“We don’t know,” Yanni muttered, “how much of this the opposition intends we get. I don’t entirely trust the transmission.”
Frank nodded agreement. They were both short of sleep. There was constant harassment, maneuvering of agents around the building, communications that came and went. They hadn’t heard from Lynch, and were supposed to have heard; at the moment Yanni didn’t know whether he was still Proxy Councillor or Councillor for Science, whether Lynch was still alive or as dead as Spurlin and probably Jacques and probably Lao by now, give or take the mechanical support that reportedly sustained her.
They’d done all they could. They’d sent messages. Bogdanovitch, son of the late Councillor for State, and Proxy for the current one, Harad, had headed upriver by air. Then Harad himself had gone, or was supposed to have gone a few hours ago, last but him and Corain, holed up here in the hotel; young Bogdanovitch carried Corain’s Proxy as well–illegal, but Bogdanovitch didn’t need to show both, they hoped to God, just one of them. The document was signed. The name had yet to be filled in. Could be anybody. Corain’s wife. One of his kids. And they hoped not to get to that.
A pass by the window showed a sheet of water, nothing of the watchers at the curb. Tempting. Too tempting.
Easy to assume they could make a break for it. He hoped Harad had made it. He’d wanted to get Lynch on a plane sometime today, let him get to Reseune, because–never mind that Lynch hadn’t voted in the office for years–the point was that Lynch couldvote, if he got to the rest of the Council…and if Lynch just quietly disappeared, and dropped off the face of the planet, the Proxy for Science couldn’t name another proxy. It didn’t actually say he couldn’t. But there was that pernicious clause… and other powers not specifically named are reserved to the Council in special quorum.
Which was what it took to seat a new member, too. Eight of the Nine.
Now therewas a gaping great logical defect in a fairly new constitution, wasn’t it? The founders had been optimists.
So the meeting was supposed to happen on September 12. But the; hours were fast slipping away in which they could still do something–faster still, if Khalid had dared fire a missile at Reseune Airport. Planes weren’t that safe. Boats on the river wouldn’t be, if the renegade Proxy Councillor for Defense had given orders to prevent them moving…not to mention it was a long river with lonely spots where nobody observed what happened. Barge traffic was still snarled, with all its concomitant problems, but it was starting to move. A number of enterprising citizens had gotten together and cleared a warehouse by taking foodstuffs and distributing them to all comers; so there was room to offload an incoming barge or two, barges had gone out yesterday; but things were getting increasingly desperate in the city, and the mayor was ordering the police to take action to get dockworkers to the docks, failing which he threatened to hire any applicant to take the jobs.
That wasn’t going to be popular with the dockworkers.
Fact was, a city could only take so much disorder before things began to break; and patience was the first thing to go.
A rap came at his door. Frank got up from the chair, and drew a gun that was very rarely in evidence. Yanni went to the door, flicked on the outside vid, and opened it fast. It was Amy Carnath and Quentin behind her.
“Ser,” the girl said, “Quentin thinks we should move. They’re not out there.”
“Trap,” Frank said.
“When is it going to be better?” Amy asked, which was a good question, in Yanni’s estimation. “We go over to the hotel behind us. Frank and Quentin get the cars, and two other cars go out front, while they go around the block, and we go straight over the bridge; and then we all just go hard as we can for the airport.”
“Planes aren’t safe,” Yanni said. “They’re shooting missiles lately.”
“Boats are slower,” she said. She was a gawky kid. She’d begun to grow into the lanky, large‑eyed height; but at the moment she looked her youth, scared, but willing to try any damned thing, possibly because she didn’t adequately imagine failing. “Quentin and I will do it; we’ll get the car to the front, if you and Frank can get Councillor Corain to the curb.”
“Hell,” he said. “I’ve got files to wipe. I’m not ready for this.”
“She has a point.” Frank said suddenly. “Make a feint toward State. Two cars that way. Two more toward Lynch. One car gets us all to the airport.”
“We only have four cars,” Yanni said. “And the hotel bus.”
“Wouldn’t use it at the moment,” Frank said. “Or the cars they know. We take the executive car from the next building’s garage. Safer.”
“You’re agreeing with this,” Yanni said.
“The missile strike,” Frank said, “argues they’re fast losing their inhibitions. They’re feeling omnipotent–that, or something’s made them desperate.”
Yanni cast a glance at the Carnath girl, said, “Stand there,” and went to the bedroom and threw on what he’d been wearing, casuals, two tees under a sweater. His coat was going to be no protection against the chill. When the weather got like this upriver, they headed for the storm tunnels. To do what they proposed to do, they’d have to hold their breath and make a dash for it through open space in the alley, trusting the downpour to wash noxious life down the gutters, this far in among city towers, building connected to building by overhangs spanning some of the alley, but it was sloppy and cold out there.
He came back to the main room and started putting on the coat. “Frank, what do we do?”
“Five minutes for me to brief Jack and Carl, you get Corain out of bed, and get downstairs.”
“Got it,” he said.
“Quentin, you take the south stairs. Meet you at the back door.”
“Yes, ser,” Quentin said.
“Then go.” Frank said, and it was just that fast. They were into it. Launched. Yanni looked at his watch, then walked over, picked up the briefcase, and laid a hand on young Amy’s shoulder.
“Here,” he said to her, getting her attention. “ Youtake the official briefcase.”
He had a gun in his own jacket pocket, courtesy of ReseuneSec. He didn’t plan to use it; he never in his life planned to draw it, but he made sure it was there, all the same.
He heard a quiet flurry exiting the room adjacent, where ReseuneSec was camped. Whatever orders Frank had given them, they were moving.
Three minutes. Frank and Quentin would be heading for the stairs.
Two minutes.
One. Their guards had left, somewhere. There wasn’t a sound, anywhere near.
“You stay with me,” he told Amy and waited the precise last seconds before he opened the door.
They headed out, then. Himself and the kid, out to rouse out Mikhail Corain, if their security moving into position hadn’t triggered Armageddon.
It hadn’t. At least that.
They made it down to Corain’s door, rapped softly, then louder, and there was a soft stir inside. Yanni stood against the door, trying to look casual.
“Mikhail.” he said. “Mikhail, it’s Yanni. Open up.”
Corain opened the door. Had on only underwear and the shirt he’d slept in. His hair stood on end. He turned an appalled look at young Carnath, and started to excuse himself.
“We’re going,” Yanni said, catching Corain’s arm. “Get dressed. Now.”
Corain just nodded, looked anxiously at Amy Carnath, then grabbed his pants off the fat armchair and pulled them on. “Shoes,” he said, searching.
“Here,” Amy said, and he found them and grabbed his coat. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing else but the coat.
Down the hall, then, over blue, figured carpet, to the emergency stairs, the same Frank would have used. Hadn’t moved this fast–
Hadn’t moved this fast, Yanni thought uneasily, since the day Ari had died. Since he’d gotten the advisement, and he’d known every plan he and Ari had ever made was upended, thrown into jeopardy.
Everything since, he’d improvised. Like this, like their escape. Granted they made it.
There was a man unconscious, at the bottom of the landing. He might be dead. He wasn’t hotel staff. He wasn’t theirs. He was wearing a rain‑spattered coat.