Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(43)

But, my God, how could anyone treat their life partner so callously, so cruelly? She should be cherished.

Despising himself for imagining doing just that, of going upstairs, gathering Clarissa against him, Zeke slipped on his ear protectors and gave her the privacy that was her right.

“I appreciate you changing your schedule and coming here.” Eve scooped her jacket off her ratty chair and tried not to obsess that her tiny, cluttered office was a far cry from the elegant Dr. Mira’s work space.

“I know you’re working against the clock on this one.” Mira glanced around. Odd, she thought, she’d never been in Eve’s office before. She doubted Eve realized just how completely the cramped little room suited her. No fuss, no frills, and very little comfort.

She took the chair Eve offered, crossed her smooth legs, lifted a brow when Eve remained standing.

“I should have come to you. I don’t even have any of that tea you drink in here.”

Mira merely smiled. “Coffee would be fine.”

“That I’ve got.” She turned to the AutoChef, which did little more than spit at her. Eve rammed it with the heel of her hand. “Goddamn budget cuts. One of these days I’m taking every lousy piece of equipment in this room and chucking it out the window. And I hope to God every piss-head in maintenance is down below when I do.”

Mira laughed and glanced at the narrow slit of grimy glass. “You’d have a hard time fitting anything through that window.”

“Yeah, well, I’d manage. It’s coming up,” she said as the AutoChef gave a coughing hum. “The rest of the team is working in their areas. We’re meeting in an hour. I want to be able to take them something.”

“I wish I had more to give you.” Mira sat back, accepting the mug of coffee Eve offered. It was barely seven a.m., yet Mira looked as elegant and polished as fine glass. Her sable-toned hair waved gently back from her serene face. She wore one of her trim suits, this one in a quiet sage green she’d accented with a single strand of pearls.

In her tired jeans and bulky sweater, Eve felt scruffy, gritty-eyed, and unkempt.

She sat, thinking Roarke had said basically the same thing to her in the early hours of the morning. He’d continued to search, but he was up against equipment and minds as clever and complex as his own. It could be hours, he’d explained, or days before he broke through the tangled blocks and reached the core of Cassandra.

“Give me what you’ve got,” Eve said shortly to Mira. “And it’ll be more than I have now.”

“This organization is exactly that,” Mira began. “Organized. It would be my supposition that whatever they intend to do has been planned out meticulously. They wanted your attention, and they have it. They wanted the attention of the powers of the city, and have that as well. Their politics, however, elude me. The four people they’re demanding be released are from variable points on the political compass. Therefore, this is a test. Will their demands be met? I don’t believe they think they will.”

“But they’ve given us no mechanism to negotiate.”

“Negotiation isn’t their goal. Capitulation is. The destruction of the building yesterday was merely a show. No one was hurt, they can say. We’re giving you a chance to keep it that way. Then, they ask for the impossible.”

“I can’t link any of the four on the list together.” Eve rested a booted ankle on her knee when she sat. She’d spent hours the night before trying to find the connection while Roarke had worked on Cassandra. “No political tenet, as you said. No associations, no memberships. Ages, personal and criminal histories. Nothing connects them. I say they picked those four names out of a hat, for the hell of it. They couldn’t care less if those people are back on the street or not. It’s smoke.”

“I agree. Knowing that, however, doesn’t ease the threat of what they’ll do next. This group calls itself Cassandra, links itself to Mount Olympus, so the symbolism is clear. Power and prophecy, of course, but more a distance between them and mere mortals. A belief, an arrogance, that they, or whoever heads them, has the superior knowledge and ability to direct us. Perhaps even to care for us in the ruthlessly cold directives of gods. They’ll use us — as they did Howard Bassi — when we have the potential to be useful. And when they are done, we are rewarded or punished as they see fit.”

“This new republic, new realm?”

“Theirs, of course.” Mira sampled the coffee, delighted to discover it was Roarke’s marvelous blend. “With their tenets, their rules, their people. It’s the tone that troubles me more than the content, Eve. Underlying what is said is a glee in saying it. ‘We are Cassandra,’” she added. “Is that the group, or one person who believes himself to be many? If the latter is partially true, you’re dealing with a clever and damaged mind. ‘We are loyal.’ Loyal, we can assume, to the organization, the mission. And to the terrorist group Apollo from which Cassandra was given its prophetic powers.”

“‘Our memory is long,’” Eve murmured. “It would have to be. Apollo was broken more than thirty years ago.”

“You’ll note the constant use of the plural pronoun, the short declarative sentences followed by political jargon, propaganda, accusations. There’s nothing new in that part of it, nothing original. It’s recycled, and a great deal older than three decades. But don’t take this to mean they’re not advanced in the ways and means in which they operate. Their foundation may be tired and trite, but I believe their intentions and capabilities are vital.