Donovan accepted defeat with at least some measure of grace. Susan and Marci were on the couch; he was at the kitchen table, turned away from it, facing them. Donovan didn’t have any wine, but Susan seemed happy enough with a beer, and Marci had tea. Donovan studied the condensation on his own beer bottle, and calculated that if they talked about the case he wouldn’t have to deal with how the three of them were going to survive in his apartment without murdering one another.
“Here’s how I see it,” he said. “We have two people, X and Y. The shooter, and the supplier. There’s also someone inside the Foundation, who is either a spy or the mastermind.”
The others nodded, and waited.
“So we find the shooter, and hope he can lead us to the supplier, and hope the supplier can lead us to the mastermind, if he exists.”
“That,” said Hippie Chick, “is a lot of hoping.”
Marci nodded.
“I know,” said Donovan. “So, as long as you’re here, see if you can help me figure out something better.”
Susan and Marci looked at each other, shrugged, then turned back to Donovan.
“How are we finding the shooter?” Marci wanted to know.
“We have a lot of facts, and more coming from Upstairs. Once we have everything, I’m hoping we can put it all together enough to predict his next target, and be there ahead of him.”
“More hope,” said Susan.
“Yeah.”
“Well,” said Marci. “What about the artifacts? You call him the supplier, because he’s supplying the artifacts. What if we find him through them? That’d cut out some steps.”
“Sure, but how? Vasilyev is dead, and even if he weren’t, that would mean waiting for another attack.”
Marci looked down at the floor; then she looked up. “Did Becker give you a list of what artifacts are missing?”
“As many as we know.”
“Show me.”
Donovan turned around, opened up his laptop, and waited for it to come out of “sleep” mode. Then he brought up the file. Marci got up and read over his shoulder. Her hair smelled like cucumbers, which Donovan thought was pleasant but kind of weird.
“There,” said Marci. “In the bottom right. ‘A:ph.’”
“Yeah,” said Donovan. “What does it mean?”
“When we’d get memos from the kiddie pool, they’d say: ‘T’ and a colon and two initials.”
“T for Recruitment and Training,” said Donovan, “and the initials of whoever wrote the memo.”
Marci nodded. “The A means Artifacts and Enchantments.”
“So who is ‘ph’?”
“I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
“We can do that. But what will it give us?”
Marci said, “What was the Burrow looking for?”
“The artifacts,” said Donovan. “What they did, how to trigger them.”
“Right. What they were not looking for is how they went missing in the first place.”
“Yeah,” said Donovan. “I figure the PO-lice are on that.”
“But that’s what we need to know. If we can trace the actual theft—”
“But how—oh. Damn, girl. Nice. I should have been on that.”
“Call Becker. Find out who ‘ph’ is.”
“No and yes, in that order. I don’t want to talk to Becker about this. The bad guys have somebody on the inside.”
“You think it’s Becker?”
“Are you sure it isn’t?”
“Then,” said Susan, “do have another way to find out who ‘ph’ is?”
“Yeah. You guys wait here. Make yourselves comfortable; figure out how we’re going to survive here. I’m going to make a lightning trip to Spain. If I don’t get anything, maybe I’ll find Fenwood from Oversight and punch him in the mouth just on general principle.”
* * *
It was a perfectly perfect day when Donovan stepped away from a perfectly perfect tree on a perfectly perfect tree-lined boulevard that would have been more at home in a romance novel than a major European city. Donovan only gave it the most cursory look, however, as he recovered his footing and looked around for the address.
Right across the street, of course. It was a big, off-white building full of shops on the lowest floor and manikins wearing elaborate Renaissance garb on the second. Donovan found the proper door and went straight back.
A cheery receptionist met Donovan as he entered and said something with an upside-down question mark at the beginning.
“No habla español,” he managed. “¿Habla inglés?”
“Of course, sir,” said the young man in an accent that made Donovan think of West Virginia. “How may I help you?”
“My name is Donovan Longfellow, and I need to make a pickup in the receiving department.”
The young man continued smiling. “I assume you mean the shipping department?”
“Usually, that’s where it would be. But this is a special case.”
The young man lost his smile and nodded abruptly. “How can the Foundation help you, Mr. Longfellow?”
“Where is the Twelfth Floor?”
“On the tenth floor.”
Donovan kept his face straight and nodded. “Could you please tell them that I’m on my way up, and would like to see Ms. Morgan? Tell her it’s … um, shit. What’s the damn code?”
“Sir?”
“Tell her I love doing nothing.”
“Sir? I don’t—”
“Goddammit. Just tell her it’s urgent. I’ve just slipwalked from New Jersey, where I work on the Ranch, and I know what Oversight is going to say about that, and I don’t care. I need to see her. Can you tell her that?”
He nodded. “Go on up, sir, and speak with the receptionist. Mr. Longfellow, was it? I’ll relay the message.”
Donovan took the elevator to 10, stepped off, walked up to the nearest desk, and read the plaque. “Ms. Trujillo?”
She nodded and addressed him in mildly accented English. “You must be Mr. Longfellow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please go on back. It is left behind my desk, at the very end of the hall. There is no need to knock.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
A minute later, he stood before the organizational summit of the Foundation. The office was huge and floor to ceiling window, with rows of plants set to catch the sunlight as it moved around. The desk wouldn’t have fit into Donovan’s apartment. A shelf held Japanese vases and Victorian dolls. Donovan wondered if she used magic to keep the sun’s glare off her computer. She, herself, was between fifty-two and fifty-five, didn’t care that her hair was streaked with gray, and she kept it short. Her clothing was business casual, not designer, but elegant. She favored violet, which matched either her eyes or the color of her contact lenses. She wore a gold necklace with a modest ruby set in it, and no rings. There were no pictures on her desk.
He said, “Ms. Morgan—”
She interrupted. “Camellia. Does Mr. Becker know you’re here?”
“No.”
Morgan nodded. “In that case, Mr. Longfellow, you’d better close the door.”
“Donovan, then,” he said, and closed the door, and sat down.
“So, Donovan. What can I do for you?”
“There’s a memo from the Bu—from Artifacts. It was signed ‘ph.’ I’d like to know who ‘ph’ is.”
“Why?”
“Because he or she may have information that will aid our investigation.”
“What information exactly?”
“If I knew I wouldn’t need to ask.”
“Are you keeping secrets from me, Mr. Longfellow?”
“It seems to be the official Foundation pastime. I thought maybe I’d play, too.”
Morgan considered for a moment, then nodded. “You are asking for information pursuant to your investigation.”
“Yes.”
“And you do not wish to reveal details, because you are uncertain about who might learn what, and what that person might do with the information, and you’re afraid there may be an information leak.”
“Yes.”
“Is there any part of this you’re comfortable telling me?”
“I intend to find everyone involved in this, and what their plan is, and thwart it.”
“Thwart it.”
“Yes.”
Morgan nodded. “Her name is Peggy Hanson. I’ll have the Burrow send her up and meet you in the conference room. Ms. Trujillo will point it out to you.”
“Thank you.”
“And Donovan.”
“Yes?”
“Good hunting.”
Donovan nodded and stood up.
By the time he’d gotten directions to the conference room and followed them, there was already a woman there, looking wide-eyed and young, fat, pretty, no makeup. She was wearing blue jeans and a brown button-up sweater, and Donovan was pretty sure she was wishing she’d worn something more businessy.
“Peggy Hanson?” he said from the doorway.
She nodded.
“Do you speak English?”
She nodded again.
“I’m Donovan Longfellow. Can we talk for a minute?”
She nodded a third time. She looked like she wished she had a purse so she could clutch it. Jesus. What did they tell people about I and E? Or was it a race thing? I assure you, Ms. Hanson, I hardly ever eat white people. No, probably wouldn’t hit the right note.
Donovan closed the door and sat at the head of the table, Hanson on his immediate left. He said, “May I call you Peggy?”
She nodded a fourth time. Maybe she had a stutter.
“Thanks. Then call me Donovan.”
“Am I in trouble?” Her voice came out like a squeak.
“Huh, what? No. Not at all.”
She relaxed a little, but it seemed like she wasn’t entirely sure she believed him.
“We’re trying to get information on the missing Turkish artifacts.”
“I’ve told Mr. Becker everything I found out!”
Donovan tried smiling again. “There is a man named Charles out there, Peggy. He’s responsible for the death of one of our people, as well as several others. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who stole the artifacts.”
“You think that I—”
“Stop it, Peggy. I think you are completely honest. I think you are utterly loyal to the Foundation. I think you’re very good at your job. I think you might know things you don’t know you know. I think I want to ask you questions. I think if you sit there scared as hell, you aren’t going to think clearly, and I need you to think clearly. Should I take you out for a drink? This is Spain, so they have good sangria here, right? I love sangria. I’m trying to figure out how to relax you, Peggy. I don’t intend to hurt you, scold you, or even give anyone a report that will turn into a bad review. I just want to have a conversation. I want you to take me through the investigation, so I can figure out if there might be something in it that will help me. Okay?
“Why don’t you stand up, take a walk around the building, breathe some fresh air, tell me a funny story about your cat, and—”
“How do you know I have a cat?”
“Please, Peggy.”
“All right, Mr.—Donovan. All right, Donovan. Ask your questions. I’ll do my best.”
Donovan smiled again. “Now we’re talking.”
* * *
Donovan left Peggy Hanson in a better mood than he found her in at least. He left the executive wing and took the elevator down to 2, stepped off, and followed the signs to Budget and Oversight. He gave the receptionist his friendliest smile.
“Hello,” he said. “Do you speak English?”
The nice young man shook his head and gave Donovan an apologetic smile. “Deutsch?” he asked.
“Señor Fenwood?” said Donovan.
The man nodded enthusiastically, and held up a finger. Then picked up his phone, pushed a button, and spoke in Spanish for a moment. Then he hung up the phone, smiled, and pointed to a chair. This part of the building was all actual offices instead of cubicles, and the chairs in the waiting area were comfortable. The first two magazines on the table were in Spanish—one showed someone’s hands on a piano; the other depicted a woman in a short black dress holding a champagne glass and looking seductively into the camera. Donovan checked the picture carefully for clues. He was still doing so when he caught movement, and looked up to see Fenwood staring at him.
Donovan stood up. Fenwood took a step backward.
“Jesus,” said Donovan. “Don’t they feed you here? What do you weigh, twenty-five pounds?”
“Please, Mr. Long—”
“Oh, stop it. I didn’t come here to punch you out. Though I can’t deny the thought’s crossed my mind.”
Fenwood stopped backing up, but he still looked ready to bolt. “Then how can I help you, Mr. Longfellow?”
“Can we go back to your office?”
Fenwood hesitated.
“I promise,” said Donovan, “that if I decide to kick your ass I’ll bring you here first.”
For some reason, that worked—Fenwood led him back. Fenwood’s office wasn’t in a corner, thought Donovan with a certain reprehensible pleasure. The desk was placed so there would be no view out the window. There were a few pictures on it next to the computer, but Donovan couldn’t see what they were. There was a small bookcase beneath the window. The lower shelf had a few computer manuals, the middle shelf accounting books, and along the top were four intricate, detailed model eighteenth- or nineteenth-century sailing ships. There were two plain chairs facing the desk; behind it was an office chair that cost as much as Donovan’s stipend for six months.
“Mind if I sit down in one of your guest chairs?” said Donovan. “You can go ahead and sit in your own very comfortable chair.”
They sat down. Being in the chair seemed to restore some of Fenwood’s confidence. “Well, Mr. Longfellow? How may I help you?”
I should have taken the desk chair. “It’s pretty simple. I want you to do some checking within the Foundation.”
“In the first place, you do not have the right to ask me for an investigation of any sort. In the second—”
“Oh yes. And keep it secret.”
“Mr. Longf—”
“I’m hoping to find the source of a financial leak within the Foundation.”
“Financial leak? There’s no—”
“And I’m sincerely hoping it doesn’t turn out to be you, on account of how well we get along. So can you check that for me?”
Fenwood’s mouth opened and closed; then he said, “There is no way for any money to be ‘leaked’ from the Foundation, Mr. Longstreet. We have a series of checks and balances in place to verify the accounting. Any discrepancy would alert Ms. Molina, the department manager.”
“And it’s foolproof? There’s no way some accounting expert and computer genius could fool your system into thinking everything balanced?”
“No, there isn’t.”
“You understand, by saying that, you’re casting suspicion on Ms. Molina.”
“That’s absurd!”
“Well, the money’s missing.” Or, at any rate, it’s possible that there’s some money missing. “Suppose some computer wizard found a way to prevent the alarm from being given?”
“We check it manually twice a year.”
“How long since the last check?”
“January.”
“Check it now.” Fenwood started to speak. “Please,” Donovan added.
Fenwood sniffed and began working on his computer, using his mouse and typing occasionally. After about five minutes, his eyes grew wide. He looked up at Donovan and said, “Oh my God.”
“How much?”
Fenwood stared at him, horrified. “Ninety-two thousand, four hundred, and fifty-five dollars and sixty-four cents,” he said.
Donovan nodded. “Check into it, will you? And for now, keep this just between us.”
“If I discover something like this, I’m supposed to—”
Donovan stood up, leaned over the desk, and dropped his voice. “Do this for me, Mr. Fenwood. Please?”
Fenwood hesitated, then nodded.
“Good man,” said Donovan. He straightened up. “I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
Susan had had another beer, and Marci another cup of tea. Marci had taken her shoes off and her feet were on the couch; Susan was lounging facing her. Donovan wished very much he could have listened to their conversation while he was gone, but there was no point in even asking.
“Did you get anything?” said Marci.
“Yeah. The name of the researcher is Peggy Hanson. I told her that we needed to find the supplier—the one who stole the crate of artifacts—so if we could figure out how it had happened, that it might give us a clue. There was a bit of back-and-forth, but in the end, we agreed that most likely the supplier had known about the cache of artifacts before it was sent, and made arrangements to have it vanish during shipping. So, how do you learn about the existence of artifacts just as they’re being dug up? I asked how Peggy found out about the cache. That turned out to be a mistake. She told me. In detail. I was afraid I wasn’t going to get out of there with my sanity.”
“What sanity?” said Marci.
“Remember when you called me sir? What was that, two weeks ago?”
“I was a lot younger then.”
“Yeah. Anyway, then I asked her how someone who hadn’t known about it in advance would have learned of it, and that made her get all sorts of funny looks on her face. I’m going to have a beer. Anyone else? No? Okay.”
He got one, opened it, sat down again in his desk chair, back to the kitchen table. “So, she said it had to have come from whatever archaeological dig unearthed the stuff in the first place.”
“How?” said Marci. “Does the Mystici have the manpower to watch every dig going on everywhere, just in case something magical shows up?”
“No,” said Donovan. “And whoever our mastermind is, he or she has even less manpower. So that isn’t what happened.”
“Oh,” said Marci. “Good then. Uh, is there a spell that can do that? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“That’s just what I asked. Neither had she. I mean, she thought it would be great if it existed, and I could just see her wishing she had the ability to, like, go find magical artifacts. But, you know, when they’re buried somewhere, they’re just there. Buried. They don’t give off a signal or anything like that.”
Donovan looked at Susan, who gave him a why are you looking at me? look. He took a long pull of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We knew the supplier was working with someone inside the Mystici, the Foundation, or both. I was betting on the Foundation, so I checked it out. And yeah, someone is siphoning funds out of the Foundation. That is not only evil in that it furthers their dastardly scheme or some shit, but more important, it puts our wages at risk, so, you know, now there’s no fucking around. But anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Point is, there’s someone on the inside. That’s confirmed.”
Marci shifted, putting her feet on the floor and leaning forward. “I believe that,” she said. “But that doesn’t tell us how they got hold of the artifacts, or get us closer to finding him.”
“Right. But keep that in mind. We know that the leak didn’t come from the Burrow, because the Burrow didn’t start looking into it until the artifacts were in use already. So if you want to steal magical artifacts, the first thing you need is to know they exist. How would someone find that out, other than the way the Burrow does it, which is a cross between happenstance and meticulous detective work. So I asked her to go over for me what happens on a dig.”
Donovan stopped and pulled out a small notebook, consulted it. “I took notes.” He cleared his throat. “So, archaeologists pick a site based on various methods—someone finds something and says, ‘Hey, I found this in this-and-such spot,’ or maybe there’s a historical record of a city having once been in a certain location, or it’s an obvious continuation of some previous dig, or it’s a great place to put a city, or sometimes they even follow up on folktales.
“A team shows up and lays down a grid on the site. They go over the top level, picking up any obvious things, dating them if it’s easy to do, and bagging and tagging them just like a crime scene. Then they gradually go deeper, keeping track of what layer things are found at. They keep careful notes, including who is on the site, weather conditions when things were found, and tons of other things. And it was right about then that Peggy sort of choked, stopped talking, and said, ‘Hey, is there a magic spell that can read a book someone else has?’”
Donovan stopped and waited.
Marci said, “Well, I mean, it’s possible, isn’t it? There are clairvoyance spells, and spells for preventing clairvoyance, and it’s a whole thing. Not something I ever got good at, because it involves manipulating light, and I … oh, wait. I see where you’re going.”
Donovan nodded. “The first possibility of discovering a magical artifact, if you aren’t actually on the site, would come from reading the notebooks.”
“I don’t get it,” said Susan. “How do you go from ‘I found a really old coin’ to ‘wowie zowie there’s magic here’?”
“Thanks for asking that. I feel better. When I asked Peggy, she looked at me like I was an idiot. Then she had to back up and explain things to me in the same tone I used when my niece asked me why people have to go to work. They don’t go to these sites blind. I mean, they know something when they walk in, right? About the culture, the language, what they ate, that stuff. So, Marci, you do enchantments, right? I mean, you recharged my knotnots.”
“I know the basics, sure.”
“If I said, ‘Hey, I need a device with a water-walking spell,’ what would you put it on?”
“I don’t know. Something easy to carry around, something that won’t attract a lot of attention, but that also stands out. I mean, you don’t put a spell on a quarter, because then you’re digging in your pocket trying to figure out which quarter the spell is on, right?”
Susan nodded.
“Yep,” said Donovan. “And that’s how it was found.”
“Um, explain?”
“If you know the culture, and you can read the journals, you identify things that stand out, that don’t belong. Not ‘don’t belong’ in the sense that would attract the tabloids—all things that are part of the culture. But odd. You know, just a little bit weird.”
“Like,” said Marci, “why are there a bunch of polished rocks here?”
“Yeah,” said Donovan. “Like that. Some archaeologist writes in his notebook: ‘Why are there a bunch of polished rocks here?’ Our guy reads the notebook, does some checking with folklore or his own records, and there we are. From there, he starts figuring out how to steal it.”
Susan nodded. “Okay, I get it. How does that get us closer to the supplier?”
In answer, Donovan turned to his computer, brought up Skype, and placed a call.
Becker came on at once. “Mr. Longfellow,” he said. “How can I assist you?”
“How are we doing on those security tapes?”
“There’s been progress, Mr. Becker. I hope to have them soon.”
“All right. There’s something else. Do you know of anyone in the Foundation who is skilled at clairvoyance?”
“Several, Mr. Longfellow. Can you be more specific?”
“Someone who could find a notebook and read it, given a general location.”
“And read it, Mr. Longfellow? From my understanding of sorcery, that would take a great deal of skill.”
“That is my understanding as well. Can you find such a person?”
“I believe so. Yes.”
“Then I suggest you speak with this person, or these people, and ask where we might find a criminal mastermind.”
“I see. Can you give me the background?”
“It would take a long time, Mr. Becker. I’d rather we just got on with it, if it’s all the same to you.”
Becker looked away from the screen. Then he looked back and said, “I’ll get back to you, Mr. Longfellow.”
“I look forward to it, Mr. Becker.”
Donovan disconnected.
“Security tapes?” said Susan.
“I’ll explain when we have them.”
“I thought you didn’t trust Becker.”
“I don’t. I don’t trust anyone who isn’t in this room. But he’s going to have to either answer the question, or identify himself as working against us.”
Marci nodded.
“Got it,” said Susan. “So, what do we do in the meantime?”
Donovan sighed. “I guess we figure out how to get you two settled in.”
* * *
Recruitment and Training made up the third floor. Recruitment was a small part of it—one corner containing the cubicle of the recruiter for the Mediterranean Region, another for the head of R & T, and a few desks for clerical staff. Manuel Becker walked up to the cubicle of the department head because he liked to do things in person when possible.
William Faucheux looked up, and said, “Mr. Becker. May I help you with something?”
“I need to borrow a pair of sorcerers, Mr. Faucheux. Whoever you have with the capability of subduing a hostile.”
“Can you give me any more details? That is, if I know the exact nature of the probable resistance, I can be more precise.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Faucheux.”
“All right.” Faucheux picked up his phone and pushed a number. “Doris? William. Please release Melissa and Heinrich and ask them to meet Mr. Becker by the elevator. Tell them this is not a training exercise, and that it is possible their skills will be needed. Mr. Becker will explain more.” He disconnected, and nodded to Becker. “They are the best of the current class,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Faucheux,” said Becker, and headed back to the elevators.
The students looked nervous and excited; Becker approved. “You will follow me,” he explained. “We are going to make an arrest. If there is any resistance, you will subdue the individual, but not harm him. Under no circumstances will you render him unable to speak. We will bring him to the basement holding cells with as little disturbance as possible under the circumstances. If he does resist, I do not know what form the resistance will take, so be ready for sorcerous or physical attacks. I repeat, subdue, do not harm. Is that clear?”
They nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
They went up the elevator to 6. The Research and Development department looked like a library, like a warehouse, like a mad scientist’s laboratory, like the house of a pack rat. People—researchers—were scattered randomly about the floor, which was undivided by anything except support pillars and one cubicle in a far corner.
Becker walked toward the cubicle, Melissa and Heinrich flanking him, and looking around. Partway there, Becker stopped in front of a table behind which stood two men, one watching a computer screen, the other passing his hands over a thin piece of stained glass. There were a pair of wires leading from the glass into a USB port of the computer. “All right,” said one. “Anything now?”
Becker said, “Christopher McCaan?”
The one who’d spoken looked up. “Yes, that’s me. If you’d just give me a sec—”
“I’m Manuel Becker from Investigations and Enforcement. Please step away from the table and come with me.”
“Huh, what?” The man looked surprised, and not in the least guilty. “What’s this about?”
“Just some questions.”
“Uh, all right. Can I finish—”
“No. Please step away from the table.”
“Jesus! All right! Where are we going, anyway?”
Melissa and Heinrich fell in next to McCaan. Becker turned and headed back to the elevators.
* * *
From Dallas to Aviano Air Base in Italy, and then the train to Madrid. Matt decided he liked train travel. He thought about bumming around Europe taking trains everywhere, and it didn’t seem too bad, what with one thing and another. The few words of Farsi he had didn’t help any, and it was amazing how little he remembered of the Spanish he’d had in school. Three years of it, but anything beyond “Good day, mister” defeated him. He wondered what he’d do at night.
When he reached Madrid, he found a phrase book, and was able to memorize the most important phrase: “No hablo español. Soy canadiense.” Fortunately, no one demanded he speak French and people were happy to direct him to a hotel where he was assured they spoke English.
They did. He took a room, ate a meal, and got some sleep. The next morning, the concierge, who spoke better English than Matt did, was happy to not only direct him to the Paseo del Prado but also compliment him on his choice of tourist destinations, waxing eloquent about its beauty. Then the concierge secured him a cab, sending him away happily.
At 9:00 AM local time, he stood opposite the headquarters of the Spanish Foundation and considered his next move.
* * *
It wasn’t as bad as Donovan had been afraid it would be, at least for the first day. Susan ran out and picked up a couple of cheap pillows and a sheet and some extra food, and the whole thing crazily reminded Donovan of when he’d had sleepovers with his brother and cousins and blankets and a flashlight.
A couple of hours later, Becker called on the phone, meaning he’d called from home. “Mr. Becker,” said Donovan. “Good to hear from you. Did you find the clairvoyant?”
“We did, and we’ve questioned him.”
“And is he still in one piece, Mr. Becker?”
“He was very cooperative, Mr. Longfellow. There was no need for enhanced interrogation of any sort. Apparently he’s a dupe, not conspirator.”
“Go on, Mr. Becker.”
“He did, indeed, spend occasional evenings over the past year reading archaeologists’ journals, looking for potential artifacts, and reporting them.”
“Who’d he report to?”
“He thought he was reporting to someone at Artifacts and Enchantments.”
“But?”
“He was not.”
“How did it work?”
“He sent it to an email address. It looked right—it was to our own server. He had no reason to believe it was going to anyone outside.”
“Which means,” said Donovan, “that someone inside had to set up the email address, right?”
“Yes.”
“It also means—okay, I don’t—” His uncle had given him the basics of this, but it was years out of date, and he’d never used it. “He has to, I mean, his computer has to do a thingie where it requests that email, right? So while he’s requesting it—”
“Yes, Mr. Longfellow. I spoke with our computer people here. A ‘script,’ as she called it, was put, or set, or started, to detect when our query checked his email.”
“And?”
“Now we wait until he downloads his email again.”
“Do we have any idea of when that might be?”
“In the past, he has connected over the weekend, presumably because there are fewer people here.”
“And today is Thursday.”
“Here it is the very early hours of Friday.”
“All right. So, we’re waiting. Is that what you called about?”
“No. I’ve acquired your security information. I’ve just emailed it to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Becker. Get some sleep.”
“Yes, Mr. Longfellow. Thank you. I shall.”
Donovan checked his email, and there was one from Becker. It had “security feed” as the subject line and just a URL for the body. Donovan said, “If anyone is interested in watching with me, I’ve got the tapes from the hotel lobby.”
“Tapes?” said Marci.
“I don’t mean tapes tapes. I mean a video feed, from the hotel.”
“Oh,” said Susan, getting up from the couch and hovering over him. “What for?”
“Identifying the guy who immolated Alexander Young.”
“You think,” said Susan, “you’ll see him cast the spell?”
“Probably not, but it’s possible. This is the first killing at a place with a security feed; it’d be stupid not to watch it. Worst case, I get something I can use next time.”
Marci said, “Just seeing someone walk through the lobby from a grainy security feed, you think you’ll recognize him later?”
“Uh, how do you do. I’m Donovan.”
“All right.”
They both hovered around him as he started running the feed from a point eight hours before the killing, and fast-forwarding past parts where the lobby was empty.
An hour and ten minutes later, he stopped it and said, “Son of a bitch.”
“What?” said Susan.
“That’s him.”
“Huh? Where?”
There were three people on the screen at this point, two of whom had their faces toward the camera. Donovan tapped one with his finger.
“Him?” said Susan. “He looks like a salesman who doesn’t work out enough.”
“Yeah, but that’s our guy.”
“How do you know?”
“I recognize him.”
“From where?”
“He was in the restaurant in Chicago at the same time we were. He was in the booth next to the door, hunched over, drinking water and ignoring his coffee. Shit. He was shaken. I should have put it together. We could have had him right there.”
“Are you sure?” said Marci. “How could you be that sure from just one glimpse?”
Donovan turned and looked at her. “In the booth behind him were a mother and daughter, white, midfifties and midtwenties respectively. The daughter worked around there; the mother was visiting from out of town, somewhere warm. At the table next to them was a guy reading the sports section. Black, midforties, corporate lawyer. At the next booth—”
“Okay, I get it.”
Donovan turned back to the screen. “Son of a bitch,” he said again.
“Well, all right, then,” said Susan. “We have a face. Do we have any way to go from a face to a name?”
“There’s Google face recognition,” said Marci.
“I’ve heard of all sorts of government agencies that have more sophisticated versions,” said Donovan. “But I don’t know any way to get access to those.”
“You could ask Upstairs,” said Susan.
Donovan nodded. “They’ve all gone home now, but I’ll do that first thing tomorrow. Worst that’ll happen is they’ll say no. In the meantime, Marci, try the Google thing.”
* * *
Once upon a time there was a woman named Shveta Tyaga. Some would have said she was born a Shudra to very devout but poor farmers; others would dispute this, denying the validity of the term Shudra in her region of Tamil Nadu, if not in the entire subcontinent. That her family were farmers, and poor, and devout could not, in any case, be denied.
She discovered her sorcerous abilities at the age of twelve, when she found a small sample of Combretum ovalifolium, which her mother called the Heartflower, and Shveta wanted it to grow quickly, and it did—it grew from a seedling to a fully formed plant in under a minute. She tried it again, and it worked again.
She thought this was delightful, and wondered what else she could do.
She didn’t discover the grid lines, the grid points; she simply became aware of her knowledge of them, as if it were something she’d known all along. Her ability to reach out to them, connect, use them, was remarkable, though certainly not unprecedented.
Throughout history, there have been those who had special, unusual, or unique talents; there have also been those who have been able to harness the energy of the grid and shape it to their will without training. Perhaps the latter is an example of the former. In any case, Shveta was one of these. In essence, she taught herself magic, learning certain limited but useful spells, mostly associated with growing things. Within a couple of years, her family, though not wealthy, could no longer be called poor. She kept her abilities a secret until her sixteenth year, when she was drawn to a node a few miles due east of Keelakunupatti. She left her home after dark, walking miles and miles until she reached it, and she was thus found by the subcontinent recruiter for the Roma Vindices Mystici.
For the first two years of her training, she amazed her instructors, who soon wondered if they’d be able to keep up with her, much less continue to teach her. It seemed she instantly mastered everything she attempted—defensive spells, observation spells, and especially attack spells. She could use magic to kill someone in 109 different ways—although, to be fair, more than half of those were either pointless or silly. Causing someone’s blood vessels to burst doesn’t much matter when you’ve had to boil the individual’s blood to accomplish it, and puncturing someone’s brain with his own hair is actually not all that painful and a considerable waste of energy.
In any case, she stayed with her lessons for two years, growing in ability and control and knowledge. She couldn’t do everything—no one can—but those things she could do she could do very well.
Some said the trouble was that it had taken so long to find her; by the time the Mystici began her training, she had acquired the habit of independence, which naturally led to a resentment of authority.
Whatever the reason, she walked away from the Mystici at the age of nineteen, afterward traceable only by effect: an abusive wealthy husband robbed and murdered, a slumlord robbed and murdered, a brutal pimp robbed and murdered. See the pattern? Bad person with money becomes a dead person, and the money goes into Shveta’s pocket.
Shveta’s parents had been poor, and she didn’t care for it. But it had always been important to them that she be a good person, and that, too, was ingrained.
She didn’t kill often—every year or so. And then she’d live on the proceeds as long as she could. This made her very hard to find, for those who objected to her activities, and for those who might want to find her for other reasons.
Hard, but not impossible.
“Good morning, Shveta. Sorry to bother you so early.”
“Hello, dear. What is it?”
“I need a favor.”
“For you, anything. Almost anything. Some things.”
“Would you mind heading to the States? I think our guy there may need some help.”
“Um. I’m kind of involved in this thing in Warsaw. Remember? You wanted me to do it?”
“I know. But this trumps everything else. It’s important. Please.”
“All right. For you, this is one of the things.”
“Thanks, sweetie. I’m emailing the details … now.”