The Spartacus File

Chapter Seven

The man dozing on the rooftop heard the buzz; he rolled over and looked at the read-out on his phone.

It was Quinones’ number. He didn't know that; he only knew that the number matched the code he had been given. The target was on his way out of the building-or at least, he might be.

The man really hadn't expected anything for hours yet, but that was fine; he was eager to get it over with. He picked up the Remington 700 in one hand, the binoculars in the other.

The damn phone kept buzzing. That wasn't in the plan. He was supposed to get the code number on the read-out, the target was supposed to come out the front door, and then the sniper was supposed to put a bullet through the target's head. Then the cops and paramedics would go to work, and make sure the target was securely dead and that everyone was convinced it was the doing of some unknown crazy or terrorist.

He didn't see the target. He put down the binoculars and took another glance at the holo.

The phone was still buzzing. Annoyed, he reached over and flicked it open, but didn't say anything.

After a few seconds of silence, a worried voice said, “Mr. Smith?”

The sniper grimaced. His name wasn't Smith; nobody involved with the operation was named Smith, so far as he knew, but then, he wasn't supposed to know any names. “What is it?” he whispered. He whispered to keep his voice from being recognized, not because he expected anyone else to hear him.

“I'm sorry, but Beech left early, and I missed it; he's been gone almost ten minutes.”

“Damn!” The sniper slammed the phone closed, grabbed the binoculars, and began scanning the neighborhood.

No one fitting his target's description was anywhere within a hundred meters of the door where he had been told the target would appear. The target was supposed to head for the Race/Vine subway station; the sniper scanned quickly in that direction.

And there, descending the steps, he spotted a man and a woman, walking together and talking.

Nobody had mentioned anything about a woman, and it would be a long, difficult shot; he hesitated, and then it was too late.

“Damn!” he said again, as he reached for the phone.

The contact man, whom the sniper did not know by the name Smith, took the news calmly.

“You didn't fire?” he asked, after he'd heard the sniper's report.

“No.”

“Good. Then he still doesn't know that anyone's taking an interest in him. Pack it in, cover your tracks, and report in-full pay, and half the usual bonus if your story checks.”

Smith hung up the phone, thought for a moment, and then called Quinones to ask what had happened, and who the woman with Beech was.

“Where are we going?” Mirim asked, as they stood on the empty subway platform.

“Um… well, I thought I'd go back to my apartment, I guess,” Casper replied uncertainly. He was scanning the station, not looking at her.

“You guess?”

“Well, I don't know-is there somewhere you'd rather I went?”

Mirim stared at him. A few minutes ago Casper had been a commanding, self-confident orator; now he was a wimp who couldn't even look her in the eye. “You don't know?”

“No. Hey, I just lost my job, I'm a little thrown, you know? Where else should I go?” He shook his head. “And my mind's been playing tricks on me.”

“What kind of tricks?” Mirim asked, puzzled.

“Like that speech I gave. I mean, what was I doing standing on my desk? That was crazy!”

Mirim stared at him.

“I thought you were great,” she said.

“But it's crazy,” he said. “It's not me. It cost me my job.”

“I thought you were going to lose your job anyway,” Mirim said. “You said you were.”

“Well, yeah, I was,” Casper admitted, a bit puzzled. “Maybe, anyway. No one had actually said I was fired yet, but I wasn't doing my work.”

“So you were going to be fired.”

“I think so.”

“So what harm does it do to tell them what you think?” Mirim challenged him.

“None, I guess,” Casper admitted. “Unless they blacklist me and keep me from getting another job.”

“You think you have a chance of ever getting another job in the same field?” Mirim asked.

Casper thought for a moment, then said, “No. Not really.”

“So what harm did it do?”

Casper had no answer for that. He was busy studying the pillars and tracks.

“What are you looking at?” Mirim asked, puzzled.

“Oh,” Casper said, “Well, see there, I was checking whether you could set up a crossfire over the end of the tunnel, but I don't think the niche in the far wall is deep enough…”

“A crossfire?” Mirim stared at him. “Casper, what are you talking about?”

He turned and stared back at her with a haunted expression. “I don't know, Mirim,” he said. “I don't have any idea, and it scares the heck out of me.”

Mirim hesitated, about to say something, but just then they heard the screeching of steel wheels as the train neared the station, and she decided it could wait. For awhile there she had thought that Casper was at last coming out of his shell, but now he seemed to be retreating again, and she didn't want to force anything, not yet. Something strange was happening to him, presumably brought on by that stupid imprint.

She wondered if he would be willing to see a doctor.

She wondered if he could afford to see a doctor.

There was no point in berating Quinones; the important part was where Beech was now. Smith didn't need to think very hard about that; the obvious place for Beech to go was home.

That he had the Anspack woman along didn't change that; he might take her home with him, he might drop her off at her own home first, he might stay at her place awhile, maybe even until morning, but sooner or later, unless he had somehow been alerted, he would go back to his own apartment.

If he had been alerted… well, even with the Spartacus File, Beech was a beginner. The file wouldn't be running properly yet. He would make mistakes. Even if he had somehow realized that people were pursuing him, Beech might go home.

Or he might go to Anspack's place; Smith would want to cover that possibility, too.

He picked up the phone.

Ten minutes later he hung up, reasonably satisfied. There wasn't time to set up anything fancy, or even to get to the apartment before Beech did, so it wouldn't be as neat and tidy as he might have liked. Still, the job would get done.

When they emerged from the subway the sky had clouded over, threatening thunder and rain, and the two of them hurried up the block, against wind that was suddenly cold. Casper almost reached out a sheltering arm for Mirim, then thought better of it.

“Here we are,” he said a moment later, pointing.

“You live here? ” Mirim asked, looking up at the building's gloomy facade.

“Sure,” Casper said. He shrugged. “It's not so bad.”

Mirim shuddered.

“You didn't have to come,” Casper said. That sounded more hostile than he had meant it to, though; to soften it, he added, “But I'm glad you did. Would you like to come up for a bite to eat?”

Mirim shrugged. “Sure, why not?” She followed Casper past an overflowing trash dumpster up to the door.

“Careful on the steps,” Casper said. He unlocked the door and ushered Mirim through ahead of him; when they were both inside the dim hallway, behind thick panes of dirty glass, he flicked the light switch a couple of times, but the only illumination came from outside.

“Oh, hell,” he said. “The damned lights are out again. You'd better take my hand-the stairs can be tricky.” He offered his hand, and she took it, neither delicately nor grabbing, but just holding. They started up the steps.

“What do you mean, the lights are out again? ” Mirim demanded. “Can't you do anything about it?”

“Afraid not. Look out, that one's broken. No, I can't do anything about the lights or the stairs, because my lease-everyone's lease who lives here-has a no-liability clause. We can't sue, all we can do is withhold rent, and at what we pay, the owners don't much care.”

“Hmph. That's a hell of a thing. Have you got a tenant's union?”

Casper laughed. “Not in this building. The people who live here tend to keep to themselves. There's no clause in our leases to keep us from suing each other, after all. We have to pay for our low rent somehow. Here's my floor.”

They left the stairway, and Casper unlocked his apartment door while Mirim waited uneasily in the hall.

Once they were inside he carefully located Mirim next to the door, where she would be safer, before locking it.

He tried to keep his own windows reasonably clean, so the apartment wasn't as dim as the halls, but since his only view was of the building next door to the north the place had a certain gloom about it. He flicked the light switch, but nothing happened.

“Power's out for the whole building, same as usual,” he said. “Sorry if the place is a little untidy,” he added apologetically.

“I can't see well enough to notice.”

Casper smiled. “Wait right there, and I'll get some light.”

He stumbled into the kitchen, and returned a moment later with a candle in each hand. He set them both on the dinner table, saying over his shoulder, “I've got wine, milk, and diet cola.”

“Wine would be nice.”

“It's just cheap California white,” he warned.

“That's fine.”

“I'll be right back. The stereo is over there. It's on the UPS, and the backup battery should be good for a couple of hours if we don't use the computer for anything else, so feel free to put on some music. Your choice.”

When Casper returned with the glasses of wine, he found Mirim sitting on the couch, the stereo playing softly. The music was Beethoven. He handed Mirim her glass and sat down beside her.

There was an embarrassed silence as they sipped their wine. Casper put his glass on the end table.

“I'm not entirely sure why you came back here with me,” Casper said at last. “I mean, I'm very glad you did, and it was good of you to warn me about Quinones, but you didn't have to come with me. You've probably just thrown away your job, and it's not like it's easy to find work these days.”

“Well, you'd thrown away yours,” Mirim pointed out, “and you gave some very convincing reasons why the rest of us should, too.”

“I did?” Casper asked. Mirim thought she heard a concatenation of unhappiness, confusion, and pride in those two simple words.

“Yes, you did,” she said. “I was impressed.”

“But why?”

Mirim started to speak, and Casper cut her off. “I don't mean why were you impressed, I mean why did I do that? It's… it's not like me.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Mirim said. “I always thought you had it in you somewhere.”

He stared at her, his hand on his wine glass, not moving. “You did?”

Mirim nodded.

“But…”

Casper was interrupted by a knock on the door. Startled, he turned.

“Who could it be at this time of day?” he asked. “I'd be at work, ordinarily.”

“Maybe whoever it is tried there and they told him you'd gone home,” Mirim suggested.

“But who…” Casper got to his feet, puzzled. Then he looked at Mirim, understanding dawning. “A process server,” he said. “Who else could it be?”

“Data Tracers couldn't have one here that fast,” Mirim objected.

The knock sounded again.

“You're right,” Casper said. “I don't know who it is.” He stepped toward the door, then froze.

Part of him, the part he thought of as himself, the normal old Casper Beech, wanted to go ahead and open the door, put an end to the mystery, get it over with-but something else, something unfamiliar, something strange, held him back.

He rationalized; this was not a good neighborhood, and he wouldn't ordinarily be home now. It might be a burglar looking for vacant apartments.

It was probably a salesman or a Jehovah's Witness or something, but just in case…?

“Who's there?” he called, and without knowing why, or even that he was doing it, Casper stepped to one side, behind the door, out of the line of fire.

And the door burst in, the doorframe shattering as the latch and lock were kicked in; splinters flew, and then the stuttering roar of automatic gunfire began-only to be cut off short as Casper kicked the door back, hard.

Mirim yelped and dove for cover under the coffee table.

The gun roared again. Bullets tore through the thin wood of the door, stitching toward Casper-but Casper had already dropped below them, and as the window shattered noisily, as plaster puffed from the walls, he rolled away from the corner, reaching for a weapon.

The letter opener was too far away, the knives in the kitchen drawer out of the question; he snatched up an eight-inch splinter torn from the broken doorframe, and lay still.

The gunfire stopped; Mirim lay motionless beneath the table, hands clasped protectively over her head. Casper lay on the floor, on his belly, muscles tensed, splinter in his hand.

The ruined door opened, and Casper sprang; his empty fist took the stranger in the belly, and as the man started to double over the splinter rammed through his left eye and into the brain.

He dropped instantly, and Casper fell on top of him, grabbing for the weapon the downed man had held and scanning the corridor.

He didn't have far to look; the second man was close behind, pistol ready. His first shot went high, as Casper dropped below it; the second took his own companion in the back as Casper rolled aside.

He fired no third shot; by then Casper had the first attacker's Uzi and was muttering, “Acquire target and squeeze…”

The pistol-wielder had not bothered to take cover; instead, he took a stream of bullets in the chest as Casper emptied his weapon.

Casper ran, crouched low, into the hall; he slammed one foot onto the second man's neck to make sure he was down to stay, then switched the Uzi to his other hand and snatched up the pistol while he made a quick turn, 360 degrees, checking for further attacks. He pointed the pistol down the stairs, but found he was aiming at empty air.

“Mirim,” he called, not looking back, “are you okay?”

“I think so,” she said unsteadily.

“Then get out here. Now.”

“But there's… in the doorway…”

“Step over it,” Casper commanded. “Move! We have to get out of here right now! ”

“But…”

“No arguments! Before any more come!”

That did it; Mirim came, and together they hurried down the stairs, not running, Casper told her you can trip if you run, people hear you coming; they moved quickly down the stairs and down the hall, Casper in front with the pistol held ready.