THE REDHEAD SMILED AT Gomez as he hooked himself into the passenger seat next to hers in the rapidly climbing Newz, Inc, skyvan. “I truly hope, Gomez, that you won’t think I’m being overly critical of you, especially at a time such as this, when you’ve screwed up to such an extent that you very nearly got your backside in a sling and must therefore be feeling hugely disappointed in yourself and depressed by your manifest inadequacies, and it’s all right with me, incidently, that you haven’t so much as bothered to give us even a teensy thank you for pulling your walnuts out of the fire or—”
“Chestnuts, Nat.”
“Hum?”
“It’s chestnuts that zealous folks are forever pulling out of the fire for other ungrateful folks.” He slouched more deeply into the seat, watching the night rain hit at the window beside him.
“Be that as it may, and ignoring your grouchy reaction to what I myself judge to have been a really impressive hairbreadth rescue—”
“Didn’t I tell you the fellow was a putz, princess?” A highly polished chrome-plated robot was piloting the sky van. He had the words newz, inc staff spelled out across his wide chest in diamond studs.
“Concentrate on your flying, Sidebar,” cautioned Natalie Dent.
“I’m a cameraman, princess. I’m only handling this crate because the regular—”
“Don’t get the idea, Sidebar dear, that I don’t admire and respect you, even though I’m dead certain that the robotics firm that constructed you erred somewhere in the installing of your ego, but I do wish you’d refrain from interrupting me while I’m having a conversation with my old friend Gomez.”
“A putz,” reiterated the cameraman robot, returning his full attention to guiding the van through the rainswept Paris night.
Natalie patted Gomez on the arm. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked. “That spill you took would’ve jiggled a man half your age.” She smiled sweetly.
“A man half my age would still be cooped up in a playpen,” said Gomez. “What the hell brings you to Paris, Nat—and into such close proximity with me?”
“Well, as one of the ace investigative reporters in the profession and as a star newsperson for Newz, Inc, the top round-the-clock news service on video, I get a lot of plum assignments, and this alleged Unknown Soldier killing fits into the category of important stories,” she replied. “It really strikes me as an incredible twist of fate that you and I are continually bumping into each other in these odd corners of the globe.”
“Paris isn’t an odd corner, Nat. Millions of people flock here daily.”
“True, but I was just mentioning to Sidebar, right after we noticed you making your clumsy exit from Eddie Anguille’s hotel room, ‘It’s funny how Gomez and I, while professing to have nothing in common, are continually showing up at the exact same spot.’ ”
Gomez straightened up in his seat. “You were en route to talk to Anguille?”
“Yes. Because I had a tip that he had a document that would bolster my theory about this particular killing,” said Natalie.
“A document, you say, Nat?” Gomez assumed a guileless look.
“I’m referring to the letter sent by the Unknown Soldier.”
“A letter, eh? Fancy that.”
Sidebar snorted. “The letter you have in your pocket, putz.”
“Sidebar, keep in mind that Gomez, even though he’s being surly and is ungrateful about our saving him from surely meeting the same fate as poor Mr. Anguille and being splattered all over the side of that seedy hotel and on a goodly stretch of pedramp as well, is our guest and I won’t have my pilot insulting—”
“I’m your cameraman, princess,” corrected the robot. “Cameramen are notorious for their ready wit and backtalk.”
“We’ve worked together admirably in the past,” said Natalie, taking hold of Gomez’s arm. “And, actually, it’s as a person and not as a detective that I think you come up short. So there’s no earthly reason why we can’t work together again. It will save us both a lot of—”
“Lord knows, Nat, just seeing you again has inspired me with a whole new spirit of cooperation,” he informed her sincerely. “The thing is ... Princess—is it that they call you these days?”
“I dislike that nickname. Which Sidebar well knows, and that’s, by the way, another indication that a major tune-up and overhaul wouldn’t hurt him a darn bit. You can continue to call me Nat, which isn’t all that attractive a diminutive, but since you can’t bring yourself to use ‘Natalie,’ I’m willing to settle.”
“Okay, Nat. The gratitude I’m feeling because of your timely rescue of me inspires me to share everything I know with you,” said Gomez. “Alas, however, those goons killed poor Eddie Anguille before he had a chance to tell me a damn thing, let alone pass me this alleged letter you seem so het up about.”
Sidebar turned his head, stared at Gomez. His plaseyes glowed briefly—an intense green. “It’s addressed to the Paris Police Bureau,” he said as his eyes faded back to their usual silvery gray. “It says, and I quote, ‘Bouchon was not one of mine. (Signed) The Unknown Soldier.’ ”
“Wonderful. Yes, that confirms my—”
“How’d he do that?” Scowling, Gomez touched the pocket where he’d stowed the copy of the letter.
“X-ray vision, schmuck,” answered Sidebar. “It’s built into all the best cameramen at Newz, Inc. And as you can see I’m one of the best.”
“Bouchon was killed for some other reason, by someone else,” said Natalie, hugging herself and smiling with satisfaction. “Yes, that’s exactly what I figured.”
“Bouchon?” said Gomez, frowning. “Oh, sí, I heard about his being knocked off.”
“Don’t think, please, that I don’t enjoy these simple little games you’re so fond of trying to play with me, Gomez, because if I’m in the right mood, they can be mildly amusing,” said Natalie. “But, honestly, you better level with me from now on so that we can work side by side.”
“You’re absolutely right, Nat, and excuse me for not being completely open with you. I should’ve known I couldn’t match wits with an astute reporter like you,” he said apologetically. “If you could drop me near my hotel, which is the Louvre, I’ll sit right down and start putting my notes in order. We’ll meet for lunch mañana and share all.”
The redhead watched his face for several silent seconds. “That would be nice, although I still don’t feel you’re being completely honest,” she said. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”
“I most certainly am not, chiquita,” he lied.
The door of the dining room snapped open. A lovely blonde android, clad in just about nothing, came stumbling out. There was blood splashed across her face and breasts. She bumped into Jake, caught hold of his arm, crying out, “They killed him! They murdered poor Zacky!”
Shoving the mechanical woman aside, Jake carefully crossed the threshold.
The large dining room’s interior offered a simulated moonlit terrace with a long formal dining table set up on the mosaic tiles. A large rectangle had been seared out of the far wall with a disintegrator cannon and the real night showed. A chill wind was blowing into the room, carrying rain with it.
Another nearly naked female android was still seated at the table. Most of her left side had been sliced away with a lazgun and her inner works were spilled out and dangling.
A third android, this one in the image of a naked young boy of fourteen, was leaning slackly against the stone railing of the terrace. The night rain was hitting at him and, very slowly now, he started to slide down to the tiles. When he finally landed, with a gentle thunk, his blond head separated from his torso to go rolling across the damp terrace tiles. It came to a stop against the bare leg of the female android and the bright blue eyes started blinking rapidly.
Jake had drawn his stungun from his shoulder holster. After scanning the room and determining that whoever’d broken in was long gone, he walked over to the table.
On the far side lay a slim man with wavy blond hair. They’d sliced off both his hands with a lazgun and he’d been bleeding to death. The rain was mixing with the spilled blood, thinning it and spreading it across the intricate patterns of the tiling.
Knowing it was too late to help the dying man, Jake knelt beside him. “Who did this, Rolfe?”
The IDCA agent noticed him after a few seconds. “Cardigan,” he whispered.
“Who was it?”
Rolfe’s bloody right arm started to rise, as though he intended to take hold of Jake’s sleeve with the hand he no longer had. “Watch out ... watch out,” he said in a voice that was running down, “... for Excalibur.”
A few choking sounds followed the last word. Then Rolfe died.