by Larry Niven
So they could trust the FOP to cover the fast-moving escape route. The only useful thing for him to do was to think in exactly the opposite fashion, to look at what the Swiss might be missing. There was a notion there, but when he tried to lay hold of it, all traces vanished into mental darkness.
And then he had it.
“I don’t buy this crap.” He called up the desktop visual display, generated a simple map, and used his finger to trace a line in the floating web. “Look at the route: aircar to private airport, some suborbital hop to a country with no extradition. Hefty ransom, ten-day wonder. Over and done.”
Mason shook his head in disgust, then cocked his head. “You don’t think so?”
“No,” Scotty said. “Look. Air traffic is faster and more convenient, but it’s also more tightly monitored. Lot more satellite power looking over your shoulder.”
“And your conclusion? Is she still in the hotel?”
“I think that the FOP is searching all the usual channels. Why duplicate that effort? If she’s here, they have the manpower to find her. We don’t. More useful for us to assume that she’s not in the hotel … but wasn’t spirited off in an aircar either. Get me all of the imagery for the hotel between eleven and one.”
A glowing translucent communications field appeared at Mason’s chest level. Mason poked at it with his forefinger. A web of tiny laser lines blossomed, linking data points like constellations. In a hundred seconds Mason had accessed a sky-eye view, focusing and adjusting until Scotty was peering down at the Exeter hotel’s roof and surrounding block. Then he ran it backward four hours: cars flew and rolled up to the hotel, vans and limos pulled away, and foot traffic streamed in and out of the front doors.
Scotty’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?” he asked, poking a finger into the shimmering web. A blocky truck, larger than a limo or passenger vehicle.
“A garbage van?”
“At one in the morning? Do you know what the usual pickup time might be?”
“On it,” Mason said, and pulled away to speak quietly into his communicator.
Scotty gazed at the grid, dreaming.
When Mason returned to him, his round face was grave. “The usual pickup is a garbage chute leading down to a disposal tunnel. The garbage van services other, smaller hotels, and occasionally drops by for an emergency pickup.”
“So … who called the emergency?”
“We don’t know. It could have been one of a dozen people. So far, nothing. They’ll get back to me.”
“Now, look,” Scotty said. “Whatever happens, we’re taking the heat. I say that we jump on this. Tap into the EU security satellite, backtrack and lock on to the garbage truck. Let’s see where it went.”
Mason wagged his head sorrowfully. “We can’t tap into it. We’ve lost our courtesy pass.”
Damn. “I doubt we can get her father to help us … so let’s ask another question: What’s the route? Where’s the terminal, or wherever the truck goes? That might do it.”
Mason rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. “But even if they didn’t diverge from their route … they might have stopped two dozen times. She could be anywhere.”
“Let’s feel optimistic. Let’s take the answer with the fewest moving parts. So … they need a garbage truck. That’s available at their central motor pool. Contacts there could provide a vehicle and a safe hiding space, as opposed to hijacking a truck—any police reports of vehicle theft?”
A minute of searching dispatches on the Web. “None that I can find.”
“And then dropping her off at another secure location before finishing the route…”
“Or just coordinating with a ground or aircar…” Scotty could see that Mason was getting a headache. Couldn’t blame him. “I don’t know. It’s pretty thin.”
Mason shrugged. “Had my drink. Got nothing better to do. Let’s go do something stupid.”
3
Skeleton Crew
AIRE-LA-VILLE, GENEVA
They had arrived from the east, slipping over the horizon before dawn brushed the darkness from the eastern sky.
For twenty minutes, Scotty Griffin and Foley Mason had camped on a grassy picnic area a thousand meters from the outer fence of the Cheneviers waste treatment plant. While Scotty studied the T-shaped building with binoculars, Mason fiddled and fussed over his briefcase-sized deep-scan equipment. The hundreds of windows on the broad head were mostly darkened, the parking lot with its rows of charging posts only one-tenth filled.
Scotty and Mason didn’t have extensive apparatus. They’d have preferred police-level hardware, or, better, military quality. But all they had was the standard kit Scotty carried on any job, anywhere in the world: first aid, communications and tracking gear, scanning equipment.
“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 à 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.
He dragged her out of the office and down the stairs. So far, no sign of alarm.
But almost immediately after they reached the ground floor someone above them screamed bloody murder.
“Damn!” Scotty could hear the feet, didn’t need to look, or ask Mason. “I can’t get you out of here yet,” he said.
Now her stunned expression flattened with fear. “What are you going to do?”
“Find a place to sit tight, call in the marines. Mason?”
A voice in his ear. “Here, kid.”
“I’ve got her. Get help now.”
Adriana tugged at his arm. “What do I do until then?”
Scotty scanned the floor, looking for an exit. There was nothing save boxes, and those endless rows of red and green barrels.
And he got an idea. “Listen,” he said. “Those red barrels are garbage … these green ones are recycling bins. I’m betting the green ones are processed during the day.”
She looked so wan and desperate that the sudden flash of hope in her blue eyes almost made him laugh. She understood, thank God.
“So … this is the idea. You’re climbing in. If anything goes wrong, get out, you wait until you hear the police arrive, understand?”
Before she had the chance to protest, he had Adriana stuffed halfway into a green barrel. In her current, vulnerable state, she finally looked her seventeen years. For a moment, that moment, he felt so protective of the girl that he hugged her.
She melted against him. There was nothing sexual about it. It felt as if he were sheltering a little sister from the rain. “What are you going to do?” she whispered.
“Draw fire.” He cupped her cheek in his palm, then slid the top into place.
Scotty crouched down in a corner against the south wall, avoiding the pattering feet and increasing sounds of worry and anger, some of them still in that odd language. “Mason,” he whispered. “Warm bodies?”
“Two, headed right for you.”
“And the other side of the wall?”
“Nobody.”
“Finally, a piece of good news.”
He put his back to the wall and set his feet against a two-tiered row of red barrels. Pushed until he felt it give a bit. At the last moment, he realized that kicking out a lower barrel just might collapse the second row right on top of him. Whoops! Back wedged against the wall, feet braced against the barrels, he crab-walked up, wiggling along with his shoulders and butt providing most of the locomotion. Still concealed by the line of barrels, Scotty inhaled, tensed his leg muscles and pushed just as the angry voices approached his hiding place.
For a moment the barrels felt as solid as steel, then he found his leverage. They trembled, tilted and fell. He lost his place and tumbled to the ground, but landed on hands and feet as crashes and screams rang out from the floor.
Before his pursuers could organize, he had found a door and disappeared into an office cubbyhole. Would they follow? A bullet spanged into the wall over his head, answering his silent question.
“How long ’til the cavalry?”
“Ten minutes? Less?”
Scotty ran, leading his pursuers farther away from Adriana, through a warren of supply boxes. At first the pursuing footsteps were frightening
ly close behind him … but then someone took a wrong turn, and they fell back.
He heard more shouting, another shot. A curse.
He couldn’t be certain, but guessed that the kidnappers had just collided with the noncriminal element working the night shift. Scotty hoped no innocents would be killed or injured, but something was certainly happening out there. Feet running. A grinding sound from the conveyer belt, followed by an odd whine from the overhead tentacles. They paused, and then lashed wildly, like a nest of angry boas.
Scotty moved through the office’s side door, exiting into an observation room of some kind. A glass wall separated him from the loading area.
All he had to do was wait for the cavalry, and that he could do. The deep shadows swallowed him. Scotty laid low and kept his eye on the door while the plant’s employees, fair and foul, duked it out. If Adriana just stayed put, they were halfway home.
Running feet. More shots, although he saw no police yet. A muffled explosion, followed by some kind of detonation down the hall. He tried the office door: locked. He pressed his face against the glass. A tendril of smoke drifted from the direction of the T’s crossbar. What exactly had he started?
Then, through the growing haze, a glimpse of something that almost stopped his heart. The overhead steel tentacles seemed to be thrashing about randomly, plucking up red and green barrels without distinction. A red barrel, a green barrel, another two reds, a green. And then … Adriana’s barrel.
There was no mistake about it. It was her barrel, the one resting under the red cautela sign, that had just been plucked up. And now, it was trundling toward the conveyer belt.
“What the hell? They aren’t supposed to burn those barrels!”
“What are you talking about?” Mason’s voice.
“They’re going to burn the recycling barrels.”
“Must be old barrels.”
“Idiot! Adriana is in one of them!”
“Who’s the idiot? Get her the hell out!”
Scotty tried the door again. Locked. He smashed his shoulder against it twice, to no effect. The mechanism probably needed a magnetic key, but he had the next best thing. He shot the mechanism with his stunner, heard a sizzling zap-click as the circuits fried. He slammed the door with his shoulder again. One hell of a racket, but it flew open, and he rushed out.