happen next.
The man removed his two fingers from the small black cube, used his other hand to replace his sunglasses.
“Well?” Robin said in a higher pitch than he had intended.
“Well what?”
“What happens now? When do you-?”
“It is over; it is done.”
Astor-Smath blinked. “Over? How?”
“That does not concern you.” The man backed away from the window, which was half-filled with the bright white facade of the northern side of the Capitol Building; behind him, the dome rose up over his short-cropped hair like the top half of a guillotined egg.
Astor-Smath looked at the box: what was it? A communication device? A remote control for some weapon planted in the Capitol Building? If so, its appearance was quite odd: no external marks of any kind. Not even any seams suggesting manufacture-but now, an odd smell was emanating from it, a troubling smell that was akin to a shudder-inducing mix of musk, carrion, and patchouli-and something else that he could not place.
The man shook the two fingers that he had placed in the box-much as if he had scalded them-and closed the container, none too gently.
“Naturally, we take your word for the successful completion of-”
“You will have independent verification soon enough.” The man picked up the box and put it in his pocket. “I believe I hear sirens.”
If he did, then either his ears were extraordinary, or Astor-Smath’s were in need of retesting. “Excellent, most excellent. However, this is hardly what I-we-expected. Your methods-”
“Are my concern alone. You requested an accommodation; it has been provided.”
Astor-Smath cleared his throat-and heard, faintly, a single approaching siren. “Well, regardless of your methods, you have done us a great service today.” The tall man moved away from the window: if he was listening, he seemed unaffected by Astor-Smath’s words. Robin tried a little harder. “This marks a major step forward in our cooperative agreement, and you have also struck a significant blow against the agents of national sovereignty, who stand in the way of-”
“How gratifying. I would welcome another dish of olives.”
Then the tall man sat down in the shadowed corner. He did not speak again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CALYPSO
Opal saw Caine emerge from the Capitol’s West Face at a brisk walk that carried him straight to the descending flight of stairs at the southern end of the portico. At the same moment, a small horde of medtechs started charging up the staircase on the northern side. The EMTs were accompanied by a smattering of suit-and- sunglass security types who were about as unobtrusive as a flock of condors in a day-care center.
Caine fast-foot-shuffled down the second, lower flight of stairs, headed straight toward Opal but didn’t show any sign of stopping near her. She took her cue, fell in beside him. “What’s the excitement?”
He smiled-too brightly and cinematically for comfort-and said nothing, only looked past her at the taxis on First Street, scanning from one to the next.
He peered down to where First Street emerged from the Maryland Avenue traffic circle. He snapped straighter, flung up a hand: “Taxi!”
A cab-one of the few driven by a human-swerved to the curb. Caine scanned its interior-and driver-quickly:
The window edged down unevenly. Caine’s question sounded strange, even to her: “Who are you?”
The driver started. Too surprised to come up with a retort, or a lie, his response was gruff: “I’m Sim. Who wants to know?”
“A high-tipping fare.”
Sim’s eyebrows went up. “Glad to hear it.” He reached over the back seat toward the rear door.
“Not so fast. You own and operate this cab yourself?”
“Do you think I’d be out here if I had anyone to do it for me?”
“Are you subscribed to a dispatching service, or a fare-share cooperative?”
“What, and go bankrupt between the fees and the percentages I have to share out? Listen, buddy, I just barely get by as it is.”
“Then you’re taking us to Reagan International.”
“Suborbital or orbital terminal?”
“Orbital. And if you get us there in thirty-five minutes, there’s a fifty dollar tip in it.”
“Luggage?”
“No luggage.”
“Then hop in.”
Caine pulled open the door. Opal stepped forward, paused, started to look back up the stairs of the Capitol Building-
Caine put a hand on her arm: it was not gentle. “Don’t look back. Get in.”
She waited until they had crossed the Potomac and then toggled the privacy screen. After it was done grinding and groaning closed, she turned to Caine. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
Caine was removing his collarcom. “I’m taking a trip.”
The first person singular pronoun left a burning feeling along Opal’s brow.
He did not smile: at first, she wasn’t even sure he had heard. However, as he began fishing around in his pants pocket, he finally replied, as if in afterthought: “Actually, this cab is exactly what I need. It’s not automated, so there’s no commlink. It’s self-owned, so no central dispatcher. And he’s not connected to any of the gypsy cooperative services. So the only way Downing-or anyone else-can find me is to trace the signal of my phone.” Which he had now extracted from his pocket.
She decided to ignore the first-person-singular pronouns with which Caine continued to frame his responses. “So it’s the same plan as yesterday: we travel incognito as much as possible?”
He checked that the privacy panel was still up, scanned the corners of the rear compartment quickly-
She chose to arch her left eyebrow. “I understand ditching the phone, and letting them chase it around D.C., but the collarcom?”
He dusted off his hands. “I got the collarcom from Downing. Which means I got it from IRIS. For all I know, they have a transponder chip in it.”
She nodded.
“I’m going to Mars.”
He looked out the window at a spaceplane lumbering aloft. He watched it disappear into the low-hanging haze before he answered: “Tarasenko is dead.”
“Dead? While you were in there?”
