“But I’m the one who has to get in there and do this.”
“Yes, Carson. You’re the one. As I’ve been saying all along.”
“Don’t think of this as a victory,” says the Operative. His teeth are gritted. His eyes are closed. “I’m going to live through this. I’m going to defy whatever odds are being spat out by your comps. And then—so help me God— I’m going to have a say in the next phase of this abortion of an operation. You reading me, Lynx?”
“Loud and clear,” says Lynx. “But once you’re inside his world, you’ll get it. You’ll understand. You’ll realize just what it is I’ve bought us.”
“I already know,” says the Operative. His voice is weary. “I’m the coin. I’m the instrument of the demise of one of the great ones.”
“Fuck him,” says Lynx. “He outlived his purpose.”
“You mean his purpose is about to outlive him.”
“Tell me what higher calling a man could have.”
“Ours,” says the Operative.
“Exactly,” says Lynx. “And you should thank your lucky stars for that. As I do every day I survive in here. Agrippa Station eats the weak. It crushes the careless. It can’t touch me. They’re probing everywhere, Carson. They’re searching all around my body. Their eyes are never shut. But they can’t see my flesh. They can’t see my mind. They can’t see me. And they won’t see you either. As long as you do exactly what I say.”
“I understand, Lynx.”
“I hope you do, Carson. Believe me, beneath these pointless doubts of yours, I know how eager you are to get out there. To find out if you’ve got what it takes to make that run. To determine if you’ve got the guts to pull that trigger. Out there in those cold hills—it’s all going to blur against your visor. That man: you’ll put him in your crosshairs. You’ll put one through him. You’ll give me access to what he knows. I know you, Carson. I know what makes you tick. Not loyalty. Not faith. Certainly not honor.”
“What then?”
“Being a professional. Obeying orders. Doing your
The voice dies out. Static fills the Operative’s suit. The Operative turns it up to the point that it’s deafening. He lets it roar through him. He roars out curses against Lynx—against the fates, against everything.
And then he whispers to his suit.
T hey sit around. They pace. They sit around some more. It’s not easy to kill time when it’s you who might not survive the seconds’ passing. It’s not easy to ride out the moments when it’s you those moments might soon be rid of. But all you can do is wait. So you do. You resist the booze. You resist the urge to strangle the one you’re with. As for conversation—that’s no temptation. It can only hurt you now. Because there’s nothing left to say. It just comes down to what comes next.
Which turns out to be a beeping noise. It’s emanating from the wall. It’s the line. Spencer picks it up, takes it the same way he did before. Pulls the wire out, slots it into his skull. Hears the clicks as the switches run the simulations of nonexistent calls, shutting out any listeners from what’s really being said: the words that Spencer’s forming in his mind, the words he’s letting the software in his head download through those wires, out through the streets of the Mountain. Out to where Control is.
Wherever that might be.
“Okay,” says Control. “We’re going to try this. He’s got a new name. So do you.”
“Those names being?”
Control tells him.
“And?” asks Spencer.
“And what?” asks Control.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“What do you mean, is that all I’ve got?”
“The data I gave you checked out?”
“Of course it checked out, Spencer. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be talking now. Top-quality product, Spencer. I owe you my thanks.”
“Thanks isn’t all you owe me, Control.”
“Actually, to be precise—it’s you who still owe me.”
“For the rest of the quota.”
“Exactly. But I’m going to give you a little
“Great,” says Spencer. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as possible. Tonight.”
“On an expresser?”
“I think that’s ill-advised.”
“We’d be there in under an hour.”
“Linehan’s colleagues left two days ago and haven’t made it yet.”
“Any mode of transport carries risk, Control.”
“Why pick one that’s already seen a major incident?”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Slight variation. Go for the Atlantic.”
“Sail it?”
“Hardly. Even the fastest ship available would take you the better part of a day. That’s way too long. Gives them way too much of a chance to vet their cargo.”
“So what’s that leave?”
“The tunnels.”
A pause. Then: “Jesus. You really think that’s safer than a flier?”
“Nothing’s
“That’s two and a half hours from now, Control.”
“Sounds like you’d better hurry.”
“And those passengers against which we’re configured—what’s going to happen to them?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to them,” replies Control. “Ever again.”
“Who were they?”
“Not important, Spencer. The point is that now they’re you.”
“So about downloading me the new identities?”
“Already done,” says Control. “And your descriptions are now tied to the ones I’ve taken. You’ll have to pass on the new codes to Linehan. Unless he wants to get on the line with me.”
“He’s not that stupid,” says Spencer.
“I’m sure he isn’t,” says Control. “Particularly given that he’s almost certainly U.S. intelligence gone rogue.”
Another pause. Then: “Say that again.”
“You heard me.”
“You’ve been digging.”
“As I promised. As I thought, Linehan is no ordinary data thief. I traced him backward from Minneapolis to Chicago. I lost him there. He arises from that city’s eastern districts like a man walking out of mist.”
“So?”
“So twenty hours ago, Washington put out an APB on all Midwest priority channels for someone important gone missing in the Chicagoland vicinity. Get high enough on those channels, and it becomes pretty clear we’re talking senior intel.”
“How senior?”
“Very. His name isn’t Linehan, of course. But he’s within plus/minus physically. Nothing a little disguise couldn’t take care of. Nothing a little daring couldn’t hide.”
“Do they say why’s he’s on the lam?”
