“We’re staying at the Ridley Hotel,” Puzo informed him. “It’s on the corner of 14th and Lincoln.”
The cabbie nodded obediently as he guided the car up 17th toward the home of the Colorado legislature.
It was a relatively short drive, but there was enough time for Susan to catch a glimpse of busy sidewalks filled with men in uniform, shabby-looking civilians, and brightly decorated shop windows. But no amount of red, gold, and green could win the war, and the sight of it left Susan feeling sad.
The Ridley was a popular hotel that was set up to meet the needs of state legislators and the lobbyists who besieged them. It was also a favorite with traveling businessmen who were fond of the hotel’s masculine decor, high-ceilinged rooms, and spacious Buffalo Bar.
As the cab pulled in under the Ridley’s elaborate portico, two bellhops, both attired in pillbox hats, burgundy jackets, and gray slacks, hurried out to remove the suitcases and haul them inside. A large fireplace dominated one end of the enormous lobby. It was surrounded by groupings of furniture—the emphasis being on leather chairs, brass lamps, and large side tables. They were littered with cast-off newspapers, empty coffee cups, and half-filled ashtrays.
The reception desk was located at the far end of the room. It was made of highly polished dark wood. Etched-glass panels separated each of the three well-groomed receptionists and Puzo chose to approach the one in the middle.
“Good morning,” he said breezily. “You should have two reservations… One for my daughter, Mary—and the other for me. My name is Perkins. Horace Perkins.”
The receptionist was a middle-aged man dressed in a black three-piece suit. He had the manner of an undertaker as he ran a narrow finger down the ledger in front of him.
“Welcome to the Ridley, Mr. Perkins… Ah, yes, here we are. Two interconnecting rooms on the third floor. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is,” Puzo confirmed. “I can’t stand people walking around over my head. Your elevators are in good working order, I trust?”
“They are,” the clerk answered gravely, as if anything else would be unthinkable. “If you and your daughter would be so kind as to sign these registration cards, I’ll have one of the bellmen escort you to your rooms.”
Then, as if to signal the end of the conversation, the receptionist brought his hand down on a button which rang a small bell. Susan was still in the process of signing her fake name when a burgundy-clad bellman arrived to load their luggage onto a cart.
Ten minutes later the bellman was gone and Susan was in her nicely appointed room, looking out through one of two tall windows as Puzo entered through the connecting door. “So,” he said, coming to stand next to her. “What do you think?”
She was silent for a moment as she looked out onto the wintry scene. The capitol was off to her right. It was an impressive structure of Colorado white granite. Topped by a round tower, it had a bell-shaped dome, reportedly made out of real gold. Ironically enough, it was intentionally reminiscent of the United States Capitol, which the Grace administration had been forced to flee.
Occasional flurries of snow made it difficult to see clearly but the range was reasonable, just as she had been told. “I can do it,” she said simply.
“Good,” Puzo replied. “Would you like some lunch? The Ridley has a good restaurant. Or so I hear.”
Susan felt slightly nauseous, and had ever since leaving Montana, so she shook her head. “No. Thank you. I’ll take a walk instead.”
Puzo shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let’s meet here at two P.M. We have lots of prep work to do.”
Susan nodded, but didn’t turn to look as Puzo left the room. She waited for the door to close, let her breath out, and was surprised to learn that she’d been holding it in. Then, standing on tiptoes, she reached up to turn the window latch sideways and free it from the catch. With that accomplished she bent over, took hold of both handles, and lifted.
Much to her relief the window rose smoothly, allowing a blast of cold air to enter the room. Susan stood there for a moment as the incoming breeze caused the curtains to billow, and directed her gaze to a point roughly a thousand yards away. That was where a crew of men were hard at work constructing a wooden platform. And that was the spot to which her future was irrevocably linked.
After many months of testing and inoculations Hale had come to detest hospitals. But after Operation Iron Fist, and the mission into Hot Springs, South Dakota, he felt an obligation to visit Dr. Linda Barrie to see how the scientist was doing. So having accompanied Cassie to the Denver Federal Center, Hale pried Barrie’s room number out of the woman on the hospital’s front desk, and went up to see her.
Thanks to her rank, Barrie had a room to herself. She said “Come in” when Hale knocked on the partially opened door. Her face was still a bit pale, but just as pretty as before, and seemed to brighten at the sight of him. She was out of bed, but sitting in a chair, and made no attempt to rise.
“Nathan!” she exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“You look good,” Hale said awkwardly as he placed a small Christmas tree on a table. It had miniature ornaments and had been purchased in the gift shop downstairs. “Everybody says you’re doing well, too.”
What followed was an awkward conversation for the most part, since the operation that brought them together was over, and they didn’t have much to talk about. So the visit didn’t last long.
But as he got ready to go, Barrie motioned for him to come closer. Once Hale was close enough to touch she reached up to pull his head down. Their eyes were only inches apart when she spoke. “Thank you, Lieutenant Hale. Thank you for what you did for Anton, thank you for saving my life, and thank you for serving our country.” And then she kissed him on the cheek.
Hale mumbled something incoherent, fled the room for the hall, and felt glad to escape the hospital. The interaction with Barrie had left him feeling confused. Fortunately Hale had work to do, and was already thinking about it, as he followed a recently shoveled sidewalk out to the parking lot.
The LU-P Lynx Hale had been given to drive was just like the combat model he was used to except the machine gun was missing and a fabric roof had been fitted over the roll cage. The vehicle boasted a heater, but it couldn’t compete with the cold air that flooded in through the open sides, and made an impotent whirring noise as Hale started the engine, backed out of the parking slot, and followed the road to the main gate. Guards saluted the officer as he rolled past, turned onto Alameda, and followed the busy street toward Broadway.
The purpose of the outing was to visit the state capitol, which was going to be the site of Grace’s speech the following day. The Secret Service had primary responsibility for security, with lots of Denver police to provide backup, but a contingent of Sentinels would be present as well, in case of a Chimeran attack. The chances of something like that happening were extremely remote, but no one had been expecting a spire to land next to the Lincoln Memorial either.
So as Hale took a left on Broadway, and followed it to the state capitol, he was thinking about the stinks and what sort of damage they might do if a shuttle-load of them dropped out of the sky in the middle of the President’s speech. He was scheduled to check in with the Secret Service, and wanted to make certain they had arranged for air cover, so he went looking for a place to park. There wasn’t any, because the legislature was still in session and entire sections of the street had been roped off, allowing a succession of delivery trucks to unload.
A speaking platform had been built, VIP bleachers were in place to either side of it, and a temporary fence had been set up to control what was expected to be a record crowd.