Part 22 (1/2)

I found it forty minutes later.

Tucked away in a chrome cabinet (locked, but fortunately not bullet-proof), inserted between vile-green separators like the most unimportant thing on earth, rammed between bulging files marked PAL-, PAM-, PAO-, PAP-, it was a slender, unremarkable thing. A faded project-report, listing funding allocations, resources, cla.s.sification levels, diplomatic pa.s.ses, locations, and personnel.

I had to sit down.

Take a breath.

Look away. Out across the dark landscape and that brightening patch of sky to the east, promising - eventually - a new sun.

Then I looked back and re-read the t.i.tle: PROJECT PANDORA.

It made me s.h.i.+ver, which is quite a thing to admit when you've spent most of your adult life killing people in secret.

I rifled through the loose sheets inside like a man possessed, fingers trembling, spilling useless doc.u.ments and paper clipped photographs. It all seemed like it was happening to someone else.

I found the name I was looking for near the back.

Vital statistics. Origins. Code numbers. Re-a.s.signment location.

There was a photo pinned to its rear.

I stared at it for twenty minutes.

The sun edged higher.

And then abruptly I was ready to leave, and stuffing the papers into my pockets, and staggering upright, fighting the s.h.i.+vers, and casting my eyes across the photos I'd dropped, stopping to retrieve my rifle, and- Oh s.h.i.+t.

And there he was. Staring at me. Pictured in black and white, a decade or two younger, smart in dress-uniform and sergeant's stripes, smiling with officious intensity at the camera.

JOHN P. MILLER.

Lacking only for a vast white mitre, a snowy robe, and an exaltation to the Lord on his lips.

John-Paul Rohare Baptiste.

Why the f.u.c.k was he in the file? What the h.e.l.l was he doing th- Snkt.

This is a sound I have heard many times. This is a sound I am acquainted with intimately, and have been responsible for creating in the vast majority of cases.

This is the sound of a semi-automatic pistol being armed, in close proximity to someone's head.

The head was mine. The pistol was Cardinal Cy's.

”f.u.c.k.” I said.

”Yeah,” he said.

n.o.body moved.

”How did you find me?”

”On the way up. Heard a shot. Took it nice and slow.”

Opening the filing cabinet. b.u.g.g.e.r.

Still the same, strange voice. Little stammered bursts of thought, tones just a touch too high for comfort.

”Given us a chase. Haven't you? Troublemaker. Caused all sorts.”

”What's on the roof?” I said. Stalling. It didn't matter. He had no reason to keep me alive now. Just s...o...b..ating. Just being curious. Just playing with me.

”No concern.” He said. ”What you looking for? Up here, huh? What's got you into this?”

”None of your business,” I deadpanned.

He punched me in the kidneys, giggling horribly and as I went down I made it look good, cried out, and staggered, and threw up my hand to ward him off, letting the photo of John-Paul flap about, and- -and in the confusion sneaked my other hand onto the Uzi in my pocket, and- -and the gun was back on my scalp, only this time I was kneeling.

”f.u.c.k.”

”Hands. Lemee see. On head.”

He giggled again. Not right in the head.

I did what he said. The Uzi clattered to the ground beside the photo of John-Paul, and somewhere behind those impenetrable red specs I guess he s.n.a.t.c.hed a glance.

”That who I think?”

”Yeah.”

”Looks young.”

”Yeah.”

”What you doing here?”

”Looking for something.”

”What?”

”Information.”

”What information?”

”You really want to know?”

”What information? f.u.c.k! What information?” The muzzle jabbed against my temple.

I sighed.

Tensed.