Thermals Read online

  “We’ve only got about twenty full time officers here,” Gwen spoke up, divining his thoughts.

  “For a city of eighty thousand?” Anselm asked, surprised, it didn’t sound like much.

  “Most of the security is still handled by the Project staff, and we mostly just investigate domestic calls around here and serve the occasional warrant.” She explained, “There’s no traffic crime to speak of, only a few hundred cars in the entire city, and most of the people who live here genuinely want to be here. It makes a difference.”

  Anselm nodded, pulling the seal of his bag open. “Makes sense.”

  “Yeah,” She nodded, “Look, I have to ask…Are you carrying?”

  “Service issued FiveseveN Magnum.” Anselm confirmed.

  “Alright, hand it over to me so I can register it for you.” She told him, “We’ve got a local convention against guns, but I’ll fit you in under the law enforcement exception.”

  “Thanks.” He said, pulling his clip-on holster from his belt behind his back and handing it over. “Here.”

  She accepted it, pulling the Fabrique Nationale five point seven millimeter pistol from its custom formed holster and carefully transcribed the serial number into her computer terminal. The FiveseveN Magnum, or Fifty-Seventy as it had become known, was an improvement on the older FiveseveN pistols FN Herstal had designed for police and counter terrorist agencies as a companion piece to their famed P90. Its cartridges were a few millimeters longer than the standard five point seven round, and ran a lot hotter in order to perforate modern composite body armors.

  “Nice piece,” She said as she handed it back, “Did you bring your ballistics information?”

  Anselm nodded and handed over a flash chip he always kept in a belt pouch. The postage sized piece of smoke colored transparent aluminum contained several gigabytes of information about Anselm, his medical records, Service files, current assignment and, of course, a complete ballistics work up on his service weapon.

  “Backup?”

  Anselm smiled, propping his foot up on the desk and pulling the M-45 Firestar from the ankle holster. Gwen returned the smile with an arched eyebrow, but accepted the compact weapon without comment.

  The Firestar was Anselm’s personal gun, a compact forty five caliber pistol with six rounds in the box and one in the pipe that had served him well for over a decade. It wasn’t new, and it wasn’t flashy, but the Firestar had always done the job in a pinch. Gwen simply ran the number from it in a few seconds, then inserted the flash chip into her computer and let it load up the ballistics info automatically.

  “Alright,” She said, closing the file. “You’re registered. I’ll get you a supplemental permit that you can keep with your Interpol ID.”

  “Thanks.” Anselm said, replacing his weapons and straightening his clothing to cover them more effectively.

  “Let’s get you checked in to a hotel, I think you’ve got a reservation?”

  Anselm nodded, drawing his portable from its belt pouch and flicking the fan shaped screen open with a snap of his wrist. “Yeah…at the Tower Arms.”

  Gwen nodded, “nice place. I’ll give you a lift over, and show you how to ride the rails around these parts. You can probably rent a car if you want, there’s usually a couple available, but the fastest way to get anywhere is the rails.”

  Anselm nodded, “Alright. Lead the way.”

  “This way,” She nodded her head, “We’ve got to pick up your carry permit first.”

  *****

  “The shanties grew up in a ring around The Project,” Gwen was telling him as she guided the Eliica patrol car around the gently curving road that circled the huge greenhouse that they could occasionally see glinting through the tangle of buildings. “No more than a half kilometer thick at its widest, and about the same in distance from the perimeter of The Project greenhouse.”

  Anselm nodded, noting the curve that the streets all had, all of them following the same invisible line that would eventually bring them back around onto themselves.

  “You want to get across town, you have two choices,” Gwen went on, idly dodging a car on the road at just over three hundred kilometers an hour. “You can drive, like us, which takes a while…even in one of these babies…”

  Anselm held on to the seat, feeling the Gee force push him back into the seat as she accelerated again. The Eliica accelerated with almost a full gravity, making him feel like the car was standing on end as the Inspector casually negotiated the wide streets.

  “But if you’re in a hurry,” she went on, oblivious to his discomfort, “you ride the rail. It cuts right through The Project and take you out the other side. Be there in a few minutes, tops.”

  “So why are we driving?” Anselm asked idly, watching the road intently.

  Gwendolyn laughed, “Because I LIKE to drive.”

  Figures, Anselm thought without speaking aloud.

  “Besides,” She went on, gesturing just up ahead. “Your stop is right here. Tower Arms, not our finest establishment, but it’s got nice rooms, good service, and they keep the place clean.”

  The patrol car slid to a near silent stop beside the Tower Arms hotel, and Anselm climbed out. He looked up over the building, and was surprised that it appeared to only be a few stories tall.

  “I figured a hotel would be bigger.” He said aloud, ducking his head to retrieve his bag.

  Gwen just laughed, “It’s pretty big, but most is underground. We don’t cotton to no shadows on the greenhouse around here, Agent Gunnar.”

  Anselm nodded, understanding.

  “Strict building codes keep the buildings limited to specific heights depending on how far they are from the greenhouse…” She paused, and then shrugged, “And what side they’re on too, of course. On the south side you can build pretty much any height you want. Most stay about the same anyway though, city planners seem to think it looks good. Besides, its energy efficient to build underground, and this is Tower City, Agent Gunnar…we’re all about being efficient.”

  Anselm nodded and smiled, shouldering his bag. “Thanks for your help, Inspector.”

  “No trouble. Here,” she leaned over, extending a card to him.

  He took it, recognizing it as a standard swipe card.

  “That’s my swipe card,” she told him unnecessarily, “Just pass it through any phone and it’ll figure out where I am and ring me.”

  “Thanks again. Gwen.” He said, a little awkwardly.

  “No problem, Anselm.” She replied as she keyed a command that brought the door of the car down, then the police Eliica pulled away, leaving Anselm Gunnar looking at his home for the next few days at least.

  *****

  Checking in went smoothly, mostly an automated process that involved dealing with only one actual person who noted his room and gestured to an elevator without looking up.

  “You’re on Sub Level three, room S3-22.” The man said, filling out a form before flipping the electronic pad over, “Sign here, Mr. Gunnar.”

  Anselm signed, then shouldered his bag and headed toward the elevator.

  He had to check in with the agent who was on her honeymoon before he could do too much else, and see if she’d chanced another glance of Amir, but he didn’t expect much of that. Other than that, it was going to be hard going to close this case.

  Abdallah had extensive practice in hiding from authorities’ intent on his capture, and the multinational culture around the Tower Project, just from what Gunnar had seen so far personally, would make it an effective place to hide for the terrorist. In fact, if he was actually lying low, there was little chance that Gunnar would locate him.

  It was just too big a haystack, and too easy to miss a needle.

  If the needle was poking into places it shouldn’t, however, Gunnar might just have a shot.

  The elevator dinged and opened as he approached, so Gunnar walked right in and waited for the door to close. When it had he didn’t press the SL-3 button, but instead punched in
the button for the fourth floor and settled in as the machine accelerated upward.

  *****

  “Agent Gunnar?”

  Anselm nodded as he recognized the slim blond who opened the door, “Adrienne Somer, the Home Office sent me to investigate your sighting.”

  “So it was confirmed?” She asked, stepping aside to let him in.

  Anselm nodded as he stepped inside, “Facial topography gives it ninety-seven percent chance of being Amir.” Anselm confirmed, “You weren’t informed?”

  She shook her head, “no.”

  “Bureaucrats.” Anselm sighed, deciding to lay it out. “I’ve been sent to scout the project out, try to locate him and see what he’s here for. So I’ll be poking around in a few places I probably shouldn’t, if they make me they might do a computer search to see what other Interpol people are in town…”

  The implications were left unsaid as he let himself trail off, but Somer understood.

  The Interpol inspector nodded with a wry smile, “I had expected something of the like. My husband and I will be gone tomorrow morning.”

  “Good.” Anselm told her, “As I said, I don’t expect any serious trouble, the odds are that he’s laying low here.”

  “He’s not.” Adrienne Somer told him, “I read his file the night I sent that email. Amir isn’t the kind.”

  Anselm nodded, the young inspector raising a notch in his esteem. “I know. Now, have you had any other contact?”

  “No.” She shook her head, “I’ve gone back to the fountain every couple days, but haven’t seen him again.”

  “Was this the Pleasant Chimes Fountain?”

  She nodded, looking surprised. “How on Earth could you know that?”

  “Local contact.” He told her, “Alright. I think that we’re done here. I’m sorry that your honeymoon is being disrupted, Inspector.”

  She smiled wanly, “My husband is less than enthused about cutting our time short, he wanted to try some of the thermal gliding they do in the area.”

  Anselm grimaced wryly, shaking his head. “My condolences on marrying a lunatic.”

  She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “He’s not that bad…But you have to admit that the opportunity to catch a thermal and climb four or five miles straight up isn’t something that comes around just anywhere.”

  “I suppose not, but I’ll keep my feet on the ground just the same.” Anselm told her, and then glanced around, “Where is your husband?”

  “At the airstrip,” She shrugged, “Trying to hitch a ride to the top of the tower.”

  Anselm rolled his eyes, “Good luck with him, it sounds like you’ll need it. Do you have anything to add to the report?”

  “No, I sent everything when I mailed the pictures.” She said, “I wish I could help.”

  “Don’t.” He told her, straightening up. “This is a scout job, not delivering a warrant or making a bust. Too many witches spoil the brew and all that.”

  She laughed, again lightly, and then showed Anselm to the door.

  He bid her goodbye as they shook hands, and headed back to the elevator.

  This time he hit the button for SL-8.

  *****

  Inspector Gwendolyn Dougal left the Eliica in its charging nook and walked away from it without worrying about theft. The vehicle would only run for a member of the Shanty Town PD thanks to the radio identity transmitter incorporated into each of their badges. It made things easier on them in some ways, though losing a badge was even worse than it had been in the past.

  She was walking into her office when a noise to her right startled the police inspector, and she jerked around.

  “Sorry!” The man there held up his hands, smiling. “Didn’t mean to give you a start, Gwenny.”

  Gwen caught her breath, shooting a glare at the man, but didn’t say anything for a moment.

  Finally she shook her head, “You shouldn’t sneak up on someone who’s armed, Ryan.”

  Police Chief Ryan Emmerson smiled in response, “You wouldn’t shoot me, Gwen. If you did, you’d get stuck with my job.”

  Gwen shuddered. God forbid.

  Ryan spent the majority of his time liaising with the Tower Project people, basically keeping the lines of communication open and generally spending all of his time under the huge facility, in the tunnel complex where they kept their offices. Gwen liked being out in the light, and even getting to drive once in a while.

  “Did that Interpol guy come through today?” Ryan asked as Gwen tossed her coat on a rack and settled in at her desk.

  “Yeah,” She nodded, “He thinks they have a lead on a terrorist they’ve been looking for.”

  “Here?” Ryan chuckled, “What’s he doing? Wait, don’t tell me…He’s one of the Eco Terrorists that we hear so much about in the movies.”

  Gwen had to chuckle at that, while the occasional ecologist went over the line in their methods the myth of eco-terrorism was an all too frequent plotline in the mainstream entertainment that seemed to pervade all walks of life. Working around the Tower had taught everyone in the area that the average ecologist was about as dangerous as a stiff breeze, and usually not as interesting.

  “Fraid not,” She said after a moment though, becoming serious. “This is the real deal. One of the fundamentalist movement, big time bomber.”

  Ryan grimaced, “You’re joking?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why would he be here? The Tower has nothing to do with any of their beefs.”

  “I know that, and you know that,” Gwen shrugged, “But whether he knows that is something else. All we can do is give Agent Gunnar a hand if he asks, and maybe keep an eye out ourselves.”

  “We have a photo?”

  Gwen punched up a command on her computer, accessing the Interpol most wanted lists. Sure enough Abdallah Amir was on the list so she sent his sheet to the printer.

  Ryan picked it out of the high speed printer almost before it was done and flipped it around to look at. “Hmm…Doesn’t look like an Arab.”

  “Don’t know for sure if he is.” She told him, “He’s one of those types that change their name…as if God cares what name they were born with.”

  “I see.” Ryan said in a tone that clearly indicated that he didn’t.

  Gwen ignored it. Ryan was a nice enough guy, but he was also the sort that believed that terrorism had something to do with Islam. This was about as accurate as saying that Slavery had something to do with Christianity. Sure Christians had once held slaves, still did in some parts of the world that no one liked to talk about, but so did pretty much every other religion that had ever existed.

  Fundamentalist terrorists weren’t particularly faithful to Islam or any other religion, though a surprising number of them claimed such an affiliation. Well, perhaps not so surprising, she supposed. Islam had gotten a bad reputation in the world wide arena over the past four decades, and any terrorist wanting to be taken seriously often would take up the mantle of Islam and Allah just for the credibility it gave him with the media.

  It was, perhaps sadly, a fact however that Islamic groups did make up a disproportionate amount of the radical terror cells. That hadn’t always been the case, but as time wore on most of the other groups had either been stamped out or found some ways to settle at least some of their grievances. Most people, even extremists, grew tired of the death and dying eventually.

  Religion, however, added a certain staying power to the mix.

  Nice big explosions were, after all, the last refuge of the ‘devout’.

  “Send the copy around to all the cars and portables, ok Gwen?” Ryan asked, “We’ll have the men keep an eye out.”

  Gwen nodded, “Yes Sir.”

  Ryan twisted his lip as he looked at the redhead, “I keep telling you, Gwen, no need for the formality here.”

  She just nodded, “I’ll send the sheets out.”

  “Good work, oh and let me know if that Interpol guy wants anything, alright?”

 
She nodded briefly and the Chief headed back to his office.

  Gwen looked after him for a moment, then turned to her terminal and keyed it open to the local traffic grid.

  “I wonder…” She frowned delicately, tapping in a few commands and calling up the traffic camera records that were stored in the central data base. “I wonder, Mr. Abdallah Amir…do you drive?”

  *****

  “There is an Interpol agent in the city, Abdallah. He is looking for you.”

  Abdallah Amir looked up from his work, frowning. “When did he arrive?”

  “Just this morning.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  The small wiry man nodded, “Agent Anselm Gunnar.”

  “Gunnar…Gunnar…” Abdallah pursed his lips and looked over, “Don’t I know a man named Gunnar?”

  “Yes, Amir.” A large man said obsequiously. “He was the Agent in Charge of the investigation in London.”

  “Oh yes.” Abdallah nodded, “The Swede. He almost located us once, didn’t he Jacob?”

  The large man nodded, “Twice, Amir.”

  “Twice. Yes, of course. Three times if you count the Embassy party.” Abdallah smiled slightly, as did the large man he’d called Jacob.

  The small wiry man didn’t say anything, nor smile, he didn’t get the joke. He just twisted his hands nervously, “Abdallah, if he finds you…”

  “He won’t.” Abdallah said with a shake of his long dark hair. “But still, it pays to take care.”

  “God helps those who help themselves.” Jacob replied.

  “Yes, of course.” Abdallah nodded, “And fortune favors the bold…and the prepared. Have Mr. Gunnar followed…at a distance.”

  “You don’t want us to…remove him?” The wiry man asked, confused.

  “Absolutely not!” Abdallah snapped, eyes flashing. “Go nowhere near this man. My own people will watch him. If you kill an Interpol agent we will shortly be flooded with his compatriots, and that would be very, very, bad. Would it not, Jacob?”

  “Very bad, Amir.” The large man agreed, staring stonily at the small man.