The thought froze in place. The bus was pulling away from the building, its welcoming committee heading back inside... but no one else was with them.
An empty bus? was his first, hopeful guess... but he didn't believe it for even a moment. The vehicle was speeding up now, heading further into the city... and deep within him, Cerenkov knew Moff and Justin were aboard it. Something had gone wrong. Badly enough wrong that the prisoners were being split up, apparently on the spur of the moment.
And Cerenkov and Rynstadt were in their own private hole. A very deep private hole.
Slowly, he turned away from the window. "Well?" Rynstadt demanded.
"False alarm," Cerenkov murmured. "It wasn't them."
Justin watched the tall building disappear from view through the window as the bus picked up speed, muscles tight with adrenaline and the sinking certainty that the game was, in one sense or another, over. Moff could pretend all he liked that they'd stopped only for information from Sollas; but Justin had been watching the driver as Moff consulted with the men from the building, and it was clear that he'd been taken by surprise by the order to move on. Almost certainly
Cerenkov and Rynstadt were somewhere in that structure behind them. Moff's studied casualness merely underscored the fact that they wanted Justin to attach no special significance to the place.
So they knew. The films had been seen, word had been flashed south from Sollas, and Moff was taking him somewhere high-security for a long talk and probably some careful study as well. Justin had to act fast, to kill or disable everyone aboard and escape before the Qasamans figured out exactly what to do with him.
He had his omnidirectional sonic tuned to the optimum human stun frequency and was on the verge of triggering it when a sudden, sobering thought struck him.
No matter how he did this, it was going to be obvious to whoever examined the bus afterwards that the attack had come from inside the vehicle. From inside... from a man who'd already been searched and stripped of anything that could possibly be a weapon.
A cold sweat broke out on Justin's forehead. What would the Qasamans make of such a conclusion? Could they possibly deduce the truth?-or even get close enough as made no difference? The question had little relevance to the immediate situation, of course-the Dewdrop would hopefully be long gone by the time the local experts began sifting through the debris. But if the Council decided to take on the Trofts' mercenary job here, such forewarning could give Qasama an edge against the arriving Cobras.
But what were his options? Shoot up the bus thoroughly from the outside after escaping, hoping he could do a convincing enough job of it? Or wait until he was taken some place where the existence of an armed infiltrator would at least be possible? Or even probable-Pyre was out here somewhere, and he clearly hadn't taken out the other prison buiding. Perhaps he'd arrived late at the crossroads and was even now tailing Justin's bus.
Moff was saying something. Justin turned to look at him as the old man translated: "At least I now understand your changed attitude when you emerged from your ship."
For a second Justin considered playing dumb, decided it wasn't worth the effort.
"That three-minute limit was the key," he said calmly. "Any longer than that and we might have picked up on what those cylinders really were."
Moff nodded at the translation. "Our experts felt two and a half minutes safer, but I didn't want to have to take you close enough for that limit to seem reasonable. I didn't know then that your people were still monitoring you and wouldn't misunderstand our approach." His eyes bored into Justin's face. "We are very interested in your conversation with your double."
"I'll just bet you are," Justin said.
"I should also tell you that some in authority feel you are an as-yet unknown danger and should be eliminated quickly."
Abruptly, Justin realized that half of the eight Qasaman guards had their pistols drawn, two of them going so far as to point them in the Cobra's direction. "And how do you feel?" he asked Moff carefully.
For a long moment the other studied him. The mojo on his shoulder, sensing perhaps the general tension level, twitched its wings nervously. "I agree that you are dangerous," Moff said at last through the old man. "It is perhaps foolish to keep you alive in hopes of learning your secrets. But unless we discover your intentions toward us we cannot know how to properly defend ourselves. You will therefore be taken to a place where you may be properly questioned."
"And then be eliminated?"
Moff didn't reply... but the conversation had already made up Justin's mind.
Qasama was already tacitly assuming a war was likely, and to give them anything he didn't absolutely have to would be a betrayal of those who'd come after him.
Besides which, it might be interesting to see what sort of place they'd consider safe enough to hold an unknown threat. And besides that...
He caught Moff's eye again. "Just out of curiosity, how did you come to the conclusion that we were spying on you?"
Moff pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then, with a slight shrug, he began to speak.
"Your double correctly interpreted a sign in the village of Huriseem this morning," the translator said. "It showed that, despite our efforts, you still had a visual connection with your ship. A device you had not told us about, and which was clearly designed to be undetectable."
Justin frowned. "That was all you had?"
"It was enough to justify questioning you. York's similarly undetectable weapon-and his use of it-proved our guess was correct."
"You were the one who picked up on our hidden camera, I suppose?"
Moff nodded once, a simple gesture that admitted the fact without the trappings of pride or false modesty. Justin nodded in return and settled down to wait, the last piece of his rationalization complete. He had no desire to kill any more people than absolutely necessary when he made his break, and leaving someone with Moff's observational skills behind as witness would be a poor idea. No, he would wait until they reached their destination and Pyre had made his appearance. Together, the two Cobras would leave the Qasamans wondering for a long time just how the escape had been managed.
So he settled back in his seat and tried to keep track of the bus's path through the wide streets of Purma. And thought about his father's stories of his own war.
The strip of clear land that would, farther north, open up to become the airfield was barely sixty meters wide here at Sollas's southwest edge; but Pyre found little comfort in that fact as he raced across it toward the darkened building that was his target. None of the structures at the city's edge seemed to be showing many lights-another concession to the wandering bololins, perhaps?-but he felt as if a thousand pairs of eyes were watching him the whole way. Two thousand eyes, one thousand guns....
But he reached the building without challenge, and for a minute he stood in relative shadow considering his next move. The four-story structure beside him was made of brick, and in the weeks before the mission the First Cobras had taught him how to scale such things. Once on top, he could theoretically leap from rooftop to rooftop until he reached the more open areas near the airfield.
Pyre looked up the flat side of the building, grimacing. Theoretically. Most of the streets in his path were the wider bololin-speedway type, and while jumping one of them would be reasonably within his servos' range, he wasn't at all sure he wanted to try it a dozen or more times.