Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Spartacus File

“The lobby security camera shows him going in, yes, sir.”

“So what the hell happened?”

“I don't know, sir.”

Smith reached a decision. “Call Chernukhin,” he said. “Find out what happened. If he doesn't answer, we'll know Beech killed him.”

Mirim and Cecelia watched as Casper navigated the net on Leonid's computer. This was similar to the sort of work he'd done at Data Tracers, and he didn't need any imprint to tackle something as simple as a standard web search, even on a specialized closed network.

He'd had Leonid boot up the system, but not much more than that-it would be too easy to slip in some sort of signal. Once the browser was up and running, and Casper had satisfied himself that Leonid, like almost every user, had the system set up to remember all the necessary passwords, he had wrapped Leonid up in bedsheets, tied him with electrical cords, and shoved him in the bedroom closet.

Casper had grinned wryly at discovering that the log-ons were completely automatic. Everyone did that, of course-who wanted to carry around a list of passwords in his head? And ordinarily, no one else would be using one's own personal home computer-most people had all manner of private business on their systems, and never worried about what might happen if someone got access to them.

For someone who worked in security, though, it was sloppy and careless.

Convenient, though; Casper was able to search through the law nets for his own name, to track back any mentions he found, and to cross-reference them.

He had already done exactly that, and had moved on to other things, when a phone rang.

Casper glanced up from the screen.

Leonid thumped against the closet door, but the others paid no attention to the pounding as they looked at one another.

“I could answer it,” Mirim said. “I've been here before, after all.”

Casper considered that, then shook his head. “No,” he said, “Leonid stepped out for awhile. Let his voicemail get it.” He tapped a few keys. “And I'd say that's our cue to get the hell out of here, while we still can-if that's Covert calling to check up, no answer will mean trouble.” He logged off, then popped out a disk and pocketed it. “Come on,” he said.

“Where?” Cecelia asked. “I thought we came here because we didn't have anywhere else to go.”

Casper tapped the pocket with the disk. “I've learned a few things,” he said. “I think we can find somewhere better now.”

Cecelia seemed inclined to argue, but Mirim took her by the arm.

“Come on,” she said, “let's get out of here. Leonid's going to be really pissed when he gets free.”

Cecelia glanced at the closet, then shrugged.

The phone rang again and again as Casper, Mirim, and Cecelia gathered up their belongings-and some of Leonid's-and departed.

Behind them, Leonid kicked viciously and pointlessly against the closet door.

“There's no answer,” Smith's assistant said. “How do you want it handled?”

Smith growled.

“I want a fucking SWAT team, is what I want,” he said. “I want them to go in there and get that son of a Beech bitch… I mean, son of a bitch Beech. And I don't care who gets in the way-if they take out Anspack or Grand or Chernukhin or half a dozen innocent bystanders it's just fine with me!”

“Yes, sir.” The assistant turned away.

“And when you've got that started,” Smith called after him, “I want you to find me the asshole who wrote this goddamned Spartacus File in the first place, and get him in here! I want to know just what the hell is in it, in case this Beech gets away again!”

“Yes, sir.”

“So where are we going?” Mirim asked.

She was riding shotgun in Leonid's antique Mustang-Casper had wanted to have something intact, with all its windows and the keys and remote, in case he got stopped for speeding. It wouldn't be safe for very long, of course-there'd be an APB on it as soon as Covert's people got Leonid out of the closet, if not sooner, and it was a very distinctive vehicle.

But it was fast and handy and Casper hoped he wouldn't need it for long.

“New Jersey,” Casper said, his eyes locked on the highway.

He had been very much in his high-intensity mode ever since disarming Leonid, and Mirim was getting tired of it. It was wearing, being around Casper when he was “on.” Besides, since they were headed northeast on I-95 and the Delaware River was maybe a mile ahead, it was not exactly surprising information that they would be crossing it.

“Where in New Jersey?” she demanded. “Stopping in Jersey, or just passing through?”

“Stopping,” Casper said.

“Casper, would you mind being a bit more informative?”

Casper glanced at her and smiled crookedly; his ferocious intensity vanished.

“Sorry,” he said, in a voice that had neither the tight, hard command of the fighter, nor the rich tones of the orator, nor the uncertain quaver of the old Casper, but a warm confidence. “I haven't exactly been talkative, have I? I think I was afraid we might be separated, and if that happened and you were captured, the less you knew the better. But that isn't fair, is it?”

“No, it isn't,” Mirim said, somewhat mollified.

“Well, it's like this,” Casper explained. “This Covert Operations Group has posted warnings all over the nets that I'm a dangerous terrorist in possession of stolen software of theirs, which fits the old definition of a good lie, because it's pretty damn close to the truth-I can't deny being dangerous when I've killed four men in a single day, and I do have Covert's software in my head, even if I didn't want it there. So every law enforcement agency in North America knows that Covert's labeled me as such, right?”

“I guess,” Mirim said.

“If they read the nets, they know,” Casper said. “And of course they read the nets.”

“Okay, so?”

“So, who else would read the law nets?”

Cecelia, resting as well as she could in the cramped back seat, suddenly leaned forward.

“Casper…” she said warningly.

Mirim glanced at her, then back at Casper. “I don't get it,” she said.

“Well, think about it, Mirim,” he said. “Who else would want to know everything that's going on in the world of cops and robbers, besides the cops?”

“The robbers,” Mirim replied automatically. “But I still don't… oh, no.”

Casper grinned. “ Now you've got it,” he said. “Every cop in the country thinks I'm a dangerous terrorist in possession of government secrets-and so does every terrorist organization with half a brain. And they won't want to kill me-they'll want to recruit me!”

“So just which terrorist organization are you trying to contact?” Mirim asked. “And just how do you plan to do it?”

“Well, I've got a list of possibilities on that disk I took from Leonid's place,” Casper answered, as he studied the road signs and checked them against the car's map computer. “There's an underground group called People For Change that sounded promising-they're sort of semi-legitimate, not entirely a bunch of morons or terrorist loonies. They aren't believed to have blown anything up for three or four years now, but they're still active, sending out news releases and the like. And the lawyer who's represented their people whenever they get caught at something lives here in Princeton-somewhere. Not that I can find the place. I wish Leonid had had a modern computer in this car!”

“He didn't want to have any computer,” Mirim said. “He only added it because his boss insisted; this car was pre-computer, originally.”

“Figures,” Casper said. Then he spotted the name he wanted. “Yes!” he said, turning the car.