“Tapes can be doctored. It would be your word against mine.”

“You must be getting a little hot, Marushige. We’ve been over this before. That tape will show up pure in any test you care to name.”

“If you produce it, you will implicate yourself in the break-in. You could have stopped those shadowrunners out in the streets.”

“Wasn’t in my contract.”

“The Kansayaku may not see it that way,” Marushige said. “It is said that he places a premium on personal initiative.”

“That’s what got me where I am today. Got me back to the arcology security center. Got me a very useful trideo tape. See, I’ve got initiative,” she said with a cold smile, “but I believe in keeping its use personal.”

Marushige leaned back into his chair, making a fist with his right hand and laying his other hand over it. “You were rewarded for your silence concerning Claybourne. Despite your repulsive method of achieving the office, you have been an efficient deputy. I will only be pushed so far in this matter, Crenshaw. Be careful that you do not overstep the line.”

“I’m not pushing, Marushige. You can keep the top slot as long as you want. I really don’t want it. But if you try to force me out, just remember that if I go down I take you with me.”

Marushige ran his thumb along the ragged scar on his left cheek. After a few moments, he said, “It would be wise for you to bury your obsession about Verner while Sato’s around. The Kansayaku is tightly connected to Director Aneki, and Verner used to be some kind of pet of the old man. Surely neither of us needs to borrow trouble.”

“Your concern is touching,” Crenshaw drawled. Marushige was less concerned with her embarrassment than the possibility of Sate looking into things and discovering the security directors manipulation of the records. He would, most likely, be relieved if she managed to screw up and get canned. That way, he’d be rid of her. “I don’t think you have much to worry about. Sato doesn’t like Verner any more than I do.”

“That is a bold assertion, and interesting, if true,” Marushige commented. “How would you know such a thing?”

“Hey, I still got a few connections in the biz,” Crenshaw laughed.

Marushige smiled broadly in response, but his eyes were cold and wary.

Sam was nervous. No doubt about it. His palms were wet and he wanted to find the nearest rest room. If they didn’t call him in the next few minutes, he could be out and back again before it was time to go in.

Sam tried to catch the eye of the red-uniformed guard who had been his escort ever since he had stepped out of the elevator carrying him to the upper stories of the arcology. The man’s stare remained as fixed straight ahead as it had since he’d taken up position across from Sam’s seat on the leather couch. His stance was only slightly less fixed and rigid than his manner. It was pointless trying to communicate with him.

Reaching a decision, Sam levered himself free from the sticky embrace of the couch. Before he had straightened, the guard was by his side, face expressionless, waiting for Sam’s next move. Doubtless, the samurai was as ready to be executioner as escort. Sam hoped the man wasn’t too disappointed by his charge’s slow walk to the receptionist’s desk.

“Excuse me.” He smiled politely when the woman looked up from her console. “Will it be much longer?”

Her earlier warm smile was a memory. She said nothing for a few moments, her stare and expression so harsh that all the beauty dissolved from her face. He had overstepped the bounds of expected politeness, and she intended to let him know. “Sato-sama will call for you when he is ready, Verner-san.

“But I just wanted to…”

“Please take a seat,” she interrupted icily.

Her lack of polite forms told Sam how rude she thought him. Rather than retreat to the clammy confines of his former seat, he gave himself a promotion based on length of wait. Crossing in front of the desk, he entered the other half of the spacious room, though he knew this was trespassing into territory reserved for those of more exalted rank. The receptionist did not react to his breach of manners, but he was sure she would record it. Let her. His minor rebellion against proper etiquette made him feel a little more in control of the situation.

This side of the reception area was no more capacious than the other, but its furnishings were more posh and it was more crowded. Two Red Samurai guards flanked the heavy wooden door to the inner office. Two more men sat on a couch that backed against that wall. One of those seemed to be dozing, but the other turned his head as Sam crossed the Persian rug. Though he couldn’t see the eyes behind the implanted chrome lenses, he was sure they were studying and evaluating him.

Sam selected a chair. This time, it was one upholstered in fabric; he didn’t need any help sweating. As much as he wanted to return the scrutiny of the man with the chrome lenses, Sam decided it was unwise to do so directly. Turning his head toward the glassed-in area behind the receptionist’s desk, he feigned interest in the activities of the bevy of office ladies hard at work inside, occasionally letting his gaze drift over the Red Samurai with him in the waiting area.

It turned out the samurai weren’t of much interest. Standard issue, they were hard, competent, no-nonsense types like his own red shadow. They would be dangerous in a fight, but they were no threat to a good employee like Sam.

The other two were different. Their lapels bore corporate pins whose expanding wavefront design was so familiar that he easily picked it out as Renraku. Despite their affiliation symbols, neither looked like Sam’s idea of a typical Renraku salary man.

With a start, Sam realized that he knew these men. Or rather, knew of them. In the week between Hohiro Sato’s arrival in Seattle and the granting of this interview, Sam had used his free time to do some research. He figured the more he knew about Sato, the better he might come off in the unexpected audience. He had learned that Sato always traveled with an entourage, as was natural for a man of his stature in a multinational corporation. Besides the usual crowd of office ladies, guards, aides, and chauffeurs, several people of more obscure function were frequently part of the Kansayaku’s traveling party.

From the pictures in the files, Sam recognized the chrome-eyed man as Kosuke Akabo, a public relations specialist. If he truly was what his job title stated, the relations he handled were not those conventionally assigned to such a functionary. He had the menace of a restrained predator, much like that of the Red Samurai guards. Akabo’s well-tailored gray suit was cut from expensive material, far too costly for a typical salaryman, though the outfit mimicked the currently fashionable cut. Even to Sam’s untrained eyes, it was clear that Akabo was something more than a desk jockey.