London, the West End
Miles away in the West End, a man scanned black-and white television screens on which pictures of city streets flickered, stopped and rolled on to various urban scenes. Occasionally a picture was commanded to freeze, a white halo surrounding a face until the controller told the machine to proceed.
Most Londoners did not know that, on average, their likenesses were transmitted forty times a day as they commuted to and from work, ran errands between buildings or simply window-shopped. The cameras were a legacy of IRA terrorism. Thousands had been posted around the city in discreet locations, cameras little different from those used as security devices in department stores. The sheer number of images' had been overwhelming, far too many to be scanned by London police.
The age of technology had come to the rescue with face-recognition software. A picture of a face could be programmed into a computer and assigned numerical values: a number for the space between the eyes, another for the length of the nose and so on. Once a face was 'recognized' in the cameras' pictures, an alarm went off and the countenance in question was highlighted, its location appearing on the screen.
Since major components of facial construction-occipital arches, mandible, rhinal bones-can be altered only by surgery or trauma, the computer could, in most instances, see through changes such as hair loss, weight loss or gain, or the most relentless force of all, age.
With the reluctance of governments everywhere to relinquish power once acquired, the-London police had elected to let those few who knew of the devices forget them once the Irish Question had been temporarily resolved by tenuous agreement. On the few occasions when the subject arose, officials quickly pointed out that cameras in less-than-prosperous neighborhoods were responsible for an impressive number of arrests. Removal of surveillance equipment from 'safe' areas but not from others was likely to offend the historic British sense of fair play, and, more likely, cause a political firestorm in the city council. The occasional citizen who publicly bemoaned the loss of privacy was condemned by authorities as an anarchist opposed to municipal security.
Identical technology was used by the Tampa, Florida, police as an 'experiment' to identify no less than nineteen Super Bowl fans with criminal records at the 200 I game.
The London police would have been the last to admit that anything transmitted was subject to interception or, in this case, hacking.
It was just such an interception that the man in front of the screens was watching.
Lang Reilly turned just as he entered the shop, presenting both full-face and profile shots to a lens mounted unobtrusively on a rooftop. The man monitoring the screens stopped the motion in the picture and squinted at the highlighted or 'haloed' area before punching numbers into a cell phone.
'You were right,' he said. 'He's tracked it back to Jenson. What do you want done?' He listened for a moment and disconnected without another word. He hurriedly entered another number.
'Jenson's,' he said without identifying himself. 'Make sure everything is sanitized, Jenson included. No, we've changed that… We want Reilly alive, see what else he knows.'
4
London, Old Bond Street
A bell tinkled as Lang entered the shop, a room about twenty feet by twenty. Oils and watercolors shouldered each other for space on the simple plaster walls. Regiments of dark-wooded furniture paraded in orderly ranks and files, dividing the room into squares as neat as any formed by the British infantry. There was a smell of lemon oil.
He heard footsteps on the wooden plank floor and a curtain at the back was brushed aside. A short man in a dark suit came out, his hands clasping each other as though he were washing them. A long, pale face was topped by lifeless dark hair shot with silver. His smile revealed teeth crooked enough to make an orthodontist salivate.
'Mornin', sir,' he said in an accent Lang would have attributed to Jeeves the butler. 'I help you or you jus' browsin'?'
'Mr. Jenson?' Lang asked.
There was a furtive flicker of the eyes, the look of someone in need of an escape route. Lang would have bet Mr. Jenson had unhappy creditors.
'An' who might you be?' he wanted to know, his tone more defensive than curious. Lang smiled, trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible. 'A man looking for information.' The caution in Jensen's voice was not dispelled. 'An' what sort of information would that be?'
Lang admired a highboy, running a hand across mahogany drawers inlaid with satinwood. He pulled out the Polaroid, using the marble top of a commode to smooth out the creases. 'I was wondering if you could tell me where you got this?'
Jenson made no effort to conceal his relief Lang wasn't there as a bill collector.'Some bloody estate or winding-up sale, I'd imagine. Not some place where you can't likely get another if it's genre religious work you fancy.'
'I'm a lawyer,' Lang explained, his hand still on the cool marble on which the small photo lay. 'I have a client to whom the origins of the painting shown there could be very important.'
As Jenson inspected the snapshot, his eyes narrowed, giving his long face the appearance of a fox scenting a hen house. 'Don't usually keep records of art sold lyin' about. Space considerations, and all that, y'know. Have to look it up, check my books. That'll take a spot of time, if you take my meaning.'
Lang did. 'I, my client, that is, would expect to pay you for your time, of course.'
Jenson treated Lang to that picket-fence-in-bad-repair grin again. 'I'll have it for you'-he produced a pocket watch-'after lunch. You come 'round a coupla hours from now.'
5
London, St. James An hour and a half later
Lang had lunch wrapped in newspaper at a fish and chips take-away. It wasn't the best meal available, but it was the quickest. Which meant he had time to kill. Wiping the grease from his chin with a thin paper napkin, he entered the nearby Burlington House, home of the Royal Academy of Arts, where he spent half an hour staring with total lack of comprehension at the current visiting exhibition of abstract art.
Best Lang could tell, there were two schools displayed here. First were the splattists, distinguishable by paint applied by flinging it in the general direction of the canvas or whatever surface was involved. The paint splattered as it hit, forming shapes and patterns dictated by centrifugal force and gravity rather than design. The other was the smearists, artists who preferred to glob paint at random and then smear it into whorls, lines or anything else as long as it was not in a recognizable form. Then there were the truly avant-garde, who defied definition by simply coloring the canvas a single, uniform color.
All works that very much resembled the result of Jeff's efforts with finger paints at age three.
Jeff and Janet. For the last few days, Lang had concentrated on finding their killer rather than dwelling on the emptiness their deaths had left in his life. His fists clenched. By God, he would find the unknown They. He would have vengeance.
A schoolmarmish woman, her white hair gathered in a bun, gave him a frightened look and scurried away, turning her head to make sure he wasn't following. Lang realized he had spoken out loud.
Conceding he was no culture vulture and that contemporary art was beyond his ken, Lang retreated to the sculpture promenade to admire a Michelangelo relief.
After the abstractionists, it was just that: a relief.
As he started back towards Old Bond Street, it stopped misting. The sky was a little lighter with a hint if not· a promise of sunshine to come. Umbrellas were now furled, used as walking sticks or carried underarm.
Once again, the bell tinkled his entrance. Lang busied himself inspecting the furniture as he waited for Jenson to come out from behind his curtain. Machined rather than planed surfaces and cast rather than forged nails
