Intercepts

“Don't do it, brother,” said Luc, popping the last chip into his mouth.
        “Come on,” Jean protested. As if in cue, the warning 'Insecure Area', which was traveling back and forth along the length of the cafeteria table, slid between them. “Come on,” Jean repeated, softer. “What harm could it do?”
        Luc cocked his head. “You want a list?”
        “Look, she hasn't even done anything,” said Jean. “The only reason she's on the array is because of automatic traffic analysis, and she's only a Class IV anyw-”
        “Whoa, brother,” Luc cut him off. “I don't want to know, and believe me, you don't want me to either. You're on your own here.”

        The Chapel was as dim, long and high-ceilinged as its name implied, with eight rows of terminals arranged facing the three massive screens of the master feed, which stared back, blank as shut eyes. The red light that trimmed the tops of the walls warned that the Chapel was hot – plugged into the Paris communications grid.
        Jean's terminal was comfortably in the middle. His left and right screens usually showed call transcription and social network information on a target, but now only displayed the black-and-blue background of the Gendarmerie Électronique. The central screen was alight, displaying his target array: some fifty Class IV individuals, thirty Class IIIs, and his crown jewels – a trio of high-priority Class II surveillance targets.
        All the names on the array were gray – none were making calls from their home or mobiles, or from any public terminals they were known to frequent. All quiet.
        Taking a deep breath, Jean tapped his fingers on one of the names.
        Susanne Delacroix – archived intercepts – all – transcribe and index.

*        *        *

        With a roaring fireplace and walls patterned in old-fashioned stone, the White Horse Café seemed more in place on the original Montmartre streets far below than in the glass-and-steel raised structure it actually sat in. Only at sunset did the manager up the walls' transparency, so that you could look through them and see the twinkling lights of Paris stretching to the horizon. The view was broken by the stately spires of the skyscrapers and archologies, fed by the tangled above-ground Metro lines and attended by the dancing lights of helicopters.
        Jean sat at a table by the transparent wall, slowly sipping a Coca-Cola and looking out at the view. The big group at the tables nearby were in the corner of his vision. He couldn't quite make out their words – only that they were loud, running over one another, laughing loudly and often, and interrupting themselves with the clatter of plates and platters being passed back and forth. Even sitting down, they seemed to be in constant motion – but always somewhere towards the middle of it all, he had no trouble making out the face he recognized from his terminal screen, the face he'd probably recognize anywhere. Susanne.
        She liked green, he had found out from her transcripts, so he was wearing a green jacket which gently changed its shade over time. He was just ordering food when he noticed her noticing him, but he was almost done with it by the time she came over to him.
        “Hey,” she said, leaning on the chair next to him.
        “Hi,” he said back.
        “I don't mean to be rude,” she hesitated for a moment, “but are you alone here?”
        Jean made a grand gesture with his fork. “I have the city,” he said. He had heard her use that phrase to a friend last week, after she had broken up with her boyfriend.
        She pulled the chair back, tucking one leg under herself as she sat down. “I guess you do,” she said. “But the city isn't a very good conversationalist, is she?”
        Jean laughed. “No, I guess it isn't.”
        She laughed too. “Susanne,” she introduced herself.
        “Jean,” he answered, taking her offered hand.
        As soon as he did, she stood up, pulling him to his feet along with her. “My friends are better company,” she said. “Why don't you come join us?”

        They ended up taking the Metro back to Susanne's apartment on Rue de la Perle, and making love on her narrow, one-person bed. Afterwards, they held each other, as cars rattled by on the expressway overhead.
        Jean stroked her face. “You're beautiful,” he told her. “There's something about you...” his voice trailed off. Your surveillance shots don't show the half of it, he wanted to add.
        Susanne kissed him softly. “Do you know what it is?” she asked.
        Jean shook his head. “No, I don't,” he lied.
        She smiled mysteriously, showing off the soft laugh-lines in her face. “I'm natural,” she said. “I don't use any beauty agents.”
        Jean loosened his hold on her, giving her face and body another look. “What, nothing?” he asked.
        “Nothing,” she nodded. “I just think women are prettier that way. Men too. Don't you?”
        “Well, I don't know about everyone,” Jean hedged, “But you're pretty just the way you are,” he said, and kissed her.
        Susanne giggled and pushed him away, letting her hands linger on his bare chest. “You know, I could use your help. We always need more men.”
        “We?” he asked lazily, stroking her hair.
        “Just a little group I have,” she said. “Educating people, reminding them what things were like before Avalon came along. Organizing. Protesting. It's always good for the women to hear that men will find them beautiful even without any agents.”
        Jean laughed. “I don't think I want all women to stop using them!” he protested. “Most of them probably need it! You're special, that's all.”
        She snorted, and swatted him playfully on the side of the head. “It's late,” she said, and rolled over to go to sleep, but didn't resist when he put his arms around her and held her again.

        Luc bumped into him the next day during their mid-shift lunch break. “Well?” he demanded.
        “Well what?” Jean said.
        “Well, you know,” said Luc. “How did it go?”
        “I thought you didn't want to know,” said Jean.
        “Don't be a jerk,” Luc said. “Come on, brother, yes or no?”
        “Alright, so yes,” said Jean, trying to hide his grin.
        Luc laughed and shook his head. “You're crazy,” he told him. Then, “So did you check up on her calls today to see what she's saying about you?” he asked with a nudge.
        “Well...” Jean hesitated.
         “You did, didn't you?”
        “Keywords only,” Jean said hurriedly. “Just to make sure, you know, that I wasn't at risk.”
        Luc swirrled his fingers at him. “And?”

*        *        *

        After work, Jean got off the Metro a few stops early and placed a call from a public terminal to Susanne's mobile.
        “Hey there,” she said, answering the call with a smile. The small screen's quality hid the faint age-lines that decorated her face – no wonder she was prettier in person.
        “I want to see you again,” he told her.
        “Me too,” she answered.
        “Tonight?”
        She shook her head. “I have a meeting tonight,” she said.
        “A meeting?”
        She bit her lip and hesitated. “You remember my group that I told you about?”
        “Oh, that. Yeah, alright. So tomorrow?”
        She nodded. “Tomorrow,” she agreed, and blew him a kiss through the screen before signing off.

        When Jean logged onto his terminal in the Chapel the next day, Susanne wasn't on his target array. His system was normal – no restrictions, no Internal Affairs notices, nothing. She just wasn't there.
        The day was a blur as he worked distractedly, letting the computer do most of it on its own and only half-heartedly following up on the most urgent keywords it caught. During the quiet times he just stared at the screens, wanting but not daring to look for her in the system, and not having the heart to do anything else.
        
        “She's gone,” he whispered to Luc at lunch.
        “Gone?” he asked.
        “Gone,” Jean repeated. “Off the array.”
        “In that case, I don't know what you're talking about, brother,” said Luc, picking up his tray and wandering away.

        As soon as he got off work, Jean went straight to the Metro and headed towards Susanne's apartment. The trip took longer than it should have – twice, he was sure he saw someone watching him and got off the train, only to see his supposed watcher stay aboard and sail obliviously away.
        There was no answer at her door, no matter how hard he knocked or how long he pressed the buzzer. He even tried – after pacing back and forth, agonizing over it – to press his finger against her lock, in vain hope that she had somehow added him to her authorized list. Finally, he walked back down the stairs to the street, where he found a public terminal hidden under the shadow of an expressway support beam and placed a call to Susanne's mobile.
        There was no answer, not even her messaging service. The line rang and rang until he logged off.

*        *        *

        “Sir?” Jean said, standing awkwardly in his captain's door the next morning.
        “Ah, Officer Martinaude,” the Captain said in his booming voice. “Come in, come in, sit down.
        “You wanted to see me about your target, ah, Delacroix, right?” the Captain continued as Jean sat down, and nodded.
        “Well, you don't need to worry,” he continued cheerfully. “She's no longer a surveillance target.”
        “I,” Jean hesitated. “I'm not sure I understand, sir.”
        “Susanne Delacroix no longer poses a potential threat to the public interest, Officer. There's no need to keep her monitored any longer, is there?”
        Jean spoke slowly, measuring his words. “I never submitted a final report on her, Captain,” he said.
        The Captain waved his meaty hands airily. “I understand it was dealt with by the Counter-Sabotage Unit, and you know how they are. Spend so much time with the corporate types they get infected with all that bureaucracy-hatred, don't they? So looks like you lucked out, then. Lucked out twice, in fact,” he fiddled with his terminal, bringing up another memo.
        “The counter-sab gang were impressed with the way you handled her. Good leap of intuition, they tell me, putting all those extra measures on a Class IV.”
        “Extra measures, sir?” Jean managed to ask calmly.
        “Oh, you know, a full index and all that. You're the case officer, you should know, right?” he said dismissively. “Point is,” he said, leaning in, “They were so impressed they're offering you a position.”
        Jean blinked. “A position with CSU, sir?”
        “Thought you'd be pleased,” the Captain said with satisfaction. “Height of the job, isn't it? Toughest cases, unlimited access to the grid, and of course those bonuses that Avalon sponsors won't hurt either, will they?”
        Jean managed a grin. “No sir, they won't,” he said.
        They were buying him off, he realized with a chill. There was no way that whatever they had done with Susanne was legal, and he knew it. They could have thrown the book at him for breaking regulations, or worse, but instead they were buying his silence.
        “I'm proud of you, Martinaude,” the Captain said, standing up to shake his hand. “Always glad to see my boys moving up in the world. You'll swing by again this evening, sign the transfer paperwork, won't you?”
        Jean took a deep breath, and did his best not to remember what Susanne's smile had looked like. “Yes, sir,” he said.

        “Alright, boys and girls, listen up!” the lieutenant boomed as he paced the floor energetically.
        Jean stared at his new terminal as it connected to the grid. The target array counted up to his old ninety without even trying, and just kept on going.
        “New target!” the lieutenant continued.
        The array finished listing the 'A's.
        “You are to monitor, transcribe, track and report - ”
        This wasn't just a target array, Jean realized. It was-
        “ -Everyone,” the lieutenant ordered, “Who says or hears the words: Renaissance Protocol.”