CHAPTER 6
—ACG—
The Houston police found one of the tramway thugs before Allied’s submersible found the Gulf jammer, but only just. Reports of the two captures reached Mikhail Dryke within an hour of each other. Either would have been sufficient reason to make Houston his next stop; both together were compelling enough for him to set aside his business in Munich and go there directly.
Dryke’s Saab touched down at Houston in pitch-darkness, a few minutes after one. A young driver wearing Allied green picked up Dryke at the hangar and ferried him to the hardware lab, where he found the jammer sealed in an immersion tank and under guard by a gnomish sentry named Donovan. No technicians were in evidence, nor was there any sign that the unit had been touched.
“What’s going on here?” Dryke demanded. “Why hasn’t that jammer been torn down yet?”
“Mr. Dryke, Mr. Francis gave instructions that we were to hold it for your arrival,” the driver said.
“Where is Francis?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Donovan volunteered. “He said that he would be back before you arrived, sir.”
“When was that?”
“About seven o’clock.”
Dryke muttered something unintelligible and stepped forward to look down into the tank. Though only shreds remained of the jammer’s float bladder, the blue-green pear-shaped metal casing gave no evidence of its five-day immersion in 160 feet of warm Gulf brine. Nor did it bear any obvious identifying marks.
But Dryke recognized it all the same.
“Who’s the lab director?” Dryke asked, turning back to the other men.
“Dr. Kimura,” they said together.
“You,” Dryke said, pointing at the sentry. “Donovan. Call Dr. Kimura. Tell him I want him in here with his best technician by the time I get back. Tell him I want to know where this came from.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you,” Dryke said to the driver. “You’re taking me downtown.”
The driver nodded, and they started toward the door. But before they could reach it, Jim Francis appeared there.
“Mr. Dryke. I’m delighted to be able to bring you back with
“May I see your gate ID, please?”
Puzzled, Francis retrieved the card from an inner pocket of his suit coat and handed it to Dryke.
“Donovan,” Dryke said, folding the card in half with one hand until it snapped in two with a sharp crack. “Mr. Francis has just left the company. See that he leaves the grounds.”
“What?” protested Francis. “You can’t fire a man for being late.”
“Yes, sir,” said Donovan, stepping forward.
Dryke nodded and turned away.
“Wait just a minute,” Francis said angrily. “You owe me an explanation—”
Whirling, Dryke snapped, “If you were bright enough to be worth keeping, you wouldn’t need an explanation. You’ve made it clear that you don’t really understand what’s going on. You’ve got your head buried in procedures and schedules and you just don’t
“I have fourteen years experience in corporate security—”
“And you haven’t learned a thing from any of it except how to dot your i’s.” Dryke crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head in disgust. “Get him out of here.”
Mikhail Dryke studied the picture on the security monitor—a high corner view of Brian Elo White slouched with arrogant casualness in the sole chair in Interview 3, Transit Division, Houston Police Department.
“Cocky,” Dryke said at last, looking up at the soft-faced, hard-eyed woman standing beside him.
“He’s street,” said Lieutenant Eilise Alvarez. “Country manners and city morals. Good ol’ boy with an attitude.”
“How did you find him?”
“We picked his fingerprints out of the blood smears on the plaz,” Alvarez said. “He won’t dean on the other two, though. Not even with four years in front of him and a Victim’s Lien waiting for him when he comes out.”
“How is the Martinez woman?”
“Last I heard she was still in intensive care. She got racked.”
Dryke nodded and looked back at the screen. “This one have family?”
“No. Just relatives.”
“Any leverage at all?”
“No,” she said, and shook her head. “Twenty-one and as cold as they come. I don’t think you’re going to get any help from him.”
“I want to be alone with him.”
Alvarez nodded. “But the monitor stays on. I can’t sanction any hands-on. He’s in our custody. He’d walk. And you don’t want that. Besides, this kind has thick calluses.”
“I understand the rules.”
“Okay,” she said, standing. “Let’s go.”
Alvarez led him down the hall to the guard station at the interview suite, and the guard in turn escorted Dryke into Interview 3. White looked up lazily as he entered.
“So you’re the fuck that’s cheating me out of my sleep,” the youth said, his mouth twisting into something that was half-sneer, half-scowl.
“Yeah,” Dryke said, advancing toward the table. “I’m the fuck.”
“You’re no cuff,” White said, squinting. “Must be collar.”
“I’m both,” Dryke said. “Allied Transcon security.”
White pursed his lips and waggled his hand in a mocking gesture. “Little cuff, big collar,” he said, folding his arms across his chest and closing his eyes. “Nothing to me, beershit. Not worth my sleep.”
“I can get you out of here,” Dryke said.
“Scammer.”
“I can. Tonight.”
In a vaguely reptilian manner, the youth’s left eye opened slowly and regarded Dryke curiously. “Why?”
“That’s the magic question,” Dryke said. “Why?”
The other eye opened, wary. “Why what?”
“Why you and your friends came out to the observation platform Monday and racked the starheads.”
White pulled himself up out of his slouch and twisted on his chair until he was facing Dryke. “You cute cuff psych, want to draw a pretty of my head?”
“I told you who I am. Why’d you do it?”
“Didn’t.”
“Scammer. You’re not here for the food.”
A shrug. “Fagging cuffs can lie from A, who catches ’em? It’s their world.”
“Fine,” Dryke said, straightening. “Nice talking to you.” He started for the door.
“Hey,” White called. “Hey, collar. What d’you care?”
Dryke turned and regarded the youth coolly. “It’s none of your business why we care,” he said. “All you need
