their chance through lack of cunning or nerve or the inability to zero in on and take advantage of the fine edge of madness that was absolutely essential in Committee work.
In their own odd way, the police were more vicious that the Committee, a brutal down-scale version of their sister agency. Their lack of power and the consequent pettiness of their concerns had, over the years, become a kind of strength for them, a license to use whatever savagery they thought required to complete the job at hand. And the jobs took many forms; mostly, they concerned shaking-down small-time smugglers, dealers and prostitutes for protection from the gangs. These were often the same people who were paying off one or more gang for protection from the police.
Jonny reflected that the cop who had looked in his cell was typical of the department. Older than most Committee boys and lacking the spark of youthful certainty that death, when it came, would be looking for someone else. Jonny decided he would feel the cop out when he returned. See exactly what kind of story he wanted, cop a plea and get assigned to a road gang or one of the Mayor's neighborhood renewal projects. Jonny knew that once he was outside, he was gone. With any luck, he figured he could be back on the street in a week.
It was about a half-hour, by his reckoning, before he heard footsteps again. Two sets, walking with a purpose. The door of his cell ground open and the cop he had seen earlier entered, followed by an older man wearing a worn blue pin-stripe suit patched at the cuffs with thread-jell, a cheap polymeric fiber that hardened when it came into contact with air. The older man's tie was a shade too light to go with his suit and was at least two seasons too thin. Jonny made him for a bureaucrat. A public defender or maybe a social worker. He would be the one to work on. Talk about his deprived childhood, the violence in the streets…
'Officer Acker,' said the older man; his eyes were red and anxious. His shoes were injection-molded polyvinyl, vending machine numbers. 'I'm Detective Sergeant Russo, and this is Officer Heckert.'
Jonny smiled and shook the hand Russo extended to him, but his mind was kicking into overdrive. New tack, thinking: He called me officer.
'I wanted to let you know, personally, that we're on top of the situation,' said Detective Russo, smiling as he sat down next to Jonny on the plastic sleeping pallet. 'You see, when you were brought in with that bunch from the warehouse, Officer Heckert here ran retinal scans on everybody to check for old and foreign warrants- not something we usually do until after arraignment, but considering the volume of goods in the warehouse- Then, when he saw Colonel Zamora's note in your file, he crossed-checked your retinal print and found your Committee record.'
That's it, Jonny thought. This lunatic thinks I'm still in the Committee. I can walk right out of here. 'Good work, Officer,' Jonny said. He nodded to Heckert. The cop nodded back, obviously happy with his new-found status. 'How is it you happened to raid the warehouse when you did?'
'Anonymous tip,' said Heckert. 'A woman's voice synthesized to sound male. We ran the call through the analyzer and got a good print, but I guess she doesn't have a record.' The cop smiled. (Playing hard boy, Jonny thought. Type of guy fails Committee application, becomes police department and swears up and down he wanted to be a cop all along, not a stuck-up Committee boy.) 'Probably just some chippie tryin' to get even with a boy friend.'
'Anyway,' said Detective Russo, giving Heckert a disapproving glance, 'we called Colonel Zamora and he'll be by to pick you up soon-'
'You what?' Jonny yelled. He was on his feet, feeling as if the bottom had just fallen out of his stomach. 'Don't you know the Committee's been compromised?' He knew he had to give them something. He made it up as he went along. 'Moles from the New Palestine Federation penetrated the Committee months ago! I'm undercover, investigating Arab terrorist cells operating in southern California. They're insidious. Dumping mycotxins in the water table. Releasing plague infested rats in the suburbs. This is strictly top-level stuff, you understand. Eyes only. Washington and Tokyo are involved, Sergeant Russo. None of this can leave this room.'
Russo's gaze passed from Heckert to Jonny and back again. His forehead was furrowed (unsure of his responsibility, his culpability, Jonny thought, unsure, also, if he's being mocked). 'But surely you can't suspect Colonel Zamora-' Russo asked.
'How do you know it was Zamora you were speaking to?' Jonny yelled. He was angling closer to the door. He could see they were buying the line of nonsense. It was there in the cops' eyes. Their colorless bureaucratic blood was bubbling to the surface. He knew they would let him go because they believed he was just like them: another link in the chain of command that bound them and defined them. But their gears shifted slowly, and Jonny felt he had to push them along. 'Listen pal, you may have blown my cover but good,' he said. 'And if the Arabs get wind that I'm in here, with the data I've got, we can all kiss our asses goodbye, 'cause they'll level this whole complex, rather than have me get away.'
'Well then, we better get you someplace safe,' said a gravelly voice from the door. Jonny turned around. He had not even heard Zamora coming, and now it was too late to do anything about it. He turned back to the cops. 'Wait, I was lying. I'm not really a Fed,' he said. 'I'm a Croaker! An anarquista! Arrest me and I'll tell you everything! Names and dates!'
Detective Russo rose from the pallet and turned to Zamora. A muscle jumped angrily along his quickly reddening jaw. 'Colonel Zamora, I hope you can explain what's going on here, he said. 'Is or is this not one of your men?
'Why Detective Sergeant Russo,' said Zamora, 'of course he is.'
The Colonel smiled at him and Jonny felt ill. 'Didn't you see my notation in his record? Agent Acker has been under deep-cover for some time now. Working among terrorists for so long, he's had a breakdown. Convinced himself he's one of them. It happens sometimes in these deep-cover cases. But we'll get him all the help he needs.'
Russo grunted. 'This man has wasted all our time, Colonel. And put this department in an embarrassing position. I hope you get him some help soon.' He shook his head, jammed his hands into the pockets of his shabby suit and started out of the cell. 'Colonel Zamora,' he said, in a tired voice, 'The next time you're having trouble with your men, I'd appreciate your notifying the Department. I realize that the Police aren't held in quite the same regard as the Committee, but really-'
'You're absolutely right, detective,' said Zamora. 'Communication. That's what it's all about.'
Russo and Heckert left the cell (the younger man fixing Jonny with a look of absolute loathing) and went one way down the corridor, while Zamora and a couple of heavily-armed Committee boys led Jonny in the opposite direction. In an a waiting area painted in two tones of blistered green paint, Zamora grabbed Jonny (tearing the cheap prison shirt) and punched him in the stomach. 'That's for being a smart ass,' said the Colonel.
Zamora shoved Jonny, still doubled-up, into an elevator.
Someone pushed a button and they started moving. Jonny saw his reflection in one transparent wall, ghostly with receding rooftops and cumulus clouds. The overcast sky burned muddily through the grime and mirror-glazed Lexan that encased the rising car. Straightening, Jonny looked at the Committee boys that flanked him. They appeared to be about fourteen years old, radiating waves of amphetamine tension. Both were skull-plugged into multiplexers set to coordinate their Futukoros with the Sony targeting matrices that webbed their chest and backs in tight diamond mesh. Each boy had a powerpack around his waist and a datapatch, also jacked into the array, covering one eye.
'The best we have,' said Zamora, indicating the boys. 'See all the trouble I go through for you?' he smiled sympathetically. 'Look at me, Gordon. I'm an avalanche. And I'm coming down hard on you this time. You should not have blown our deal.'
'What deal?' asked Jonny. He rubbed his sore ribs. 'We never had a deal. You put a gun to my head and gave me an order. Bullshit, that's what that is.'
Zamora shrugged. 'Call it anything you like. The fact of the matter is you fucked me over and now you've got to pay the price.'
He looked away and Jonny followed his gaze as it settled out over the docks. White articulated-boom cranes were off-loading bright silver boxcars from container ships, sliding on their induction cushions like the skeletons of immense horses.
An old and familiar anger enclosed Jonny, like a fist tightening in his chest. He choked; it reminded him of speed, the reckless and undirected anger of the comedown.
He looked at the floor, trying to clear his mind. Strands of plastic-coated copper wire coiled at angles from around the dull service panel beneath the elevator button pad. Jonny gained some small sense of control by telling
