I found a door, opened it, and stepped into a long hallway. I walked to the first door on my right and entered a room full of computer workstations. The area was divided into cubicles with low walls, separated by narrow walkways. It looked like a typical office at night or on a weekend — empty, but not deserted. On some of the desks, I saw coffee mugs, notepads, and other objects you’d expect to find. I walked to one of the work stations and checked a desk calendar, the kind with a cartoon for each day of the year.
The date was December 7.
I thought back to the last personal ad I’d dug up. It’d been in the December 7 issue. The end of the message had read, “We sail tonight.” The meaning now seemed pretty clear.
By all appearances, GRS had been out of business for exactly three days. Where had they gone?
I returned to the hallway and crossed to another door. This room was a stark contrast to the cubicle room. It was cavernous and open, like the interior of a warehouse, and looked like it had functioned as a laboratory. All around the perimeter, overhead cabinets were mounted above black-covered counters, like the ones in my high school science classroom. Built into the counters, every twenty feet or so, were large, stainless steel sinks. In the center of the room were dozens of island tables, all completely bare. I looked through some of the cabinets, but there was nothing to find besides empty test tubes and other similar supplies. I circled the room, hoping to find something of interest, but this area, unlike the first room, seemed to have been thoroughly cleaned out.
Back in the hallway, I checked the next four doors. The first two were the men’s and women’s bathrooms, and the other two were utility closets. The last door, at the end of the hall, opened up to an office. I searched through the desk but, like the laboratory, it had been totally emptied. A quick search of a file cabinet, a wastebasket, and a cardboard box turned up the same result. I decided to give the first room a closer look.
I started at the work station closest to the door. Since the power was off, there was no way to turn on the computers. Upon closer inspection, electricity wouldn’t had done me any good anyway. The data storage clip had been removed. The computer was like a speeder without a drive cell. I rifled the drawers of the desk, but they were essentially empty.
I walked to the adjoining cubicle and went through the same procedure, with the same result. In the third cubicle, I saw something sticking out from beneath the computer. I lifted the edge of the machine and peeled off a piece of masking tape, which had gotten crinkled underneath. Written on it were the numbers 272551. Probably an inventory number. It gave me an idea.
I went back and checked under the two previous computers. They also had tape with six-digit inventory numbers stuck on them. I pulled out my notebook and checked the numbers I’d scribbled down the night before, after I’d found the Shakespeare quote. Act three, scene one, lines forty-nine and fifty. 314950. That could’ve been the meaning of the message — to find the computer with inventory number 314950. It was worth a try.
I hurried through the room, pausing only to inspect the bottoms of the computers. About halfway through, I found the one numbered 314950. To my disappointment, its data-storage clip had been removed, just like the others. I opened the top drawer and searched it. Finding nothing, I moved to the middle drawer, then the bottom drawer. Under a pile of papers, I found a tissue box. I picked it up, and it was heavier than it should have been. Much heavier. I tore open the side of the box like a kid unwrapping a Christmas present. There, nestled among the tissues, was a data-storage clip.
The Colonel had probably been meant to find this. That would explain the contents of the personal ads and why they were addressed to him. This might have been the only way the CAPRICORN mole could effectively relay the details on what was happening at GRS — wait for the decks to clear, then plant a land mine full of information. Well, the Colonel wasn’t around to find the clip, but I was. I slipped the clip into my pocket and made my way back to the roof. Minutes later, I was speeding in the direction of New San Francisco. My stomach was in knots with anticipation. I hoped that whatever was on the clip would answer some of the questions that had been piling up over the past few days. As I closed in on the city I called home, the sun disappeared over the horizon, and the waning moon hovered above the red band of fading light. By the time I landed my speeder in front of the Ritz, night had blanketed the city.
I climbed the fire-escape stairs and stuck my key into the deadbolt. As I stepped inside, just for an instant, I caught the sound of heavy breathing. A split second later, my jaw slammed into a wall.
UAKM — CHAPTER TWENTY
As nearly as I could tell, I was seated in one of the chairs usually reserved for my clients. Someone had turned on the banker’s lamp on the desk, but my vision still hadn’t cleared. Gradually, a figure came into focus. It was an Asian woman, sitting on the edge of my desk, wearing a red silk blouse and black jeans.
“Good evening, Mr. Murphy.”
Her voice had a slight accent and a hard edge. I touched my chin gingerly and tested my jaw to see if it still worked. It hurt like hell, but at least they hadn’t knocked any teeth out. In my peripheral vision, I could see a pair of large bodies just behind and on either side of me. The odds weren’t in my favor, but I’d never let that stop me.
“I hope you don’t mind if I just make myself at home.”
The Asian woman folded her arms. “Something you seem to be in the habit of doing.”
“My habits are my business, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing in my office?”
Before I could flinch sufficiently, a hairy paw came from behind my right ear and cuffed me right in the sore spot on my jaw. Blinding pain flashed into my brain. A deep, vaguely illiterate voice rumbled behind me. “Shut yer face! You ain’t askin’ the questions here. Nobody talks to Eddie Ching like that.”
Eddie Ching? Damn. This wasn’t good at all.
“You’re Eddie Ching?”
“You’re a fast learner, Mr. Murphy. I respect that in a man. I also respect the job you did on my flat in Mexico City. It was very cleverly executed. All admiration aside, however, I must ask you to return the bird to me.”
I shifted in my seat and glanced back at the goon who’d cuffed me. “I don’t have it.”
Ching folded her hands patiently in her lap and smiled condescendingly. “Where is it?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
My response had come out with an unintentionally sarcastic edge to it. The punch happy-goon made another move. This time I was ready and managed to deflect the blow.
“Listen, Ching. If your goon doesn’t quit hitting me, I’m not gonna tell you a @#%$ thing.”
Ching stared at me passively for a long moment, then waved the apes away. They stepped back, and I got my first look at the thugs. They were not handsome men. But they were unbelievably big and radiated violence — the kind of guys who honed their craft through childhood by stealing lunch money and intimidating teachers into raising their grades to D minuses.
“All right, Mr. Murphy. Just mind your manners, and we’ll get along fine. Answer my questions, and you’ll have a decent chance of getting around the rest of your life without a walker. Now let’s talk about the bird, shall we?”
“We can talk about it all night, but it won’t change the fact that I don’t have it.”
“Fine. Just tell me where I can find it.”
“Well, I’m not sure. But I’d start looking in Brownsville, Texas.”
Ching shook her head, confused. “Texas?”
“Yeah. That’s the last place I saw it. I stopped there for cigarettes, and someone jumped me in the parking lot. Which reminds me —” I dug into my pocket, which caused the goons to tense up. I pulled out my pack of smokes and held it up innocently. “I hope you don’t mind. This is a smoking office.”