As she spoke and we slowly ascended through Levels Eight and Nine, I saw some familiar store names. Clearly prices escalated as one ascended in levels, as did items of quality. Level Eight might as well have been sliced out of Tokyo and flown over. Level Nine seemed to cover most of the German manufacturers and some of the very best American companies, with the latter's stock in trade being fine weapons.
"If access is restricted, who gets in?"
Marit gave my arm a reassuring little squeeze. "Those who work in the shops and the offices here take up Levels One through Four. They seldom spend time outside work above Level Six, but they are allowed. Many folks, I am told, celebrate anniversaries or special occasions by attending functions up here. The executives or career folks live in the various towers—offices tend to start at Level 15 and work up. The ultra-rich, like Nerys Loring, live above the clouds. Folks between her and the normal working folks also live out in Paradise Valley, if they can afford it, and commute in. Eclipsers cannot enter City Center on their own, but they can come here as guests."
"So that means seldom, if ever."
"'Cept when they look like you," Marit grinned.
We left the escalator and started walking through the crowds toward the Mizuno Sheraton. It did not look familiar to me, but then nothing had, so that was not a big shock. The crowds were not that big, but it was easy to see, from the gawking and pointing, who were the untermenschen who had come up to see City Center and who were the folks who spent too much time here to be impressed. Despite the fact that they looked clean and well-fed, I felt a certain pity for them. They seemed less people than hamsters trained to wander through a maze to amuse their master.
At one point in the big mezzanine, I saw a whole city park that had been transplanted upward. A cute little white picket fence bordered it, and toy boats floated across a central pond. Nannies in uniforms watched little boys and girls playing ball or using the swing-set. The children all wore very fine clothing, with shorts, knee-socks and white shirts predominating among the boys and frilly dresses, gloves and bonnets among the girls. I looked around for a sign to indicate this was some sort of play or costume drama, but every indication I saw suggested what I was looking at was real.
"Do people actually make their kids dress like that to play in this oversized terrarium?"
Marit nodded solemnly. "Burton Barr Park is only for those who can afford it. They want their children to have the best of everything. You're looking at a breeding ground for the people who will someday control City Center and the corpvils surrounding it."
When we finally arrived, two young women greeted us at the hotel doorway. We smiled politely, and Marit laughed as one girl whispered her name to the other. Without pausing, we swept through the lobby, and Marit directed me to the correct bank of elevators. Having gotten the information on my room from Jytte while I spoke with Coyote, she led the way on our quest.
"Four-three-three-seven," she breathed as she punched the combination into my door. The red LED shifted to green, and the door clicked open. She waited for me go through the doorway first, and I obliged her. I hoped against hope that something in the room would seem familiar enough that it would spark my memory.
No such luck.
The room had a west-facing window in it, which gave us a breathtaking view of the setting sun, but other than that it was unremarkable. It was, after all, a hotel room and allowed no room for personalization. Moreover, aside from some change in an ashtray, it hardly looked as if I had been here at all.
I sighed audibly. "Time for a careful, methodical search."
Marit agreed with a nod. "I'll start with your closet." She opened the door and whistled appreciatively. "You have good taste. Italian, I think, for the suits. The shoes are definitely Bucci Imports."
I smiled as I opened a dresser drawer. There I saw four pairs of jockey shorts all folded neatly. Beside them were four pairs of colored socks, likewise neatly folded in the middle. The next drawer down had four shirts. Three were white and the other was a light blue. Each looked freshly laundered and well starched.
"This is odd." Marit had taken one of the suit jackets from the hanger, leaving the pants hanging over the hanger crossbar.
The jacket looked like a normal black, double-breasted jacket with dark buttons on the front and sleeves. "What's wrong?"
Marit frowned and pouted delectably with her lower lip. "I know this is an Armando suit—one of the last photo shoots I did had a man modeling this design."
"And?"
"This one has no tags." She opened the jacket so I could see the lining. "The designer label, washing instructions and size tags have been cut out."
I glanced back at the shirts in the second drawer. "Same thing here. Do you think that suit has been worn?"
"Perhaps, but not folded up in a suit bag—no way."
I crossed to the bathroom and flicked the light on. Arrayed neatly on the counter I saw a shaving kit that purportedly belonged to me. The toothpaste tube had maybe one squeeze gone from it. The toothbrush looked new, as did the blade in the razor. The can of shaving gel might as well have been brand-new. The bottle of aspirin had not, in fact, been opened.
Returning to the room puzzled, I saw Marit had shifted from the closet to my dresser. She'd opened the other top drawer and had appropriated the sunglasses therein. "Serengeti Vermillions, very nice. Christian Dior sweater, an Iceberg sweater and a nice set of gold cufflinks set with a diamond. Whoever bought these things for you has good taste, and was probably getting a kickback from the merchants."
I shook my head. "I don't follow you."
Marit lifted up the sweater that, while it had no labels, I trusted to be made for Christian Dior. "This is your size, and even a style that would look good on you, but this powder yellow is not your color. You have such gorgeous green eyes and strong features that you'd not want a soft color like this. And the cufflinks—none of your shirts have French cuffs. I suspect the buyer got a gift in exchange for taking them off the merchant's hands."
"What are you saying?"
"What I'm saying, my sweet, is that this might have been your room, and you might actually have stayed here, but this stuff was in here and waiting for you when you arrived."
I glanced back at the closet. "Even the suit bag and suitcase there?"
She smiled. "Not even the remnant of an airline baggage stub on them." She shrugged. "If this room has any secrets, they're going the be the devil's own to unlock."
"Unlock." I slammed the heel of my right hand against my forehead. I reached for my wallet and fished out the safety deposit box key. "Maybe the secrets are locked away in their vault."
With the key in hand, getting whatever treasure I had locked away in the vault was not a problem. A perky young woman at the concierge desk required me to sign my name on the signature card they had given me when I put things into the vault. I found it very easy to forge my own signature. Satisfied, the girl took the key and returned from the back with an aluminum attaché case.
I thanked her, then Marit and I walked through the hotel lobby. Before we stepped out into the central mall area, I excused myself and retreated to the nearest men's room. I checked the stalls, then chose the last one and locked myself in. Seating myself as comfortably as possible, I pulled the case into my lap.
The case had two latches, each with a three-digit combination. Looking at it I realized I had no idea what the correct combination was, and I did not think I had time to experiment with all the various possibilities. Most folks, when setting such a combination, will chose a number or date significant to them so they would not forget it, but I'd forgotten who I was, so that was of no use to me.
I knew, from everything I had seen in my unconscious activities, that I was a very methodical person. The lack of memories did not destroy my underlying personality. I still functioned the way I normally would, but I did not know who I was. I needed to let myself run on autopilot to figure out the combination.
Given the
way I reacted to things, I doubted sincerely I would have opted for a personal date or significant number. That would be easy to crack if someone got a line on me. Chances were I used a random selection of numbers when setting the combination. If I did that, I either memorized the result, or had a gimmick for remembering it.
Mnemonic tricks are an interesting phenomena. Roy G. Biv is one that recalls the different colors in visible light by grouping their first initials: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. I knew I remembered the difference between port and starboard because port and left have the same number of letters in the English language. I knew that whatever mnemonic trick I used, it would be something simple, like the left/port examples and just as constant.
Staring at the combination, a possible solution struck me. Down and even have the same number of letters. If, in locking the case, I took the correct combination and moved all the even numbers down one position, then moved all the odd numbers up one position, the mnemonic would likewise solve for the combination. As long as I tested that down-even/up-odd theory using odd numbers for position changes, the formula would reverse itself.
Smiling, I set to work. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I worked out that the key number had to be 1. Tycho Caine has 10 letters in it, which reduced to 1 when you add the two digits. Keying things to my name worked well because, except in weird circumstances, no one forgets his name.
And, if you are careful about picking an alias, you can vary your security procedure on each job.
That thought hit me like a slug right between the eyes. Maybe I'm not Tycho Caine after all.
I applied my thumbs to the latch buttons, and the case popped open. I carefully lifted the lid and chewed my lower lip. No wonder the Krait felt so comfortable.
Inside, nestled in a bed of black foam I saw a number of things. The first was a Colt Krait. The only difference between it and the gun I wore in my shoulder holster was that this automatic was blued-steel, not bright, and a florescent orange pip marked the front sight. It was loaded and ready for action, with two spare clips in a foam cut-out by the grip.
Above and around it I saw all the pieces of an Armalite M-27 "Keyholer" sniper rifle. It fired a copper-jacketed 7.62 NATO round, and I had three clips of 30 bullets each and one small clip of five bullets that looked to have been drilled and patched to make them explosive. The receiver had been fitted for an Allard Technologies Espion UV laser scope. Pressing the battery check button in, it showed it was ready to go and had been sighted out to 750 meters. The rifle, I knew, had a midrange trajectory variable of +2-inch at the sight's focal distance, but could hit a target at a klick and a half if the shooter was good enough.
Somehow I knew I was good enough.
Aside from the weaponry I found four stacks of $100 bills bound in 10 meg packets. I slipped one of them into my pocket. Another small hole in the foam yielded 10 gold eagle coins, each worth approximately 600 dolmarks in a bank, or roughly double that on the black market. Lastly, a slit in the foam produced a passport and driver's license for me in Tycho Caine's name.
I carefully closed the case and reset the combination as per the mnemonic.
Marit smiled sweetly as I rejoined her. "Did you learn anything?"
"I think so." I slipped on the Serengeti sunglasses from my room. "I am Tycho Caine. And as nearly as I can tell, I'm not in Phoenix for my health, nor anyone else's, for that matter."
"So you're not a doctor? So much for my mother's dreams of me marrying one." Marit again took my arm and led me from the Mizuno Sheraton. "What is it you would say you do, exactly?"
"I don't know, exactly. I appear to be a troubleshooter who specializes in retirement." I let my reluctance to discuss the matter bleed into my voice. "I am, however, now well financed. Given that packing up and formally checking out of the hotel would likely set off some alarms somewhere, I will need some new clothing and other essentials."
"And you need something for the reception tomorrow night."
"In fact, I do." I pointed out into the tree-lined mall area with the case. "Please lead on."
Marit had not struck me as the type who would shy away from shopping. We ascended to Level Eight and started wandering the broad walkway encircling the open mall area. Marit laughed and pointed to various window displays. She paused for a moment or two to study a rainbow collection of sequin-studded shoes, then pulled me in the direction of another store. "If I look too long, I'll just have to buy a pair. I can no more resist them than someone else could resist a puppy in a pet-store window. Here we are."
I glanced up at the sign and read the kana symbols. "You have to be kidding."
She frowned. "No, The Gentleman's Wardrobe is probably the best men's clothing store and haberdashery in City Center."
I read the English name of the store for the first time as she said it and laughed. "Do you know what the Japanese name for this place is?"
"No."
"Dansei no ningen. That means 'virile man.'"
"Trust me," she giggled, "you can pass."
"You know how to flatter me."
The men working in the store recognized Marit almost immediately and, when assured I was her friend, they became very attentive. Roger, a man I would have guessed as being a year or two younger than me and of a similar slender build, whipped a tape measure from around his neck and set to work. As he figured dimensions, he announced them to one of two aides standing behind him, pen pointed and pad ready.
"Will Caine-san require just a suit, or are we looking for a whole change of image here?"
Marit smiled coyly. "Mr. Caine wishes a complete wardrobe. Good-looking, but a bit conservative. He will require formal wear for the reception tomorrow, two business suits and four days of casual wear. He'll also need underwear, socks, and a full shaving kit."
"Understood, Ms. Fisk." Roger stood and lifted my arms away from my sides. He looped the tape measure around my chest. "And should we account for both the shoulder holster and bulletproof vest, or just one of them?"
"Just the vest, I think, Roger," I replied. He grinned as I added, "Conservative on all the clothing except, perhaps, what I will wear to the reception tomorrow. I want to make an impression."
Roger rolled his eyes to heaven. "If you are with Ms. Fisk, you will. Still, I think we can accommodate you." He turned from me and started giving numbers to his assistants. One of them scurried off to gather up the items he had ordered, while the other continued to faithfully record everything Roger said. At the end Roger took the pad and pen from his aide and dispatched him with a wave.
Roger flipped the page on the pad over and squinted at me. He sketched something on the paper, frowned, then added heavier lines. He looked at me again, made one last adjustment on his picture, then smiled and showed it to me. "Here, what do you think of this? It has traditional elements and will be in style, yet is different enough to get you noticed. You'll also note, cut this way, we could easily conceal the holster if you still wish to use it."
I studied the drawing for a moment, then smiled. "And you can have this ready for tomorrow night?"
"You'll know it was a rush job only by the price you pay." Roger raised his left eyebrow. "The boy-mayor may have to attend in last year's suit, but no one notices him anyway."
"You do very good work, Roger."
"So kind of you to say so, sir."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the $10,000 stack of bills. I saved ten of the Trumans for myself and handed him $9000. "Let's put this on account. You have my measurements, and you can do custom work. Tip your staff generously for their help. I will have more for you to do."
Pocketing the meg, I turned to Marit. "If you're hungry, we can get something to eat, then pick up the off-the-shelf stuff later."
She shook her head. "Roger, just have it delivered to my apartment. We can get it there, later."
"Very good, Ms. Fisk. Mr. Caine, it has been a pleasure."
"Nine meg poorer and nothing to show for it," I l
aughed as we walked away from The Gentleman's Wardrobe.
"You can trust Roger. He'll gouge you on the price of the suits, but he's honest otherwise." She looked out across the vast open gulf between one half of the mall and the other. "Do you like Japanese food?"
I shrugged. "I don't know."
"Feeling adventurous?"
"Marit, I've been living an adventure for the last 36 hours. I've been shot at, chased, and nearly dissected. What could a restaurant offer that could worry me?"
Without answering me she pointed to a restaurant a quarter of the way around the mall from our present position. "Osome, you'll love it. C'mon."
I offered her my elbow, and we set off. "I have this impression, Marit, from the hotel and the store staff, that you have a bit higher profile than most of the other people I met today. Am I correct, or has my amnesia begun to slop over into my reasoning?"