Empire Games Series, Book 1(99)
Baker nodded again. “I am unaware of any singular vices attached to the man, sir, but I’m sure something can be arranged. Not certain it’ll split him from her—they’ve been thick as thieves since before I met them—but it ought to be possible to isolate him otherwise.”
“Good man.” Holmes’s smile faded. “You’ve both got work to do; don’t let me keep you from it.”
“And a good day to you, sir,” murmured Pierrepoint as he accepted his dismissal and turned to leave. He might as well not have bothered. The Secretary’s nose was already buried in the next of his briefings. Pierrepoint took a deep breath and released it as he and Baker left the claustrophobic inner study behind, passing the vigilant eyes of the outer office staff. An unaccountable sense of relief seized him: unaccountable, for he knew how little it meant to be out from under the direct gaze of the Secretary. Holmes had eyes everywhere.
If the Burgesons and other Party Commissioners were rats, scurrying about their urgent business with vibrating whiskers and beady eyes, lining their nests and tending their pups, Holmes was something cold-eyed and reptilian. A new ruler in waiting, coiled vigilantly in the cloaking shadows. And when the First Man finally departed, Holmes would ensure that there were fewer rodents in the palace.
PHILADELPHIA, TIME LINE TWO; IRONGATE, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020
The four-thirty wake-up alarm buzzed. Rita surfaced dozily from a melatonin-assisted warm bath of dreamless sleep to find herself in a bunk bed in a compact trailer. Stumbling and red-eyed, she worked her way through morning ablutions in the cramped bathroom, then dressed in the alien-hippie drag Gladys had set her up with. The camera and inertial mapper were fully charged: she stowed them carefully in her concealed pockets before opening the door. It was cold outside, with a predawn chill that hinted at autumnal weather to come. Beyond the security wall, agents in windbreakers moved around, prepping the convoy of vehicles that would escort her to the insertion site.
“You look like you need this.” Patrick thrust an insulated mug of coffee into her hands. She nodded her sleepy gratitude. “Ivan’s waiting. You’ve got about twenty minutes.”
Incurably taciturn Ivan, exactly unlike anyone’s stereotype of a male makeup artist, sat her down and examined her. “Huh. Your eyes are shot.” He paused. “Good thing they’re not big on bold statements there.” He applied dull foundation powder and fill-in for the shadows, designed to make her look inconspicuous and pallid—at least by the standards of her natural skin tone. “That crowd was pretty white-bread, but we think you can probably pass for a deep suntan.” He moved around and rapidly gathered her hair, pinning it up so that the hat brim covered it and shadowed her face. “That should do for now. Let’s hope you’re not noticeable. Try not to smile: your dentition is too good.” He frowned. “Next station.”
There was a big crew-cab pickup parked outside. The Colonel was waiting beside it. “Come on,” he said. She climbed into the back and found herself the unwelcome filling in a Gomez-and-O’Neill sandwich. “Okay, we’re just about ready,” said Smith, leaning in through the window. “See you at the zone.”
They rode in silence most of the way. Rita felt acutely uncomfortable, trying not to touch the prickly Gomez or cozy up too tight to Patrick. Nobody spoke. Eventually she pulled out the inertial mapper and tried to follow the route on it. It nailed I-476, as accurately as a satnav. “Huh,” said Gomez, looking over her shoulder. “You want to put that away. Save the battery for later.”
Rita blanked the backlit screen. “What are you even doing here anyway?” she asked.
“I’m guarding your sorry ass in case the Clan come after you.” Gomez wouldn’t meet her gaze, so she focused on the brooch the woman wore: two superimposed gold triangles, pointing upward. Isn’t that a Scientology symbol? Rita wondered. “Just do your job and we can all go home happy tonight.”
“The Clan isn’t going to come after me.” Rita shut her eyes.
“Rita”—it was Patrick—“don’t go there, please.”
“I am sick and tired of internal politics.” She rounded on Gomez: “You’ve been on my case ever since we met. What is it with you? Is it my skin color or something?”
Gomez recoiled. “You’re a spoiled bitch carrying a shitload of suppressive baggage around with you and if it was up to me you wouldn’t be cleaning the toilets—”
“Ladies!” Patrick was clearly annoyed. “Not in public.”
“Shit.” Rita yawned, then caught herself. Gomez stared determinedly up front, to where a pair of uniforms Rita hadn’t met were pointedly ignoring them. So much for Patrick’s offer of help, she thought grimly.
“Keep a lid on it for another half hour.” Patrick gave them both a look. “Try to play nice. Do you want me to ask Eric to arbitrate?”
Rita bit her lip. There had to be some other reason the Colonel was keeping Gomez in the Unit: hard-case cops were ten a penny. Hard-case cops with connections, maybe less so. Perhaps he wanted Gomez around because he knew she was leaking to one of the internal factions? Or perhaps he thought he needed to keep Rita on her toes, and didn’t realize how badly Gomez was harassing her? But whatever the reason, it was stressing her out.
They traveled the rest of the way in silence. They turned off the interstate, drove through the darkened streets of South Philly, then across the expressway and into the Navy grounds near the river, and finally arrived at a parking lot close by the Office of Naval Intelligence. They weren’t alone. A small gaggle of DHS crew-cabs and unmarked sedans clustered together. Traffic cones connected by crime scene tape cordoned off a square on one edge. Patrick opened his door. “Showtime,” he said quietly. “Site survey says the other side is pretty much fallout-free. Break a leg.”