For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [41]
“Sensible, that one,” the woman said thoughtfully. She turned her attention from the distant street to her companion’s work. “I thought he might give us trouble.”
“Better that he didn’t,” her companion agreed. “We don’t need to fool with such silliness. Not now.” His fingertips danced lightly over the keys set into the black disk.
“How you coming?” the woman asked, peering over his shoulder.
“How does it look like I’m coming?”
“No need to be sarcastic,” she said easily.
“It’s an updated twenty-six,” he informed her. “I didn’t expect anyone in this slum would take the trouble and expense to keep updating something like this. Someone sure likes his privacy.”
“Don’t you?”
“Very funny.” Suddenly, the disk emitted a soft beep, and the numbers on the readout froze. “That’s got it.” The man’s tone was relaxed, methodical. There was no pleasure in his announcement, only a cool, professional satisfaction. He touched buttons set at five points spaced evenly around the black disk. It beeped again, twice. The illuminated numbers vanished from the readout. Unsealing the disk, he slid it back inside his coat. There were a number of pockets inside that coat, all filled with the kinds of things that would raise the hackles of any police chief. The man put a hand on the door and pushed. It moved aside easily. After a last, cursory glance up the narrow street, the two of them stepped inside.
The center section of the man’s ornate belt buckle promptly came to life, throwing a narrow but powerful beam of light. It was matched a moment later by a similar beam projected from his companion’s brooch. They wandered around the stall, noting the goods on display and occasionally sniffing disdainfully at various overpriced items. Inspection led them to an inner door an its simpler locking mechanism.
Both stood just inside the second doorway and gazed around the living area. “Someone put up a hell of fight,” the man commented softly.
“The boy—or his adoptive mother, do you think?” The woman moved in, stooping to examine an overturned end table and the little silver vase that had tumbled from it. The vase was empty. She carefully replaced it where it had fallen.
“Maybe both of them.” Her companion was already inspecting the larger of the two bedrooms. They went through the area methodically: kitchen, bedrooms, even the hygiene facilities.
When they had finished—and it did not take them very long—and when fingerprinted samples of air and dust and tiny bits of hopefully significant detritus had been relegated to the safety of tiny storage vials, the man asked his companion, “What do you think? Wait for them here?”
The woman shook her head as she glanced around the kitchen-dining area. “They obviously left under duress— and you know what that suggests.”
“Sure, that’s occurred to me. No way it couldn’t. But there’s no guarantee.”
She laughed, once. “Yeah, there’s no guarantee, but what do you think?”
“The same as you. I’m just saying we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“I know, I know. Isn’t it odd, though, that both of them are missing? That surely suggests something other than a common break-in.”
“I said I concurred.” The man’s tone was a mite testy. “What now?”
“The shopkeeper up the street who watched us break in,” she said. He nodded agreement.
They retraced their steps, leaving nothing disturbed save the air and the dust. The palm lock snapped tight behind them as they stepped back out into the street, giving no hint that it had been foiled. The couple strolled back up the little side street until they stood before Arrapkha’s doorway. They thumbed the buzzer several times.
After the third try, the man leaned close to the little speaker set above the buzzer. “It’s been a long, hard day for us, sir, and we’re both very tired. We mean you no harm, but we are empowered to take whatever steps we think advisable to carry out our assignment. Those steps will include making our own entrance if you don’t let us in.
“We saw you watching us as we let ourselves into the old woman’s shop. I promise you