Five minutes later the roar of the engines ceased suddenly, and the milky light of the upper atmosphere was replaced with the grey marble effect of the void. Bennett sat and stared at the streaming stars, amazed at the fact of his escape in the quiet aftermath of the attack. He set the computer to revive him from suspension in a little under two months, so that he could make the necessary systems checks. Approximately two months after that, he would be on Earth.
He sat for a long time in the command couch, letting the shakes leave his body, his thoughts quieten. He had never really gained from looking ahead before now; the future had always promised nothing more than the same old events, reordered. But now he had a goal, and people were relying on him to succeed, and he looked ahead to the search for the softscreen in Calcutta with confidence and hope.
18
Rana Rao stood for a long time beneath the cedar tree across the road from the luminously white, scaled-down copy of Sydney Opera House. It rose between a grand representation of the White House and a half-sized imitation of the Feynman dome on Mars. The street was lined with similar kitsch examples of architectural folly, a parade of tasteless ostentation Rana found sickening.
She moved from the shadow of the tree and into the glow of the street lighting. She found it hard to believe that she was, perhaps, just metres away from the man responsible for the crucifix killings. Soon he would become a real person, with a real identity: name, profession, perhaps even a family who loved him.
She stepped from the pavement and crossed the road, her hand straying involuntarily to the polished butt of the pistol beneath her jacket. The opera house was set in a couple of acres of landscaped lawn. As soon as she stepped on to the wide gravel path, spotlights activated to light her way.
She paused before the door and took a breath, then reached out and touched the door-chime. The soft notes of Beethoven’s Fifth sounded from inside—appropriate, given the design of the house. She waited, conscious of the staring eye of a security camera positioned above the door.
A voice issued from a grille, rich and urbane. “Good evening? May I help you?”
“Lieutenant Rao. I’m from the Calcutta police force.”
“One moment, please.”
Seconds later the door swung open automatically and standing perhaps two metres away, arms folded across an ample chest, stood a man who bore not the slightest resemblance, apart from being male and Caucasian, to Ahmed’s description of the killer. He was not thin-faced and silver-haired, but had a well-fed face and a dark head of curls.
He gestured for her to enter and walked ahead of her. Rana followed, swallowing a sense of despair, and wondered how she should proceed.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, surprising her. He was crossing a large, circular lounge fitted with sunken sofas, throw cushions and discreet lighting. A soprano’s voice quavered on a high C.
Rana blinked. “You have?”
He reached out to the wall and the aria modulated. “Please, take a seat.” He indicated one of the below-floor sofas.
Rana descended three steps and seated herself, feeling at a distinct disadvantage.
The man loomed over her, holding a com-board. “I have the file here,” he said, “but I’ll fix you a drink first. Coffee, or something stronger?”
“Ah…” She was about to say that she thought there had been some mistake, but the man misinterpreted her hesitation.
“Of course. I’m sorry, I should have realised. You’re on duty. Coffee it is, then.” He murmured into a wall-speaker. “Two coffees, Raisa.”
Within seconds a maid entered the room bearing a silver tray and two small bone china coffee cups, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. She stepped into the sunken bunker and placed the tray on a small table in the centre.
“Thank you, Raisa.” The man joined Rana in the bunker, sitting across from her and pouring the coffees. “White, sugar?”
“White, no sugar.” She could only watch the man in silence, wondering how to proceed.
“I was rather hoping that Commissioner Singh might have called for the report personally,” he was saying. “We have a lot to discuss on the security front which I’m sure you’ll understand I cannot broach with his staff.”
“As a matter of fact,” Rana began, “I am not here to collect the report. You see, I am calling on residents in the area as a matter of routine.”
The man looked surprised, but made a sophisticated show of apologising. “But my dear, I am so sorry. You see, I was expecting the commissioner or one of his staff. But allow me to introduce myself. I am Ezekiel Klien, chief of security at Calcutta spaceport. And you are?”
Rana swallowed. “Lieutenant Rana Rao, Homicide Division, Calcutta police force.”
“Homicide? And how might I be of assistance?”
“It’s just…” she began, falteringly. “I’m making a series of routine door-to-door enquiries. Last night there was a murder committed a kilometre from here. The killer was seen leaving the scene of the crime.”
“How appalling. If I can be of any assistance, any at all…”
Rana took a breath to steady her nerves. The more she thought about it, the more she realised that there had indeed been some misunderstanding. Ahmed must have lied about seeing the killer enter this house, or mistaken the house itself.
“I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions, Mr Klien? Routine things I’ve been asking everyone in the neighbourhood.”
“Of course. By all means.” He sat back and sipped his coffee.
Rana took a gulp of her own coffee to moisten her dry mouth. Her hand shook, setting up a nervous rattle of cup on saucer. She would have to drastically revise her questions. She had planned to ask him if he knew the identities of victims of the crucifix killer, and if he could account for his whereabouts on certain dates, but such a line of interrogation would hardly be appropriate in the circumstances.
“We have reports that a man was seen in the area last night.” She went on to describe the man Ahmed had seen enter this very house.
Klien nodded. “As a matter of fact, yes. At perhaps ten last night someone did come to the door. It was a man very much fitting your description. He was lost, had no money, and asked if he might call his wife to pick him up. I was busy with the report at the time, so I gave him ten rupees and directed him to a public com-screen kiosk. He left and I thought no more about it. You don’t think… ?”
Rana shrugged. “We’d like to question the individual to eliminate him from our enquiries,” she said. “I wonder if you’d allow a computer artist to come round and take your impressions of the man?”
Klien gestured, the very epitome of accommodation. “By all means. I’m in most evenings after eight.”
Rana finished her coffee. “Thank you for your time and the coffee, Mr Klien. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
“Of course not. I’m delighted to have been of some assistance. I only wish that I could help you further.”
Before Rana could protest that she really must be going, he leaned over and poured her another cup of coffee. He poured himself a second cup and sipped delicately.
“Tell me, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been with the force?”
She smiled, pleased at the change of subject. “Almost eight years now. Most of the time working with street children. I was promoted to Homicide a few weeks ago.”
“Homicide… Isn’t that Vishwanath’s department now?”
“Do you know him?”
“We’ve worked together in the past. I rate Vishwanath very highly, Lieutenant.”