“Been trying to work that out in my own mind,” he said in a hesitant tone. “Cobbs and his deputy dog were waiting for me on the road, and I doubt it’s a coincidence that they knew exactly when I’d be driving out to the market, and what route I’d take. Also bothers me that the day they chose to pull me over happened to be the one and only day Dex wasn’t around to keep me company.”
“Wouldn’t it have been better for him if he came along for the ride?” Nimec said. “To act surprised, I mean. The way it went down just makes him look suspicious.”
Ricci moved his shoulders. “Dex is no genius. Assuming the worst about him, could be that he was only worried having to look me in the eye when I drove into their little setup. Or maybe he doesn’t care what I suspect. Maybe with Cobbs he gets a better than even slice of the action, and all that matters to him is running me out of it.”
“And out of town in the process,” Nimec said.
Ricci nodded. “Like I said, assuming the worst-case scenario. But right now that’s all just for argument’s sake.”
They sat in silence for a while. Megan watched them, feeling strangely like an observer. She sensed the easy intersection of their thoughts, the unspoken communication of men who had done police work for much of their lives, and all at once thought she had an inkling why Nimec wanted Ricci for Max’s position.
“Let’s stick to Cobbs for the moment,” Nimec said finally. “He’s not going to just leave things as they are. You know his type. The way you embarrassed him, he’ll be twisting like a corkscrew until he can get back at you. And that’s probably going to happen sooner than later. He’ll lick his wounds, convince himself you got lucky today.”
“I know,” Ricci said.
“Being hooked into the sheriff’s office, he’ll think he can get away with whatever he wants. Your warning about getting in touch with outside agencies won’t stop him. Far as he’s concerned, they’re a world away.”
“I know.”
Nimec looked at him.
“What are you planning to do?” he said.
Ricci grunted indeterminately. He took a drink of coffee, frowned, and set the cup down on the table.
“Flat,” he said, and pushed it away from him.
More silence.
Megan’s gaze wandered briefly down to the bay. The sunlight was fading, and white patches of sea smoke had begun rising from the water as dusk’s cold breezes slipped over its warmer surface. The birds had returned with the eagle’s departure, bearing out Ricci’s prediction. She could see rafts of ducks near the shoreline almost straight below, and further off, gulls descending through the mist to alight on shoals exposed by the receding tide. Broad-chested and gray-patched, they seemed instantly to enter a state of repose, puffing out their feathers against the dropping temperature.
Suddenly it seemed very late in the day.
“We should talk about why Pete and I came to see you,” she said. “You still haven’t given us your feelings about it.”
Ricci looked at her. “Now that you mention it, why did the two of you come?”
Megan blinked.
“You don’t know,” she said. It was a statement rather than a question.
He shook his head.
She turned to Nimec. “You didn’t tell him?”
Nimec shook his head. “I thought we’d wait until we got here,” he said without explanation. “Discuss it face-to-face.”
She rubbed her eyebrows with her thumb and forefinger, shook her head a little, and sighed resignedly.
“We’d better go inside after all,” she said. “Seems this is going to take longer than I expected.”
A little past five-thirty in the afternoon P.D.T., two urgent calls were placed from the Brazilian space station facility to UpLink’s corporate headquarters in San Jose.
The first was to Roger Gordian.
Standing near his office window, looking out at the rain that had just started pouring down on Rosita Avenue, Gordian was about to leave for the day when his desk phone chirruped. He stared at it a moment, tempted to let it remain on the hook, one arm halfway inside his trench coat. Whoever it was could leave a message.
Chree-eep!
Ignore it, he urged himself. Ashley. Dinner. Home.
The phone rang a third time. On the fourth, the caller would be automatically transferred to Gordian’s voice mail.
Shrugging out of his coat, he frowned in acquiescence and grabbed the receiver.
“Yes?” he said.
The man at the other end identified himself as Mason Cody from the Sword operational center, Mato Grasso do Sul. His voice seemed to come out of an odd, tunneling silence that put Gordian in mind of what it was like holding a conch shell up against his ear — listening to the ocean, they’d called it when he was young.
He sat behind his desk, realizing immediately that he was on a secure digital line. And that the call was therefore anything but routine.
“Sir, there’s been an incident,” Cody said in a tone that made his back stiffen.
Gordian listened quietly as the violent events at the ISS compound were outlined for him in a rapid but collected manner, his hand tensing around the receiver at the news of injuries and fatalities.
“The wounded men,” he said. “How are they doing?”
“They’ve all been medevaced from the scene,” Cody said. “Most are in fair shape or better.”
“What about Rollie Thibodeau? You said he’d been pretty badly hurt.”
“He’s still in surgery.” A pause. “No word on his condition.”
Gordian willed himself to be calm.
“Has Pete Nimec been told about this?” he asked.
“My feeling was that I should brief you first, Mr. Gordian. I plan to call him the moment we sign off.”
Gordian rotated his chair toward the window, thinking about what he’d just been told. It was all so difficult to absorb.
“Is there anything else?” he said. “Any idea who was behind the raid?”
“I wish I could tell you we know, sir,” Cody said. “Maybe we’ll get something out of the prisoners, though right now I’m not even sure how long we can hold onto them.”
Gordian inhaled, exhaled. Cody’s meaning was clear. As members of a private security force that operated internationally, Sword personnel were obliged to abide by stringent rules of conduct, some of them preconditions set by host governments, some internal guidelines, occasionally complicated formulations premised on the simple reality that they were guests on foreign soil. While adjustments for different cultural and political circumstances were built into their procedural framework, it would be pushing beyond acceptable bounds to interrogate the captured attackers even if the on-site capabilities to detain them existed — which was doubtful. Moreover, an incident on the scale he’d been told about would have to be reported to the Brazilians, assuming they hadn’t already learned of it through their own domestic intelligence apparatus. Once the prisoners were in their custody, it was impossible to guess whether Brazilian law enforcement would share any information obtained from them. The politics of the situation were going to be touchy, and the last thing Gordian wanted was to start stepping on toes.
“Have you been in contact with the local authorities?”
“Not yet,” Cody said. “Thought I ought to hold off, see how you wanted that handled. Hope that was the right thing.”
“It was exactly right,” Gordian said. “I suspect they’ll be showing up without word from us, but notify them as soon as possible anyway. Tell them that we mean to provide our absolute cooperation in terms of whatever questions they have. And that we’re confident they’ll reciprocate. It’s in our common interest to get to the bottom of this.” I assume, he thought, but did not add. “You have my home telephone number on file?”