John and Dieter, wearing identical sunglasses and solemn expressions, stood beside the grave of Victor Griego amid the scruffy grass, wilted flowers, and pictures of solemn dark faces fixed to the tombstones. With their hands clasped before them, they bowed their heads and read:
VICTOR GRIEGO 1938-2001
SHE WAS HIT BY A BUS
"That'd refer to his mother, I suppose," John said.
Dieter glanced at him. "I was told that she died of a broken heart."
John shrugged. "That's probably why she walked in front of the bus."
"Poor woman." Dieter sighed. "I may not have been an ideal son, but I didn't drive my mother to suicide."
"Bastard," John agreed.
"I guess this means that you still own that cache of weapons," Dieter said, and turned away.
"Yeah." John read the tombstone one more time and shook his head. "What a louse," he muttered, and picking up his backpack, turned to join Dieter. "My flight is at four; guess I'd better get going."
With a knowing smile Dieter asked, "Nervous?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Don't worry, John. It's a good disguise. Your own mother wouldn't recognize you."
John snorted.
"Well, maybe your mother would," von Rossbach conceded. "But that's about it."
John gave him a quick glance. "What about you?"
"Don't worry about me. I've got something in play," Dieter said. He held out his hand and they shook. "I'll see you in New Mexico."
"If they're letting people into the state by then." John hailed a taxi.
"They will be," Dieter said confidently. He opened the door of the cab. "It's a big state."
John flung his backpack in the backseat and got in behind it.
"Be careful," he called out the window to Dieter. Dieter raised one brow.
"Funny, I was just about to say the same thing to you."
RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL
John wore a weedy-looking black goatee and mustache and a pair of black, horn-rim glasses. He looked nervous and intellectual and nothing like his usual self.
His body language was deferential as he went through American customs, as though he were leaving home for the first time, like the young man on his way to college that he was.
Of course, he was on his way to college to plot and plan, and recruit minions not to study… but he'd look like he belonged. He was nervous but genuinely happy to be going. He was sooo looking forward to meeting Wendy. She was only eight months older than he was for all she kept calling him kid. He was hoping it wasn't going to be an issue. It was important to keep the recruit's respect.
Yeah, right, he thought, too honest by habit to kid himself for long. She's gorgeous and brilliant and I like her. Consequently he wanted her to like him. It bothered him that he was thinking like his because he knew it was frivolous. He had no time for frivolous.
The guy behind the desk finished looking at John's passport and asked a few questions, obviously pro forma, then waved him on his way. John was pleased, as well as relieved. It was only about a year and a few months since their attack on Cyberdyne after all. There would have been computer-aged photos of himself on every custom officer's desk for a long while.
They must not have been very good, John thought.
He put his carry-on bag on the belt and went through the metal detector, grabbing his bag on the other side. The alarm went off just after him, and the
guards gathered scowling as a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt, with a gray-and-blond beard, opened his bag.
"It's just diving equipment," the man said in exasperation. "I'm a writer on vacation!"
John smiled. It was convenient, having a fuss right after he went through; that would fix itself in people's memories, and he'd be less than a shadow. In a few hours he'd be a guest at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and he was really looking forward to it.
John didn't think that even if it had been an option, he would have ended up at MIT. He'd heard about New England winters and wasn't all that interested in experiencing one for himself.
When he thought of himself as an American, he thought of California; Brie nibbling, skateboarding, sun and surfing, indulging political absurdities at Berkeley, or engineering-department practical jokes at UCLA.
While he was heading for Massachusetts Dieter was on his way by more devious routes to California. They'd both felt it was time to meet some of the people they'd been talking to on the Internet to see if they could be turned into more serious recruits.
It was John's idea to offer the MIT folk some proof about Skynet. Some of them were asking difficult questions about what they were doing. He understood the risk he was taking, but he also knew that sooner or later they were going to have to know. Now was as good a time as any.
It wasn't going to be enough to have scattered individuals gathering information.
After Judgment Day, he was going to need trained, educated people in key positions or they were never going to be able to defeat Skynet. He'd have to pick and train them now to make sure they lived through the first volleys of nuclear missiles.
His father hadn't given details as to how the humans had managed to shatter Skynet's defense grid, but it couldn't have been plain old brute strength. There had to have been scientists, engineers, planners. Now, if ever, was the time to find them.
John had the Terminator's CPU in his pocket, disguised as a chocolate bar. He and Dieter had retrieved it before returning to Paraguay. Handling it reminded him of the Terminator's head trying to bite him. He had a brief flash of that Terminator attacking their plane as they left the Caymans, of how, even with its body blown away, the head had kept trying to fight.
But the brains at MIT would know it for what it was, a technology far beyond anything available today. At least he hoped they would; it was all the proof he had.
Although, as proof goes, it's pretty damned amazing, he thought.
BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA
Vera Philmore glanced at the brief resume in her hand and then looked over the top of the page at the divine creature standing before her desk. Wulf Ingolfson, the resume said his name was; it suited him. True, he was no spring chicken, but in her experience the young ones were boring. And those shoulders! Ai,
carambal. They made a wonderful silhouette against the broad windows and the thronging masts of the yacht basin.
Vera enjoyed traveling the world with a boatload of handsome, charming young men. But these days it was mostly look and don't touch. This big fella might be a different case. He was certainly old enough to have been around the block a few times. So flirting, at least, could be added to the program.
Dieter looked at her with a blandly pleasant expression on his face. There were no chairs before Ms. Philmore's desk, indicating that she didn't like her employees to get too comfortable in her presence. On the other hand, the way she kept running her eyes up and down his body suggested that she might make an exception in select cases.
About fifty, Vera was very trim and well groomed. The color of her hair, the pale gold froth of champagne, was not found in nature, but it suited her, as did the expensive baubles she wore and the bright red silk shirt and black toreador pants. Some women had the personality to carry off almost anything.
"You don't seem to have had much experience as a deckhand," she commented.
"Not as an employee," he agreed. "But I have been on boats of all kinds since I was a boy."
"Ahhh," Vera said coyly, "your daddy was rich, was he?"
"No, he was a fisherman. But when I was a teenager I often got day jobs on some of the yachts along the Cote d'Azur. My friends and I would work for free, just to get on board." He smiled reminiscently. "I love the sea."