Neuromancer - William Gibson Page 0,29
calm brown eyes of death across a polished table of Vietnamese rosewood. Gently, almost apologetically, the cloned killer explained that it was his duty to find and return a certain artwork, a mechanism of great beauty, which had been taken from the house of his master. It had come to his attention, the ninja said, that Smith might know of the whereabouts of this object.
Smith told the man that he had no wish to die, and produced the head. And how much, his visitor asked, did you expect to obtain through the sale of this object? Smith named a figure far lower than the price he’d intended to set. The ninja produced a credit chip and keyed Smith that amount out of a numbered Swiss account. And who, the man asked, brought you this piece? Smith told him. Within days, Smith learned of Jimmy’s death.
“So that was where I came in,” the Finn continued. “Smith knew I dealt a lot with the Memory Lane crowd, and that’s where you go for a quiet go-to that’ll never be traced. I hired a cowboy. I was the cut-out, so I took a percentage. Smith, he was careful. He’d just had a very weird business experience and he’d come out on top, but it didn’t add up. Who’d paid, out of that Swiss stash? Yakuza? No way. They got a very rigid code covers situations like that, and they kill the receiver too, always. Was it spook stuff? Smith didn’t think so. Spook biz has a vibe, you get so you can smell it. Well, I had my cowboy buzz the news morgues until we found Tessier-Ashpool in litigation. The case wasn’t anything, but we got the law firm. Then he did the lawyer’s ice and we got the family address. Lotta good it did us.”
Case raised his eyebrows.
“Freeside,” the Finn said. “The spindle. Turns out they own damn near the whole thing. The interesting stuff was the picture we got when the cowboy ran a regular go-to on the news morgues and compiled a precis. Family organization. Corporate structure. Supposedly you can buy into an S.A., but there hasn’t been a share of Tessier-Ashpool traded on the open market in over a hundred years. On any market, as far as I know. You’re looking at a very quiet, very eccentric first-generation high-orbit family, run like a corporation. Big money, very shy of media. Lot of cloning. Orbital law’s a lot softer on genetic engineering, right? And it’s hard to keep track of which generation, or combination of generations, is running the show at a given time.”
“How’s that?” Molly asked.
“Got their own cryogenic setup. Even under orbital law, you’re legally dead for the duration of a freeze. Looks like they trade off, though nobody’s seen the founding father in about thirty years. Founding momma, she died in some lab accident. . . .”
“So what happened with your fence?”
“Nothing.” The Finn frowned. “Dropped it. We had a look at this fantastic tangle of powers of attorney the T-A’s have, and that was it. Jimmy must’ve gotten into Straylight, lifted the head, and Tessier-Ashpool sent their ninja after it. Smith decided to forget about it. Maybe he was smart.” He looked at Molly. “The Villa Straylight. Tip of the spindle. Strictly private.”
“You figure they own that ninja, Finn?” Molly asked.
“Smith thought so.”
“Expensive,” she said. “Wonder whatever happened to that little ninja, Finn?”
“Probably got him on ice. Thaw when needed.”
“Okay,” Case said, “we got Armitage getting his goodies off an AI named Wintermute. Where’s that get us?”
“Nowhere yet,” Molly said, “but you got a little side gig now.” She drew a folded scrap of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. He opened it. Grid coordinates and entry codes.
“Who’s this?”
“Armitage. Some data base of his. Bought it from the Moderns. Separate deal. Where is it?”
“London,” Case said.
“Crack it.” She laughed. “Earn your keep for a change.”
CASE WAITED FOR a trans-BAMA local on the crowded platform. Molly had gone back to the loft hours ago, the Flatline’s construct in her green bag, and Case had been drinking steadily ever since.
It was disturbing to think of the Flatline as a construct, a hardwired ROM cassette replicating a dead man’s skills, obsessions, knee-jerk responses. . . . The local came booming in along the black induction strip, fine grit sifting from cracks in the tunnel’s ceiling. Case shuffled into the nearest door and watched the other passengers as he rode. A pair of predatory-looking Christian Scientists were