and I do have Covert's software in my head, even if I didn't want it there. So every law enforcement agency in North America knows that Covert's labeled me as such, right?”
“I guess,” Mirim said.
“If they read the nets, they know,” Casper said. “And of course they read the nets.”
“Okay, so?”
“So, who else would read the law nets?”
Cecelia, resting as well as she could in the cramped back seat, suddenly leaned forward.
“Casper…” she said warningly.
Mirim glanced at her, then back at Casper. “I don't get it,” she said.
“Well, think about it, Mirim,” he said. “Who else would want to know everything that's going on in the world of cops and robbers, besides the cops?”
“The robbers,” Mirim replied automatically. “But I still don't… oh, no.”
Casper grinned. “ Now you've got it,” he said. “Every cop in the country thinks I'm a dangerous terrorist in possession of government secrets-and so does every terrorist organization with half a brain. And they won't want to kill me-they'll want to recruit me!”
Chapter Thirteen
“So just which terrorist organization are you trying to contact?” Mirim asked. “And just how do you plan to do it?”
“Well, I've got a list of possibilities on that disk I took from Leonid's place,” Casper answered, as he studied the road signs and checked them against the car's map computer. “There's an underground group called People For Change that sounded promising-they're sort of semi-legitimate, not entirely a bunch of morons or terrorist loonies. They aren't believed to have blown anything up for three or four years now, but they're still active, sending out news releases and the like. And the lawyer who's represented their people whenever they get caught at something lives here in Princeton-somewhere. Not that I can find the place. I wish Leonid had had a modern computer in this car!”
“He didn't want to have any computer,” Mirim said. “He only added it because his boss insisted; this car was pre-computer, originally.”
“Figures,” Casper said. Then he spotted the name he wanted. “Yes!” he said, turning the car.
Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of a large brick house and contemplated it for a moment.
The sun was just below the western horizon, the sky a deepening blue; the streetlights came on as Casper thought, and there were already lights on in the house.
“Celia,” he said, “you're a lawyer- you talk to him. We'll wait here in the car.”
Cecelia hesitated, then said, “Give me ten bucks, Cas-I may need to give him a token retainer on your behalf, to make what we say privileged communication.”
Casper fished out a bill and handed it to her.
Cecelia accepted it, then climbed out of the car, squeezing awkwardly past Mirim.
“Good to be out of there,” she said, stretching. “That back seat was never meant for human beings.” Then she leaned back in and said, “You two behave yourselves, now.”
“Sure thing,” Casper replied.
“See that you do, or Mommy will spank.”
“I'd like that,” Casper said with a grin.
Cecelia gave a quick, unconvincing laugh, then closed the door and started toward the house.
Mirim snorted. “What does she think we're going to do out here?”
“I don't think it's here and now she's worried about,” Casper replied. “And I can understand her feelings-you were with me all morning, and you sided with me against Leonid. That's suspicious enough to justify a friendly warning, isn't it?”
“No,” Mirim said. “Leonid's a jerk, and I didn't really side with you against him anyway, did I? You had the guns; what was I supposed to do?”
“I had the automatic,” Casper said, “but the revolver was lying there on the floor. You could have gotten it while I was using the computer and come up behind me, and ordered me to let Leonid out.”
“Why would I do that?” Mirim asked. “I'm not a Hollywood hero, going around grabbing guns and so on. And besides, he'd have shot you!”
Casper shrugged. “You didn't do it,” he said. “I don't think the reasons matter, as far as Celia is concerned; you were choosing me over Leonid, and even if you weren't interested in me, it was pretty clear after that that whatever there was between you and Leonid was over.”
“Well…” Mirim couldn't really argue with that. “Well, I'd have to be a moron not to prefer almost anyone to Leonid-I don't know what I ever saw in him in the first place.”
Casper grinned.
“Bob Schiano,” the man in the rumpled plaid shirt said, holding out a hand.
Smith ignored the hand. “I'm using the name Smith,” he said. “You wrote the Spartacus File?”
Schiano shoved his hand in his jeans pocket. “I put it together,” he said, “but I didn't write the whole thing, or anywhere near it-it was a team project, and that's not counting all the previous art we used.”
“Whatever,” Smith said. “You know what's in it, right?”
“As much as anyone does,” Schiano agreed. “Why? Is someone thinking about using it?”
“Someone is using it,” Smith said.
“Wow,” Schiano said, taking his hands out of his pockets. “Really? Where? I figured they'd call me in to trouble-shoot the installation.”
“There was a screw-up,” Smith said. He glanced at his assistant, and at the two operatives with computers and headsets who served as his link with the outside world. He hesitated, and Schiano misread that.
“They forgot to tell me? Lost my number, or something?”
“No.” Smith sighed. “I mean the installation was a screw-up. We had the program on file at NeuroTalents, so that we could use it on foreign nationals who came in for imprinting as part of our regular aid programs, and the computer glitched.”
Schiano frowned. “Glitched how?”
“It optimized an American with the file. A man named Casper Beech came in for a routine imprint, and a disk-sector failure made the computer feed him the Spartacus File, instead.”
Schiano stared at Smith, then looked around for somewhere to sit. He crossed the room and settled slowly onto a chair, then looked up at Smith again.
“Jesus,” he said. “And he lived through it?”
“Oh, he lived, all right.”
Schiano nodded thoughtfully. “So you want me to help patch him up?”
“No,” Smith said. “We want you to tell us what the hell to do with him.”
“What do you mean? I don't know anything about the medical end.”
“I'm not worried about the medical end,” Smith said, exasperated. “I'm trying to catch the son of a bitch!”
Schiano's mouth fell open. “You mean he's loose? And the File's working?”
“Yes, damn it!” Smith shouted.
“But… oh, my God, we never found anyone who could take the Spartacus File-I didn't think there was anyone. I figured we'd tried to put too much into it, and we'd never find a brain that could handle it.”
“Well, the NeuroTalents computer found someone-this man Beech. It didn't just choose the optimization at random, it picked the file that suited him best out of the entire list.”
“An American? ” Schiano asked, incredulous.
“Yes, an American!”
“But… excuse me, sir, but in order to be optimized with that file the way I designed it, the subject would have to have been oppressed almost his entire life-kicked around, abused, tormented, and he'd have to have just
