22) FGR KIA
ICE07
NORTHEN PACIFIC GEOSTATIONARY PLOT
OCTOBER 13
Weiss felt on edge, a feeling that had manifested itself for several hours. Although not an unduly possessive man, he felt that his civilian counterparts were almost committing an act of trespass, carrying out their inspection of the Iceberg.
They seemed impressed by how functional everything was aboard the orbital command post, also mildly surprised at how small it's internal dimensions were. Bibor acted as tour guide, with Rossi as an impeccably dressed escort.
Bibor ensured the representatives knew how old the vehicle they were travelling in was, calmly adding that since it had been built it had been overhauled fifteen times. But, an overhaul actually constituted a major operation since it meant a host of technicians and piles of equipment needed to be bussed up from Downside. What UNION needed, really, was another, bigger Iceberg.
McIlwain and Ben Jedid, representatives of the Extraordinary Caucus, didn't laugh or nod at that. They knew what kind of hint their host dropped. Every time civilians went on a tour of the Iceberg numerous subtle and not-so-subtle hints were dropped about how old it was and how much a new vehicle would serve better. However, UNION found itself in a dilemma: if they performed so well despite the antiquity of their hardware, why bother to upgrade or replace it at vast expense? And should they fail to do so then why should more money be wasted on them?
The visitors next venue was the observation deck, unofficial rest room and recreation facility of the Iceberg, in so far as it ever actually had recreation facilities.
Bibor hurriedly shooed away two off-duty crew who were playing an interactive video game in a carrel. They went with considerable bad grace and many backward glances, but once they had gone the Hungarian could demonstrate the relative lack of leisure amenities. Duty aboard the Iceberg was usually routine - occasionally panic-stricken and desperate, but usually routine - and off-duty time could be claustrophobic, boring and tedious; decent entertainment would alleviate any symptoms of such neglect. To McIlwain and Ben Jedid the observation deck seemed pokey and undersized but they did notice several sophisticated viewing screens and interactive software games arrayed in the cubicles. Expenditure going in one direction, they assumed; common sense, they were told. If you had the fixed and expensive hardware, the best you could do was to buy the best software since it came relatively cheaply.
'Just a minute,' said McIlwain. 'That wall chrono.'
All four looked at it, a metre wide analogue clock.
'Yes?' enquired Bibor.
'Why doesn't my watch agree with it?'
Because the Iceberg ran on its own internal time, was the answer. Crossing the IDL in both directions frequently, GMT or any other time became a nonsense for the command vehicle. A master register in the duty room kept track for official purposes or those curious enough to ask, or obsessive enough to worry about it.
'Bloody hell!' exclaimed Mclwain. 'You mean my watch is right - hell, we have to be somewhere else for that conference in short order, Jedid.'
Bibor carefully filed away for future reference the fact that these two seemed to be on good terms, just in case it was needed.
The Algerian looked worriedly at the wall chrono, then at his wristwatch, then at McIlwain, then at Bibor. The Downside shuttle that had delivered them still remained in Docking and, worse, causing even more delay, the legally-enforcible rest period for their shuttle pilot hadn't expired yet. The man wouldn't want to depart.
Informed of this, Weiss saw and seized an opportunity to impress his guests, with a quick call to Rossi via an earlink. The Italian would pilot one of the FedCon SkyClippers Downside whilst the civilian pilot waited out his rest period.
'Wimp. Should have stayed in bed this morning,' was Rossi's whispered aside to Bibor.
Happily able to disregard the interlopers due to his diverting offer, Weiss returned to his own room to deal with a spectacular backlog of work. The incoming dump-disk bore a stack of calls from Downside, including one that came flagged as "Red Rover" (currently the code for "Vital, call me wherever I may be").
Weiss left that one for a few seconds until he checked the headings on the rest of his workload. They all seemed routine and boring so he tackled the Red Rover.
'Hello sir. Bad news about the RSFG murder; we have had word from the Bundespolizei about the murder weapon and the murderer. Ave Mobile.' Which meant that the Nigerian was in transit and needed to be reached via TACT. Weiss wondered what would drive the man to go mobile like that, a practice used to divert trails or watchers.
After taking thirty seconds to get a connection, Weiss got a grainy colour image of Olukaside, enlarged beyond comfortable resolution, shown on the wall screen. From what Weiss could see the Nigerian sat in a PTV with all windows polarised.
'Oh - sir. You got my Rover call.'
'Of course, you idiot, that's why I'm calling back. Carry on.'
'Right. The Bundespolizei got back in touch with us, about their forensic results. They insisted on going through their pyramid procedure, despite the lead we gave them. They eventually came round to asking us for FedCon fingerprint files of staff and suspects and they got a tally, a one hundred per cent match.'
There came a pause, seemingly for dramatic effect. Weiss's peppery temper got the better of him.
'Don't keep me in suspense, Olukaside!'
'It was Rossi, sir. The fingerprints on the ammunition clip, the bullets fired, time and date - all correspond, sir.'
The normally unflappable Weiss felt stunned, hit from behind by the sledgehammer of incredulity. A member of UNION being the murderer, and that person being Fidelio Rossi.
'Is this reliable? Are you - good God, are you sure?'
Olukaside nodded. Once the Bundespolizei informed him of their print match he retraced all of the Italian's movements on that day. Those movements included flying a Sky Clipper to RSFG Munich; the approach run it made could very possibly have been over the murder site. That had been all he felt comfortable doing; he had no idea about "why".
Colonel Weiss sat back. He had no idea about "why" either. After a brief bout of internal cursing he mentally reviewed Rossi's recent conduct, all that he could remember of it, since there didn't seem to be anything remarkable to stand out.
'Right, Olukaside. Stay mobile, please. I'm going to co-ordinate action from here. Ave fenestre. Duty officer, re-route my calls through to Bibor, then get me a line to Frankfurt, our office there.'
A hissing pause while the call went out.
'Hello, Frankfurt? Go to Line Protocol One. A FedCon agent, Guido Rossi, is due to land a Sky Clipper at Frankfurt airport. Probably within an hour, but it depends on how the aircraft gets stacked by traffic control. Your mission is to arrest and detain Rossi once he lands the aircraft and leaves it. The charges against him are likely to be capital ones, so exercise caution; he's armed and dangerous and there are two Extraordinary Caucus members aboard the aircraft. Whatever you do, please don't shoot holes in them! Amen'
The Frankfurt Crash Crew were three women and one man who sat, bored, in the aged, seedy lounge of UNION's Frankfurt office.
'Action at last,' said one, gloomily, as unhappy at the prospect of action as they were at enduring boredom.
They all knew Rossi by reputation and one of them had actually worked with him; the Italian was not known for his kind, forgiving nature or his gentle, forbearing temper and was a military transferee to UNION to boot, decorated several times and rumoured killer of fourteen people, six of those being dangerous American agents. None of the four were overly eager to cross swords with him.
'Ho. Right, you - yes, you - get a Strobe Stunner for each of us, with two Twitch grenades. And, also, I'd like a body shield.'
'Polyplastic?'
'If they have any, if we merit that. And a couple of Spiders. Quick now!'
Off scuttled one member.
'Next, you contact Motor Pool for clandestine transport. A transit vehicle of some description that's big enough to carry all of us and an unwilling passenger also.'
Another team member left. Before any more instructions could be given the remaining person punched out a number on her TACT.
'Line Protocol Two, URDU connect. Direct to this terminal details of Downside-bound flight from ICE07, departure time approximately of this check.'
Electronic data buzzed backwards and forwards via Polsat, which then intoned the required information.'Incoming flight ICE07-06, given reference VL-331, due to land runway Tango Frankfurt Airport at 14:50 plus or minus ten minutes.'
'We know that much already.'
'Ah, yes, but if we monitor this line we can find out exactly, precisely, when the Sky Clipper lands. The controllers will have it in a descent pipe and spiral for at least thirty minutes.'
Thoughtful pause.
'If we really need to we can request a hold on VL-331 for about twenty minutes.'
They decided not to do that unless drastic measures were needed, since anything untoward might alert Rossi. "Capital Offence" meant that he wouldn't be inclined to debate matters calmly with the Crash Crew.
McIlwain and Ben Jedid peered out of their respective windows while their aircraft taxied slowly along the tarmac apron, neither really paying attention to a blue-and-white Luft Flug courtesy coach at the terminal. Had they done so, they might have noticed that the airline logo was actually an acetate appliqué and the blue paint bore every appearance of being sprayed on within mere minutes of the coach's arrival at Frankfurt.
The Sky Clipper halted jerkily, brake servos whining as Rossi sought to bring it to a gentle halt, since he was under orders to treat the Caucus members with every consideration. That was why he left the cockpit to open and secure the passenger steps.
The rear door of the Luft Flug coach dropped to the tarmac, making a ramp that four armed and armoured figures raced down at a frantic pace.
'GUIDO ROSSI YOU ARE UNDER CUSTODIAL DETENTION DO NOT MOVE DO NOT ATTEMPT TO RESIST WE WILL TAKE RESTRAINING ACTION IF NEEDED.' (Helmet loudspeaker).
Rossi ignored the warning and drew his pistol, but he faced four people with their weapons already pointed; a well-aimed Spider hit him squarely on the chest. The adhesive tendrils, developed from a party novelty known as "String-in-a-tin", sprayed out all over his upper body, hardening upon contact with the air. For good measure he was shot twice with a strobe stunner, big bright blue flashes reflecting up off the ground.
The Italian staggered backwards. He should have fallen to the ground convulsing, but instead remained upright, off-balance, straining at his bonds, glaring ferociously at the four assailants.
'SHIT LET GO WITH THE TWITCH.'
Two of the non-lethal nerve-agent grenades burst at Rossi's feet, sending up a rush of gas, yet he still didn't fall. Still staggering and jerking spasmodically as the gas took effect, he lurched toward the tail of the Sky Clipper. And still he hadn't dropped his pistol; in fact he even managed to fire twice, only to hit his foot.
He shouldn't still be conscious, let alone upright! shuddered the Crash Crew leader.
'STAND STILL.'
By now, accidentally or intentionally, Rossi reached the exhaust flanges of the underwing engine and he carefully leant backwards against the hot metal. At well over a hundred degrees from it's recent usage, the exhausts' metal melted the Spider-webbings immediately, also searing Rossi's skin and uniform in a tarry ellipse across his back. Smoke tendrils curled up and the Italian was free.
'OH NO OPEN FIRE.'
Too late, and Rossi too fast; he threw himself underneath the aircraft fuselage as shots whistled around him, then leapt up on the opposite side. A bullet hit his shin without toppling him, letting blood run down his leg in a large, dark stream.
The Crash Crew chased Rossi but he was once again too fast for them, for all that he had been shot and gassed. Using the port passenger door he entered the port passenger section and locked the door from the inside. Once inside the aircraft he rapidly conveyed via the intercom the fact that he had two ExtraOrdinary Causus hostages at his mercy and that both would die if anyone tried to enter the aircraft.
As a measure of last resort, one of the UNION team shot out the Sky Clipper's tyres. The Crash Crew leader admitted defeat and called the airport police.
'We were monitoring your channel,' replied one of the police. 'A Crisis Response Unit is on it's way to the terminal. Do not take any further action.'
The airport's specialist unit was unhappy with both the performance and account of the UNION Crash Crew. Not actually spoken, the words "bungling" and "amateur" hung in the air, along with an air of arrogance that boded ill. The police, with dog teams, snipers, close-quarter marksmen, lights, cameras, nightscopes and radios carried in at least five trucks, were believers in the theory that numbers could do the job.
'What other demands has he made?' asked the senior detective in charge of the operation.
'Only the one we all heard. Live press and television coverage with media reps in attendance.'
'We can get him outside the aircraft for that,' interrupted a police sniper, 'and have people on the tarmac ready to deal with him.'
His chief nodded and gave orders to that effect.
Two marksmen clad in matt black clothing began crawling across the tarmac to the aircraft's rear, where those within the passenger section would be unable to see them. At the same time Rossi's attention was diverted by a short discussion conducted by loudspeaker, stating that press members were on their way, would he consider leaving the aircraft to meet them? In addition to this, powerful Kleig lights were played over the portholes to dazzle anyone looking outside.
By the time Rossi lowered the passenger door, both police marksmen were in position, crouching unseen beneath the aircraft fuselage.
'What are they using?' asked the worried UNION Crash Crew head.
'Sturmgeschutz MGW55, machine pistols loaded with Squash Head, and they won't miss, either.' Unlike you, went the unspoken part of the sentence.
The Crash Crew leader kept her own counsel. She hoped the police would prevail, yet she knew that they hadn't missed Rossi, who had ignored his wounds and gone racing off like a greyhound.
Rossi came down the passenger ramp with the unwavering muzzle of his gun pressed firmly into his hostage's back, then dragged the other man with him and down the steps. He looked around, suspiciously, before a police spokesman hailed him and diverted his attention.
Out jumped the two police marksmen, assuming recommended firing positions (arms extended, elbows locked, feet wide apart) and began firing; one at the target's head, the other at his heart. The kinetic energy of their shots threw Rossi around, but he kept his balance, retaining an armlock on Ben Jedid, raised his pistol and shot one policeman down. The other marksman stopped shooting as Ben Jedid got into his line of fire. Given an opening, Rossi gunned down the second policeman and then retreated inside with his hostage as a shield, leaving blood from his wounds sprayed on the tarmac. McIlwain, left outside, kept his senses, ran to one side and then headlong for the police perimeter.
The police chief looked aghast at his two officers lying in the open next to the aircraft. One still moved. Confusion reigned while the police attempted to retrieve their two wounded officers, successfully. One actually died but was revived whilst the other suffered serious chest injuries.
The police were temporarily non-plussed at their totally unsuccessful manoeuvre, a failure inexplicable to them because they carried out every action in textbook fashion, right up to the point where Rossi refused to drop down dead. Seeing an opportunity and a chance to exploit it, the UNION leader spoke up with an extreme suggestion, since it seemed obvious that only a drastic solution to the problem would work.
Less than thirty minutes later Rossi emerged from the aircraft again, this time with his pistol firmly stuck in Ben Jedid's left ear, secured by a length of tape. The only area that the police negotiators would allow any press to congregate was in the concourse and Rossi knew that, aware that it would be the only place large enough to accommodate many people but also able to be sealed off easily and securely. Rossi thus needed to leave the aircraft, cross the apron, enter the terminal stairwell, go up three floors and then gain access to the concourse.
For Ben Jedid the journey had all the elements of a slow-motion nightmare, shuffling spasmodically across the tarmac, followed by the stares, muzzles and gunsights of the police cordon, now increased by a regular police presence and airport security guards, too. The duo crossed the apron to a terminal stairwell, stumbled inside and found - nothing. No ambush. Up they went, six flights of stairs, Rossi not trusting the lifts - too vulnerable. From the third floor of the terminal there was a covered concrete walkway, with alternating wall-sized glass panels between the concrete panelling, each blank panel thus facing a window opposite. At the far end of this concourse a pair of swing doors led to the concourse.
The windows were Rossi's undoing. He considered them a possible source of danger, so he turned to face them when he passed, in case the police were out there spying, or trying another rescue. Halfway down the corridor, according to his routine, Rossi turned to face a window. Concrete panelling behind him shattered explosively. A twenty-five millimetre cannon dismounted from the UNION camouflaged escort vehicle had been hastily mounted on a lazy-tong flat bed, hidden by luggage as Rossi crossed the apron, then elevated and jacked into position level with the walkway. Two UNION members with mono-bladed knives quickly scraped and chipped away cement in front of the cannon muzzle, then drilled a (very small) hole to allow them to sight the gun. They were only able to fire twice because of the recoil, which threatened to tear the weapon loose and off the platform.
Cannon shell number one tore into Rossi's back, carried on through him, smashed the opposite window and sailed off into the middle distance, the imparted energy wrenching Rossi away from Ben Jedid. Cannon shell number two hit the Italian in the shoulder at an angle, throwing him out of the broken window, from which he fell ten metres, head first.
It worked! Enthused the UNION leader. The golem is dead!
23) Home Again Home Again
BADFORT TOWERS
LONDON
Alex had been shuttled back to London via Belgrade again, this time as a mere piece of animated cargo aboard a Midi-Mover, sharing a cargo-cabin with half a tonne of cold-boxed organic computer parts. Every so often the co-pilot would come back to check on him and offer him a sip from a hip flask. Alex wondered what the drink was (saki) and why the considerate attention (because the co-pilot had three children and heard on the grapevine that his passenger single-handedly broke up a child-abuse ring), but since the co-pilot was Japanese and the TACT wouldn't work in a moving aircraft, neither of the two could understand each other.
Once back in his flat Alex moodily decided to move. Not "move" as in across the room but out of Badfort Towers altogether. It seemed more like a prison than a home and he felt fed up with it. Being an employee of UNION he fully expected them to interfere in his house-hunting if given the chance, so an advert in an accommodation samizdat ought to do and short-circuit any scrutiny. He would be due for leave soon because of time spent in Moldavia; he could begin to sort out matters then.
There were letters waiting on the mat for him. Surprise, surprise, one was a tax demand. Surprise again, number two letter came from Katrina, who would be visiting England with her husband and wanted to see Alex, catch up on gossip. Due to arrive in two weeks. That settled his leave; book it for two weeks time. Letter number three was a "speculative letter" (known of old as junk mail) that went straight into the recycle bin. Last of all was an Official Communique. He knew it to be one because it stated so in big red letters. Expecting it to be from UNION, surprise surprise, it came from the Greek Consulate in Luxembuorg:
"Dear Citizen your status as a Federated Concordat employee no longer makes it possible to admit you to the Hellenic Republic, date effective as from the postmark of this communication. No correspondence on this matter will be entered into."
Petty bastards, condemned Alex. Why suddenly change their minds about - oh! Have they found out about the Greek connection between myself and Metaxas? This ought to be reported to UNION.
He called in on his TACT, following instructions dimly remembered from the training course and was mildly astonished to get the ghost switchboard as per procedure. Then he needed to wait until a person willing to talk came online and had to explain about the letter again.
'Aha. I see. Only a matter of time, really. If they were thinking straight they would have let you return and then put you on the hook in devious fashion, but you must have annoyed them too much for that. Thanks for calling.'
In the middle of eating a pre-packed meal, Neil rang up. Alex replied by shouting across the room instead of going over and picking up the handset.
'Hi there, coming out for a drink?'
'Mm. Let me think about that. Okay, I've thought about it. I'll come over to your place first.'
'Okay, you can even finish off your tea if you like.'
'Ouch, that English sense of humour. See you, then.'
Neil wasn't alone in his flat; Moira and Ellie were also there. Neil cheerfully shooed all three of his guests outside into the bitter night air and told them which way they were going: north, to a local pub, the Five Wheels. Once they arrived Neil waited until Moira and Ellie went to the bar to order before broaching what he considered to be a delicate subject, in what he considered to be a delicate manner.
'Why didn't you call her!' he asked, aggressively.
'Call who?' flustered Alex, taken off-guard. 'Do you mean Ellie?'
'Yes I do! She left her number and address with you at your party, on a piece of paper. You, however, didn't call her.'
Alex blinked. A piece of paper. The party -
'I didn't - no, wait a minute, UNION found a piece of paper in my flat before I did - so it came from Ellie, did it? They thought she was a spy in Foreign Assignments, conspiring with me. She likes me - well, she could express it better!'
'Er - she's shy,' mumbled Neil, embarrassed at the trouble caused. A snort came from Alex in reply. He opened his mouth to protest but decided not to as the women came back from the bar with a tray of drinks. In fact, no-one spoke.
For long minutes a painful silence lay in front of the group, until Moira broke it with a plaintive sigh that came from the heart.
'Come on, drink up, we didn't come out to have a bad time.'
Ellie looked nervously at Alex, who looked coolly back at her. The atmosphere felt bad. Clearly, this social event was going nowhere. Neil felt responsible for the faux pas but didn't dare admit it and couldn't think of anything to say. Alex felt distinctly hostile to Ellie but was too polite and socially cowardly to say so openly. Ellie herself felt upset at such a strange attitude. Moira considered the whole evening to be a waste of time already.
'Try this for size,' she said. '"Honesty is better than tact."'
'What on earth are you on about?'
Alex butted in.
'Personally, I prefer honesty,' he said, looking at Ellie. 'If an attitude exists then one ought to express it.'
Ellie blushed in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. She abruptly reversed her opinion of the Serb; who did he think he was, sitting in moral judgement on her like that?
Neil intervened before things ran even further out of control.
'It was a rhetorical question, to break the ice, you dickhead.'
'Hey, no bickering, please. No point scoring.'
Alex came up with a winning strategy, preceded by a winning smile. He got up, walked away and left the pub, leaving the other three drinkers to look bemusedly at each other.
'He can't have gone, he's left his coat and it's freezing outside,' commented Moira. 'There he is, back again.'
Alex gave them a wave, came over and sat down.
'Good evening. How nice to meet you all here. Is this drink for me?' and he politely shook hands with them all. It was his way of starting from scratch again and although a little odd, it worked.
Ellie leaned back a little when Alex leaned towards her.
'I am sorry to upset you with my comment, but your note got me into trouble with Internal Audit. They saw it before I did.'
'Oh! I didn't realise that's what happened, I just - well, I'm sorry too.' She reversed her reversed opinion and decided that Alex might be alright and his sad eyes looked quite come-to-bed with a sparkle in them.
'Accidents happen. Don't worry about it.' To be polite, forgiving and to curry favour, Alex bought the next two rounds. By eleven Ellie felt just tipsy enough to be curious and disregard Neil's injunction about Yugoslav politics. Or almost tipsy enough, a little common sense remained.
'Why don't you like Hungarians?' she asked with an intent look.
Alex stared back at her. She had freckles.
'Because of the Last War. Because of what they and the Romanians did to the Balkans with their nuclears.'
Neil rolled his eyes heavenwards. Alex could be remarkably bigotted and partisan for a man who claimed to be a model liberal compared to most other Serbs. Please, beseeched Neil of no deity in particular, don't let him start going on about this in detail.
The eleven thirty bell chimed out. Under the quaint, not to say odd, English licensing laws the pub was now deemed to be a night-club and all drink prices automatically doubled. Acting on this cue a herd of drinkers, including the foursome, left the inn, leaving it to the thirsty, the partying or the better-off.
'Snow!' exclaimed Moira, the first to emerge into the night air, which bit at them. While they had been drinking inside a thin layer of snow settled over the neighbourhood.
'White Christmas again, I bet,' said Neil, trying to scrape up enough flakes for a snowball but failing.
Alex felt a premonitory twinge in his knees. Despite all that anaesthetising alcohol those plastic patellae were acting up again and he would have trouble walking.
'Uh, could you slow down a little?' he asked.
'Pissed again, you drunken fart! Oh - hang on, shit, sorry, are you all right?'
Alex shrugged. He would be, if they didn't walk too fast. Inconvenient and embarrassing, stricken so inelegantly in front of Moira, who he liked, and Ellie, who liked him.
'Your kneecaps, right?' asked Neil, already knowing the answer from past experience. 'Come on, once you get up to mine I'll turn up the heating. Give him a hand.'
'No, no I am okay. I mean, I will be alright. Ach! Yebat Amerikanskiy schat!' he slurred.
True to his word, Neil turned up the heating and brought the semi-invalid a hot-water bottle to put across his knees.
'I didn't think it got so bad.'
'No, it usually doesn't. I think the lubricants need replacing.' Replacing the PTFE lubricant meant minor out-patient operation once every three years.
Ellie and Moira both had questioning expressions on their faces asking many questions, even though they refrained from actually asking.
They were disappointed. Rather than go into the whole of his American Experience again, Alex dwelt upon why he didn't like Hungarians (or Romanians either - he wasn't biased in his prejudices) which in turn meant going over the consequences of the Last War. Principally this was fallout, carried on winds from the east, still dangerous after all these decades, that insinuated itself into ecosystems and food chains. Every time the "Hot Wind" blew people stayed indoors and sealed their houses, even today when radiation stood at limits proclaimed acceptable by the government. Rumour, folklore and superstition didn't recognise such limits.