Penumbra

12

Ezekiel Klien ducked from the taxi, ignored the gaggle of beggars calling to him from the gutter, and crossed the monsoon-washed pavement. He made his way up the steps and into the police headquarters, then took the elevator to Commissioner Singh’s office on the tenth floor.

Klien had known Singh for almost five years, at first seeking his acquaintance in a professional capacity, and then coming to appreciate a certain quality in the man’s make-up: his cynicism. Commissioner Singh was corrupt, and what Klien most liked about him was that he made no effort to conceal the fact from those he trusted; instead, he rationalised his corruption with the conceit that by judiciously apportioning his favours he could better control law and order in the city. There would always be corruption, he claimed; the real sin of corruption was when one accepted largesse from the wrong people. Klien liked that. He understood Commissioner Singh. To do good in this world, one was forced also to do a certain amount of what might be considered bad.

Singh looked up when Klien knocked and entered the office. His face broke into a genuine smile of welcome. He stood and they shook hands.

Singh gestured to a seat. He touched his com-screen. “Suran, two black coffees, please, and I don’t want to be disturbed for an hour.”

They talked business for a while. The coffee arrived and Klien sipped the hot, bitter liquid. He told Singh the latest news on the smuggling ring he’d broken up after finding a tonne of high-grade slash in the hold of a Luna-Earth cargo ship.

“It was manufactured legally enough on Luna, but stolen from the labs. We’ve arrested the people responsible at the Luna end, but not down here. I’ve reason to expect that the drug was to be distributed by known Calcutta dealers.”

Singh gestured, “Is there any way I can help?”

“I’d appreciate an hour looking through the files,” Klien told him. “I have a list of people who might be linked, but nothing like as comprehensive as your records.”

“By all means. I’ll have Suran take you down later.”

“I owe you one.”

Commissioner Singh’s chestnut eyes twinkled beneath the swathes of his turban. “When are you running your next training course?” he asked.

“Not for a couple of months, but as soon as it starts I’ll notify you.”

For serviced rendered, Klien found places for Singh’s officers on the security courses he ran a couple of times a year. They were strictly for spaceport personnel, but Klien was well placed to bend the rules occasionally.

“I have an officer who would benefit from a little training. Brilliant prospect. Young woman with a mind like a razor. In fact I’ll get her down here to meet you.” He leaned towards the com-screen and got through to the eighth floor. “Vishy, is Lieutenant Rao available?”

Klien sat back and wondered if this was another ploy by the commissioner to try and fix him up with a woman. Singh seemed overly concerned that Klien was over forty and still single. “You need a good woman,” Singh had told him more than once. “You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced the love of a good woman!” Klien could debate the point, but for the sake of his relationship with the commissioner had declined to argue.

Now Singh spread his hands. “Lieutenant Rao is out on a case,” he said. “Perhaps some other time.”

“I’ll tell you when the course is enrolling,” Klien promised. He changed the subject. “Any luck lately with the crucifix killer case?” He liked to keep abreast of how the investigations were going. He was always cheered by Homicide’s spectacular lack of success.

Singh grunted. “Between you and me, Homicide is baffled. There was another killing last month bearing all the hallmarks of the same killer. I don’t know the full details, but Vishy will fill you in if you go up and see him.”

Klien gestured that it was only a passing interest. “Another criminal victim?” he asked.

“As ever,” Singh replied. “To be perfectly honest I’m not that worried. I know, they are murders all the same, and the press are shouting about the unacceptability of vigilante killings, which they seem to think they are, but the fact is that these people are known drug dealers and criminals. For the good of society they are better off dead. I’m treating the case as experience for some of my younger officers under Vishy’s tutelage.”

“So you don’t hold out much hope of finding the killer?”

Singh smiled. “Sooner or later we’ll get him.”

Klien returned his smile. “I’m sure you will,” he said. He finished his coffee and stood up. “Thanks for your time.”

“I’ll get Suran to take you down to files.”

Two minutes later Singh’s secretary—yet another available young woman the commissioner had tried to interest him in—escorted him down to the first floor and a private terminal booth. Klien accessed the files containing the pix and information of all known drug dealers and associated criminals in Calcutta’s teeming underworld. He appreciated the fine irony of Commissioner Singh’s allowing his access to these files. It was from here that Klien selected the criminals upon whom he would visit his retribution.

To do good in this world, one had also to do a little bad.

One hour later he copied the pix and personal details of half a dozen likely candidates. Over the next few weeks he would investigate these people, assess their undesirability and award them marks from one to ten on the scale of evil, and then chart their movements and security arrangements.

He closed the file and accessed another containing the pix and details of everyone with a criminal record in the sub-continent of India. He entered in the vital statistics of the person he was seeking and waited until the program trawled through the file and assorted sub-files. It was a long shot, he knew. Sita Mackendrick had disappeared over thirteen years ago and not a trace of her had been seen since.

For almost that long, Klien had built his career in Calcutta, and visited his vengeance upon those he judged deserving, but all the while he had worked at finding the girl. He had used the privileges of his position at the port to access files usually closed to the layman: government documents, business profiles and security records all of which contained pix of individuals, often without their knowledge. He had found nothing. It was as if Sita Mackendrick had disappeared from the face of the Earth. Which, of course, was entirely possible, but it would be a monumental task to look for her on every colony world in the Expansion. Of course, there was always the chance that she was dead, but Klien did not like to dwell on the consequences if this were so.

At noon he closed the file and left the police headquarters. He dined at an expensive Japanese restaurant in the city centre, and after the meal sat back with a glass of sake. It was the one day away from the port that he allowed himself every week. This afternoon he had arranged to meet a nasty individual known as Raja Khan, supposedly to talk about a consignment of stolen gold that Khan wanted to offload. Klien was posing as an interested potential buyer. In fact he would be deciding if he would be victim number… what was it now? Nine? Ten?

He ordered another sake, took the pix of Sita Mackendrick from his pocket and spread them on the table. They showed her as she was at the age of nine and as she would be now, a slight, intense woman with a pretty face and intelligent eyes. He wondered how many times he had looked upon these computer-generated images, dreaming of the day when he would at last find her.

It seemed a very long time since he had started out on the trail that had brought him eventually to Earth. He thought back to when he had traced Quineau through space to the planet of Madrigal, all those years ago. He relived again his disappointment on discovering that his one-time colleague no longer possessed the softscreen. It was, according to Quineau, in the hands of one Charles Mackendrick, who had taken the screen to Calcutta, Earth.

Klien had killed Quineau then—his very first killing—for the good of Quineau himself, for the good of humankind. It was God’s will, he knew. He had shot Quineau in the head, and the traitor died instantly, without protest and, one could say, almost peacefully. Then Klien had knelt over the body and, like a priest bestowing benediction, traced the shape of a cross on the side of Quineau’s face not blackened beyond recognition.

He had left Madrigal, and three days later arrived on Earth.

It seemed such a long, long time ago. He smiled as he recalled his assumption, when he stepped off the shuttle at Calcutta spaceport, that his mission was drawing to an end. If only he had known that it was only just the beginning.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost two—time for his appointment with Raja Khan. He paid his bill, left the restaurant and made his way to an underground bar a hundred metres along the street. In the lavatory he pulled the capillary net from his jacket and slipped it over his head. He looked in the mirror. A thin-faced, silver-haired man stared back at him.

He returned to the bar, ordered a beer and carried it to a private booth at the far end of the low-lighted room. Five minutes later Raja Khan entered, a giant of a man in a voluminous shalwar kameez, who had to stoop to allow his full head of oiled black hair safe passage through the doorway.

Klien lifted his glass in a salute, and Khan joined him.

“Have you decided yet?” Khan asked.

Klien had to control his reactions. He felt nothing but revulsion towards this man. He had read his file, his extensive criminal record. He would have taken great delight in eliminating him right now. But he had to be careful.

“Have you decided?” Khan asked again, greed evident in his insistence.

Klien looked away from the Indian, finding the oversized features of his face gross and displeasing. Two young women were leaving the bar, and Khan mistook Klien’s gaze.

Khan reached across the table and tapped the back of Klien’s hand. “You like, hey? If you like, I can supply, ah-cha? Or perhaps you prefer boys?”

Klien realised, then, that he had decided. Raja Khan had just signed his own death warrant.

For the next hour they discussed the details of the transaction.

“We need to meet again,” Klien said. “I must show you where the gold is to be delivered.”

Khan gestured. “Ah-cha. Fine. You tell me a place, a time.” Klien smiled to himself. Very soon, he knew, the world would be a fractionally better place for honest citizens.