ARTHUR BAIRNHOUSE’S DESK WAS made of real wood and was at least two centuries old. It was piled high with folders, sheets of faxpaper, memos, clippings, photos. The plump detective was sitting behind it in a real wood chair. “One of our operatives,” he was telling Jake, “just talked to a young woman named Jillian Kearny. She goes to school in Barsetshire and knows your son. She admits to having talked to him immediately prior to his having run away.”
Jake asked, “Does she have any idea where Dan went?”
“She passed on some information as to the possible whereabouts of the Sands girl. She’s now very much afraid that Daniel disregarded her warnings and came to London.” From the desk-top clutter Bairnhouse picked up a map and spread it out on a small cleared area. “Take a look at this, if you will, Cardigan. This entire circled section of our city is a gang-ridden wilderness. Along here, at the end of Victoria Street, is the bailiwick of a youth gang that calls itself the Westminster Gang.”
“They’re near Westminster Abbey.”
“Near the ruins of the abbey,” said the plump detective. “According to Miss Kearny, the Sands girl has a friend who’s a member of this particular gang. That friend’s name in the civilized world was Mary Elizabeth Joiner. Now she’s known as Silverhand Sally.”
“Jillian Kearny told Dan that Nancy went to join this friend?”
Bairnhouse nodded. “She wanted him merely to pass the information on to the authorities—or to you. So that a search could be made for Nancy Sands. She apparently doesn’t trust the people the Sands girl is living with, a couple named McCay. Your son, however, chose to hunt for his missing friend himself, it seems.”
“That’s like him, yeah.”
“And like you, Cardigan,” pointed out Bairnhouse. “Let’s continue with this briefing, if you will. Here on the map you’ll notice Grosvenor Place. That’s where, in the shadow of what’s left of Buckingham Palace, the Tek Kids are headquartered.”
“Tek Kids?”
“Perhaps you haven’t encountered them yet in America, or perhaps they’re called something else.” Bairnhouse rubbed at his flat nose. “TKs are the unfortunate offsprings of Tek-using mothers. They suffer from the mutagenic effects that prolonged use of Tek seems to have on a certain percentage of addicts.”
“I think I did see a couple of reports on them,” recalled Jake. “They tend to be extremely violent, amoral, vicious, and very quick to anger.”
“Right you are. Too restless for school and virtually unbeatable in institutions,” said Bairnhouse, his thick forefinger tapping on the map. “What happens usually is that they gradually drift into the slums, ghettos, and ruins of our big cities. They form packs, and when they’re not fighting amongst themselves, they prey on other gangs and pull off raids on the outside world. They unfortunately differ from other teen gangs in that a certain percentage of them have psionic powers. Some are teleks, others possess ESP powers. All of which makes TKs very dangerous, not the sort of people for either your son or yourself to become involved with.”
Jake was studying the map. “The TKs aren’t that far from the Westminsters.”
“Exactly, and to reach Silverhand Sally your son may try to cross the TKs’ sacred ground.”
Jake grinned briefly. “I know, Arthur, that you’re trying to discourage me from going in alone after Dan,” he told the detective. “Your lecture, though, has the opposite effect. I can’t let Dan wander around in there alone.”
“I thought that would be your position, Cardigan.”
“There’s no alternative, since I understand the police are reluctant to cross over into that part of London.”
“They make occasional trips,” said Bairnhouse. “We might be able to persuade them to mount a search for your son and the Sands girl.”
“After considerable red tape and circumlocution.”
“They wouldn’t undertake the job today, let us say.”
“I’ll do it alone.”
From his desk Bairnhouse picked up a sheet of faxpaper. “Here’s a small list of people who can provide you information, and dire warnings in some instances, about this part of London,” he said, handing Jake the page. “I’ve also included a couple of reliable contacts who live in the gangzone.”
Jake said, “Thanks, Arthur.”
“We’ll continue to work on this in our way, of course.”
“Good. I’ll continue to work on it in my way.”
Natalie Dent was sitting in a silvery control chair in Briefing Room 2 of the Paris offices of Newz, Inc. “Pay attention, Gomez,” she urged. “Sit up straight.”
He was slumped in a lower chair at her right, more or less watching the wall in front of them. It contained sixteen large pixmonitor screens, laid out in rows of four. “I’ve been drinking all this in, Nat,” he assured her. “Hoping against hope that we’d soon get to the point.”
“Once a putz always a putz,” observed Sidebar. The robot cameraman was sitting in a fat chair at the rear of the big, chill room.
“What I’ve showed you thus far, which you ought to have comprehended, Gomez, is all important background material for what I’m about to reveal,” said the red-haired reporter. “Is it perhaps that you’re mooning over Mrs. Bouchon, who’s not totally unattractive for a woman of her advanced years and—”
“Madeleine hasn’t advanced anywhere near as far as I have, chiquita.”
“I couldn’t help noticing, and you don’t have to be a topflight investigative reporter such as I am to have spotted it, that she was quite profusely demonstrative and affectionate when you left her at that safe house your detective agency arranged for her.”
“To a fiery Latin such as myself, Nat, a chaste peck on the forehead isn’t considered the height of physical passion. Can we get to what you know about Michel Chasseriau?”
“What we’re leading up to, Gomez, is exactly—”
“What did the guy want to impart to Madeleine Bouchon?”
“Really, Gomez. You’re as grumpy as a bear with a sore nose.”
“Paw.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Sore paws are what, traditionally, make bears grumpy.”
Natalie sighed. “Look at Screen 5,” she suggested. “That’s some footage of Bram Wexler, a Britisher who heads up the Paris office of the International Drug Control Agency.” The smiling man on the monitor screen was in his early forties, conservatively dressed, strolling down a bright springtime Parisian boulevard completely unaware that he was being photographed. “Wexler was Bouchon’s boss, and in the course of investigating all aspects of this story, I came across a tip that he may have some connection with Bouchon’s murder.”
“Where does Chasseriau come in?”
“He’s been avoiding the office since the killing, uncertain as to what to do about the knowledge he has,” answered the reporter. “Another informant told me that Chasseriau might be willing to talk about what he knew. That’s Chasseriau on Screen 7.”
On the monitor screen a frail young man in his middle twenties had appeared. He was nervously pacing the small living room of his apartment.
“Notice the quality of this footage,” said Sidebar. “I shot it this morning, using nothing but natural light.”
Gomez poked Natalie in the side with his thumb. “You folks called on him—and talked with him?”
“Bright and early,” she replied.
“Can you tell me some of what he told you?”
“Bouchon had confided in him, just a few days before he was slaughtered, that he suspected Bram Wexler was conspiring with two or three of the major Teklords.”
“That’s a pretty serious charge. Did Bouchon have proof?”
“No, he wasn’t even certain what exactly was going on, but he knew Wexler was involved in something shady and that it had to do with Tek,” answered the redheaded reporter. “Originally, Bouchon had been sharing his suspicions with Zack Rolfe, calling on him at his place after office hours.”
“Bueno. That means Bouchon wasn’t fooling around and that Rolfe was lying.”
“That seemed to me obvious from the start, Gomez, and I’m really astounded that none of the IDCA people, nor any of the policemen on this case, realized that,” she said. “Gradually Bouchon began to wonder if he could trust Zack Rolfe. He apparently didn’t much like Chasseriau, but he was certain he was honest. So he came to him to discuss what was worrying him.”
Gomez shook his head. “It was too late by then. They’d already decided to kill Bouchon to keep him from nosing around further.”
“Now take a look at Screen 3.” She touched another button on the arm of the control chair.
A bland chinless man, wearing rich, regal robes and a glittering, gem-encrusted golden crown, was addressing a crowded auditorium.
“I’m keeping the sound off on all these images because it interferes with my narration,” explained Natalie, “but you can take my word that his powers of—”
“Caramba,” said Gomez, “that’s none other than King Arthur II.”
“Bram Wexler, a hypocrite who outwardly pretends to be loyal to the President of Great Britain, is associated with an organization known as the Excalibur Movement,” said Natalie. “Their prime objective is to see that England once again becomes a monarchy. I haven’t been able to find out yet if they’d resort to murder to gain their ends, but, by whatever means, they want to see this simp ruling their country.”
“This explains Zack Rolfe’s last words.”
“He said something to Jake as he was dying? It would’ve been nice, Gomez, and in keeping with your alleged newfound spirit of cooperation, had you found it in your peanut-sized heart to share those words.”
“Chiquita, what Rolfe did was warn Jake to watch out for Excalibur—or words to that effect.”
The pretty reporter tapped the palms of her hands on her knees, then rubbed her hands together and smiled at him. “I can really sense this, we’re on top of a very big story here.”
“And a very big conspiracy most likely, involving Teklords, monarchists, and lord knows who else.”
“It would make sense, especially since your partner is over in England just now, for you and I to work closely together on this from here on out, Gomez.”
“Sí, absolutely,” he said. “That’s a dandy notion, Nat.”
“Wonderful.” Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek.
“Mush,” said Sidebar.