Archangel Protocol Read online

  I forgive you, but I realize now there's nothing to forgive. It was your duty to tell the truth and you did it. I'm sure the guys on the force are hassling you over it, but don't let them. What do they know about it?

  These assholes and their Moral Office know nothing about the complicated mess that real people have to deal with every day. It's easy for them. They've never faced a tough decision their whole life. You came through it, Dee. You're still on the right side. You just got to hang in there. Got to cut this off, but I'm going to write again. I hope you can find it in your heart to write back.

  Daniel

  Chapter 4

  Ghosts. I frowned at the screen. There was no current LINK site listed for the company, Jordan River Health Institute, that had been so insistent that Daniel and I crack their tech-theft case. I keyed in a search of business archives for any listing of a merger, claim for bankruptcy, anything.

  The processors started to whir, and I settled back in my chair to wait. I reached into the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out my battered romance.

  Even before I was cut off from the LINK, I had a yen for the luxury of a printed page. The smell of fresh ink on newsprint always sent a shiver down my spine. Though most people got their entertainment from the LINK, there were enough of us sensualists left to keep a few small presses in business. I flipped open the book and held it to my nose. As I breathed in the odor, I consciously tried to relax. I picked up the thread of the story easily, but my mind wandered.

  Less than ten minutes ago, Michael took off to make arrangements with a contact. He said if things went well, he'd be back at the office by ten-thirty. Then, we'd go to this tech friend of his to get me rehooked. Just like that. I rubbed my head; the ache was back. My fingers traced the outline of the receiver. The flesh it raised was almond-shaped and about that size. From that hub, microscopic threads spun out deep into my brain. Though it was impossible, I swore I felt the throbbing pain begin to creep deeper, following that internal web.

  Laying the book down, I rummaged around in my desk until I found some aspirin. I swallowed them dry, but they went down easily. More junkie mannerisms, I thought ruefully. Daniel would be horrified to see me now; there didn't seem to be much difference between me and the wireheads we used to bust.

  I thought I'd get used to the emptiness in my head, but I didn't. I think that's part of why I loved this office. With the squeaky chair, the creaking hardwood, rattling windows, clanking of the radiator, and all the other tenants' muffled noises, it was never truly quiet here.

  Sometime in the last hour it started raining. I strolled over to the window, my stocking feet sliding across the hardwood. The office was dark except for the clip-on desk lamp that hung precariously over the monitor.

  After I'd been disconnected, it had been difficult even to find a desktop version of the computer. I'd had to construct much of it from scraps in the junkyard, rummage sales, and antique shops. I'd say I was lucky that the building my office occupied still had a hardwired data jack, but, the truth was, this place was so old it still had the remnants of the gas fixtures and a coal bin in the basement.

  Human beings were funny that way: exceedingly inventive and lazy as hell. Old things remained – built over, built around. Living literally in the shadow and underneath the shiny new skyscrapers in Manhattan, ancient crotchety buildings like my office still stood, mostly unchanged since the nineteenth century.

  While some technology raced ahead, like wetware, pockets of low tech survived all over. As a species, we tended not to clean up after ourselves. When we redesigned the LINK, we left vestiges of the old system to haunt the hard lines like cobwebs.

  The war machine fueled most of the dramatic changes in tech. Wetware was invented so that we could have soldiers who could receive electronic commands sent from headquarters to the battlefield. The war had started in the Middle East over the shrinking oil resources, so in order to win, America finally implemented the electric-vehicle plans it had kicking around since the last oil crisis. Of course, once the Medusa bomb got dropped, scientific advancement ground to a halt – except, of course, in the area of entertainment. If there was a way to make a holo-vid more virtually realistic, then the tech appeared overnight, only to be replaced by something better the next day.

  I shivered and pulled my arms closer around my chest. Despite the draftiness, there was a certain comfort in the way the wind howled around the gables of the old building. Reaching along the wall, my fingers searched for the thermostat. When I found the ancient contraption, I lightly touched the wheel in the direction of warmer. Not that it did much good in this rickety place. I smiled and shook my head. Moving away from the window, I felt for the coffeemaker in the dark. I fumbled along the side of the smooth plastic until my fingers found the switch and flicked it on. The orange brewing light glowed. I waited for the telltale gurgling sounds before I headed back to my desk.

  With any luck, the information-retrieval programs would have turned up something on Jordan Institute by now. Scootching the chair closer to the monitor, I peered at the message: "No matches found."

  "Nothing?" I muttered out loud. I looked at my romance novel. I might be a sensualist and Neanderthal in my attitudes toward the printed word, but at least paper-and-ink information could not be altered. The LINK refreshed its information stream so often that archiving became unmanageable. There were companies that tried to save information, but, because of sheer volume, they were forced to narrow their fields of interest. Most of yesterday's news vanished into the ether.

  I tried to recall details of the case. Blurred faces floated in from the back acres of my mind. The sysop, I remembered well: she was a skinny, nervous kid who was frantic about losing her job. She kept offering Daniel and me coffee because that's what you did when detectives arrived on the scene in all the cops'-n'-robber holo-vids. I'd liked her immediately. She'd had tight braids of the deepest ebony tied off with those blinking beads that had been all the rage with the twenty-somethings.

  The Jordan Institute's carpet had smelled new. The whole complex was part of one of those business-incubator buildings designed to accommodate rapid growth – or sudden collapse, as I suspected in this case. The product information that had been stolen had something to do with the treatment of mental patients. The sysop had said it was "revolutionary," but every new tech got that label these days.

  There was nothing about the tech theft that had struck me as out of the ordinary. "Damn," I muttered. "If only I had access to my case notes."

  When I was on a case, my LINK connection recorded all interactions: every interview, every debriefing with my partner, thoughts muttered out loud, everything. I occasionally kept paper notes, but after a case was finished, I shredded them. I had never imagined a time when I couldn't, with a simple thought, access all my stored information. The chips were on file, but, of course, the data for the Jordan Institute case had been seized as evidence in Daniel's trial.

  As a cop, Michael had access to them. I could have him get a hard copy of them for me. A knot twitched in my stomach. Michael would be here in a couple of hours. The wail of a distant siren mingled with rolling thunder, and rain continued its steady barrage against the windowpane.

  As much as I wanted it, I was crazy to agree to the re-LINK. For the right price, I could buy an external LINK on the black market, but as an ex-cop I had a certain number of strikes against me. First, despite everything, I still walked the walk. No illegal marketeer would come within ten feet of someone who could be a tech-vice cop in disguise. That was the other problem. I already had a reputation among the wireheads, and it wasn't the kind that got me an invitation to tea on a Sunday afternoon, much less a connection to pirated tech.

  The biggest deterrent to getting a new connection to the LINK was the equipment itself. As Michael said, the hardware was still there in my head, microscopic threads running through my gray matter like a rabbit's warren. Even if I somehow managed to get the external stuff, the feedback loop alone w
ould permanently crisp a few synapses.

  God only knew where on earth Michael would dig up a bioengineer to do the reconnecting work. Sure, there were hack techs everywhere, but no one but a complete wirehead had the faith to go under their dirty scalpels. Even if I was that desperate, which I was, the LINK hardware in my head was restricted code; only a city-licensed biotech had the password. Rumor had it that there were booby-trap viruses ready to burn out the hardwiring if anyone used the wrong pass code to reactivate.

  My only hope was that Michael was part of some underground organization with connections to rogue cop-techs; otherwise, I was fried – literally.

  Thunder clapped outside and rattled the window. I stood up and stretched. Despite its loud clanking, the radiator hadn't kicked in yet. It was still cold in here. After I'd poured myself a cup of coffee, I returned to my desk. Though the coffee was smooth and rich, my stomach fluttered.

  When the phone rang, I was startled out of my reverie.

  "Damn." I flipped the receiver on and clicked it over to video. "McMannus here."

  "McMannus? We didn't get much of a chance to talk at the restaurant ..."

  I smiled politely. It was my old pal Sergeant Dorshak. "Talk?" I laughed. "You avoided me like the plague."

  "You were obviously busy."

  "Yeah, yeah," I pursed my lips. "What can I do for you, Dorshak?"

  "No. It's what I can do for you, Deidre." He pointed at the video.

  "This ought to be interesting." I smiled tightly. I set my cup down and stared intently at Dorshak's grizzled face. "So, what is this altruistic favor, Ted?"

  "Angelucci. He's trouble. I hope you're not even vaguely considering working with that guy."

  "I'm not," I lied. "You know I stay away from police business. Besides, I've already heard this tune from the captain."

  His eyes narrowed, and he stared intently at my video image. Dream on, Ted, I told him silently, the LINK won't help you over the phone. You need face-to-face contact to read an elevated heart rate. "Right," he finally said. "Well, I'm glad you're not, because people here think he might be connected to leftist extremists in the Jewish community."

  "Jewish community," I repeated, with a smirk. "I see you've been taking those sensitivity courses to heart. Last I heard you talk about the Malachim, the nicest thing you could call any of them was 'heathen.' "

  "Yeah, well." He shrugged. Tugging at his collar, he added, "Promise me you'll stay away from Angelucci."

  "Already done." I smiled. He looked unconvinced, so I added in what I hoped was a genuine tone. "Ted, seriously, do you think I want to deal with all that crap again? I'm already excommunicated. You think I'm going to risk losing anything more?"

  My ploy worked, Dorshak looked really uncomfortable now. "Right. Well, just see that you don't. Maybe we'll see you around, McMannus."

  "Sure." I took a long sip of coffee. Ted and I used to be friends. He used to tag along with Danny and me to pubs after hours. I always thought he had a crush on one of us. I used to think it was me, but after Daniel was arrested I began to wonder. Dorshak's accusations of my disloyalty were vehement, as if he took my testimony against Daniel personally. Given our history, it seemed odd that he would warn me away from potential trouble.

  "Time to do some more digging," I said out loud. Reaching around the chair to my coat pocket, I rooted around for my credit counter. The flat plastic card was deceptively light. My life savings should be more substantial-feeling, I thought, as I bent the thin sheet with my fingers. I flipped the card over and touched the buttons in sequence. After taking a few seconds to think about it, the digital display told me my current balance. It was enough for what I was about to do, I decided, and slid the thin plastic into the slot on my wristwatch-phone. That was the other area in which technology advanced at lightning speed. If there were some new way to take money from you, someone would invent it. My credit counter could be used for anything, even phone-to-modem transfers to Swiss bank accounts, which was what I was intending, if Mouse took the bait. I dialed the numbers from memory.

  He picked up on the first ring. Not many people had access to this particular phone number. "Mouse's house, Mouse speaking."

  His page looked very dapper. Black hair short-cropped above the ears, which stuck out with trademark roundness. His face broke out in a wide, dimpled grin when he recognized me. "Deidre! Tell me you're back on the LINK!"

  "Hey, home." I laughed. It was an old joke I shared with Mouse's page. I called him "home" as a play on the fact that he was a super-advanced version of a web home page. "If I was back on the LINK," I asked, "do you think I'd have to call you for information?"

  "You break my heart, Deidre." Mouse's page feigned a hurt look. It was almost natural-looking, if you didn't know the telltale signs of digital imaging. There was only the slightest electronic halo. Damn, Mouse was one master surfer. If only he wasn't also a master criminal.

  "I need intel, Mouse."

  "And here I was thinking you had finally come to your senses and decided to move to Cairo and live with me in the sun forever. We could rule the world, you and I, Deidre. Tell me you will."

  "I will." I smiled. "Soon."

  "Ah, I know you. You might as well say never, McMannus." The page frowned. There was flickering on the screen, and the page gave me a worried look. "I have to reroute, catch a new wave. Someone's bagging your trail, girlfriend. Stand by."

  I drank my coffee and waited. The thunderstorm rattled the window, and I found myself daydreaming about the hot African sun and a lithe, sun-browned young man. When I last saw Mouse real-time, he was begging me to spare his life. Not that I had that much power over his fate, as it turned out. The little con artist had weaseled himself diplomatic immunity, and the case Daniel and I had carefully built against him collapsed like a house of cards.

  Sometime, during my pursuit of his case, Mouse decided my attempts to nab him were flirtatious. I did gain a healthy respect for his intellect and skill, but the rest ... well, normally, I didn't go for his type. Clean-cut, barely legal boyishness was never that much of a turn-on for a meat-and-potatoes girl like myself. All the same, Mouse managed to grow on me; his relentless admiration was hard to resist. I was pleasantly surprised when Mouse himself, not his page, returned the call.

  "Deidre." He smiled. The page was an almost perfect copy, but the original smile held a lot more snake-oil charm. "It really is you ... and on something as crude and mundane as a phone line. Have you no sense at all? Luckily my page was able to reroute us to this complete relic of a pay phone. And, because I like you so much, I've got him running a boomerang trace on your trail. What can I do for you?"

  Tousled black curly hair framed a youthful face. Two wires embedded in his temple were the only hint that Mouse was a heavy-hitter hacker. Despite the sundrenched Cairo scene behind him, Mouse wore a leather jacket and a tee shirt that said Letourneau in 76.

  "You support Letourneau, Mouse? You can't even vote in America."

  "You'd be surprised what I can hack into."

  I laughed. "And scandalized, I'm sure. But really, Mouse, you can't tell me you believe in the LINK-angels."

  "Letourneau makes sense on the issues important to me, Dee. Expansion of the LINK and the preservation of America as a Free State. As for the rest ..."He shrugged. "I'm reserving judgment about his divinity."

  I nodded. I could understand why a hacker would want to keep America out of Christendom. Right now, operating as a Free State, an independent state, America was a chaotic jumble of companies and laws. Christendom imposed order wherever it went; hackers tended to abhor order.

  "Say, Mouse," I said, "what do you know about a company called Jordan Institute?"

  Mouse scratched his chin. "Some kind of loony bin, right?"

  I nodded. "Mental-health technology."

  "Okay. Is that what you want me to dig up?" Mouse asked. "Information on this company?"

  "Yes, and information on two men, as much as my account will pay for." />
  He snorted a laugh. "Knowing you, that won't be much more than their social security numbers." He cocked his head at the video, as if considering something. Then, with a sigh, he added. "Listen, keep your hard-earned money. You're a hot item these days ... we could" – an expressive hand waved about to feign embarrassment for the request – "barter. Give me some info to sell and I'll consider us even."

  "I'm not sure that's a fair trade, Mouse. I haven't found anything about the company on the LINK at all. Could be a lot of work," I said.

  "You're the P.I., Dee. I'm counting on you to do any real legwork. That's your specialty."

  "Fair enough," I said. "But the guys might be hard to trace too. Angelucci's from Amish country ..."

  Mouse cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Stop haggling. I'm not talking a major trade; the color of your panties is enough to make me a small fortune."

  I sputtered a laugh. "Color? Why not the brand, style, and cut as well?"

  "I'm serious, Dee. If you'd consent to more than one interview a year, you wouldn't be such a cult figure. You know you have your own bulletin board? I've logged a few hits there myself." I raised my eyebrows at this remark. It was hard enough for me to imagine Mouse condescending to surf a commercial board, but then to hang somewhere so kitschy truly surprised me. When he noticed my reaction, his smile broadened. "You've got some choice bytes. A boy can't help himself."