"But I don't care!" Cadel cried—then cringed as two waiters peered at him from the kitchen door. Lowering his voice, he hissed, "Prosper doesn't care what happens to me, so why should I care what happens to him?"
"Because he's your father," Saul rejoined. "Of course you care. I'd think less of you if you didn't." Saul's melancholy regard was deeply unsettling. "And in case you're worried, let me inform you that Prosper's fine. He's bearing up extremely well. Better than you are, in fact." With a wry twist of the mouth, Saul added, "You'd never think he was in prison, the way he talks."
Cadel winced. He'd forgotten that Saul had been talking to Prosper English. The whole idea was dreadful. Cadel didn't even want to picture them both in the same room; he had a horrible feeling that Prosper would somehow threaten Saul's very existence.
"Please be careful," he begged the detective. "Please don't tell him you see me. Because he ll hate that. He ll hate you. "
"It's all right." Saul sounded far too confident. "I can handle Prosper English."
"No, you can't. No one can."
"Cadel—"
"You can't trust him an inch! He's too clever!"
"Cadel." Saul reached over to lay a steady hand on Cadel's wrist. "Prosper English isn't going anywhere. Believe me."
Cadel subsided. He wasn't convinced, but he could see that it would be pointless to continue. In fact, he didn't say much after that. Neither did Saul. They ate their meals in almost complete silence, though Cadel had lost his appetite. He wanted to blurt out everything he knew about GenoME and Genius Squad. He wanted to ask a hundred questions about Prosper English, Earl Toffany, and the guard who had died. But he couldn't. He couldn't tell the truth.
Instead he had to sit there, feeling like a complete fraud, until finally—mercifully—Fiona offered to drive him home.
TWENTY-THREE
When Cadel arrived back at Clearview House, he found it very dark and quiet.
At first glance, there didn't seem to be anyone around. No one answered his hail. His footsteps echoed on the bare boards of the hallway as he made for the kitchen, wondering if absolutely everyone was in the War Room. Or had something unexpected occurred? Had there been a mass evacuation?
If so, the exodus must have been made on foot; he had seen at least three cars parked out front. Fiona had seen them, too, and had driven away quite satisfied that the house was fully staffed.
Cadel, however, wasn't so sure; if there were any supervisors on the premises, they were making themselves pretty scarce. Having checked the kitchen, he was about to make his way downstairs when he heard the hiss and crackle of amplified breathing. Then a voice addressed him from the microphone that was hidden away behind an electrical socket.
Clearly, Cadel's entry must have triggered the internal alarm.
"Cadel! Is that you?" It was Hamish. "Come down, quick! We've done it!"
Done what? thought Cadel. But there were rules that governed the intercom system. No one was allowed to use it for long conversations, just in case a stranger happened to approach the back door, glance through the kitchen window, and see somebody talking to a wall. So Cadel took the lift downstairs, where he was greeted by a breathless chorus.
"There you are! Terrific!"
"You should see all this stuff!"
"We've got through to the lab!"
The War Room was buzzing with excitement. Cadel looked around. He saw little clumps of people everywhere: Sonja and Lexi in one corner; Cliff and Judith in another. Hamish was huddled with Dot and Devin around a single computer screen, like chilly people crouched around a fire.
As soon as he caught sight of Cadel, Hamish jumped to his feet.
"I got through!" he exclaimed. "I got into the lab computers! Jerry's been working late, so I got through!"
"Oh, yeah?" said Cadel. Though he hadn't yet recovered from Saul's news and was still feeling shaky, he tried to respond with a show of enthusiasm. "Did you use Jerry's password?"
"That's all we needed! It was a cinch!" Hamish cried. "Now we can run a piggyback op!"
"It's just as we thought," Dot added, more coolly. She went on to explain, for Cadel's benefit, that the lab computers did indeed dispatch regular deliveries of genetic information to GenoME's American network, where each electronic packet was broken down, analyzed, and interpreted. From the information contained in these packets, GenoME could produce a series of client reports, which were swiftly sent back to the Australian branch.
In other words, every time a packet left for America, the lab computers received another by return post.
"So it's perfect for us," Cadel muttered. He was trying to concentrate on what he'd just been told. "We can disguise our probes as DNA profiles, and the information we get back will look like client reports."
"Exactly!" Hamish chirruped.
Dot pointed out that the setup was ideal, because the Australian lab technicians weren't security conscious. Once their data had been entered into GenoME's system, the process was largely automated. Packets went out and packets came back in. The technicians didn't appear to worry about what happened in between.
"They're probably too busy," Cadel remarked. And Hamish said, in tones of withering scorn, "If those lab computers got up and went to the toilet, no one would notice."
It certainly seemed as if the lab machines were the weakest link in the GenoME network. So when Cliff strolled over and suggested piggybacking on Jerry's e-mails, Hamish shook his head.
"Uh-uh," he replied. "Jerry sits on that machine all day. It's going to b-be hard enough downloading his files. We don't want to wander in and out of there too much."
"Jerry's got intuition," Dot confirmed. "Like Cadel. As for Carolina, she's paranoid. She checks and double-checks everything." According to Dot, while Carolina's machine was now wide-open, it was also more closely observed than the laboratory computers. "We should concentrate on those," Dot declared. "They're our best chance of penetrating the American firewalls."
And that was that. Cliff didn't argue. He did, however, insist that someone should also inspect Carolina's computer files, very carefully. "Because we can't afford to overlook anything," he growled. "I want her e-mails monitored. And Jerry's, too."
"Oh, we'll do that," Hamish assured him. "We've already started." Turning back to Cadel, Hamish revealed that, since Carolina and Jerry had both put in a late night at the office, large amounts of data had already been extracted from their well-protected hard drives. "Trouble is, most of it's encoded," said Hamish. "Which is where Lexi and Sonja come in. Decrypting is their job."
Cadel glanced across at Sonja, who was struggling to bash something out on her modified keyboard. Her movements had become quite erratic, as they always did when she was tired. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles.
"It's getting too late for Sonja," he said abruptly. "She ought to be in bed."
"Oh, she's all right." Cliff waved a careless hand. "She couldn't be happier."
But Cadel disagreed.
"She's worn out," he insisted. "I'll take her upstairs."
"No. I will." It was Judith who spoke; she had been poring over her laptop, absorbed in some kind of number-crunching exercise. Now she straightened, and stretched, and hauled herself out of her seat with a great popping and cracking of joints. "We have to talk about something, anyway," she observed, and approached Sonja's wheelchair. Her heavy, rolling gait made her look as unstoppable as an armored tank. "You come with me, love, and I'll get you sorted," she told Sonja. "You should have been in your pj's an hour ago."
"But we're not finished!" Lexi complained. "We haven't got to the subkeys yet!"
"And you won't. Not tonight," Judith said firmly. "You can do them tomorrow."
Cadel watched as Judith seized Sonja's wheelchair and pushed it toward the lift. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or resentful. On the one hand, it was nice to see someone else taking responsibility for Sonja—especially since he himself was almost dropping with fatigue. (It was never easy lifting
her out of that wheelchair, even at the best of times.) On the other hand, he couldn't quite see why Sonja and Judith got on so well. They were both mathematicians, of course, but Sonja's attitude toward numbers was very pure and refined, whereas Judith regarded them merely as a means to an end—like a jimmy in a burglar's tool kit. For Judith, numbers were for sabotaging corporations, and plundering offshore bank accounts.
Cadel wondered if Judith's wealth could be part of the attraction for Sonja. Could Sonja be angling for a ride in Judith's lightplane, perhaps? Or a weekend at Judith's beach house?
But he immediately dismissed the idea. Sonja wasn't like that.
"So what did your copper friend have to say?" Cliff gruffly inquired, as the lift doors closed. He fixed his small, muddy eyes on Cadel. "Why did he want to have dinner with you? Any particular reason?"
"Oh..." Cadel shrugged. He didn't want to talk about Prosper English. "Just some fuss at the jail."
"What fuss?" said Hamish.
"What jail?" said Devin.
"Anything we ought to know about?" Cliff queried.
Cadel wiped a hand across his face. He was conscious of Lexi, sulking in the background. He was aware of his own confusion. Data was raining down on him from all sides; what he needed was some peace and quiet, to sort it out properly. To decide what was important and what could safely be ignored.
He was about to say as much when the intercom spluttered and Judith's voice rang out, distorted by feedback.
"Get up here," she squawked. "Something's going on."
There was a moment's stunned silence. Then Cadel found himself caught up in a stampede. Still somewhat dazed, he allowed Cliff to hustle him into the lift, which was a very tight squeeze for six people. Squished between Dot and Lexi, he was almost suffocated by the sickly musk of Lexi's cheap perfume.
When the lift door slid open, after a brief but uncomfortable ride, Cadel spilled out along with everyone else. The kitchen was dark. It was hard to see. Nevertheless, he could just make out Judith's bulky shape beside Sonja's wheelchair.
"What the hell—?" Cliff began. But Judith wagged a finger at him.
"Shh!" she hissed. "Listen! There's someone outside!"
Sure enough, distant shouts could be heard, issuing from somewhere in the enormous, parklike grounds. There followed a faint thumping noise and the crunch of footsteps on gravel.
"I can see a light," Judith whispered, squinting through the slats of a venetian blind that hung crookedly at the window over the sink. "I think someone's got a flashlight—"
"Everybody upstairs!" Cliff instructed, striding toward the back door and flinging it open. But not a single person obeyed this directive. Even Dot pressed forward, keen to see what was going on.
As Hamish and Devin clustered around Judith, blocking Sonja's view through the window, Lexi and Dot headed for the door. They jostled Cliff, trying to peer past him.
Cadel wasn't about to fight for a vantage point. Instead, sensibly, he flicked the switch that turned on the outside lamps.
"There! Look!" squeaked Lexi. "I see someone!"
"Is that guy wearing a tie?" Devin yelped, and Cliff said, "Cadel. Come here." Reaching back, he grabbed Cadel's arm. "That's one of your stakeout goons, isn't it?"
Dragged through a tightly packed scrum, Cadel became wedged between Cliff's flank and Lexi's. Before him lay a stretch of mangy lawn, bathed in electric radiance. Beyond it, a bobbing beam of light marked the passage of a heavy man in a dark suit, who was running so fast that his tie streamed over his shoulder, snapping in the breeze.
He was attempting to train his light on the figure tearing along some ten meters ahead of him.
"Well?" Cliff snapped. "Is it the police, or isn't it?"
"I—I think so," Cadel stammered. "I can't really see..."
"Oy!" the formally dressed runner yelled. But he was yelling at his mysterious quarry—not at the people in the kitchen. He didn't even glance their way. "Oy! Police!"
"It's a cop," the twins chorused, just as the shadowy fugitive was swallowed up by darkness, vanishing around the northernmost corner of the house. His pursuer was close on his heels.
Cadel realized that they were both heading for the gate.
"Veranda!" Hamish cried, whereupon there was another stampede—this time down the hallway. Hamish and the twins all thundered toward the front door, jabbing each other with their elbows, while Cliff slammed the back door and locked it.
"Get her out of the way," Cliff ordered, jerking his chin at Sonja as he addressed Judith. "Into the bedroom. Don't stand near any windows." Reaching for a high cupboard, he directed his next command at Cadel. "You—upstairs."
"But—"
"Upstairs, Cadel!" Cliff pulled down a large plastic jar. In the dim light, Cadel couldn't tell if the jar was full of raisins or coffee beans. "Your copper friend will gut me if anything happens to you," said Cliff. "I want you out of harm's way."
"But—"
"Go on, love," Judith urged stoutly. "I'll look after Sonja."
"Just go!" Cliff barked, fishing around in the jar. And Cadel went—not because he had any intention of heading upstairs, but because a sudden whoop from the front of the house indicated that something of interest had happened.
When he joined Hamish and the twins, they were bouncing around like cheerleaders, beside themselves with the thrill of the chase.
"There! There!" Lexi shrieked. "Get him, quick!" The boards of the veranda shook beneath her. "Oh my god, he's getting away!"
"No he's not—look!" Devin pointed. "There's another copper!"
Lurking behind them both, Cadel saw enough to give him a reasonably good idea of what was going on. Two wavering flashlight beams were now visible; with their assistance, and in the milky radiance of a nearby streetlight, Cadel could make out a dark silhouette pounding along the pale ribbon of the gravel driveway. Having outrun the first policeman, the fugitive had made a mad dash for the front gates—hoping, perhaps, to squeeze through them, or climb over them. But the sight of another flashlight-bearing, suit-wearing policeman just beyond those gates caused the fleeing trespasser to change his mind. He swerved back toward the house instead.
"He's heading this way!" Lexi screamed. Cadel grabbed her arm, to pull her inside.
At which point Hamish darted onto the driveway, with a shrill: "Come on!"
Cadel was gob smacked. He realized that the fugitive, in desperation, was setting his course for one of the parked cars—and that Hamish was trying to intercept him. Behind Cadel, Cliff cried, "Hamish! Come back here!" Then Lexi took off, disengaging herself from Cadel's grip.
Almost everyone in sight seemed to be converging on the stocky, black-clad stranger, who—propelled by his own momentum—slammed into Cliff's car before frantically jiggling the door handle.
"Get back!" yelled the closest policeman, making wild gestures at Hamish. "Stop! Get back inside!"
Hamish, however, was in a frenzy of excitement and didn't seem to hear. As his quarry broke away from Cliff's car, Hamish made a clumsy attempt to tackle him. It wasn't a successful maneuver. Hamish ended up on the ground, with his hands over his nose. He had been kicked in the face.
"Oh my god," said Cadel, and started forward.
But Cliff snatched at his collar, yanking him back. At the same instant, Lexi jumped out in front of the briefly delayed fugitive, blocking his planned trajectory. For some reason, he hesitated; possibly he was intimidated by her sturdy build, or her leather gear, or her eyebrow stud. At any rate, he stopped for a moment—allowing the first policeman to catch up.
It was immediately obvious that this particular law enforcer really knew how to bring someone down. He threw himself at his target like a first-grade rugby player; the noise of the impact made Cadel wince. There was a howl of pain from the trespasser and a delighted screech from Lexi. She began to perform a kind of war dance, punching at the air and springing from foot to foot.
"We-did-it! We-did-it!" she sang.
Th
e policeman glared up at her, panting. "You get back inside!" he roared. "Are you crazy, or what?" He was holding his captive in a painful-looking armlock. His flashlight lay discarded on the grass.
Its steady beam was aimed directly at a damp, flushed, contorted face that Cadel recognized instantly.
"Mace!" he gasped.
TWENTY-FOUR
"Who?" said Lexi. And the breathless policeman croaked, "You know this guy?"
Cadel nodded. He was vaguely aware that Cliff had released him; that the second policeman was hurriedly approaching; that Hamish was gingerly dabbing at his split lip with one sleeve. But Cadel's overriding interest in Mace caused him to disregard these events.
Mace was wearing a black beanie, black gloves, and a black nylon tracksuit. There were dark smudges on his cheeks and forehead. As he lay there, his chest heaving, he swore at Cadel—who retreated a step.
"Okay, that's enough," the breathless policeman warned Mace. "You're only making it worse for yourself. What's your name? Hmmm?"
The sole response was a four-letter word, crudely placed in front of a three-letter one.
"He's called Thomas," Cadel said quickly, before the breathless policeman could lose his temper. "Thomas Logge."
"Isn't that the kid from your last billet?" inquired the second policeman, who had suddenly materialized out of the shadows, waving his flashlight. Cadel knew him. It was Mick Mattilos.
"Yes," Cadel mumbled.
"Watch it, Glen, he's a juvenile," Mick said to his partner. "Go easy, for Chris'sake."
Glen immediately rose. He hauled Mace up, too, neatly sidestepping a couple of flailing kicks in the process. Hamish, meanwhile, had also staggered to his feet; his nose wasn't bleeding, but his lip was.
"Are you all right, Hamish?" asked Cliff.
"He kigged be in the bouth," Hamish complained, his voice snubbed and muffled. "I could have lost a tooth."
"You shouldn't have tackled him," was Cliff's unsympathetic response. "I told you to stay put."