the
At four he got through to Bhakor, using the voice-only facility on his com-screen.
“Smith here,” Klien said. “I’m calling to finalise the arrangements.”
The screen showed Bhakor’s big face, beaded with perspiration in the heat of the day. “Why can’t I see you?” he rapped.
“I’m calling from a public kiosk,” Klien said. “It’s been vandalised.”
He had only ever met Bhakor once in the flesh, to give him the sample of the drug called slash in the hope that the dealer would want more. Then Klien had been effectively disguised.
Bhakor said, “Have you got the stuff?”
“A kilo of prime grade,” Klien assured him.
“Ah-cha. Where and when?”
“Tonight at eight. I’ve booked a room in your name at the Hindustan Plaza hotel. I’ll see you then.”
Bhakor nodded. “Ah-cha, Smith. I’ll be there.”
Klien cut the connection and sat back, exhaling with relief. He realised that his hands were shaking. His mouth was dry. He poured himself a glass of iced water and worked to control his breathing.
Days like today—and there had been many others in the past—were what made his life on Earth worthwhile—along with opera, of course. This evening, after he had dealt with Bhakor, he would take his box at the National Indian Opera Company and lose himself in the sublimity of Puccini. It would be his reward for making the world a safer place.
At six thirty he took the elevator down to the suite of rooms he used when he had to work a double shift. He showered and changed, wearing as always on these occasions the black suit he had bought on Madrigal fifteen years ago. It was tailored from sabline, the most expensive and exclusive suiting material in the entire Expansion, and looked as stylish now as it had on the day of its purchase. He had worn it at his confrontation with Quineau, all those years ago, and on every special occasion since.
He unlocked the wall-safe and collected the equipment he would be needing tonight, then left the tower and climbed into his Mercedes two-seater. He drove along the northern sector of the great Calcutta ring road with care and consideration for his fellow road users. That day’s monsoon downpour had been and gone, leaving the roads slick and shimmering. The sun was going down over the distant bay and the lights of the city were coming on. The great ad-screens moved across the dusk sky like aerial cinemas.
Just after seven he braked in the car-park of the Hindustan Plaza and met the manager and head of security in the foyer. They were courteous to the point of servility; it was not every day that Ezekiel Klien consented to advise a hotel on the maintenance of its security systems.
“Has the equipment been delivered?” he asked as he rode the elevator up to the third-floor conference room.
The manager nodded. “It’s set up and ready,” he said. “I can’t begin to tell you how delighted I am that you agreed—”
Klien turned him out. He might refuse commissions from world governments to advise them on security matters, but if an offer came along which he might turn to his own advantage, then he would graciously agree to lecture, even going so far as to donate his usual fee to charity.
The security and communications company Inter-Tech had offered him fabulous sums to promote their latest range of computer communication devices. Klien had initially turned down their offer, and then had seen a way he might benefit from the deal.
The hotel’s security team had followed his instructions to the letter. In a small room next to the conference room, accessible by a door which could be locked, a com-screen had been set up. The other was in the conference room itself.
Klien watched the room fill up with about thirty men and women from various companies in the city, along with the hotel’s own security staff. He smiled to himself. As well as supplying himself with a foolproof alibi tonight, he could be assured that the security team was otherwise engaged.
He was introduced by the manager and stood as applause filled the room.
“Thank you… please… As you know, I don’t usually accept invitations to endorse company products, but Inter-Tech’s latest range is in my opinion something very special… and I’d heard it rumoured that the hotel has one of the finest cellars in the sub-continent. To your good health.”
He raised his glass and sipped as polite laughter greeted his quip.
“Tonight I’d like to talk about the Inter-Tech Arrow 200 com-screen.”
For the next thirty minutes he sang the praises of the Arrow 200’s design features and technical specifications, the screen’s reliability and range, peppering the advertisement with anecdotes and personal accounts of his experience with other screens over the years. The audience listened with genuine interest.
At one point he glanced at his watch. It was just after eight. Ali Bhakor would be waiting for him on the fourth floor, room 180. It was time he was moving.
“But enough of the talk,” he said now. “I think it’s time for me actually to show the Arrow 200 in action. If you’ll bear with me for one moment…”
He left the stage and moved into the adjoining room, quietly locking the door behind him. He approached the com-screen and loaded the recording he had made the day before. He switched on the screen. In the conference room, he could hear his relayed voice saying: “Thank you for your patience. Now, I think you will agree with me that the clarity of both sound and vision…”
Heart hammering with the thrill of the risk, Klien pulled the fine net of fibre-optic capillaries from the inside pocket of his suit and drew the device over his head. In the same pocket was the activator. He fingered the touch- pad. Instantly he was aware of a haze of light in his vision. Seconds later his eyes adjusted, and he quickly slipped through the door to the corridor. To any casual observer he would no longer resemble Ezekiel Klien, but a man in his sixties with a hatchet-thin face and silver hair. The capillary net was, officially, still in its design stage. As chief of security at the spaceport, he had contacted a local software company and sponsored its manufacture. It was making his work a lot easier.
He hurried along the corridor to the elevator and ascended to the fourth floor. His heart was pounding at a rate he only ever experienced on nights such as these. He tried to calculate the risk. The only possible danger was if the recording on the com-screen developed a hitch—and what an irony that would be! The pre-recorded disc would last fifteen minutes, allowing him what he considered to be more than enough time to get to the fourth floor, deal with Bhakor, and return.
He knocked on the door of room 180, and seconds later it opened fractionally. A sliver of Bhakor’s dark face appeared. A blood-shot eye blinked at him. “Smith. Ah-cha. You have the slash?”
“Don’t worry,” Klien said, slipping into the room. He crossed the lounge and sat down.
Bhakor returned from closing the door and lowered himself into the opposite armchair.
Klien watched the man as he leaned forward nervously. It was always his main regret that he could not, before he despatched his victims, lecture them on the error of their ways, explain to them just why they had to die.
Bhakor was impatient. “You have the slash?”
Klien nodded. “Have you had a good life, Bhakor?” he said.
Bhakor blinked. “What? What do you—”
“Are you ready to meet the judgement of your god?”
Before Bhakor could react, Klien pulled the laser pistol from his inside pocket and fired at point-black range, the blast charcoaling the right side of the drug dealer’s head. He slumped back into the chair with a posthumous grunt. The flesh of his cheek was blackened and cracked and the stench of singed hair and pomade filled the room.
Klien stood and pulled a razor from his pocket. Carefully, with almost loving exactitude, he sliced a crucifix in the plump flesh of the dead man’s left cheek. Then he hurried from the room, filled with an exultation and joy at the knowledge that he was doing God’s duty and sanitising this terrible world.
Two minutes later he entered the small room on the third floor, pulled off his capillary net and waited five minutes for the recording to finish. He heard his voice from the next room: “…as I think you’ll agree. Thank
