[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
anti-TAP crusade knew what he'd done? And what did I know about Grace Sharp's
death which no one had bothered to tell him?
Of course he was paranoid. The inquest was long over, the laser had been
magicked away -- but the fact remained: he'd stood on his balcony on a summer
evening and shot a perfect stranger dead.
Nothing could ever be the same again.
He said flatly, "Tomorrow night, at the school. Nine o'clock."
I rehearsed the story in my head as I crossed the football field -- which was
brightly floodlit for some reason, though there wasn't a soul around. A friend
of a friend in a certain law firm had heard that Helen Sharp had discovered
something in her mother's computer files -- something which had prompted her
to start proceedings to try to gain access to Third Hemisphere's records.
I was sure that Dallaporta would pass the rumour on to his benefactors; the
hardest part would be ensuring that he didn't mention "my" name. So long as he
remained tight-lipped about his source of information, they'd have to take him
Page 20
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
seriously.
Helen Sharp was preparing a forged -- paper -- letter from her mother to Third
Hemisphere, explicitly stating that she did not wish to accept the microcode
update. I was confident that we had enough leverage now to persuade Third
Hemisphere to play along, and bury the bait in the appropriate warehouse.
Maria Remedios would know at once what the "evidence" had to be. Cogent,
acting on her advice, would try to arrange its disappearance. This time,
they'd be caught red-handed.
At least, that was the theory.
Dallapporta had said he'd be in the "Resources Centre" -- which these days
apparently meant a large room full of work stations. I'd found a map of the
school in an online brochure, so I knew exactly where to go. The door was
open, though the lights were out -- and as I approached the threshold I could
see that all the machines inside had been switched on and connected to some
net service or other. More of Dallaporta's paranoia? Maybe he thought this was
an ideal source of interference for the police surveillance teams who were
following him everywhere -- though the sound from most of the work stations
was turned down to a whisper.
I peered into the greyness of the room, dazzled and distracted by the
multitude of images: swarms of tiny red and silver fish weaving through a
coral reef; a polychrome computer animation of air flow around some kind of
zeppelin; a portrait of a Florentine prince sprouting a speech balloon full of
modern Italian; a dead silver-haired twentieth century guru emitting
platitudes about the nature of truth. An old music video was playing by the
door; the singer droned: "This is the way, step insi-i-ide."
I smiled uneasily at the coincidence and walked into the room -- resisting the
urge to shout a greeting, mocking Dallaporta's elaborate "precautions". It
seemed far more diplomatic to play along. I stage whispered, "It's me. Where
are you?"
No reply.
It was hard to get my eyes accustomed to the darkness with forty or fifty
bright screens in view;
I had no reason whatsoever to look at any of the images -- but it was
remarkably difficult to keep looking away. I walked slowly towards the far end
of the room, irritated but prepared not to show it. I called out again, a
little louder; there was still no reply.
An animated supernova erupted just ahead of me -- and the sudden blue-white
radiance revealed a man slumped in a chair beside the screen. I moved closer,
and inspected the body by the light of the dying sun.
Dallaporta had a small-calibre pistol in his hand, and a neat hole in his
temple. I put two fingers to his neck; he was certainly dead, but still warm.
I felt a flicker of guilt break through the numbness of shock -- but this
wasn't the time to agonize over the way I'd treated him. He'd killed Grace
Sharp, and he hadn't been prepared to live with that. If the fear of whatever
I'd been about to tell him had been enough to drive him to suicide, he would
have done it sooner or later, regardless.
I took out my notepad to call the police.
Then the supernova faded, and a new image took its place.
An apartment building, swept by rain. The camera zoomed in on a figure
climbing between two of the balconies. The magnification kept increasing,
relentlessly -- and by the time the woman turned and showed her face, it
filled the screen.
My stomach tightened. I glanced back to the neat, too-professional hole in
Dallaporta's skull, reassessing everything. But ... who could have videoed me?
If Cogent's people had known I was on the balcony, why had they walked
straight in?
The image changed again. Me, planting one of the phone bugs. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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anti-TAP crusade knew what he'd done? And what did I know about Grace Sharp's
death which no one had bothered to tell him?
Of course he was paranoid. The inquest was long over, the laser had been
magicked away -- but the fact remained: he'd stood on his balcony on a summer
evening and shot a perfect stranger dead.
Nothing could ever be the same again.
He said flatly, "Tomorrow night, at the school. Nine o'clock."
I rehearsed the story in my head as I crossed the football field -- which was
brightly floodlit for some reason, though there wasn't a soul around. A friend
of a friend in a certain law firm had heard that Helen Sharp had discovered
something in her mother's computer files -- something which had prompted her
to start proceedings to try to gain access to Third Hemisphere's records.
I was sure that Dallaporta would pass the rumour on to his benefactors; the
hardest part would be ensuring that he didn't mention "my" name. So long as he
remained tight-lipped about his source of information, they'd have to take him
Page 20
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
seriously.
Helen Sharp was preparing a forged -- paper -- letter from her mother to Third
Hemisphere, explicitly stating that she did not wish to accept the microcode
update. I was confident that we had enough leverage now to persuade Third
Hemisphere to play along, and bury the bait in the appropriate warehouse.
Maria Remedios would know at once what the "evidence" had to be. Cogent,
acting on her advice, would try to arrange its disappearance. This time,
they'd be caught red-handed.
At least, that was the theory.
Dallapporta had said he'd be in the "Resources Centre" -- which these days
apparently meant a large room full of work stations. I'd found a map of the
school in an online brochure, so I knew exactly where to go. The door was
open, though the lights were out -- and as I approached the threshold I could
see that all the machines inside had been switched on and connected to some
net service or other. More of Dallaporta's paranoia? Maybe he thought this was
an ideal source of interference for the police surveillance teams who were
following him everywhere -- though the sound from most of the work stations
was turned down to a whisper.
I peered into the greyness of the room, dazzled and distracted by the
multitude of images: swarms of tiny red and silver fish weaving through a
coral reef; a polychrome computer animation of air flow around some kind of
zeppelin; a portrait of a Florentine prince sprouting a speech balloon full of
modern Italian; a dead silver-haired twentieth century guru emitting
platitudes about the nature of truth. An old music video was playing by the
door; the singer droned: "This is the way, step insi-i-ide."
I smiled uneasily at the coincidence and walked into the room -- resisting the
urge to shout a greeting, mocking Dallaporta's elaborate "precautions". It
seemed far more diplomatic to play along. I stage whispered, "It's me. Where
are you?"
No reply.
It was hard to get my eyes accustomed to the darkness with forty or fifty
bright screens in view;
I had no reason whatsoever to look at any of the images -- but it was
remarkably difficult to keep looking away. I walked slowly towards the far end
of the room, irritated but prepared not to show it. I called out again, a
little louder; there was still no reply.
An animated supernova erupted just ahead of me -- and the sudden blue-white
radiance revealed a man slumped in a chair beside the screen. I moved closer,
and inspected the body by the light of the dying sun.
Dallaporta had a small-calibre pistol in his hand, and a neat hole in his
temple. I put two fingers to his neck; he was certainly dead, but still warm.
I felt a flicker of guilt break through the numbness of shock -- but this
wasn't the time to agonize over the way I'd treated him. He'd killed Grace
Sharp, and he hadn't been prepared to live with that. If the fear of whatever
I'd been about to tell him had been enough to drive him to suicide, he would
have done it sooner or later, regardless.
I took out my notepad to call the police.
Then the supernova faded, and a new image took its place.
An apartment building, swept by rain. The camera zoomed in on a figure
climbing between two of the balconies. The magnification kept increasing,
relentlessly -- and by the time the woman turned and showed her face, it
filled the screen.
My stomach tightened. I glanced back to the neat, too-professional hole in
Dallaporta's skull, reassessing everything. But ... who could have videoed me?
If Cogent's people had known I was on the balcony, why had they walked
straight in?
The image changed again. Me, planting one of the phone bugs. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]