“Think about it,” Turnbull said. “They follow us from David’s but they don’t grab us. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“They want something else more than they want us.”
“The hard drive?”
“Has to be.”
“They must know we don’t have it.”
“They must know we don’t have it yet.”
“If they know about the damn hard drive and about us then they know what we’re after here. It’s gotta be somebody in David’s group.”
“That Jacob guy.”
“Yeah, the guy who told us where to find Amanda.”
“Oh shit,” said Junior. “We gotta warn David.”
“No, they’ll be listening for that. We try to call him and they’ll know their plan is blown. They’ll bust right in, grab David and try to beat out of him where the hard drive is.”
“So what do we do here? They gotta be watching Amanda for when we show up to get her.”
“Yeah,” said Turnbull. “That’s how they reacquire us. They watch her until we come and get her, and then we lead them to the hard drive.”
“And then they take us.”
“Yeah,” said Turnbull. “But that leaves a question about Amanda unanswered. Now, they have to know that we can’t really drag her kicking and screaming out of a crowded campus if she doesn’t want to come. So either she knows what’s up and pretends to go with us willingly, or they haven’t told her shit because they think she’ll go with us willingly.”
“Told you she would come with us,” said Junior proudly.
“Yeah, unless she’s setting us up.”
“That wouldn’t happen.”
“She is the head gestapo guy’s girlfriend. You need to be ready for the possibility she’ll sell you out as quickly as she would me.”
“Not her.”
“I hope you’re right. But it’s pretty clear we can’t approach her here.”
“So what do we do?”
“We get her somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere where there aren’t 30,000 people around. Come on, let’s head back to that administration building we passed.”
They made their way back the way they came, which rubbed Turnbull the wrong way. He dealt with it, and surreptitiously scanned in front of them, behind them, and to their sides trying to spot surveillance, keeping his head down just enough not to draw suspicion but to frustrate any cameras peering at them.
Nothing.
The guy on the box was gone. His space was taken by three salty looking women with a sign calling themselves “Shriek Your Abortion!” Which was precisely what they were doing, loudly, shrilly, and in great, graphic detail. Apparently, abortion being legal and subsidized was not enough – everyone also had to hear all about it. But as loud as they were, not a student paused as they passed; the women were simply more human wallpaper, the background noise of the blue America university experience.
The administrative building’s main entrance led to a waiting room with no exit, just a bank of mostly unoccupied service windows and long lines in front of the two that were open. They scooted around the perimeter looking for another way in. On the north side, out of sight of the main walkway, they stumbled upon a blue shirt walking out of an “AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY” door. Turnbull caught it as it shut. The worker stared blankly for a moment at the suit-clad man before her, shrugged, and walked away. Not her problem. Turnbull and Junior slipped inside.
It was quiet in the building. They moved down the hallway, trying to radiate the impression that they belonged there. Most of the personnel were blue shirts; none dared question the suited men. Some senior administrators passed by, and they too declined to engage.
The first floor contained no likely offices, so they went up the stairs to the second floor. More blue shirts hustled by pushing carts full of papers – apparently it was not a paperless office, something that struck Junior as exceedingly odd. You barely saw paper back home.
“DATA SERVICES” read a sign on a door, and they went in. The room was rather large, with a dozen cubicles each manned by a blue-shirted worker typing away on a desktop computer. They walked to the very last cubicle, where a young blue shirt sat alone pecking at his keyboard. Looking over his shoulder at the screen, Turnbull satisfied himself that he could figure it out.
Sensing them looming above him and seeing their unsmiling faces, he stopped, clearly concerned. Turnbull knelt down.
“Yes?” the worker asked, his voice unsteady.
“Hi,” Turnbull said. “You have access to student records?”
The young man nodded. Turnbull read his name tag.
“Obviously, you’re logged in, right Leon?”
Another nod.
“Okay, you need to take a piss.”
The young man appeared puzzled but said nothing.
“Leon, you are going to stand up in a moment and go take a piss. When you come back, we’ll be gone – forever – and you’ll completely forget about us. Plus there’ll be a thousand dollars under the keyboard. Okay?”
The man sat still; Turnbull could see on his face that he was working this unexpected development through in his mind.
“Now, it can go that way, in which you end up with a thousand dollars, or it can end up in another way which you don’t even want to think about. So,” asked Turnbull. “Do you need to take a piss or not, Leon?”
Leon swallowed, but after a moment’s hesitation, the blue shirt stood up and wordlessly walked off toward the door. Turnbull nodded at Junior, who followed and planted himself outside the door as security in case Leon decided to narc them out.
Turnbull planted himself on Leon’s seat and went to the student personal information menu. When the query window came up, he typed in “Ryan, Amanda,” and hit return.
With time to kill, they decided to eat. Their walk off campus back into Westwood Village was uneventful. Turnbull amused himself by figuring out where he would place ambushes to bushwhack the numerous uniformed PBI patrols that ensured this island of prosperity was well-insulated from the turmoil outside the walls.
They chose to eat at what had been a Mexican place and was now denominated “Respectful Latinx Cuisine.” Turnbull vaguely remembered the name had been “Pedro’s,” but that name was long gone. Instead, it was now simply “Restaurant,” as were most of the other eating places around town.
The place was bustling, and there were actually menus, menus that even provided choices. The prices were high – a plate of tacos was $520 – but Turnbull noted that there was no reference to ration cards. Apparently that was yet another rule that did not apply inside the sector.
They waited a few minutes to be seated. Besides businessmen and women, there were a good number of students, half looking freshly pressed and the other half looking fresh from the hamper. Many wore light blue and yellow UCLA sweatshirts or hoodies, all with the circle mascot. Blue shirts hustled between tables, carrying trays, taking orders.
They were seated at a two-top by a street front window near a table of sour-looking male and female students, one of whom wore a “Class of ‘34” t-shirt. The students were complaining about their classes and the oppression of homework. Turnbull tuned them out and looked at the menu.
“Tacos,” he said.
“You think they’ll be any good?” asked Junior.
“Mexican food in California went downhill fast when the Mexicans quit coming,” Turnbull replied quietly. “I assume if Mexico hadn’t built the wall with the reparations money the PR gave them, Mexico might have some good American food by now, thanks to our emigrants.”