“Standard waste treatment plant. Early-morning staff. Skeleton staff.”
“So?”
Mason rolled over onto his back on the grass, staring up at the dark, early-morning sky. “If you have a tiny crew of bad guys, and can get ’em all scheduled for the same graveyard shift, you could lock down a place like this, yeah.”
Scotty nodded. “Hear anything?”
Mason had switched from thermal to optical zoom, and had triggered the voice scan software. He was using a sample of Adriana’s voice to search for a match.
His partner was so fully engaged that for a moment Scotty thought he hadn’t heard. Then Mason answered him. “Not yet… but it doesn’t mean she’s not there.”
“Doesn’t mean she is, either. I’m going in.”
“Figured you would, kid. I’ll keep scanning.”
Scotty donned a black knit thermal isolation suit, goggles and a throat mike.
“Wish you had a real piece,” Mason said, as Scotty checked his stun gun.
“Makes two of us.” Twenty-eight bee-sized capacitor darts loaded into a pistol grip with a five-inch barrel. He hadn’t tested the unit on a real, live bad guy, but the specs said it kicked like a mule. “That said, if they’re innocent, I’m not expecting much security. Who breaks into a garbage plant?”
“Scavengers. The Sewage Diet. Ten billion sewer rats can’t be wrong. That’s if they’re innocent. What if they’ve got her?”
“Well, I’ll just have to be clever, won’t I?”
“I wasn’t aware miracles were an option… Wait! I think I have something.”
Scotty hunched down. “Where?”
Mason pointed. “Northwest corner. Three thermal images. One seated. I think I caught something a second ago. ‘Est-ce que je peux aller a la salle de bains?’ ”
“That I recognize. ‘May I go to the bathroom.’ Adriana’s voice?”
“Fifty-two percent certainty. Woman, under twenty-five. That’s all I’m sure of. It’s a chance.”
“I hope so.” He sniffed the predawn air. “Hope so. This place smells like armpits.”
Scotty headed for the building’s rear, circling to avoid pools of yellowish light. If this was a wild-goose chase, he prayed that the Swiss security forces were as hot as their reputation, would find and secure Adriana on their own. If she was here… well, he had an equally urgent prayer that he could pull this off. Adriana was arrogant, petulant, willful and no doubt partially responsible for her current plight, but she was a child, for God’s sake. Even more importantly, under these circumstances she was his child, his baby. His client, and that made the Cocoa Angel his very personal problem.
Slipping into the building was less trouble than he’d thought. At the base of the T’s upright, far to the rear, stood the dome-shaped incinerator and microwave dish array. From time to time the dome’s doors slid wide, and the glare was as bright as the desert sun. The wind shifted, wafted gusts like the breath of an aged wino. The two men supervising the burnings turned their heads away whenever the incinerator mouth opened.
It was right after one of those moments, knowing that they would turn back toward the incinerator, that Scotty slipped behind them into the slender main building.
Quiet within.
No gun-toting thugs, no excessive, guilty security presence. The cavernous interior was four stories high and lined with offices, the concrete-floored interior filled with red and green barrels and automated forklifts. The conveyer belt ran outside the building. Six squidlike steel tentacles descended from the ceiling, snatched up red thousand-liter barrels and carried them to the conveyer belt. Stacks of green barrels were stenciled with a bright silver recycling emblem, and were evidently to be processed in some other fashion.
Scotty spotted a first-floor doorway reading Stanza di Preparazione and slipped in. Dressing room. He dove behind a locker as two employees exited. His brow wrinkled as he heard their voices.
“Kiam are oni coming?” the first one said.
“Baldaux.” The second man replied, as they passed Scotty’s hiding place.
Scotty wanted to slap himself on the side of the head. “Did you hear that?” he whispered. “What the hell language is that?”
“Damned if I know,” Mason said in his ear. “Pigeon Italian or something. Are you ready?”
“Talk me through it.”
Relaxed and unsuspecting, the two men opened the door. “Did vi auxdi la oni cxirkaux la farmer’s daughter?”
Scotty felt like he was in some kind of odd dream, fought to keep his focus from wavering as he rifled a locker, finding a set of gray overalls. As he climbed into them he clicked his throat. “Farmer’s daughter?”
“Keep your mind on the job!” Mason barked. “There should be stairs to your left. I’m merging your tracker with my blueprints and the thermal map. It’s pretty fast and dirty, but I see you… and maybe her, too.” Scotty eased out of the dressing room into the main hall. “Duck back, someone coming.”
“Got it.”
He leaned back into shadow.
“Virino estas a iom bitch…, ” the taller one said as they disappeared back into the hall.
“What the hell are they saying?”
“Stay on point, kid. Go now.”
He exited, and scurried up the stairs. “I’m here,” he said as he reached the first landing.
“I see you. Two in the room. One seated.”
“Hold on,” Scotty said, and pressed his ear to the first door. This wasn’t low-tech. This was naked, and he felt ridiculous.
“Your transport is coming. You will be in a more secure and comfortable location by tagmezo.” A woman’s voice.
“What?” a second woman. His heartbeat raced. That was Adriana.
“I am sorry. Noon.”
Adriana made a chuffing sound. Fear? Laughter? He couldn’t tell. “Must you speak that mongrel nonsense?” Even through the door, Scotty could hear the fear mingled with Ms. Vokker’s imperious tones.
Now it was the other woman’s turn to muffle emotion. “I wouldn’t expect a Corporatist brat like you to understand.”
He had no idea what all of this raving might be about. What he did know was that the floor was clear, and that this might be his only chance. “I’m going in.”
Carefully, he tested the doorknob, then flung the door open. Flashshot appreciation: bare office, standard desk, two file cabinets. Adriana sat cuffed to her chair, looking very small despite her brave words.
Then the other woman.
Blond hair. A square jaw, so strong that for a moment he thought he was dealing with a man. Broad shoulders and eyes that were bright, alive, taking him in in an instant and reacting with eye-baffling speed. Her hand blurred, heading for her waist. Scotty fired just as she was bringing a black automatic level with his chest. The dart hit directly over her breastbone. Instantly the blond’s arms and legs exploded out, as if she were an epileptic starfish. Her teeth clicked together hard enough to crack enamel, and she collapsed.
Whoa! Nonlethal or not, that looked nasty as hell. Blondie would be dreaming for an hour, and probably wake up with a headache the size of Clavius. Scotty realized he was shaking, and knew why. That woman was deadly, at least a fifth of a second faster than him, and alert as a cobra. If his weapon hadn’t already been leveled, she would have killed him. Easily.
Jesus Christ. Who was she?
For an instant he thought Adriana was going to cry. Then her old, confident expression returned. She squared her shoulders and said, “What kept you?” Her voice cracked on the last word. A tough kid, but still a kid.
“Had to wade through a klick of your bullshit,” he said, deliberately brusque. Tenderness might trigger emotional collapse, and he hadn’t time for tears. He examined the cuffs. Standard civilian-issue restraint system, and Scotty had no key. He did have a pocket torch, and within seconds had burned through the plastic links. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
