"We'll talk about it later," she said, patting his hand. "Right now we have to get you and your friends somewhere that StateSec won't find you."
"I'm not sure anywhere is that safe," he replied.
"Where are we going?" John said as they sloshed through another puddle.
They had proceeded to the basement of Rachel's tenement where a metal plate had given access to a series of tunnels. Most of them had to do with maintenance for the billion and one things that go on out of sight and mind in a city. Besides sewers, there were forced air pipes, electrical lines, active foundation supports and a host of other items, most of which required occasional maintenance.
And very few of which were ever seen by "surface" dwellers, including police.
It was through this gloomy world, lit only by occasional glow-patches and a pale chem-light in Rachel's hand, that they had progressed. Once, in response to an almost unnoticeable mark on a wall, she had rapidly backtracked. When a group of dispirited Naval personnel had gone by them as they huddled in a side tunnel the reason had become clear.
He had followed her slavishly, and carefully not asked any questions, for nearly an hour. But if his reading of signs and general sense of direction wasn't completely off, they were very near the river. And the police headquarters.
"Not much farther," she whispered. "The one place that no one will bother looking is?"
"Where nobody would be dumb enough to go?" he answered.
"Exactly," she continued, pulling aside another metal plate and glancing around the room beyond. "Specifically, in the basement of the police administration building."
He looked at the room beyond. It appeared to be completely filled with junk. There were old-style monitors, chairs with one wheel gone and piles and piles of manuals. All of it was covered in dust.
"How did you find this place?" he asked.
"I have friends in low places," she replied. "Where are your friends and how do I keep them from killing me when I tap on the door."
"They're over in Southtown." He gave her directions to the flat and shook his head. "Just knock and tell them who you are; secret taps are for amateurs. You'll need this, though."
He pulled what looked like a dangling thread off the prole jacket and licked it. Then he held it up to his mouth and said: "All Clear, Kizke."
"What is that?" she asked, taking the somewhat sodden string.
"Just give it to Charles. He'll compare it to my DNA map. There's a way to fake it, but it's hard and beyond Peep tech. We think. That's what professionals use. Also, we need some back-ups. If anything happens while you are gone, now or later, I'll make a chalk mark on the side of the postal box on the fourteen hundred block of Na Perslyne. And I'll leave a message about where to contact me on the underside of the south bench by the duck pond on Wenceslas Square."
"Okay," she said. "I guess this is real spy stuff?"
"We use the word 'agent,' " he replied with a grin. "And, yeah, the term is 'tradecraft.' Can you remember what I said?"
"Mark on the postal box in the fourteen hundred block of Na Perslyne, south bench, duckpond Wenceslas, Mister Super-spy. But when I come back, if I don't tap like this," and she gave him a demonstration, "kill whoever comes through the door. Sometimes StateSec will mimic an appearance."
"I think StateSec would find it difficult to mimic you," he said with a smile. "Thank you for this, Rachel."
"You're welcome, and you owe me."
"Well, this is a pleasant little love nest," Charles said, ducking through the door.
"I'd say it was nerve-wracking waiting for you to get back," Mullins replied. "But I always figure you're dead anyway."
"Terribly uplifting old boy," Gonzalvez replied. "Glad I feel the same way about you."
"Rachel, we do have to talk," Mullins continued. "I don't get you having this little bolt hole or knowing your way around underground so well. I deal with Peeps and proles all the time; they don't generally find their way around underground by preference."
"I have friends..."
"I heard that one," Mullins replied as Gonzalvez subtly shifted to block the exit. "Now tell me the rest."
"Okay," she sighed. "I do have friends. Some of them are in the resistance."
"Friends like we were... are... friends?" Mullins asked.
"Sort of," she replied, stone-faced. "After you left things got very sour for me on Nouveau Paris; I had to leave in a hurry. 'Friends' got me here and have... helped from time to time. I help them from time to time in return."
"Mule?" Charles asked.
"Generally," she replied. "But I'm not really a member of the resistance; just a working girl trying to make her way the best she can."
"No warrant for you?" Johnny asked.
"No, it never got that far."
"Can these... 'friends' get us passage out?"
"For a chance to make contact with Manty Intelligence? Of course they will."
"I'm not sure we can support them," Charles pointed out. "Most of them have been designated as terrorist organizations by the People's Republic; supporting them is a political decision at that point."
"Understood," Rachel replied. "But this is a chance for a hard contact and some positive PR, if only in your intelligence service." She sighed, looking around the room. "They're really not terrorists; they have a strict military/industrial target only policy. Sometimes civilians do get killed, but only those working on military equipment and manufacturing; they don't go bombing restaurants."
"Or strip-joints," Charles interjected. "Do you feed them information?"
"No, I don't," she replied. "I mean, sometimes a little, but I'm not a spy for them or anything. Sometimes I find out something they really have to know and I pass it on to a cell I trust. I'll have to bring them in on you guys; they're my only source of travel documents."
"Stop here," Rachel whispered. "You're not going to crack on me, are you?"
The man who would only answer to the name "The Great Lorenzo" raised himself to his not inconsiderable height and gathered the rags of his suit.
"Am I not the Great Lorenzo?" he asked in a mellifluous voice. "It is not a great role, but it is a speaking part. I shall do my trouper's best."
"Lord, this was a bad idea," she whispered. "Okay, they probably put out sensors, so you'd better get into role."
The man nodded and reached in his pocket, extracting a bottle of cheap whiskey.
"You shouldn't need that," she snapped. "You already smell like a distillery."
"But if I do not, my hands will shake," he noted logically.
"They're supposed to shake!"
"Only in the role within the role," he returned and upended the bottle, taking a single hard slug. "Now I am prepared," he added, tucking the bottle away as his face slowly softened into subtly different lines. He now had the overall visage of a drunken bum, but there was a cold light in his eyes and his demeanor, while stooped, had a hint of athleticism. "Ah, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!"
"Aloman?" she asked, stepping deeper into the gloom.
"Shakespeare," he sighed. "So few remember the Bard."
John slid the plate aside and nodded at Rachel. "Glad you're back."
"No names," she said. "This is a friend in the resistance. He can get you passages."
John looked the rebel visitor up and down. He appeared to be just another street bum; sallow face, palsied hands. The torn clothing was better than most, but not significantly. However, if anyone knew looks could be deceiving it was Mullins. "You?"
The bum slowly straightened until he was at his full height and looked at the admiral. "Yeah, that's Mládek," he said in a deep, gravely voice, ignoring Mullins. "First you grind us under the Legs then you grind us under the Peeps and now that the fire's too hot for you you turn tail and run." He spat on the ground in front of the Peep officer and smiled at the Manticorans. "Give him to me for an hour; I'll sweat out everything you want to know."