Romy wished there were more light as the sims trooped out in ones and pairs. She fine-tuned the focus on her binocs, training her gaze on their faces. Since they all were dressed in identical coveralls, only the faces would tell. She watched one after another swim through her field of vision in a seemingly endless stream, and then suddenly the parade was over.
“I didn’t see him,” Romy said.
Neither had Zero or Patrick.
“Do you think this means what it’s supposed to mean?” Patrick whispered.
Romy felt her heart rate kick up. The plan was for Tome to enter the sim dorm if he hadn’t learned Meerm’s whereabouts by the time the bus arrived. If he’d been successful, he was to hide on the bus until the driver parked it down the street, then sneak out and call for pick-up.
“I hope so,” she said.
Patrick reached for the ignition but Zero stopped him.
“Wait till we hear from him. We’re much less conspicuous sitting still.”
And so they waited. And waited.
“Why doesn’t he call?” Patrick said, tapping the steering wheel none too gently. “Something’s wrong.”
Romy prayed not.
Tome lost.
Turn round and round in dark but not know where is.
Tome bad sim. Old fool sim. Not listen Mist Sulliman. Not do what told. Mist Sulliman say call but Tome not. Fool Tome wait driver go, then open bus window. Climb through, drop ground. Tome not call like Mist Sulliman say. Fool Tome go find Meerm self. Show Mist Sulliman can find. Bring back Meerm. Make Mist Sulliman proud.
Tome do bad thing. Wait by bus. See no car. Run cross street. Hide shadow. Try remember what Beece say. Wish Beece knew better where Meerm hide. Only know, “Left side home building. Many, many turn go see Mickey-D gold arch light over fence. Look black metal door. Red writing door. Meerm inside.”
Tome go, make many many turn. No see Mickey-D. No see black metal door. Now Tome lost in ver dark place.
Tome keep walk. Hear car noise. Many car. See light. Go to and find big street. Many light and car. And there Mickey-D. Tome find! Tome not bad sim! Not fool!
But where steel door? Tome look-look but no see door, no red writing. Tome fail. Ver sad again. Pull out phone, remember what Mist Sulliman say: First press red button, wait for beep, then press 9 button, then press green button.
Tome hope Mist Sulliman not mad and say no more friend with Tome. That make Tome ver sad.
“Yes!” Patrick cried as his PCA chirped.
Romy watched him jab theSEND button and crush the phone against his ear. He’d been sitting there with it clutched in his hand, thumb poised over the buttons like a mad bomber with a detonator.
“Tome!” he cried. “You’re all right?” He turned and nodded to Romy and Zero.
Romy let out a sigh of relief. The last twenty-five minutes had been hell.
“No-no,” Patrick was saying. “That’s all right. As long as you’re okay, it doesn’t matter. Listen, you stay there but keep out of sight. We’ll come by and get you.” He closed the PCA and started the van.
“What happened?” Zero said.
“He thought he could find Meerm himself.”
“Oh, God!” Romy said.
“I know, I know, it was foolish. But it’s okay. We’re picking him up at the McDonald’s we passed back there on Springfield Avenue. Now nobody get on his case, okay? He was just trying—”
“But this means he found out where Meerm is.”
Patrick nodded, with no little pride in his grin. “That he did. And if we can decipher the directions he got, we’ll have Meerm on her way to Dr. Cannon before you know it.”
Romy smiled, sharing his infectious optimism, allowing herself to hope.
Lister’s voice grated through the encrypted phone line. “Still no sign of that damned monkey?”
Damned monkey was right. Double-damned monkey. Luca leaned back in his sofa, put his feet up on the old coffee table, and scratched his throat. His shaver had been a little dull this morning and it had irritated his skin, but not as much as the events of the past few days were irritating his gut. How many places could a pregnant sim hide?
“Not a trace.”
Behind him, in the kitchen, he could hear Maria humming as she cooked up their Saturday night feast. A spicy aroma wafted around him, making his mouth water.
“Shit,” Lister said. “I’m getting lots of questions about all the men we’re tying up. Let me get this straight: You’ve got five cars and twelve men involved in this surveillance?”
“Correct: four cars stationary, one on patrol, with rotating twelve-hour shifts of six men each.”
Suddenly Maria’s face hovered above him, grinning as she dangled a glistening sliver of chicken over his lips. He opened his mouth and she dropped it in. Delicious. He blew her a kiss and she swayed back to the kitchen.
Damn, he was going to miss her.
“And you think that’s the way to go?”
Luca chewed and swallowed quickly. “That’s what all our sim experts advise. They say she’s got to eat, so that means if we don’t catch her wandering around or trying to sneak back into the sim crib, we’ll find another sim sneaking out to bring her food.”
“Makes sense to me, but upstairs is complaining about the manpower commitment.”
“It’s not as if these guys have anything better to keep them busy.”
“Oh, but very soon they will. Guillotine is a go.”
Luca stiffened. “When?”
“Can’t say more now. Maybe in person.”
Luca understood. Even a hard-encrypted phone wasn’t secure enough for a conversation about Operation Guillotine. Because Guillotine was what SIRG was all about, and the neck scheduled to be placed under that blade was Aazim Saad’s.
Al Qaeda was gone, but its goals and methods lived on in various smaller offshoots. The most active was the Malaysian Mujahideen led by Aazim Saad.
One of his men had ratted out the Omani terrorist kingpin, and his headquarters had been traced to a rubber plantation in Borneo. Operation Guillotine would drop three commando teams of specially trained mandrilla sims into the surrounding jungle and have them raid the compound, killing anything that moved. All their gear—weapons, clothing, communications—would be foreign-made to obscure their point of origin. Even if one were captured alive, it couldn’t give anything away, because it wouldn’t know anything, and couldn’t tell if it did. The Malaysian Mujahideen would be wiped out, and no one would know by whom.
This had been the Old Man’s dream: an anonymous strike force that could operate with greater efficiency and ferocity than any human equivalent. All SIRG had needed was clearance from the Pentagon to proceed. Now they had it. And if Guillotine was a success, Conrad Landon would be the toast of a very small, very elite inner circle in the Department of Defense.
Luca had seen the mandrillas in training. Their ferocity awed him. They knew no fear, and gave no quarter. Their downside was the difficulty controlling them, and stopping them once they got started. Heaven help any innocent bystanders near the Saad compound.
“All I can say,” Lister said, “is that some of those surveillance men are going to be needed back in Idaho for the launch.”
“I don’t think I’ll need much more time. It’s been only forty-eight hours. She can’t go—”
His PCA rang. “Just a sec. That’s from the surveillance team.” He put Lister on hold, snatched up the phone, and recognized Snyder’s voice.
“Guess what just happened?”
“What?” Please, Luca thought. Nothing bad. Don’t tell me anyone’s dead.
But Snyder sounded pleased with himself; almost happy.
“I’m pulling up to the drive-thru window of this McDonald’s near the crib to get coffees for the guys when I see this beat-up old van with New York tags pull into the lot. And I’m thinking, you know, there’s a lot of dirty old white vans with New York plates, but maybe this is the one I spotted in Brooklyn, you know, when Palmer and Jackson disappeared from that op. And I was wishing I had the tag number handy when—”