CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TWO DAYS PASSED BY. Independent sources on the net circulated critical accounts of "search and intern" sweeps being carried out by airborne security forces landed in remote parts of Appalachia, Colorado, and Utah. The media billed the actions as counterterrorist, directed at the groups who had begun a campaign of political assassination, which the authorities would not tolerate. A number of helicopters were alleged to have been brought down by missiles. An ISS spokesman called for Hyadean defensive equipment to be fitted to government-operated air vehicles as a precaution.
Then, Cade received a phone call one morning when he was with Julia and their accountant, who had stopped by to review some figures. A smoothly articulated masculine voice asked him what the color of coal was. "My kind is red," Cade replied.
"Then I gather I'm speaking to the right person."
Cade asked the accountant to excuse him but this was private and important, and took the phone through to his study. He closed the door and indicated it was okay to go ahead.
"I have a message from Mole Woman. It says you could always be depended on for surprises," the caller informed him.
Despite everything, Cade couldn't contain a smile. This was his proof of validity. "Mole Woman" was one of the names that he used to call Marie in their lighter moments—from the comic-book Catwoman, a joke at the way Marie had of burrowing into the bedclothes on cold mornings to leave just her nose showing.
"It must be my nature," Cade affirmed. "Okay. What do we have?"
"I understand you have a job applicant seeking an overseas position," the voice informed him.
"Looking for less stress and pressure. An escape from the rat race," Cade confirmed.
"The positions we offer normally pay around twenty thousand. Was that the kind of figure your client has in mind?"
It was double talk, spelling out what the service would cost. "We could settle for that, yes," Cade agreed.
"Fine. Of course, we would need to arrange an appropriate interview. Where does the applicant currently reside?"
"I guess you could say on the West Coast."
"Hm. . . . These things are usually managed by our Eastern region. However, if that should be impracticable, it would probably be possible to arrange a preliminary meeting with a local branch representative."
Cade chewed on his lip while he thought about it. The reference to the East probably meant that CounterAction's route for spiriting people out of the country led in that direction, maybe through the Caribbean to Africa, and then Asia via the Middle East. He didn't want to get any more involved here, in his own backyard, he decided. Midnight callers and furtive meetings around the locality would be the last thing he needed. Better to get Rebecca there as quickly as possible. And if something came of it, she would already be partly on her way.
"I'd prefer that the regional office handle it, if they're the proper people," he said.
"You will be contacted in due course." The caller hung up.
* * *
That same evening, a fax came through in Cade's study of a promotional brochure from a hotel called the Metro in downtown Atlanta. Typed across the bottom were terse instructions for the "applicant" to be outside the main doors of the ground-level motor lobby at a given date and time, holding an Atlanta city guide book for recognition.
The date stipulated allowed four days, presumably making allowance for a journey by road. Luke advised against it on the grounds that, with all the trouble in the news, spot checks of travelers on major highways, railroads, and public buses were likely to have been intensified. And besides, he didn't think Rebecca was up to the stresses of a protracted trip. But Cade had never contemplated such alternatives in the first place. What was the point of doing favors for wealthy friends, he asked, if you couldn't ask one back now and again for yourself?
There was one Lou Zinner, based most of the time in Las Vegas, who had interests in casinos and the entertainment world, and fingers in various associated sleazy dealings. It was Lou, for example, who provided the available girls for Cade's Hyadean parties and boat trips. He remained at a distance behind Cade's more respectable front and didn't deal with the Hyadeans directly. Lou also happened to own an executive jet, which he used for attending business meetings, visiting "family," and flying a seemingly inexhaustible supply of mistresses, young admirers, and hopeful starlets to be entertained in exotic places. Lou was always happy to hear from Cade because high-ranking Hyadeans taking time off talked in big bucks. Hence, he was a hundred percent receptive when Cade called and said he wanted the loan of Lou's plane and its pilot for a day.
The craggy, balding head guffawed heartily on the screen in Cade's study. "What's going on, Rolie? Don't tell me. You're expanding the operation. The boat's too tame for 'em now. You've got aliens that wanna join the twenty thousand club, right?"
"Wrong. No, nothing like that. I need to make a rush delivery across the country. It'll be back the same night."
"Okay, then I'm not askin'. So what's the cut?"
Cade thought for a second. "Maybe I'll be able to get you some high rollers out there yet. You know how those ones that come across from Washington are loaded."
"I'll settle for that. Okay, Rolie, you've got it. Just try to send it back in one piece, willya? I've got it booked for the weekend after."
That solved the immediate problem. But Luke thought that if they were going to have an entire aircraft at their disposal, they could make better use of it. "Just to take one person to Atlanta?" he said to Cade when Cade gave him the news. "Why on her own? What happens if something screws up—say nobody shows, and she finds herself stuck there? We couldn't just leave her like that. One of us ought to go too. I say we keep a good eye on her until we know she's in the right hands."
Cade agreed. "In that case I'll go," he said. "This isn't really your affair. I got us into it." Luke shrugged and nodded in a way that said it was fine by him.
Julia, however, was perturbed when they updated her on their thoughts. "Why risk getting mixed up with CounterAction people directly?" she objected. "If you're seen or identified with them, it could start trouble that will never go away. We've had the ISS here already. You know what's going on all over the country. We don't need to get mixed up in all that."
It seemed a strange turn of attitude after the things Cade had heard. "Because she's an old friend, remember?" he replied. "Look, I'm not planning on getting mixed up with anybody. All I'm doing is taking her as far as a hotel lobby. I don't even need to wait there with her—just close enough to see she gets picked up. That's it. Then I'm on my way back."
Eventually, Julia relented, but she still didn't seem happy about it.
Accordingly, Cade and Rebecca made their preparations the evening before the appointed day. Lou Zinner's jet appeared at the John Wayne/Orange County airport early the next morning as arranged, and they took off on time. En route, the plane was challenged by two Air Force jets that radioed for identification and a mission statement. Fortunately, the pilot had filed a flight plan, stated as serving the private business needs of a Nevada-registered VIP. The plane landed at Hartsfield International Airport, Atlanta, a little over four hours after leaving California.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FRANK PACELLI HAD WORKED night shift stocking supermarket shelves, sold kitchen ware, and part-timed at a gas station to pay his way through college, and emerged with a degree in chemistry and metallurgical engineering. He had worked first with a couple of mining corporations in Minnesota and Colorado, later at a smelting and rolling plant in Korea, done well, and come back to a position as process designer with a company in Minneapolis. Then the Hyadeans began flooding the world markets with bulk minerals extracted from places like Bolivia by methods no Terran industry could compete with; the company folded, and now Frank drove a taxicab. He got pretty mad when he heard about some of the dealings that went on in Washington and the kind of money some people were reputed to make out of them. But with three children of high-
school age to think about, he couldn't afford to risk getting directly involved in the more militant protest organizations that everyone pretended not to know about. But sympathizing with them was another thing. Much passed his eyes that he didn't see, came to his ears that he didn't hear, and he helped the cause when he could.
He turned off Peachtree Street into the motor lobby of the Metro hotel at the time he had been given, and slowed to scan the few figures outside the main entrance. The pudgy woman in the light blue coat and yellow hat, holding a city guide prominently in one hand had to be the person he was to meet. She had a suitcase and a large traveling bag beside her and seemed to be waiting, looking around anxiously. Pacelli eased the cab forward, steering in toward the curb in front of her.
Then it struck him that a tallish man in a gray jacket, standing a few yards away by the doors, was watching her. The conviction solidified when the man's head turned to follow the cab as it closed in. An alarm sounding in his head, Pacelli shifted his foot back to the gas pedal and sped up again, passing the woman just as she was beginning to step forward. He caught a glimpse of her mouth dropping open before he turned away to leave again through the lobby's exit way. He stopped in a parking strip halfway around the block and pressed the "redial" button of his phone to call the number already entered.
"Yes?" The voice that had given him his instructions answered.
"This is Collector. The party's there, a woman. But there's a guy there too, who looks like he's watching her. It didn't feel right, so I thought I'd better check."
"Good thinking. Where are you now?"
"Just around the block."
"Wait."
Pacelli drummed his fingers on the wheel nervously. He was just driving a cab, sent to pick someone up from a hotel. They couldn't nail anyone for that, right? He wasn't sure. From the things he heard, who knew what they could do these days?
* * *
The city of Chattanooga lay just under a hundred miles north of Atlanta in southeastern Tennessee, on the Tennessee River near the Georgia-Alabama line. Three large mountain masses overlooked it, each one of strategic importance and the scene of a major battle in the Civil War.
Marie and Len had arrived after an erratic tour through the Great Smoky range to find Olsen safely there too, several hours ahead of them. That had been over a week ago now. Their new temporary hideout until they were regrouped consisted of a double-width mobile home situated among trees on hilly ground to the north side of the city, between Signal Mountain and the river. Sharing the quarters with them were two other CounterAction people known only as "Vera" and "Bert," both seemingly proficient, with another man that they referred to as "Otter." Marie could tell that Otter was not from the organization. She got the feeling that he was in transit and temporary hiding, in the process of being moved to somewhere more permanent.
That Otter should in this way meet former members of the Scorpion cell that had been hurriedly disbanded was not accidental. Scorpion had been identified by the authorities, blamed for the assassinations that were partly the cause of the current unrest, and targeted for elimination. Otter apparently knew who had been responsible: an officer of the security forces themselves, acting on orders from a source close to the administration. Otter could name the officer and give the source of the Hyadean weapon that was used, which had come from a cache stolen in South America, later recovered but never acknowledged officially. It seemed that Otter was being taken to report his information to higher echelons of CounterAction, but the current disruptions and hasty relocations going on everywhere were slowing things down. Whoever was giving the orders had authorized Olsen to let Otter pass on what he knew in case Otter didn't get to wherever he was being taken, and as a further precaution Olsen had included Marie. It wasn't as if the information was something that Sovereignty would want kept secret.
Otter lay sprawled along a couch in the living area watching a movie. Bert was in a room at the back, sorting and checking through various items of equipment. Vera had kept night watch and was sleeping. The number of beds and amount of kit scattered through the rooms and closets suggested that more people used the place, but at present were elsewhere on undisclosed errands. Marie paced restlessly behind Olsen, who was seated at the table in the room that served as his quarters and office, talking to the taxi driver who had been sent to make the collection. He held the phone away suddenly, and cursed beneath his breath. "What is it?" Marie asked, going over.
"A woman showed, but it could be a setup. He thinks she's being watched."
"What?" Marie stared at the phone in his hand, as if it could tell her something. Roland wouldn't be involved in something like that. Not knowingly, anyway. She felt embarrassed and guilty, as if she had led them into this. "I can't believe it," was all she could say.
"Let's see what Len thinks." Olsen used a mouse to click the "Call" box of a communications dialer already displayed on one of the screens in front of him. Moments later, Len's voice answered from a connected speaker.
"Watcher here."
Len was at the Metro in Atlanta, observing from back inside the motor lobby entrance. The situation had demanded that somebody else be on hand in case of problems developing, not just the cabbie. The phone that Len was carrying had a video pickup.
"Collector thinks the subject may have a tail," Olsen said at the mike. "How do you read it?"
"Yes, I've got him too. The subject's a woman. It looks like they know each other. Collector came by and then took off. Subject is making like `What do I do?' The tail is shaking his head." As Len spoke, the screen in front of Olsen switched to show a crazily angled shot of a woman in a light blue coat, wearing a yellow hat, standing beside two bags. Her face was indistinct in the light under the roof outside the lobby doors. She was looking to her right, then turned away in the other direction. The scene cavorted as the camera swung, then settled on a tall man in a light-colored jacket, keeping farther back in the shadows. The figure became clearer as Len moved out toward the doors, then jumped into closeup. It was a man his midthirties, angular cheeked with narrow eyes, and brown wavy hair combed back at both temples.
"Oh my God!" Marie whispered weakly. "What's he doing there?"
Olsen turned his head. "You know him? Who is he?"
"It's him . . . the person it came from. My ex-husband. That's Roland. . . . He must have come with her, to make sure things went okay."
Olsen studied the image thoughtfully. "That means we don't have to listen only to this woman we don't know. We can get his input too. You're sure he's likely to be straight?"
Marie nodded affirmatively. "Oh yes."
"Then let's bring him along." Olsen leaned forward and touched a key. "Watcher?"
"Here."
"The tail is friendly. In fact, we're glad he's here. So include him in the party too."
* * *?
Rebecca was getting agitated, looking back at Cade and making empty-hands motions. Cade didn't know what was going on. It had seemed that the cab driver had spotted her and pulled over; then he seemed to change his mind at the last moment. Cade signaled back tersely for Rebecca to stop making it so obvious that they were together. She seemed to get the message, calmed down, and directed her attention back toward the motor lobby entrance. An airport shuttle that had been filling with departing hotel guests started up and departed.
Perhaps the business with the cabbie had been genuinely a case of mistaken identity. Cade checked his watch. Seven minutes past the hour. Was it reasonable to expect people in this kind of line to be punctual—especially with all the trouble that was going on? He opened the newspaper that he'd been carrying under his arm and stared at it. He felt like ham in a spy movie. Well, hell, what was he supposed to know about this kind of business? He found he was looking at the sports section. He didn't even understand the rules of baseball. A white limo appeared and disgorged a couple both with long hair and in blue jeans. While the driver came around to begin unloading luggage from the trunk, a bellman appeared from
inside the hotel, pulling a cart.
And then a cab appeared in the entrance and slowed. Cade wasn't certain, but it seemed like the same one that had passed through before. This time it drew up directly in front of Rebecca. She stooped to peer inside uncertainly. The nearside window lowered, and the driver leaned across to say something. Rebecca nodded. The cab's trunk lid popped open, and the cabbie got out to take care of the two bags. Finally, everything seemed to be going well. Rebecca opened the rear door, and climbed in, glancing out from the window to nod quickly. Cade watched the cabbie slam the trunk lid shut, then go forward and get back in. Just a few more seconds now, and the whole business would be out of Cade's hands. He exhaled a long sigh of relief.
"Take it easy. Don't turn around. Just get in the cab too." The voice spoke close to his ear. It was low, little more than a murmur, but had a distinct no-nonsense quality.
Cade tensed reflexively, then forced himself to relax again, realizing that anything else was futile. "What is this?" he breathed.
"I don't know either. It seems that the people meeting your friend want to talk to you."
"I'm just a delivery man. I don't know anything about what goes on."
"That's not for me to decide. I've just got orders." There was a pause. Cade hesitated. "Come on," the voice said. "You don't want to mess with us. Let's move."
Cade sighed and walked over to the cab, the stranger following. Somehow, the cabbie seemed to know they would be coming and was waiting. Cade opened the door, shrugged in response to Rebecca's bemused look, and got in next to her. The stranger squeezed in beside Cade and closed the door. He was maybe sixtyish, Cade saw as he sat back. Tanned, wrinkled features; hair going white; dark, indecipherable eyes—the kind that never gave away exactly where they were focused. He was wearing a hip-length coat of brown suede over a tan, crew-neck sweater. The cab pulled back out onto Peachtree, negotiated several blocks, and descended an on ramp to a highway that signs said were Interstates 75 and 85 South, which led back toward the airport. But after a few intersections it exited again onto a road leading among industrial premises, where it entered a parking area and stopped beside a black, windowless van. "Here, we change," the stranger informed them. "Not much of a view from here on, I'm afraid. But I'm sure you understand that these things are necessary."
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