Spindrift by Allen Steele

to Torres. “Mr. Torres, I expect you to respect our guest’s privacy. Please return his property to him, and allow him to retain his papers. I’ll personally take responsibility.”
    Anger burned in Torres’s eyes, and for a moment he seemed to bite his lower lip, yet he reluctantly nodded. “As you wish, Mr. Sinclair.” He looked at Shillinglaw. “Remove your papers, please, and give the briefcase to me.” Then he glanced at the soldiers. “Which of you has his pad? Give it back to him.”
    The Guardsman who’d confiscated Shillinglaw’s belongings stepped forward, producing the pad from a thigh pocket of his uniform. Shillinglaw put it in his jacket pocket, then pressed a forefinger against his briefcase’s verification plate and opened it. “My apologies,” Torres said as Shillinglaw removed a manila folder from the case and shut it again, “but we have to exercise certain precautions. Anything that might conceivably be used to carry in a weapon…”
    â€œI understand perfectly.” He almost felt sorry for Torres. Any other time, he might be lord of this particular domain, yet in the presence of a political officer he’d been reduced to little more than a mere turnkey. “All I want to do is cooperate.”
    â€œAs do we all.” Sinclair gave Torres a look that seemed to shrink the poor man even more. “Now that we’re finished here, may we see the prisoner, please?”
    â€œOf course. This way, gentlemen…” Torres signaled for the two Guardsmen to accompany them. With one quickly stepping forward to lead the way and the other bringing up the rear, they marched toward a vaultlike metal door watched by two sentries behind a louvered glass partition. A brisk wave of a hand, and the door buzzed and parted in its center, revealing a mooncrete corridor whose floor sloped gently upward.
    Shillinglaw waited until the door shut behind them, then he slid in beside Sinclair. “Thanks for coming to the rescue,” he murmured.
    â€œThink nothing of it.” Sinclair didn’t bother to lower his voice. “I’m just sorry we had to meet this way. Some of our officials have an unfortunate tendency to put their noses where they shouldn’t.” If Torres overheard them, he pretended otherwise; he kept his back toward his two guests as they walked up the corridor. “Where’s the prisoner now?” Sinclair added, speaking as if Torres had heard everything they’d said. “In an interrogation room?”
    â€œNo…no, sir, he’s not.” Torres tried to keep his voice steady, but Shillinglaw detected a nervous stammer. “He’s on the farm just now…”
    â€œOn the farm?” Sinclair’s voice raised just slightly. “Why wasn’t he taken to…?”
    â€œI didn’t…I’m sorry, señor, but I didn’t understand your earlier message. I didn’t think you yourself wanted to participate in this meeting, so I…”
    â€œNever mind. Just take us to him.” Sinclair briefly closed his eyes in exasperation, then gave Shillinglaw a sidelong glance: Bureaucrats…never can get anything right.
    Yet Shillinglaw wasn’t so certain that Torres had screwed up. Something about the entire arrangement raised his suspicions, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Pardon me, Mr. Torres,” he asked, “but I thought he was confined to maximum security. Isn’t the farm…?”
    â€œWe transferred him to the medium security wing three years ago.” The warden glanced back at him. “His conduct had been very good for the previous six years, and so when he formally requested the transfer, the board decided to let him take a job on the farm…on probation, of course. So far, he’s behaved quite well.”
    â€œAnd the other inmates?” Sinclair’s tone was skeptical.