"Bet you Indra will know someone," Michael said. "She seems to know everyone. Let's just hope she does."
When they got to the hotel, Serrin took off his filthy jacket and handed it to the Englishman before he and Tom went in.
While he waited, Michael shook the sleeping girl. "Wake up, Kristen. This is important."
"What? Where are we now?" she said sleepily. He
went on shaking her, ignoring the protest from his bad arm.
"Listen carefully to me. I have a proposition for you."
"Let's pray the Dutch Reformed Evangelical Church is good enough," Michael said as they staggered out onto the runway in Manhattan's late dawn.
The last eight hours had been a blur. It had been so long since they'd had a good night's sleep that they hardly knew what day it was. Later, the frantic phone calls, the paperwork, the endless wait at the airport, the bizarre scene hurried through almost under the noses of immigration, getting their photos lacquered onto the cards, the restlessness of the suborbital flight.
"God, that plastic had better get us through here." Michael took a deep breath and put his arm around Kristen, the pair of them heading for immigration just ahead of Serrin and Tom. The bored official took one look at Michael's ID and ushered him away into a side room.
Michael had thought the only way to be sure about getting Kristen back into New York was to use his real, genuine, documents. His ID would be scrutinized too closely for him to risk a fake, no matter how good it was. Now he had to sweat for twenty minutes before the official even arrived to speak with him.
"So you married a distant cousin, huh?" the man said, not looking at the Englishman, holding the identity card as if it might communicate leprosy if kept too long. "George, put this drek through the analyzers. And his passport. Hit them with everything we've got.
"You don't sound much like an American to me," the inspector said flatly, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at Michael.
"Dual citizenship, my friend. Qualified two years ago. It's absolutely kosher." Shattered with fatigue, Michael held on to the optimistic thought that they were checking him, and the card, and not Kristen's ID. At least, so he hoped.
The man just grunted and waited. It was another fifteen agonizing minutes of silence before George, the other interrogator, returned. He handed Michael's passport and the car to his superior.
"It checks out. Visual ID on the girl; that's her. It's all in order," he said.
"Fine. Now work the girl over," the first man said nastily.
"Please," Michael said desperately, "I want to get my wife home. We're distant cousins and our families are very close. I'm an American citizen. I've been traveling a long way and I want to get home. Also, maybe you noticed that one of my traveling companions is Mr. Serrin Shamandar. Maybe you've heard about him saving the mayor's life down at Columbia the other day. We've been waiting more than half an hour while you checked on all this, and now you tell me you're going to keep us even longer. I'm sorry, officer, but I must demand the opportunity to put a call through to the mayor's office. And might I also have your name?"
The man looked at him with utter hatred.
"It's true about Shamandar," George muttered. "The elf came in right behind him. I recognized him."
Michael could have kissed the man for that, though George's superior looked more like he wanted to kill him. "Okay, Mister Sutherland, I suppose you can go now."
Michael walked out of the room with his heart hammering in his throat, then grabbed the hand of Kristen, who'd been kept waiting outside. In the distance, they saw a troll sitting with his fourth cup of coffee and an elf with far too many cigarette butts in the ashtray beside him.
The little group staggered wearily out of the terminal and found a taxi. As Michael gave another driver another set of instructions, he felt dissociated, as if his own voice were a robot croaking through its voxsynth.
"Home. Crikey, I never wanted to be back so bad," he muttered to no one in particular. He glanced over at Serrin as if trying to focus his eyes.
"I guess I should say thanks," Serrin said. "Hell, no, I do say thanks. You're full of surprises, you know."
Michael sat back and fixed the elf with a glacial stare. Then, in a perfectly pompous, truculent English accent, he said, "I say, old boy. Get your hands off my wife."
23
Niall had always known that, one day, he'd be glad for his flying lessons. The Fiat-Fokker Cloud Nine amphibian had sat disguised for months, looked after by one of the handful of people the elf could trust. Upon arriving early that morning, he recognized the man through the heavy mist.
"Thank you, Patrick," Niall said wearily. "You have watched here awhile. You can go as you will now. You'll be looked after, though."
"Take care with you. I know what is at stake. That is, I know something," the man said quietly. "I know what the wrongness is. I don't understand why it is being allowed to happen."
"I cannot tell you that," Niall said sadly. The man had waited and watched for him all these many long weeks and months, not knowing just why. "If you knew, they would kill you. If I told you more, it would be like putting a knife through your heart here and now."
"Well, then, that is an end to it," the man said without any rancor. "You had best be moving. It will be fair spucketing soon enough."
Niall smiled and shook the hand of his helper. Then the man faded away into the mist and the elf made for the wharf on the shoreline.
He knew at just what height to fly, virtually skimming the surface of the gray Atlantic, to keep from encountering the Veil, the magical barrier of illusion protecting the Irish coast of Tir na n6g. The illusions didn't trouble him, but the possibility of detection did. Though he knew the coordinates where fluctuations were most likely, he would never get through undetected unless he drew on the power of the cauldron which he also needed to conserve for the confrontation with Lutair. But I'll never get anywhere near him if I don't get through the Veil, he thought. Summoning as little of the vessel's power as he thought he could risk, he headed for the barrier and onward, across the tip of southwestern Britain and on to Brittany.
Serrin finally woke up at ten that night, after nearly sixteen hours' sleep from which an earthquake wouldn't have roused him. He felt ghastly. His bad leg throbbed like a jackhammer and his head seemed to be throbbing in time with it. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then began to cough long and hard, spitting into a handkerchief. One day, he thought, I really am going to give those damned things up.
He had to shield his eyes against the lights in Michael's workroom, dimmed though they were. Sitting with fingers poised above his keyboard, the Englishman was immaculate again in a double-breasted blazer, cavalry twill pants, and Italian leather loafers. The cord from the Fuchi was slotted into the silver of his datajack, making Michael oblivious to anything but the electronic reality of the Matrix. Tom was sitting nearby with Kristen standing behind him, braiding the troll's freshly washed, lustrous black hair. Having never seen Tom's hair loose, Serrin was astonished that it fell almost to the small of the troll's back. He was still gazing in wonderment at the sight when the printer on the desk next to Michael disgorged a scrap of paper. Serrin ripped it off and read it.
Don't forget the lovely Julia, it read.
Confused, certain that Michael couldn't be registering his presence, Serrin's thoughts were interrupted by another printed message churning forth.
There's an 1R security monitor in your room, dummy. It was programmed to print these messages out through a printer relay when you opened the door after waking up. Now go and see your lady reporter friend.
"What time is it?" Serrin asked. "Hell, what day is it?"