intruder could ever get this far on his own. The facility, modeled after similar American prisons, had been built in the third year after the appearance of Hell's Gate for the express purpose of containing contractors long-term. Buried several levels underground, the first checkpoint sported a backscatter x-ray, metal detectors, motion detectors, and armed personnel with a (very short) list of approved visitors - all of whom underwent a prior background check by Section Four. The offices and administrative areas were just past the first checkpoint; guards stations were after the second; and the prisoners' cells were beyond the final gate.
The corridor was cold, and beige, and sunless. Misaki hated it. The hairs on the back of her neck had been on end ever since she'd walked through the heavily-guarded ground floor entrance.
"Identification, please," the guard on the other side of the fence intoned. Misaki took her badge and visitor's pass on their lanyard from around her neck and dropped them into the tray beneath a window of bulletproof glass. The guard pulled a series of levers, and the slot closed as her badge was transferred to the inside of the cage. He picked up the lanyard, and raised an eyebrow.
"It was the only one I could find," Misaki said, feeling the blush rising in her cheeks. She'd forgotten her official lanyard in her office, and there had only been one store on the way here that carried anything like what she needed. Bags and purses weren't allowed beyond the first checkpoint.
The guard shook his head slightly at the blue, Sailor-Moon-patterned lanyard. He studied her badge and the photo on it, then examined something - presumably her personnel file - on his computer screen. "State your name and the purpose of your visit."
Misaki had already been through this exact procedure four times; but she answered evenly, "Acting Director Kirihara Misaki, Public Security Bureau, Foreign Affairs. Here to interview Former Director Hourai Yoshimitsu. I'm carrying a department-issued Glock twenty-two under my left arm, and a voice recorder in my right jacket pocket."
The man at the desk nodded at her; she opened the left side of her jacket to reveal the weapon.
"Very good," the man said. He placed a holographic sticker on the visitor's pass to join the other three, then sent it back to her side of the fence. A harsh buzzer sounded, and the lock on the door to her right popped with a clang.
"Thank you," Misaki told her escort, who bowed politely then turned on his heel to head back to his station, footsteps dwindling in a quiet echo. Then replacing her badge and pass around her neck she stepped through. As she did, however, the lanyard swung oddly and caught on an exposed end of chain link, nearly strangling her; the steel edge tore through the shoddy material and the whole array fell to the concrete floor. "Shit," she muttered, and scooped everything up. The visitor's pass had a clip that she could fix to her lapel, but her badge and ID had no such feature. "Is it alright if I keep this in my pocket?"
The guard shrugged. "The pass is all that needs to be visible at this point."
Misaki nodded, and stuffed her badge and the broken lanyard away. "Where is Superintendent Memoto? He was supposed to meet me here."
"He's on his way. I'm sorry, but there's one more step." The guard held up a metal detector wand.
Misaki suppressed a frown; she'd long advocated for more female guards in higher security facilities, but the bias against women's ability to ward off dangerous assailants was still strong, especially here. So she raised her arms and let the guard flip open her jacket to reveal the gun, then continue to pass the wand along the outline of her body. That outline was a bit curvier than it had been the last time that she was here, she noted with an internal grimace.
As the guard finished his scan, a new set of footsteps approached from the corridor beyond, these heels sounding much more like Misaki's than the guards' uniform boots.
"Director," Superintendent Memoto said as he turned the corner into the main corridor, "my apologies for keeping you waiting." The short man stopped in front of Misaki and bowed politely, a bit more deeply than was required, considering their relative ranks. "The room is ready; if you care to take a seat, we will bring the prisoner. May I get you anything while you wait? Coffee?"
Misaki followed Memoto down the corridor and into a side hall. "No, thank you," she told him with regret. She could have killed for a cup of coffee right then, but her doctor had warned her quite emphatically about keeping her blood pressure down. The explanation that caffeine helped her to relax had not gone over well, even if it was mostly true: she was the most relaxed when she was getting work done, and that took several cups of coffee a day. Used to, anyway.
"He's been a model prisoner thus far," Memoto told her as they walked. "Always civil and cooperative with the guards, no complaints about the conditions."
"How does he spend his time?"
"Reading, mostly, from the prison library - a grand total of ten books. As per your instructions, he has no access to internet or television; but he is bearing the boredom well."
Biding his time, no doubt, she thought. With no access to the outside world, Hourai could have no idea how things had changed since the Tokyo Explosion. Not that they'd changed a great deal; but until the political chaos surrounding the announcement of the existence of contractor's and the Syndicate's machinations calmed down, she couldn't risk him learning anything that could give him a foothold in negotiating his position.
Of course, there were the guards. Just because they were instructed not to engage him didn't mean that they wouldn't. Maybe she ought to request an audit of the current week's surveillance tapes, just to be sure.
The room that the superintendent led her to was small and bare. Along one wall was a bulletproof observation window, and beige security cameras were perched in two corners. It was a decidedly uncomfortable room; but visits to this prison weren't designed to be comfortable.
"Are you sure I can't get you any coffee?"
Misaki took a seat at the poured concrete table. "I'm fine."
The prison administrator bowed. "Let us know if there's anything you need, ma'am; the guard is bringing him up now."
"Thank you." Misaki let her tone convey his dismissal. Memoto backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him. A stray draft brushed the exposed skin on her neck; she suppressed a shiver.
She set her voice recorder on the table, nudging it until it was square with the edge. A bulb in the bank of overhead fluorescent lights flickered fitfully. Misaki wished that it would just burn out, already - the small room was too bright as it was, and the faint buzzing was beginning to give her a headache. And it didn't help that this was the last place she wanted to be today.
The concrete stool was cold and hard. She tried not squirm.
After an interminable wait, the door to the interrogation room opened and a guard led Hourai inside. Misaki focused on keeping her expression cold and distant, as if she had zero interest in his presence.
But it was hard not to stare. The orange-clad former Director of Foreign Affairs was much thinner than he had been the last time that Misaki had visited; an overgrown gray-streaked beard did little to hide the loose skin of his face. As before, he was chained hand and foot. A black cloth bag covered his limp right hand.
The guard pushed Hourai down onto the chair across the table from her and secured first his arm shackles, then his feet, to a metal rod running across the center of the table. The security was probably overkill considering his condition; but it was the procedure in this facility, in which his murder of a high-ranking official and conspiracy to commit genocide had earned him a place.
Misaki switched on her voice recorder and pushed it across the smooth surface until it was between them.
"Anything else you need, ma'am?" the guard asked.
"No, that's all."
It wasn't until the guard had shut the door behind him that Hourai finally spoke. "Chief Kirihara, this is a pleasant surprise." The familiar cold, impersonal voice turned her stomach.
"It's Acting Director Kirihara now."
"Oh, congratulations. I always knew you had it in you to do well; it's why I chose you as my protege, after all. You don't look very well - are you ill?"
"Indigestion," Misaki said flatly.
"I'd hate to think that the work is getting to you. Though given the power vacuum left by the Tokyo Explosion coupled with the relatively small size of Section Four, you must have all been working double shifts to keep up; I'm afraid I did warn you about that possibility. Having to resort to sending the Astronomics liaison to question prisoners -"
"That's no longer any of your concern," Misaki snapped, though inwardly she was pleased. He was fishing for information, which meant that their efforts at keeping any details about events in the outside world from him were working. No phone calls, and no visitors except for Saitou on Mondays and Matsumoto on Thursdays, reading from the same list of questions on each visit. Hourai had steadfastly refused to answer even the most innocuous queries; but Saitou had reported that each week the former Director appeared to grow increasingly frustrated by the lack of attention he was getting from his former subordinates. Sending Ootsuka had been calculated to wound his pride, and it seemed to have worked. Misaki had to play her cards carefully today. "Shall we cut the small talk? I'm not here to catch up on old times."
"I assume that the fact that you are here yourself, rather than one of your subordinates, means that the questions will be different today?" His voice, despite its bored tone, betrayed a hint of interest.
"Just one question: where are the Syndicate's servers?"
The fingers on Hourai's left hand twitched. "I beg your pardon?"
"A central server system containing the entirety of the Syndicate's Gate research, contractor files, and personnel files, among other things."
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"I know it exists; and I know that you ordered Pandora's network be disconnected from it just prior to the Tokyo Explosion, as a precaution."
Hourai's hand was clenched into a fist now, though he didn't seem to be aware of it. "And who did you get this information from?"
"Sergei Vectrof."
That interview had been a huge breakthrough in Section Four and Interpol's joint investigation into Pandora. Vectrof had persistently denied any knowledge of the Syndicate's activities, claiming that he had been nothing but a scientist, interested only in studying the physics of the Gate. Supposedly he had been brought in to complete Dr. Schroeder's experiments at the last minute, after the man's abduction by EPR, without knowing their purpose.
It was a convincing story, one that most of the investigators believed; until one of his subordinates, a young Indian woman, had sought out Misaki and confessed to being a Syndicate member. In the process, she detailed everything that she knew of her boss's involvement - most of which she'd collected over the course of her own, secret investigation. She'd told Misaki that she would face whatever consequences she deserved; telling the truth was more important than salvaging her position.
She'd also told Misaki that her zeal in uncovering information about the Syndicate had been inspired by a contractor she'd worked with briefly, a young man named Li who had been posing as a janitor at Pandora.
"Vectrof was quite a mine of information," Misaki continued, forcibly pushing aside the memory of her interview with Mina Kandaswamy. "Once he realized that there was no point in lying any longer. You're in the same position now, Hourai." She didn't miss his flinch at the use of his name without a title. Saitou had been right; it was time to push. "It's only a matter of time before we find it. You'll be damned either way; but it's in your best self-interest to help us find it. Do so, and we'll accept a plea."
Hourai stared at her for a long minute, unspeaking. Misaki stared right back, keeping her expression neutral despite the way he made her skin crawl. Or maybe that was just that stray draft again.
"You must be quite proud of yourself, Director Kirihara," he said at last.
"Not especially. I'm just doing my job like any police officer."
"You'd sell out your own father to get another gold star on your record, wouldn't you," he sneered. "Or have you done it already?"
Misaki counted to three in an attempt to slow her heart rate before speaking. "My father's involvement with the Syndicate is currently being investigated," she lied. "Any criminal activity will be duly prosecuted." She picked up her voice recorder and stood. "I think we're done here. Sending any more of my people for interviews is a waste of valuable resources; you'll see us at your trial."
She turned to leave, and got so far as put her hand on the door handle before Hourai said, "Hold on; I haven't given my answer yet."
Misaki faced him again, crossing her arms impatiently.
He leveled a hard gaze at her, then said, "I want my lawyer to be present and a signed agreement in my hands first."
"Done."
A pair of guards were waiting outside the interrogation room; while one entered the room to deal with Hourai, the other escorted her back through the long maze of corridors. She had to pause yet again at each checkpoint to undergo a security screen, as if there was anything inside this place that she could possibly want to take out. It wasn't until she reached the ground floor that she was allowed to have her purse and phone back.
As soon as she stood in the warm spring sun once again, Misaki heaved a huge sigh of relief. Finally. An entire month of round-the-clock, exhausting investigation, and at last they were one step closer to uncovering the remnants of the Syndicate. That there was still at least one high-ranking member at large she had no doubt - there had been too many mysterious disappearances of key subjects and 'accidental' deaths and property destruction at the worst possible times.
What she needed more than anything was to find this server. The Syndicate wouldn't dare delete all that valuable information, not while they still hoped to return to power. And as long as Hell's Gate existed, there would be somebody determined to use it to erase contractors and dolls from the face of the earth. Now she just had to get in contact with Hourai's lawyer, and get a signature on the deal that she'd written up weeks ago. It made very, very few concessions; there would be no bargaining.
A buzzing in her purse disrupted her train of thought. Misaki pulled out her phone and glanced at the message. It was from Kanami: I'm here, why aren't you?
"Shit," she muttered, and hurried to her car.