"Someone could have seen you leave this morning," Faye suggested.
"That wouldn't have given them enough time. Besides, I had people in the garage watching for that."
Tremayne slammed his fist on the table. "That does it, damn it." Abruptly, he sat down and leveled a finger across the table at Lathe. "I've had it with taking you on faith and then watching you go off and work behind our backs. You're going to tell us what you're up to, and you're going to tell us now."
"I'm sorry," Lathe shook his head.
"You don't have a choice." Tremayne raised his hand.
And in the side wall across from Caine three small sections of the woodwork suddenly swung inward. From the gloom behind the openings three laser rifles appeared.
Caine froze, caught completely off-guard—but Novak was already moving. The blackcollar had been standing against the wall directly between two of the eye-level gunports, a meter and a half from either one; but almost before the rifles had steadied he'd taken a long step toward the one at his right and smashed the muzzle straight back into its port with his nunchaku. His back still to the wall, he reversed direction: two quick steps to his left, and his left leg snapped up and back in a hook kick, again jamming the protruding laser back into its owner. His nunchaku was spinning through the air before his foot was back on the floor, catching the last muzzle between the two sticks and slamming it against the edge of the port. The laser spat once, cutting a deep groove in the table. By the time the gunner recovered his aim Novak was there. Grabbing the muzzle, he first shoved and then pulled, and a second later was down on one knee with his prize pointing past the table. Caine glanced behind him, realizing only then that Mordecai had similarly taken out the three gunports on his side of the room.
In the brittle silence Bakshi's voice carried clearly: "Drop those guns or I'll kill you."
Caine focused on him. The comsquare hadn't moved, hadn't drawn a single weapon; and yet, looking at his expression, Caine had no doubt he could carry out the threat. Suddenly the room felt very cold indeed.
"Everyone just relax," Lathe said calmly. "We're not trying to take over. But I warned you against pulling weapons on us again." He eyed the walls and jerked his head toward the door. "Out, all of you. Tremayne?"
Glowering, the Radix leader gave a hand signal. Splitting neatly along lines in the woodwork, a door swung open around each of the gunports. Six men, nursing cut lips and sore shoulders, stepped from the dark alcoves and headed for the door. Lathe motioned, and the Plinry blackcollars returned the captured lasers to their owners.
"We'll have no more of this eavesdropping," Lathe said as the door closed behind the guards.
"Don't worry," Cameron growled. "Those men are completely trustworthy."
"No one on Argent is completely trustworthy," Lathe said, "and before you get your hackles up I simply mean we're too small a group to take the wrong chance twice. That's why we didn't tell anyone about our plans this morning. I'm sorry if you feel offended, but that's how we have to operate here."
"It's not a matter of wounded pride, Damon," Faye spoke up. "Whatever you were trying to do in Henslowe, chances are Miles could have made things easier for you if you'd consulted with him beforehand. Were you hoping to find where a particular prisoner was being kept? If so, we could probably have gotten that for you from out here."
Lathe shrugged noncommittally. "There'll be other chances."
"Not if I know Apostoleris," Bakshi said. "He's bound to move the vets now—and wherever they're put it'll cost us a lot of lives to get them out. That's what your private raid really accomplished."
"Perhaps," Lathe admitted. "If so, I'm sorry. Where would the vets be sent—any ideas?"
"Cerbe Prison's their best bet," Faye said. "It's an old fortress southeast of here, out in the middle of nowhere. Smallish building, four floors up and six down, surrounded by a walled courtyard big enough to land a Corsair in. The wall's got a weapons turret at each corner, controlled either from inside or from the main building."
"If the quizlers put them there you might as well pack up and leave," Dael Valentine interjected, his face stormy above his black turtleneck. "In fact, maybe you ought to leave anyway."
"Easy, Dael," Bakshi murmured.
"Sorry, Comsquare, but I'm getting sick of this. We give them safety and information by the truckload and get absolutely nothing in return."
Bakshi cocked an eyebrow at Lathe. "You care to respond?"
"Certainly. If you'd open your eyes and imagination you'd see useful fallout from our work all around you."
"What fallout?" Valentine snorted.
"Well, for lack of a more obvious example, we just demolished a gate into the Strip. Someone's got to rebuild it, and one or two of those someones could build miniature mines into the hinges. You'd then have a one-shot chance later to bring a carload of stolen parts or whatever out of the Strip without having to actually ram the gate."
From the looks and murmurs around the table it was clear no one had thought of that. Tremayne and Bakshi exchanged glances, and Caine saw the blackcollar nod fractionally.
"Do you promise to consult with us—or at least me—before any further actions?" Tremayne asked.
"If it involves Radix personnel, yes," Lathe said promptly. "Assuming there's time, of course. Otherwise, I claim the right to act unilaterally."
"That's not good enough," Valentine shook his head.
Lathe shrugged. "It's the best I can offer."
There was a moment of awkward silence. "All right," Tremayne said at last. "I guess I can see your side of it. But—" He leveled a finger at Lathe. "We can play by military rules too. If any Radix member gets killed because you didn't consult with us you'll face a summary court-martial. I mean it."
"Understood. You'll let us know right away about any prisoner transfer?"
Tremayne looked at Cameron. "Yeah, I'll get some people on that," the intelligence chief growled.
"Good. Anything new at the Chryselli front?"
"The fighting's still going on," Salli Quinlan spoke up, somewhat grudgingly. "Argent's not about to be flooded with returning Ryqril, if that's what you're worried about."
"I was," Lathe acknowledged. "Thank you." He started to stand up.
"Just a second," Valentine objected. "Assuming it's not tied up with this precious mission of yours, I want to know how Caine did his vanishing act from Earth." He sent Caine a baleful glance. "Fair is fair—you don't trust us, either."
"A government man was kidnapped by our people," Caine said evenly. "His ID was altered, and somehow the computer records were also changed."
" 'Somehow'? You'll have to do better than that."
"I don't know how it was done—"
"Oh, that's helpful. Very convenient, too."
Caine felt his face getting red. "I'm an agent, not one of the leaders. They don't tell me everything."
"That's no better an explanation," Cameron said, getting into the act.
"Just a minute," Lathe interrupted. "I think I may know how they did it." He hesitated, not meeting Caine's puzzled frown.
"Well?" Tremayne prompted.
"Near the end of the war someone apparently broke the old problem of short lifetimes for human clones...."