“How do I get signed in?” Sydney asked, wishing she'd worn pumps instead of sandals.
Rachel motioned the security guard over to join them. “Frank'll show you. Frank, this is Kristin Jarvis. She needs her ID badge.”
“Sure thing,” Frank said, leering at Sydney.
“Down, boy.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “Don't mind Frank,” she told Sydney. “He's married. All show and no go.”
“I have something I'd like to show you,” Frank parried, turning his attention to Rachel.
“Uh-huh,” said Rachel, unfazed. “It's good to have a dream. Now hurry up and help Kristin so I can get her started.”
“I'd like to get you started.”
“Wow,” said Rachel. “Clever. You've caught me totally without a comeback. How about that ID?”
“Whatever.” Frank took Sydney's identification cards from Rachel and motioned for Sydney to follow him out through a door at the back of the lobby. “I'll be back,” he told Rachel as they left.
“Okay. Wouldn't want you to do anything crazy, like patrol the building.”
“Patrol!” Frank scoffed to Sydney, leading the way down a carpeted hall. “If a perpetrator comes into the building, how's he going to enter?”
He gave Sydney a sharp glance, as if seriously expecting an answer. She shrugged helplessly.
“Through the door, that's how. Perps'll come in through the lobby.”
She managed a slight, uncertain smile, but inside she was laughing out loud. If all the guards were as brilliant as Frank, she and Noah should be pretty safe.
On the other hand, I just came in through the lobby. Maybe Frank's not as dumb as he seems.
“In here,” he said brusquely, indicating a small, dingy room at the end of the hall. A beat-up metal desk and file cabinet gave the place a grungy ambiance. Using a key on a retractable chain, Frank opened the top file drawer and removed a blank fingerprint card, slapping it down on the desktop along with Sydney's fake IDs.
“You're, uh . . . you're taking my fingerprints?” she asked nervously as Frank added a pad of ink and some paper towels to the items on the desk. “What for?”
“For security,” he said as if she were dense. Apparently he saved his sexual harassment for Rachel. “What's the matter? Got a record?”
“Of course not!” she said quickly.
“Then what's the damage?”
“Nothing. I mean . . . go ahead.”
The last thing she wanted was for SST to have her fingerprints, but causing a scene would raise suspicion. As Frank pushed her right index finger down on the ink, then moved it to the proper position on the card, Sydney fought back the urge to twist her hand, smudging the print into uselessness. For one thing, Frank had a death grip on her finger, rolling it back and forth with military precision. For another, there was no way she'd succeed with that ploy ten times.
“Relax,” Frank said, his leer returning. “Tensing up only makes it worse.”
Sydney submitted reluctantly, comforting herself by imagining all the ways she could make Frank scream. When he'd finished, he handed her a paper towel and told her to stand with her back to the wall and her toes on a piece of tape.
“Picture time!” he announced, pulling out a digital camera. “Smile pretty.”
Sydney smiled, hoping her wig was still on straight. Disguises only worked because people rarely looked at each other closely. What if Frank suddenly noticed a strand of long brown hair escaping from beneath her short blond hairdo? What if he asked about contact lenses?
The sudden flash of the camera left her seeing purple spots.
“All right,” he said. “I've got to go laminate this and make copies of your other IDs. Wait here until I get back.”
Sydney nodded, relieved to see him go, especially since he'd left her fingerprint card lying out on the desk. Could she steal it, then convince him he'd taken it with him to the other room? No, he'd just make another one. Could she forge a new one somehow? What would she use for fingerprints?
The top drawer of the file cabinet was still unlocked. If there were any completed cards in there, perhaps she could put her name on someone else's. Sydney was moving toward the cabinet when Frank walked back into the room.
“Now you're official,” he said, handing her a laminated ID card attached to a metal clip. KRISTIN JARVIS—INTERN and a photograph of a blonde she barely recognized were centered between the SST logo and a string of security code. “Make sure you wear that every day, and wear it where I can see it.”
“All right,” she said, clipping the ID to the front of her dress. “But you already know me, Frank.”
“Wear it anyway. I'm not the only guard here, you know. Plus, I've got a lot of people to keep track of. Which reminds me, it's time for my patrol. Can you find your way back to Rachel?”
“No problem,” Sydney said eagerly. If he left her in the room by herself . . .
But before she could finish the thought, Frank lifted her fingerprint card off the desk, put it in the drawer, and locked the file cabinet.
“You still here?” he said, turning around again.
“I was, uh . . . just leaving. Which way was it?”
She let Frank point her in the only possible direction, then set off to find Rachel.
“All done?” Rachel asked when Sydney reappeared in the lobby.
“Done with him, anyway,” Sydney replied, letting her disgust creep into her voice.
“Don't I know it!” Rachel shook her head sadly. “Welcome to SST.”
For the next hour, she explained Sydney's new duties to her. They spent fifty minutes on the proper way to answer the phone and transfer calls, and for the rest of the time Sydney learned how to use the electronic postage meter.
“Okay, so I answer the phones and put postage on outgoing mail,” Sydney said. “What else?”
“Make copies,” Rachel said. “Lots of copies. These engineers always have some manual or other they want Xeroxed, but I can't show you the copy room now—somebody has to stay on the desk.”
“You could just point me in that direction . . . ,” Sydney suggested, sensing an opportunity to do some unsupervised exploring.
“There's really nothing to see. I'll show you later, when Jamia gets down here.”
“Down from where?”
“Top floor,” Rachel said. “Jamia is Mr. Vincent's secretary. He's out a lot, though, like today, which leaves her with time on her hands. The girls in word processing cover my breaks, but Jamia does it when he's not here, just for the change of scenery.”
“Scenery? If Mr. Vincent's office is on the top floor, the view ought to be pretty nice.”
“It is. I guess.” Rachel looked a bit sheepish. “I've only been on that floor once. We aren't exactly encouraged to wander out of our work areas, so until I get promoted . . .”
Great, thought Sydney. That ought to make my mission more challenging.
“What else do I do?” she asked. “Besides the phone, the mail, and copies, I mean. Where's my computer?”
Rachel's sculpted brows drew together. “We do have one shared computer. . . .” She gestured to a blank monitor. “But it's easier to use the typewriter for envelopes and labels. The secretaries type everything else.”
“No, I mean, where will I be writing programs? I thought being an intern meant I'd work with the engineers.”
Rachel gave her an incredulous look. “It means you have your foot in the door, and that's it. Do you have a degree in computer science?”
Sydney hesitated, not sure what lies Wilson had told in her internship application. “Not yet,” she finally ventured.
“Well, I do,” Rachel told her. “And I'm still answering the phone. Everyone here pays their dues.”
“Gotcha,” Sydney said, wondering how Wilson expected her to learn anything useful at the front desk. “Do you want me to take over the switchboard while you go on your break? We could save Jamia a trip.”
“You think you're ready for it?”
Rachel asked skeptically. “It's not as easy as it looks—especially when we get busy and all the lines light up at once.”
“The phone hasn't been ringing that much,” Sydney pointed out. “I'd think a big building like this would have a ton more calls coming in.”
“Voice mail,” Rachel said. “Best thing we ever got. Most of our repeat callers use the automated system. But every now and then—”
The telephone rang, several lights on the switchboard blinking simultaneously.
“See what I mean?” Rachel asked, reaching for the handset.
“I have to use the ladies' room,” Sydney whispered. “I'll just . . .” She pointed tentatively behind them, toward the hallway she'd walked through with Frank.
Rachel shook her head.
“SpaceSoft Technologies. This is Rachel,” she said into the phone. “Will you please hold?” She punched another line. “SpaceSoft Technologies. Will you please hold? SpaceSoft Technologies . . .”
Sydney pointed toward the only other doorway at the back of the lobby. Rachel nodded, then gave her full attention to the phone. “Will you please hold?”
Sydney escaped down the second hallway, eager to do some looking around on her own. This new hallway was wider and much more opulent than the first, with burgundy carpeting and expensive prints on the walls. Only fifty feet from the lobby, it opened into a spacious atrium with two banks of elevators and a fountain in the center. Sydney moved slowly toward the ladies' room on the other side, taking in every detail.
A glass-fronted board on the wall nearest the fountain featured head shots of the principals of SST. Sydney veered course to get a better look at the photograph of Owen Vincent, which was almost identical to the one in the SpaceSoft brochure Wilson had provided. Vincent's features were slightly out of focus and entirely nondescript—just another serious-looking white guy in a gray suit and brown crew cut. Even his tie was boring.
Turning her attention to the elevators, Sydney noticed lighted displays above the doors, indicating that cars were in use on other floors, but so far none of them had come to the atrium, leaving her temporarily alone. A security camera mounted prominently in one corner made her worry she might be under surveillance, but she couldn't pass up such a golden opportunity. Changing directions abruptly, she walked to the elevators and pressed the call button.
Her timing was good; a car arrived almost instantly. But when the doors opened, Sydney found herself facing a group of middle-aged men in dress slacks and short-sleeved oxfords, SST badges hanging askew from their shirt pockets.
“Hello!” one of them said. They all stopped talking to stare at her.
“Hi.” Making sure her own ID badge was showing, she stepped sideways to let them pass.
“How's it going?” another man asked.
“Fine, thank you.”
She was tempted to run straight back to Rachel, but she forced herself to stay calm, relying on the assumption that the men had no idea what her real duties were. Sure enough, they walked past without further comment and Sydney stepped into the elevator.
Inside were buttons for twenty-three floors, including the lobby. Sydney hesitated, then pressed button 23.
ENTER SECURITY CODE appeared in red letters in the LCD display.
“Uh-oh,” she said, quickly pressing 22 instead. The elevator began moving.
That could have cost me, she thought. Some elevators were programmed to lock down if a per-son tried to access a restricted floor without a security code. Luckily, this one was more forgiving. It took her to the twenty-second floor without further incident.
It's probably smarter not to start on Vincent's floor anyway, she thought as the doors opened on an empty hallway. I'll just look around here.
Sydney strolled casually down the hall, determined to blend in. The key was in the pacing—too slow and people would think she was lost, too fast and she might look nervous. She passed several large, luxurious offices, peeking through their open doorways. The first two were empty. In the third, a man hunched over a keyboard, his back turned toward the door. More empty offices followed until finally she happened upon a conference room and discovered where everyone was.
Raised voices floated into the hallway, stopping her before she reached the open door. Some sort of meeting was in progress. Sydney eased forward, listening.
“I'm just saying,” a loud voice insisted. “At MicroCom they get four weeks' vacation and a 401k.”
“Don't be dense,” came the scornful reply. “I'm telling you: stock options.”
“We ought to at least be able to choose our own health insurance. . . .”
Sydney backed away silently. This wasn't the kind of intel Wilson was looking for, although she couldn't help wondering if Owen Vincent knew what his employees talked about behind his back.
If SpaceSoft is having money problems, that could explain a lot, she thought, walking back down the hall the way she had come. Whatever this missile guidance thing is, if Vincent could sell it quietly, under the table . . .
Nearing the elevator, Sydney passed a closed door she hadn't noticed before. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then backed up and put her ear to the wood. No sound came from inside. Making a quick decision, she reached for the knob.
The room was a darkened library. A few rectangular tables near the doorway were strewn with books and papers, as if someone had recently been working there. Behind the tables were rows of tall freestanding bookshelves. A long bank of file cabinets occupied the distant back wall.
This looks like a good place to poke around, she thought, closing the door behind her and switching on a light. Moving quickly to the table, she began sorting through the papers lying there.
There were dozens of pages covered with handwritten equations and a roll of blueprints depicting some sort of engine. She was still trying to figure out whether the drawing was of a rocket engine when voices in the hallway made her freeze.
“I'm not going to worry about it anymore,” some-one said. “Owen always works these things out.”
“Personally, I have more important things to do,” came the deep-voiced reply. “If I don't finish those calcs by tomorrow . . .”
They're standing right outside the door! Sydney realized. And these are the calculations they're talking about.
Abandoning the papers, she raced toward the back of the library, desperate to get away. The light was still on overhead, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Maybe they wouldn't notice her in the book stacks if she squeezed into a corner and held very, very still.
But what will Rachel do when I don't show up back downstairs?
Sydney cast about frantically for an escape route. The acoustic ceiling might be an option, but there wasn't time to climb up there and remove tiles. The room had no windows at all—besides, she was on the twenty-second floor.
And then, to her total amazement, she saw her out. In the very back corner of the room, nearly hidden in an alcove behind the last file cabinet, was a second door.
“I'll check back with you later,” she heard the deep voice say, so clearly it could only mean the front door had been opened. Flying the final few feet to her escape, she grabbed the knob and pushed.
Locked.
No! she thought, slumping into a sitting position against the wood. She didn't have a lock pick, and she'd only be able to cower in the alcove for so long before Rachel started looking for her. She was going to have to bluff her way out.
Maybe she could say she'd come to fetch a book for someone. But who?
Or I could pretend to be looking at the books. Gung-ho new hire. Overeager intern. I'll have to go with that.
She was pushing up to her feet when the door she was leaning on suddenly opened, sending her sprawling backward. A hand grabbed her under one arm, simultaneously propping her up and pulling her through the opening. Something told her not to scream. Instead, she found her balance and twisted around, ready to fight.
“Noah!” she g
asped as the door closed silently behind her, throwing his face into shadow. The room she'd tumbled into was big and dark, and without the light from the library, she could barely see him. “How did you find me here?” she whispered.
He put a finger to his lips and motioned for her to follow him. She crept along behind, tracking his silhouette, until he opened another door and let them into a small room lined with rickety metal shelves and janitorial supplies. A lightbulb glared overhead, giving Sydney her first clear look at her rescuer.
“Nice duds!” she said, laughing. “My knight in dirty coveralls!”
Noah was wearing a blue janitor's uniform with MICK embroidered in orange over its left pocket. A matching baseball cap covered his hair and shielded his face from any overhead cameras.
“Stylin', Mick,” she added, still chuckling. “No wonder you didn't want to fill me in on your new career at SpaceSoft.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe I don't think much of your wig, but I'm too professional to say so,” Noah retorted, annoyed.
Sydney's hands went to her hair. “You don't like it?”
“That blond washes you out. Or maybe it's the blue eyes. I don't know; you look pale. Or wait,” he added sarcastically, “maybe it's the fact that I just totally saved your butt. A screw-up like that could make anyone pale.”
“How did you find me?” she asked sheepishly.
“I saw you on a security camera. They've got these janitor closets on every floor, and I've rigged a feed into an empty one a few floors down. You're lucky the security here is mostly for show, or it could have been someone else dragging you out of that room.”
“I'd rather be lucky than good,” Sydney joked, trying to lighten his mood.
“Great job, then—you're right on target. So here's what you're going to do now: Get back to your desk and start kissing up to Rachel. You'll learn a lot more gossiping with her than wandering around up here. Until we have a plan, recons like this are just crazy and pointless.”
“Is that so?” she said, bristling.
“Look, I didn't mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
He wasn't wrong, either; that was the worst part. She hated the way he always seemed to catch her messing up.
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