TMV (Jim Able: Offworld Book 3) by Ed Charlton (good fiction books to read TXT) 📗

“I will be there to observe him. You know the questions to ask because you know Sopha. I know what to look for because I know criminals.”

Jim didn’t think it necessary but said, “Whatever you say, Tella. We can give it a try.”

Tella docked the flier at one of the police unit’s own bays. These were secure from the rest of the station and had been constructed to be out of the line of sight of any windows.

Patrol Commandant Ngell Amarno seemed excited to see Tella again. Jim was introduced but, he felt, otherwise ignored.

“I’m cut up about Arranda Pilo. I liked him,” Amarno began. “He had a great rapport with the traders. He had their confidence. His work made my life a whole lot easier. He had a damn good future. But he went native. It’s always a risk. He’ll be going to Earth at the end of the month. I’ve told them I can’t accommodate him any longer than that. I think they would rather not bother. Anything special you need?”

Tella shook its head slowly. “The usual—no one is to mention me, and I get into the room well ahead of Pilo.”

“I don’t understand...,” began Jim, but Tella interrupted.

“You will. Just pretend that you are interviewing Pilo as part of your investigation of the Turcanian. That’s all.”

Jim frowned but said, “Okay.”

He waited in Amarno’s office while Tella was shown to the interview room. The desk was neat and the office tidy. Jim appreciated the skill it must take to keep order in such a chaotic environment.

“Okay, Mr. Able, we’re ready for you,” said the commandant as he held open the door. “Please follow me.”

Jim followed him down a corridor and then down a narrow ladder into what must have been an added external module. The temperature had dropped, and the light was poor. Jim felt like he was suddenly aboard a submarine.

Amarno opened the door of the interview room and stood back. A single light shone on the prisoner seated at a small table. There was no sign of Tella.

“You are former police officer Arranda Pilo?” Jim began.

“You know it,” he said without looking at Jim.

“I am James Able of the Office of External Affairs. I would like you to go over the circumstances of the trade with the Turcanian.”

“Who?”

Jim opened his folder on the table and turned around a picture of Sopha Luca.

“The Turcanian.”

Pilo snorted and looked at the floor. “It’s already been written up. You don’t need any more.”

“I do. I need to know about this guy. I’d like to stop him before he injures himself or someone else with his purchase.”

Pilo looked up at Jim briefly before silently returning his gaze to the floor.

“Why did he want it?” asked Jim.

“He didn’t say.”

“Did he have a shopping list, or did you give him a catalog to browse through?”

Pilo did not answer.

“Let’s try it this way,” said Jim, sighing. “He’s nosing about looking for a trader called Melha Melha. You hear he’s in the market for some stuff. What was the very first thing he asked for? How did he describe it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Try. It could help.”

“Help you or me?”

“I can’t stop your being sent back to Earth, but I can recommend reasonable treatment. I’m with the OEA, not the magistrates.”

Pilo crossed his arms and half-turned away from Jim. “I don’t remember.”

“Did he say he wanted something to melt metal?”

Pilo frowned and said, “No.”

Jim heard the implied Don’t be ridiculous.

“So what was it?”

“I told you; I don’t remember.”

“Did he say he was looking for military hardware?”

“No.”

“Come on, Arranda. How did he express it to you?”

“What do you care?” snapped the ex-officer.

“It matters. Lives could be at stake.”

“So?”

Jim sighed. He hated this stuff. Guys who were already convicted lost all perspective. Their lives disintegrated into black-and-white issues of survival. He felt this wasn’t going to be productive. He waited for a long while and started to doodle on his notepad.

He was thinking of Sopha’s ambition. He drew a circle with a small “x” in it, then another circle with another “x”—one for Mainworld and one for its largest moon. He drew a thin line from one to the other.

“So what did he ask you? How did he describe what he wanted?” he asked without looking at Pilo.

Pilo sighed. “Yeah.”

“‘Yeah,’ what?”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“What was?”

Pilo nodded towards Jim’s notepad.

“Like that. That’s like what he drew. He had angles, distances, size of target. He didn’t know the technicalities, but he had the math down.”

“Details.”

Pilo shook his head. “I don’t remember. He kept the drawings. I knew he’d need a major piece. The distance...through an atmosphere...that small a target. Had to be major.”

“How small?”

“Two meters.”

Jim wrote it down.

“Oh, and it had to be linked to an IR scanner. He was dead keen on that. I guess he’d already set up the targeting through the scanner; he just needed the delivery.”

Jim could imagine more of the conversation now. He could picture Sopha slowly describing what he meant, using the picture as a guide. It seemed to be reasonable. Pilo was telling the truth.

“Did he ask anything about discharges, environmental effects, toxic residues—that kind of thing?”

“Yeah, he asked—but I didn’t tell him. I sold him the books. He could read.”

“What do you think his target was?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Pilo was silent and looking at the floor again. “He just said ‘the scar.’”

“‘The scar’?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said. He said he was performing surgery to remove a scar.”

Jim stroked his cheek. Pilo looked into the distance. “But, then, he said ‘scars.’ One time he said ‘scars.’”

“Definitely plural?”

“I’d been wondering how much he would spend on something he was only going to fire once. Once he said ‘scars,’ I knew it wasn’t a one-off. Then I knew I had him.”

Jim frowned. Pilo sounded truthful, but Jim thought he had probably misunderstood the Turcanian. He imagined Sopha repeatedly firing the laser to scour the entire landing site to remove what he and his religious order felt was a blasphemy. Madhar Nect’s people