"Here, take a swig," John said, handing him the bottle. "Settle yourself down, there." He leaned in close and patted the man's shoulder. "We are friends, right?
Right, buddy?"
" Si, friends. The best of friends." Victor nodded frantically, then took another slug.
John tapped the blade of his knife against his palm.
"Now, from what you've told me, I'd have to say that ol' Dieter sounds like a terrorist. Do you know?" He lifted an eyebrow.
"No," Victor said almost scornfully, relaxing marginally. "He's too stable and too well funded for that. I always figured he was working for somebody's government. Maybe even ours, eh?" He slapped John on the arm and winked.
"Who can say?"
"Uh-hunh. Certainly not me." John held the knife up and examined its edge, running his thumb lightly down the blade, then grinning as he sucked the blood from the small cut. "So what business are you doing with him now? Guns or information?"
Griego swallowed, watching John's eyes.
That's right you little piglet, Connor thought. Think before you speak. Think very carefully, because, as much as I wish I didn't, I meant every word I said.
"He wants me to identify someone he thinks might be your mother," Victor confessed.
John lowered the knife.
"I appreciate your being honest with me, Victor." He sat beside the gunrunner.
"Let me make your decision easy for you. If you identify my mother as Sarah Connor, I'll kill you. Not all at once, mind you, but a little bit at a time. Like the first time I get you I'll cut off your feet, to make it easy for me to get you the next time. Then I'll maybe cut off all your fingers, and then we'll work our way
up to even more important things."
He paused to watch Griego's reaction. "I think you know that the police won't be very interested in helping you," he cautioned. "Even if you bribe them. They just don't like you, you know? Must be all those weapons you've sold to people who like to shoot cops."
"You wouldn't," Victor said through stiff lips. "That's crazy."
"Like mother, like son," John said cheerfully. "I assure you, however I do it, you'll be dead. So it's not worth it, is it? Besides, there's that arms cache waiting for you. So, is it a deal or what?"
Griego looked uncertain.
"Are you afraid of Dieter?" John asked.
"Some; he's a big man, and he has money." Victor frowned. "I don't know what he'll do."
"What did he say to you when he asked you to identify her?"
"Actually"—Griego brightened—"he said he didn't think the woman I was to identify was Sarah Connor."
"Excellent!" John waved an expansive arm. "So, you tell him what he wants to hear, he'll pay you, we'll pay you, everybody's happy, right?"
"Right."
John rose. "I'll be on my way now," he said. "You'd better tell them you cut yourself shaving, huh?" He shook Griego's hand once, firmly. "Good seeing you again, buddy. You can keep the bottle." Then he turned and disappeared into the head-high brush, moving with a jaguar's casual precision.
Cradling the bottle to his chest, his eyes wide, Victor watched the place where the boy had disappeared. He felt a dull anger toward everyone involved in this.
The agent who'd dragged him here without letting him pack so much as a clean pair of underwear; von Rossbach, who treated him like a bug; and the knife-wielding boy who'd just humiliated him.
He'd find a way to make them all sorry. The force behind the thought diminished as he thought it, until the anger was all but dead. Victor sighed, looked down at the bottle as though it was his only friend, then took a swig. Might as well get drunk. That he could do.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS, CONFERENCE
ROOM: THE PRESENT
I can't help but notice that you passed over some more qualified applicants for the position of assistant, Ms. Burns." Tricker looked at Serena over the top of a folder he had opened. "Usually," he added wryly, "that's not the way it's done."
Tricker had finally come back from whatever untraceable location he'd disappeared to—apparently for the sole purpose of calling a meeting to complain about her decisions. This time it was on her territory, though. The cool recycled air of the underground installation and the subliminal scent of concrete and
feeling of weight were obscurely comforting, on a level she could barely perceive of as conscious.
They felt like home.
"Mr. Dyson is certainly qualified for the position," she said mildly, a gentle smile playing on her lips.
This outrage is all fake, she thought, qualifications and experience are the least of Tricker's concerns. When's he going to admit that?
"He's Miles Dyson's brother. You did know that?" Tricker looked at her in only partially suppressed disgust. His cold blue eyes were wide open and full of condemnation.
Well, that answers that question. As a rule, Tricker's type couldn't resist getting to the point. Serena swung her chair back and forth slightly, returning his glare with a look that might almost be pity.
She shifted position to put her elbows on the conference table and lean towards him. "Jordan Dyson has worked very hard to uncover the whereabouts of the Connors and their accomplice. Long after the FBI moved the case to the bottom of the pile he has continued to search for them. He's received several reprimands about it." She sat back, propping her elbow on the armrest and her chin on her fist. "I happen to be of the opinion that Jordan Dyson represents no danger to the company, and I believe that his dedication will be very useful. Especially since I regard the Connors as a significant risk to this company."
"You two discussed all that?" Tricker asked.
Colvin and Warren were silent, their heads shifting back and forth like spectators at a tennis match.
Serena waved a dismissive hand. "Of course not," she said. "We didn't even discuss his brother, or the bombing. For me there was no need." Serena shrugged. "And for reasons of his own he chose not to bring it up. I knew I wanted him the minute I read his resume so why ask questions to which I already knew the answers?"
"Some people might consider that, under the circumstances, Dyson's employment here represents a conflict of interest." Tricker raised his brows.
"Of course it isn't." Serena actually allowed herself a very small sneer. "He's going to be involved in the private security of a privately owned company," she pointed out. "If anything, his personal interest is a bonus for the company." How many times do I have to point that out before it takes?
Tricker hated to admit it, but the woman was right. And really there wasn't anything wrong with Dyson. He was a good agent by all reports, intelligent, professional, dedicated. His superiors' only complaints had been his insistence on working on his brother's case. Which even in their citations they considered understandable. Their primary reason for discouraging him was to avoid risking their case by any taint of self-interest.
Tricker still had some vague, instinctive unease about Serena Burns, which prompted him to continue to question and test her. Maybe it was because she was just too perfect; beautiful, intelligent, competent, professional—and completely unreadable. Too much like himself, in fact.
Well, except for the beautiful part. Someone had once told him that if you starved a rottweiler and gave it a receding hairline, it would look like him on all fours. A woman had told him that, in fact.
He glanced at Colvin and Warren, whose eyes were on him, their faces expectant. He let out a disgusted little, "Tssss," and looked away. "All right," he said after a minute. It was a full minute; he counted it out. "So far, everything else you've done is exactly what I would have recommended."