I still can’t make it out. “... you bet ... get wet ...”? What did he say? Between the rain and the music—
We start to pull forward. A controlled acceleration. No shouting. No mumbling.
Are we being flagged for further review?
I scramble to review my options if they open the trunk. Yup, none. There’s nothing. Just smile and say hello to fucksville.
“Mister Ed,” I whisper into the comm-link, chancing that the rain will drown us out. “I need options—”
Winn breaks in on the comm-link, “We’re clear.”
“Oh, thank God,” I breathe. “We’re through,” I say to Ham who doesn’t respond.
Puo says, “I reserved spots on new trains for you.”
“Headed into parking now,” Winn says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“IS HE DEAD?” I ask.
Ham hasn’t said a word since the checkpoint. I took it as a blessing and enjoyed the silence of classical music in my ear—turns out there was a reason Ham wasn’t mouth breathing and pissing me off.
Winn feels Ham’s pulse on his flabby white neck, bends down to put his ear over his mouth. “No, he’s not dead. Just passed out. He’ll come to in a few minutes.”
We’re in the parking garage at Glasnevin Station on the bottom level, in the corner farthest from the stairs and backed into the parking spot. There’s a trickle of traffic down here at the moment, but that can pick up any second. Seeing someone passed out and stuffed into a trunk tends to stick in people’s memory and have them gab to friends and authorities.
“We need to move him into the car,” I say.
“He’s technically already in the car,” Winn says.
“Mister Ed, we clear?” I ask. Puo is hooked into the train station surveillance through the cops’ access credentials (he did this long before they quarantined him, and it doesn’t actually involve him being inside the cop’s system, just using their credentials). No hacking involved—pretty snazzy.
“Yeah, you’re as clear as you’re going to get,” Puo says. “It looks like you got a family of five on foot headed your way, but they’re a couple minutes away, and there are cars on the third and fourth levels but they’re not making their way down.”
Winn opens the front passenger side door and then comes to help move Ham.
I grab Ham’s wet feet and heft them out of the trunk. Winn drags Ham’s upper torso to the front of the trunk and hooks his arms under Ham’s armpits and grunts as he bears most of Ham’s weight.
It’s an awkward ten seconds with Ham’s ass repeatedly dragging on the pavement, but we soon have him shoved into the front seat.
“Change him,” I say.
Winn makes a face. “What?”
“Change him,” I repeat. “We need to get moving, and I am not doing it.”
“Fine.”
I climb into the back seat and sit between the car seats, while Winn shoves the passenger seat back as far as it’ll go and climbs into the little pocket that created with the change of clothes.
I avert my delicate-lady eyes and try and think of something else.
One hour and forty minutes—I take a steadying breath. It has to be a bluff. There’s nothing to do about it now. That decision’s been made. I take another deliberate breath. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth.
“Mister Ed, how we looking up there?” I ask.
“Increased police presence in the station,” Puo says, “but not obnoxiously so. I got trackers on all of them. And,” he says starting to get excited, “I added line-of-sights on them. The code shows me where they’re looking—”
I say, “Neat” at the same time Winn says, “Awesome.”
“Yeah, it’s awesome!” Puo says. “The camera angle usually isn’t good enough to see where their irises are pointed at, but I compensated for that by—”
“What are you doing?” Ham suddenly slurs and shifts groggily.
“Changing you,” Winn says, crouched over him trying to get a pair of eggshell slacks over his albino-white legs. And he’s wearing tighty whities. Eww—there’s an image I’ll need to drink out of memory.
“Geroff me,” Ham tries to yell but it comes out like his cheeks are still passed out.
The family of five has just come out of the elevator, the children jabbering in excitement.
Winn obliges Ham and sits in the driver’s seat taking out his tablet and staring at it until the family passes.
I check my tablet. Forty minutes until our train departs. One hour forty minutes until ... best not to think about that.
***
Changing Ham’s clothes goes a lot faster with Ham actually conscious. Winn gives me an annoyed look when I ask him if he’s going to continue helping Ham—I’m enjoying the show (even though I’m really not).
Winn leaves first with the large duffle bag of scuba equipment to run the gauntlet to the train solo, sticking to his married-persona-with-kids-reuniting-with-his-wife story. Which leaves me to escort Ham. Lucky me.
I slide the fake wedding ring off—it wouldn’t be appropriate to wear while escorting Ham and he sure as hell isn’t going to wear one to pretend we’re married. It’s funny, the wedding ring doesn’t affect me in the slightest. It’s just part of a costume. If I were ever to marry, I wouldn’t even wear a ring, or insist on them. It telegraphs pressure points too easily. Although I might insist on a well-placed tattoo so that others know he’s mine if he ever took his pants off. Maybe a tramp stamp, too, for good measure.
Puo smoothly guides Winn to our desired train without incident. “All right,” Puo says in his Mister Ed voice. “Carol, Porkchop, you’re up.”
“Let’s go,” I tell Ham and squeeze out the back seat. “Remember what we talked about—” Keep your ass close or I’ll burn you.
“I remember,” he says, still sounding a little woozy.
“You okay?” I say. That’s all I need, him feinting again in public with an increased police presence.
“I’ll be fine,” he says, staring straight ahead.
I tie my hair up in a bun and stick my black winter hat over it as we approach the elevator. “Stay a half-step behind me, and follow my lead.”
“Fine.”
I press the “Up” button. “We’re father and daughter. You’re Francis Saure and I’m your unmarried daughter Justine. You work as a—”
“A lecturer—”
We step onto the elevator. “Promoting yourself? Too close to home.”
“—of neuroscience and artificial intelligence.”
“Can you pull that off?”
The elevator vibrates slightly and the floors ding off as we rise. The more modern music in the elevator clashes with the classical music in my ear—it’s a bit distracting.
“Yes.”
“Fine. And I’m—”
“An unemployed layabout.”
“Fine.” I pull out a stone-colored cabbie hat from the duffle bag of clothes I’m carrying and shove it at him, along with a comm-link. “Put these on.”
Ham does as he’s told. “Do you have a black sock with holes I can cut out and wrap around my eyes?”
Puo snorts over the comm-link.
The black duffle bag I’m carrying is dangerous—too dangerous to be left behind. It’s full of our wet borrowed cop clothes, and the clothes Ham was last seen in. I’m going to safely get rid of it the first opportunity I can.
The elevator doors slide open with a pleasant female voice announcing, “Main Lobby.” The echoey sounds of a busy train station greet us: large numbers of people milling about, distant announcements, the sound of the rain pummeling overhead. I step off in the lead.
We’re not even five steps away when I hear from behind me, “Mornin’ to ya’.”
I turn around to see a cop standing there. He’s wearing a black bulletproof vest over a dark knit sweater, all kinds of gear hanging off him. He’s smiling benignly at us.
Ham is the one who answers in a fair Irish accent, “Morn
in’.”
The cop doesn’t follow-up and we keep moving without looking back.
When we’re far enough away I whisper, “Where were you on that one Mister Ed?”
“What?” Puo asks.
I could strangle him. Instead I explain about the cop waiting for us.
“Couldn’t see him,” Puo says.
“What about the ones you can see?” I ask. “Are they on their radios? Looking in our direction?”
Puo’s silent before answering. “Nope.”
I lift the duffle bag to carry it on my shoulder and we exit the elevator corridor into the train station proper. The sound of the rain increases. Traffic rolls by the open entrances on all three sides flanking the train platform. People are queuing up under the float screens displaying the train schedules. The up-tempo classical music in my ear fits the scene.
“Uh ...” Puo starts.
Ham and I shift into a flow of people moving toward platforms seven and eight. The wheels on the woman’s self-driving luggage in front of us thump over every crack in the marble floor.
“We have a problem,” Puo announces.
“What?” I ask.
“They’re setting up checkpoints at each of the platform entrances.”
Shit. I see two cops heading in the direction of platforms five and six now, their black hats with medallions in the center and yellowish-green reflective patches on their jackets standing out in the crowd.
We turn the corner around a projected advertisement to see two police officers scanning CitIDs at the entrance to platforms seven and eight right after the ticket taker but before the glass doors leading to the trains. No one is refusing. I could get through, Ham not so much—the cops scanned his CitID when they picked him up.
“I have to use the bathroom,” Ham says.
Good thinking. “Now?” I ask for the benefit of those within earshot.
“Yes. Now,” he says. “Enlarged prostrate, remember?”
We break out of the flow of people that is starting to back up and form a queue. After we’ve passed a number of travelers whose faces range from annoying to anxious, I ask Puo, “Suggestions?”
“Duck into the nearest shop. Now,” Puo says. “There’re two cops walking toward you, looking hard at everyone.”
I alter our trajectory and skip into the closest shop. It’s a basic traveler shop, crowded with people and their luggage while they pick out magazines and snacks. I drop the bag off my shoulder to hold in front of me to help navigate the tight space. Overpriced water appears to be a best seller.
I join the magazine queue and scan some bar codes with my pocket tablet to flip through some samples, keeping my face down and hidden. Ham has split off facing away from the entrance and appears to be seriously considering some kitschy souvenirs designed to lure small children and panicked last-minute shoppers.
It takes four magazine samples before Puo gives the all clear sign. I couldn’t tell you what the magazines were.
Ham and I exit out together headed in the same direction toward the bathrooms. The clock informs me we’ve lost three minutes to that maneuver.
“Suggestions?” I ask again.
It’s Ham that answers, “Distraction. You need to have them called away.”
I’ve thought of that, but—
“We’d have to hack their encrypted comms,” Puo says.
“Can’t do it?” Ham taunts.
“I can do it!” Puo fires right back. I can almost imagine him sticking his tongue out at Ham. “But to do it, you need a base unit. One of the ones they carry on them to boost their signal.”
“What are you people again?” Ham asks, suggesting I go steal one.
“No,” I say with finality. “We don’t have the time for something like that.” Thirty minutes until the train leaves. We’re running out of time.
“We’ll take a separate train,” Ham says.
“No.”
“Have your partner get off the train he’s on.”
“No.”
“What is so important about—” Ham starts.
“In case you haven’t noticed, they’re closing in on us,” I whisper. “Lingering here is not an option.” Unless that’s what you want.
“Avoid the bathrooms,” Puo cuts in, emphasizing my point.
I veer toward the east entrance of the train station that’s open to the outside. A cold buffet of wind brushes up against me and brings dampness into the station. “We need to do an end-around,” I say. Which means, getting around security onto the train tracks and coming in from the opposite direction.
“How are you going to get on the tracks?” Puo asks.
“Maintenance tunnels,” I say. It’s the only option. Going outside and finding a spot to scale the fence and drop in like the graffiti artists do would take too long.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“Why?”
“This station was built after the mega-flood. They made sure to place all stuff like that after a security checkpoint.”
“Wait—” Ham says.
“Where’s the checkpoint?” I ask.
Puo answers, “Turn left, down beyond the hovercar rentals. I can’t help you through. The surveillance network is separate from the security network. It’s supposed to stop hackers from gaining total control.”
“Wait!” Ham says, stopping where he is on the train station marble floor.
“What?” I ask and turn around, prepared to start yelling at him.
Ham is holding up his fist showing where his CitID is under his skin. “If we’re going to go through a security checkpoint anyway, why not just enter onto the platform.” He steps closer and motions for me to scan his CitID with my tablet. I do so—it’s not him. “You’re not the only one with skills,” Ham says. The basic traveler shop—he still has the squeegee we gave him.
“What about the picture?” I ask about the picture that is tied to Ham’s identification and is on all the cop’s tablets right now as a missing suspect and two brazen jail breakers. Cops have been staring at it now for at least a half hour and even if Puo could swap it out, human pattern recognition is pretty damn impressive.
Ham stares at me in his condescending, weighing way. “You are amateurs—”
I resist the urge to put him in his place. His time will come. Twenty minutes until the train leaves.
Ham continues in his arrogant, patronizing tone, “The photo uploaded to the cops’ database when they scanned my CitID is different from what’s actually on it and most certainly does not match my real face enough for an automated facial pattern hit.”
I hate the prick, but it’s clever.
Ham pats where he’s concealing his squeegee. “I just need a few minutes to make the swap.”
“You have one minute.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HAM IS A survivor. An oily one to be sure, but well practiced in the arts of self-preservation. And he’s been on the run for at least two months now. He has more than one identification and knows how to swap them out quickly.
Ham is five people ahead of me in the queue, a green duffle bag I lifted for him slung over his shoulder. I still have my incriminating black duffle bag of clothes—I really need to ditch it soon, but not with all these cops around. The train we’re taking is to Paris, so traveling without bags would raise suspicions.
Rain continues to pound the glass ceiling overhead. The smell of the egg sandwich the teenage girl is eating in front of me makes my stomach rumble.
We move forward another six inches.
The line is moving relatively fast. The cops scan a person’s CitID, wait for the results, check the tablet, and wave them through—almost all without looking up. They don’t appear to be questioning the results—a perk of an automated society, people don’t question what their devices tell them.
Winn has appeared on the other side of the glass doors to pick up handling Ham once Ham is through. Winn stands out, even without carrying his large bl
ack duffle bag (currently at his feet). He’s tall and looks gorgeous: broad shoulders, angular face with groomed stubble, bright blue eyes. And he’s staring at a group of people, which means a group of people are staring back at him. The teenage girl in front of me of has certainly noticed him—funny, it doesn’t even bother me.
Ten minutes until the train leaves.
Ham is two people away from the ticket taker. The cops are just on the other side of the ticket gate.
The jackknives in my stomach are swimming around my stomach, waiting to unfurl themselves. It’s like my increased pulse awakens them, gives them fuel.
Ham is at the ticket gate. I strain to hear through the comm-link anything he says. Puo, Winn, and I are listening—Puo even temporarily killed the music. All three of us have eyes on him at different angles to make sure nothing is passed or signaled. All three of us have a plan in case that happens.
The ticket gate is womanned. One lone train-station employee stands behind the gate trying to look calming while hiding annoyance with all the crap she’s catching from frustrated travelers. She has a wide face with working-class lines that come from a life of barely scrapping by. She has kids, I decide, but no husband—her left hand is bare. Those lines speak of too much responsibility for too long without a break.
Ham and the woman exchange one-line pleasantries and Ham is through, now queued up to talk to the cops, and already forgotten by the woman, who was probably just relieved he didn’t complain.
I kick my duffle bag a couple of inches, and shuffle forward again, my turn coming at the gate. I wipe my palm on my jeans.
I want to ask Winn and Puo how Ham looks: Calm? Distressed? Nervous? Conniving?
Ham steps up to the cops, gives another one-line pleasantry like he gave the ticket-gate woman, and slides his hand out of his pocket to scan his CitID. Was that a tremor in his hand?
The cop scans it with the same repetitive motion he’s used every time before.
Ham is focused on the train beyond the glass door, not looking at the cop. Moron. He better not be sweating.
Seven minutes until the train leaves.
“Miss?” the ticket taker woman prompts me. I’m next in line.
The Brummie Con Page 21
