Five minutes later they’re in a suite. Two bedrooms and a lounge: they sweep the whole place. They find nothing. They set up the surveillance inhibitors and repair to the lounge. They sort through the minibar, helping themselves to water and coffee. They put their feet back and look at each other.
“Now what?” asks Linehan.
“Now I make a call,” says Spencer.
* * *
Y ou’re alive,” says Haskell.
“An astute observation,” says Morat. He remains seated in his chair. His hands perch lightly on the armrests. The merest outline of a smile hovers on his face.
“How did you get out?” says Haskell.
“I used the stairs.”
“All eighty stories of them?”
“Hardly,” says Morat. “Eight was about all I could take. And then I broke through a window.”
“And flew?”
“Why not? That’s how you got up the shaft, right? Like an angel speeding off to heaven, so they told me. You were lucky, Claire. Your mission failed. You fell. So did the sky. But you survived.”
“Just barely,” says Haskell.
“I’m not sure we’ve been introduced,” says Marlowe.
“We haven’t,” replies Morat. He gazes at Marlowe without expression.
“This is Morat,” mutters Haskell.
“And who,” asks Marlowe, “is Morat?”
“He’s an envoy,” says Morat.
“And how do you know him?”
“She knows me,” says Morat, “because I was almost the last thing she ever saw.”
“And here I was thinking I’d seen you for the last time,” says Haskell.
“Almost. But now I’m back.”
“Why?”
“Same reason anyone comes back. Because the job isn’t done.”
“And that job would be?”
“Handling you.”
“Again?”
“Why not?”
“Because we weren’t exactly a winning team?”
“Ah,” says Morat, “but this time you have a real-live mech at your disposal.” He gestures at Marlowe.
“Are you trying to bait me?” asks Marlowe.
“Perhaps. Is it working?”
“I think it just might be.”
“So control it. You’re a mechanic. This lady is a razor. When you’re on the Moon, she’ll pull
“What,” says Marlowe softly, “is it that you want?”
“Reassurance,” says Morat. “Nothing more than that.” He stands up, steps to the window. “Look at that. Nothing like a genuine view to clarify one’s thinking. See those ships? Picture them falling back to Earth. The runways? Imagine them chopped to dust. That’s what Cabo Norte was like when the missiles hit her. The rockets toppled. The hangars collapsed. The fuel burned. It was inferno. Yet it was nothing—just the precursor to that which the Rain would visit upon us.”
“We’ve heard this speech,” says Haskell.
“It’s no speech,” says Morat. “Get that through your head. Tonight we’re on full alert. We’ve been that way for two days now. And there we’ll stay until we defeat the Rain or unleash upon the East or both. Think of a vehicle half driven off a cliff. It totters on that edge. Those within know that moving to save themselves could send them over. Yet they have to chance it anyway. Such is our dilemma. The difference being that we don’t even know in which direction the edge lies. We don’t even know whether we’re past the point of no return already.”
“I think we steered over it about fifty years ago,” says Haskell.
“Our planet might have,” says Morat. “We didn’t. We’ll live on. Even if we have to dwell in bunkers beneath the crust. Even if we have to lift the whole game into space.”
“Isn’t that exactly what the Rain accuses us of doing?” asks Marlowe.
“And there’s a certain justice in their charge,” replies Morat. “After all, we send up two more of our number tonight.”
“When do we leave?”
“As soon as your transport gets here.”
“Hold on a second,” says Marlowe. “Sinclair told us the ship was already at Houston.”
“He said it was fueling,” says Haskell.
“It was,” says Morat. “And then it launched.”
They look at him. He grins.
“We needed it elsewhere at short notice,” he says. “We couldn’t wait. We improvised. We’re moving a B-130 up from Monterrey. You know this game—circumstances change too fast to count on them.”
“But the destination remains the same?”
“It does. When the time to go comes, I’ll return to brief you. But for now, don’t leave this room.” He moves past them. The door opens as he approaches.
“You’re talking like we’re in a war zone,” says Marlowe.
“Exactly,” replies Morat.
The door slides shut behind him.
It’s just a voice. It’s no vid. Somehow the lack of visual makes that voice sound different. There’s no grin to underscore sardonic menace, no silver hair, no opticals to hint at all the lenses behind the eyes.
There’s just Lynx.
“Carson,” says the voice. “You’ve got it.”
“You’re damn right I’ve got it,” says the Operative. “I’m in it right now.”
“Makes two of us.”
“So I noticed. Is this another download?”
“No,” says Lynx, “it’s just the same old me.”
“You’re talking to me live,” says the Operative. He watches the codes crystallize in front of him. They check out. Which is good.
Or disastrous.
“No,” says Lynx. “I’m guessing what you’re going to say. I’ve worked it all out in advance. I’m jacking off while I let this proxy do the talking.”
“You’re really funny,” says the Operative.
“No,” says Lynx. “But I really am live, Carson. I really am here.”
“Then you’re putting us both at risk. What are you playing at, Lynx?”
“I haven’t been
“Why,” says the Operative.
“There’s been a change of plan. Sarmax isn’t here after all.”
“Say again?”
