Sagramanda

  “Yes sir.” The tech turned to go.

  “Oh, and Mr. Subrata? My compliments to you and your associates downstairs. Very good work. With luck and continued persistence, hopefully we can take this person and her associates, should she have any, into custody before she can kill again.”

  “That is the hope of myself and my colleagues as well, sir.” Subrata let himself out.

  For the first time in weeks, a tiny bit of the gloom that had hovered over the chief inspector's every working day lifted. They had, at last, a plausible description of the possible killer—or at least someone who could be a link to the actual killer. It seemed too far-fetched for coincidence to expect that a museum guard and a hotel bartender had seen the same woman in the company of three unrelated people just prior to their untimely deaths.

  Maintained by his desk, the representation continued to hang in the air before him. The impassive face was that of a still young woman, attractive without being striking. It could not show what lay within, what drove someone like this to commit or conspire to commit multiple murders. Though it was difficult to tell just from a computer-generated image, the visage hovering before him did not have the aspect of the criminally insane. All the more dangerous, then, for not being non compos mentis.

  Privately, he was ashamed to admit he was relieved that the first solid lead they had obtained on the serial killer strongly suggested that she was not Indian. It distressed him to think that he could be so provincial.

  There was no question about it. The man he had been trailing had picked up on the tail, broken into a near run, and taken an unexpected detour, seemingly all at the same time. In the gathering darkness and following from behind, Chal could not be positive it was the person he had been charged with finding: Taneer Buthlahee, missing scientist and absent employee of the very anxious and very nervous multinational concern to which his immediate employer Nayari-sahib kowtowed on a daily basis.

  Though not familiar with the surroundings through which he now ran, Chal Schneemann recognized that both he and his quarry had entered and were moving steadily deeper into a part of the city for which the description “unsavory” would have been a marked understatement. The absence of nighttime pedestrian traffic, of open shops and stores, of virtually anything in the way of vehicular traffic either private or municipal, active or furtive, was sufficient to verify his initial hasty impressions. He was not afraid to enter such an area. In the course of his singular career he had found himself forced to operate in far more threatening surroundings. But it did not make his task any easier.

  How far should he go in his pursuit of the well-dressed younger man he had been stalking? The information he had received that had led him to track the individual in question had been suggestive rather than positive. Wait at such and such a corner and you might see the man you're looking for, he had been told. He had waited, in the heat and crush, ignoring nattering tourists in their garish, unsuitable clothes, watching and hoping.

  Only one person all day seemed to fit the physical profile of the absent researcher. Making a choice, he had abandoned the corner to follow that individual. Just because the man had broken and fled still did not mean it was Buthlahee. Anyone persuaded that they were being followed by a stranger might respond in such a manner. Chal knew he could not be certain until he confronted the man directly and made a positive identification, either by shaking it out of his quarry or passing the hand scanner resting in his inside shirt pocket over the man's face.

  Of more concern right now was just finding him again. Did he know his way around this bleak, blasted neighborhood? If so, he might be hard to track down. The challenge invigorated Chal. An active hunt was always more stimulating than pumping contacts for information or sweating through a stakeout. There would be no killing at the end of this one, of course, but though muted, the thrill of the chase was still there.

  His quarry had bolted down a certain street. Chal would go another way. In the darkness and unfamiliar surroundings, his choice amounted to little more than an educated guess. But it was a guess based on the same decades of experience that kept him alive. Breaking into a run, he lengthened his stride. He could run like this all night. He expected to run like this for not more than a few minutes.

  His heart pounding so hard it threatened to punch its way out of his chest, Taneer skidded around a corner, nearly stumbling over a pack of dogs that was sleeping on the sidewalk. Several of the mangy, four-legged ratbags stirred despondently as he leaped over them, but none had the energy to spare to give chase, or even to bark. But when the howling throng of hungry women appeared, the dogs rose and scattered as if a live grenade had landed in their midst. Undernourished as they were, the women would have fallen upon the unfortunate mongrels and butchered any they could have caught.

  Scientist and dogs fled in different directions, the latter making much better time even though they were not nearly as well fed as the man. As he ran, dodging debris, clumps of feces, and piles of uncollected street trash, Taneer regretted having devoted so much of his youth to intellectual pursuits and so little to cricket or soccer. Without having measurably increased the distance between himself and his rabid pursuers, he was already panting heavily. He had the calories to burn, but the Admikhana had staying power—and inspiration in the form of starving children. They would catch him, and he would be chopped up and turned piecemeal into mother's milk. Like any good resident of the city he had always been in favor of recycling—but not where it involved him quite so intimately.

  What part would they start with first? he found himself wondering as terror gave a boost to his legs. Or would they be as indiscriminate in their butchery as in their taste? It was not a heartening line of thought.

  As desperate as they were for protein, they couldn't have much in the way of energy reserves. Nonathlete though he was, if he just kept his head—and his balance—he might yet outrun them. Or encounter a lonely police cruiser, or a city bus, or even a couple of sanitation workers. Cornering, killing, and quartering a lone pedestrian was one thing, but the presence of witnesses might be enough to dissuade them.

  Despite his fervent prayers, the way ahead remained empty. Word the Admikhana were on the hunt had, through some unfathomable street gossip osmosis, managed to precede him. Dark, tapering alleys beckoned on both sides of the increasingly narrow street, but they reminded him too much of gaping serpentine gullets for him to chance seeking sanctuary in any of them. And if he elected to dart into one, and chose wrong, he might quickly find himself cornered in a place where no one would even be able to hear him scream.

  Lights. He needed lights, and people, and activity. He needed to cast himself into the protective maelstrom of energy that was city nightlife.

  Instead, he rounded one more corner only to run into another man.

  The impact shook him twice: physically, from the unexpected bodily contact, and mentally, because as he staggered backward from the collision he recognized the shape he had run into as the man who had been pursuing him and who had caused him to stumble wildly into this insane part of the city in the first place.

  What was worse, much worse, was that the man recognized him.

  “Taneer Buthlahee.” Though the voice was oddly calm, as if reciting one name lifted from a long invisible list, there was no mistaking the satisfaction that underlay the tone. “I've been looking for you for quite a while. It's been an expensive and often frustrating search. But now it's over.” A long, lean arm reached for the scientist.

  Without thought or hesitation, Taneer slapped it away. Always a mild sort, for him such a reaction bordered on the extreme. The explanation was that the response had been entirely instinctive.

  A slim specter velcroed to the night, the taller man frowned. “Don't be difficult, now. I'm supposed to return you intact—or at least, coherent. I don't want to hurt you.”

  When he advanced a second time, his movements were a blur, and not just because they were masked by darkness. The man's other hand grabb
ed Taneer by the collar of his shirt before he could duck and spun him around. Though slender, the arm that slipped up to lock in place under his chin and across his neck was immovable. Reaching up with both hands, a struggling Taneer was unable to dislodge it. His fingers dragged futilely across flesh that was rippled with veins that bulged like tree roots. He might as well have been trying to untangle himself from one of the steel cables that held up the bridges over the Hooghly.

  New voices filled the night. Shapes that were female but not especially feminine came barreling around the same corner he had just turned. Taneer's eyes widened at the sight of the homicidal mothers. With extreme terror shooting a burst of adrenaline through his system as forcefully as any pusher, he broke free of his captor's grasp, staggered a few steps, and took off running. Cursing in an especially crude jumble of English, Hindi, and German, Chal turned to corral his quarry, but found his attention diverted.

  Never ones to discriminate in their choice of meat, the Admikhana were on him before he had taken another step.

  Driven by a combination of frustration and anger at having had his objective snatched away from him, Chal Schneemann fought back. That he did not run like the other man, like most of the men they had pursued, slowed the reactions of the Admikhana somewhat. That he was well armed and clearly schooled in the use of the weapons he carried caused several of them to hesitate further. The brief delay was all a professional like himself needed.

  Eyes wild with hunger and bloodlust, one woman brought her long knife around in a wide arc parallel to the street. Gauging the distance with knowledge born of long practice and too much experience, Chal simply leaned back just far enough for the blade to miss him by centimeters. In response, one hand withdrew from an inside breast pocket a small gun not much bigger than his open hand. The shot from it was as silent as it was deadly. The tiny syringet, no bigger than a small nail, struck his attacker in the neck. She looked surprised, brought the knife around for a backhand swing, swallowed hard once or twice, and collapsed as the potent neurotoxin contained in the hypod paralyzed the muscles in her upper body. Unable to breathe, much less to scream, she went down as if axed.

  The gun that appeared in the tall man's other hand was larger, less subtle, and almost as fast-acting. The second-closest woman to him was knocked backward by the concussive force of the compact explosive shell that blew apart her sternum and shredded the vital organs within her chest. Unlike the silent syringet, the noise of the explosive shell shattering bone and flesh stunned most of the remaining attackers into momentary immobility. Clearly, the last thing they had expected when they had commenced their hunt of the other man was to encounter resistance in the person of a trained professional.

  Only the two most desperate women continued with the assault. Unable to bring a weapon to bear properly, Chal leaped into the air, extended his right leg, spun completely around, and brought the heel of his right foot into contact with a small but ferocious woman's chin. Jawbone cracked, flesh fluttered, and eyes closed as she collapsed. The fourth attacker caught another of the explosive shells just above her left armpit. It blew off her arm.

  That was enough for the surviving Admikhana. A potential death from hunger was bad, but at least it was not instantaneous, and might more easily be avoided. They retreated, leaving their broken, bleeding, and unconscious comrades behind. They could return for the meat later, when their unexpectedly adept adversary had moved on.

  Hardly pausing to ensure that the fight was over, Chal crossed his hands over his chest and pocketed his weapons. A quick search of the street behind him showed no sign of the man he had almost caught. Expressionless, not even breathing hard, he broke into a steady, space-eating run that was more wolf-lope than runner's stride.

  Bevaquf mahila, he groused under his breath as he efficiently scanned both sides of the street as well as the filthy pavement ahead. Stupid women. Why did people always have to interfere in his business? He was fully aware that he had killed three, possibly four of them. Self-defense, though he needed no excuse. The deaths of rabble like that would raise no eyebrows in the media, draw no attention from the local police. Like the rest of the refuse that called the street its home, the carcasses would probably be swept up and unceremoniously dumped in the nearest municipal incinerator. If someone chose to claim a body or two, that was none of his concern. Personally, he felt better knowing that such human trash would not now be able to mate and produce more offspring.

  Clearly, the homicidal women had been pursuing the scientist when he had run smack into Chal. The other man's frantic terror and unexpected resistance now had an explanation. Circumstances had resulted in the professional sent to track him down ending up not only extending Buthlahee's freedom but saving his life. Even as he ran on while methodically searching every possible and potential hiding place, the irony of the encounter did not escape Chal.

  Where had the elusive little shit gotten himself off to? Hitherto calm and in complete control, Schneemann began to lose his temper when he noticed that his unadorned but finely crafted shirt had suffered cuts and tears in several places. The four Admikhana had not gone down without making contact.

  Now he would have to visit a tailor: how annoying.

  Lights began to appear up ahead. He was emerging from the edge of the squalid zone into one occupied by lower-middle-class families and their businesses. Street vendors hawked fast snack food like pappadams with meat toppings and deep-fried pakoras. Small storefronts sold everything from cheap Chinese toys to portable electronics, while pay-as-you-go terminals offered communications access, information, and multiple entertainment downloads. While a few small utes and private cars were in evidence, vehicular traffic was dominated by the more affordable, electrically powered tri-wheeled rickshaws.

  What was his quarry likely to do now? Not keep running. Their brief physical contact had been enough to tell Chal that the scientist was no athlete. He was much more likely to seek transportation than to stay on foot.

  Feeling he was about due for a break, the tall tracker got one when he spotted the well-dressed shape of his target hailing an automated taxi. Breaking into a sprint, he bent low and tried to hide himself among the crowd. But the street was too well lit and he was too tall.

  Spotting his pursuer approaching rapidly, a frantic Taneer had to wait for the door to open before he could throw himself inside the cab. While the automated vehicle's voice inquired politely as to where its passenger wished to go, Taneer yelped wildly, “Security, security!”

  “I have already locked the doors,” the cab assured him in calm, unthreatening, preprogrammed tones. “Destination, please?”

  Panicky, looking out the back window for signs of his pursuer, Taneer almost gave the address of the apartment complex where he lived with Depahli. Just before he spoke it, he reminded himself that he knew nothing whatsoever of any sophisticated electronics his tracker might be carrying. So instead of home he called out the first innocuous address that came to him: that of a bank in the city's commercial center. From there he would be able to take public transportation in any direction, eventually working himself by a carefully circuitous route back to the apartment. But first he had to shake the company man who had somehow tracked him down.

  The taxi started off, but his relief was short-lived. Traffic control in this lower-class, largely residential district was a fraction of that maintained on the main thoroughfares. Cattle lay uncollected and unshifted along the central median, cargo rickshaws illegally piled four and five times their height and twice their width with enormous bundles blocked lanes theoretically reserved for cars and real trucks, while electric-powered Tata trolleys fought for driving space with fuel-cell-driven Ashok-Leyland trucks.

  As there was no driver, he did not need to lean forward as he urgently addressed the vehicle's AI. “Can't we go any faster? I'm already running late.”

  Since the taxi utilized sophisticated electronic sensors to perceive its surroundings, the traditional forward windshield existed
only to allow fares to see where they were going. The vehicle was as aware of this as its passenger.

  “As you can see, sir, this is a very busy street, and I am forbidden by law and by my coding from forcing a path. I assure you that I am doing my best.”

  There was nothing Taneer could do except fight down his anxiety and feed his patience. Switching to another taxi would gain him nothing. All were equipped with the same city-regulated programming. With its smaller profile, a rickshaw might make better time through the throng, but all powered rickshaws had open sides. He felt safer in the sealed, air-conditioned confines of the cab.

  His choice to stay put was validated when a lean, determined figure drew up alongside the vehicle and bent low to squint inside. Taneer found the lack of any expression whatsoever on the lean, drawn visage that peered inward far more frightening than any scowl or grimace.

  “Out,” the man ordered him, his voice muffled but not completely muted by the intervening window. Terrified, Taneer could only gape back at his pursuer and shake his head forcefully.

  A reaching hand grabbed the exterior handle and tugged experimentally. Chal was not surprised to find the door locked. He started to reach inside his shirt pocket for the little pistol that fired the tiny shells that made very large holes in things, but hesitated. Already, some people were stopping what they were doing to stare at the odd sight of a man running alongside a moving cab. Krishna damn all interfering witnesses, he thought as he dug into a pants' pocket and withdrew his scanner. Keeping pace with the slowly moving taxi, he spoke sharply into the device.

  As soon as he saw his pursuer take out the pocket scanner, Taneer activated several programs built into his command bracelet. So he was ready when the scanner found the taxi's code for its door locks and a soft buzz indicated that they were being deactivated. Before the tall man could grab the door handle, the scientist hit a control that instantly reprogrammed the coding. An electronic click sounded, indicating that the doors had relocked themselves.