Together, they marched out the door. A crowd gathered in the doorway, watching them go.
When Mirim and Casper had vanished into an elevator, the crowd gradually dispersed. It wasn't until almost five minutes later that somebody thought to tell Quinones that two of his subordinates had just walked off the job.
Chapter Seven
The man dozing on the rooftop heard the buzz; he rolled over and looked at the read-out on his phone.
It was Quinones’ number. He didn't know that; he only knew that the number matched the code he had been given. The target was on his way out of the building-or at least, he might be.
The man really hadn't expected anything for hours yet, but that was fine; he was eager to get it over with. He picked up the Remington 700 in one hand, the binoculars in the other.
The damn phone kept buzzing. That wasn't in the plan. He was supposed to get the code number on the read-out, the target was supposed to come out the front door, and then the sniper was supposed to put a bullet through the target's head. Then the cops and paramedics would go to work, and make sure the target was securely dead and that everyone was convinced it was the doing of some unknown crazy or terrorist.
He didn't see the target. He put down the binoculars and took another glance at the holo.
The phone was still buzzing. Annoyed, he reached over and flicked it open, but didn't say anything.
After a few seconds of silence, a worried voice said, “Mr. Smith?”
The sniper grimaced. His name wasn't Smith; nobody involved with the operation was named Smith, so far as he knew, but then, he wasn't supposed to know any names. “What is it?” he whispered. He whispered to keep his voice from being recognized, not because he expected anyone else to hear him.
“I'm sorry, but Beech left early, and I missed it; he's been gone almost ten minutes.”
“Damn!” The sniper slammed the phone closed, grabbed the binoculars, and began scanning the neighborhood.
No one fitting his target's description was anywhere within a hundred meters of the door where he had been told the target would appear. The target was supposed to head for the Race/Vine subway station; the sniper scanned quickly in that direction.
And there, descending the steps, he spotted a man and a woman, walking together and talking.
Nobody had mentioned anything about a woman, and it would be a long, difficult shot; he hesitated, and then it was too late.
“Damn!” he said again, as he reached for the phone.
The contact man, whom the sniper did not know by the name Smith, took the news calmly.
“You didn't fire?” he asked, after he'd heard the sniper's report.
“No.”
“Good. Then he still doesn't know that anyone's taking an interest in him. Pack it in, cover your tracks, and report in-full pay, and half the usual bonus if your story checks.”
Smith hung up the phone, thought for a moment, and then called Quinones to ask what had happened, and who the woman with Beech was.
“Where are we going?” Mirim asked, as they stood on the empty subway platform.
“Um… well, I thought I'd go back to my apartment, I guess,” Casper replied uncertainly. He was scanning the station, not looking at her.
“You guess?”
“Well, I don't know-is there somewhere you'd rather I went?”
Mirim stared at him. A few minutes ago Casper had been a commanding, self-confident orator; now he was a wimp who couldn't even look her in the eye. “You don't know?”
“No. Hey, I just lost my job, I'm a little thrown, you know? Where else should I go?” He shook his head. “And my mind's been playing tricks on me.”
“What kind of tricks?” Mirim asked, puzzled.
“Like that speech I gave. I mean, what was I doing standing on my desk? That was crazy!”
Mirim stared at him.
“I thought you were great,” she said.
“But it's crazy,” he said. “It's not me. It cost me my job.”
“I thought you were going to lose your job anyway,” Mirim said. “You said you were.”
“Well, yeah, I was,” Casper admitted, a bit puzzled. “Maybe, anyway. No one had actually said I was fired yet, but I wasn't doing my work.”
“So you were going to be fired.”
“I think so.”
“So what harm does it do to tell them what you think?” Mirim challenged him.
“None, I guess,” Casper admitted. “Unless they blacklist me and keep me from getting another job.”
“You think you have a chance of ever getting another job in the same field?” Mirim asked.
Casper thought for a moment, then said, “No. Not really.”
“So what harm did it do?”
Casper had no answer for that. He was busy studying the pillars and tracks.
“What are you looking at?” Mirim asked, puzzled.
“Oh,” Casper said, “Well, see there, I was checking whether you could set up a crossfire over the end of the tunnel, but I don't think the niche in the far wall is deep enough…”
“A crossfire?” Mirim stared at him. “Casper, what are you talking about?”
He turned and stared back at her with a haunted expression. “I don't know, Mirim,” he said. “I don't have any idea, and it scares the heck out of me.”
Mirim hesitated, about to say something, but just then they heard the screeching of steel wheels as the train neared the station, and she decided it could wait. For awhile there she had thought that Casper was at last coming out of his shell, but now he seemed to be retreating again, and she didn't want to force anything, not yet. Something strange was happening to him, presumably brought on by that stupid imprint.
She wondered if he would be willing to see a doctor.
She wondered if he could afford to see a doctor.
There was no point in berating Quinones; the important part was where Beech was now. Smith didn't need to think very hard about that; the obvious place for Beech to go was home.
That he had the Anspack woman along didn't change that; he might take her home with him, he might drop her off at her own home first, he might stay at her place awhile, maybe even until morning, but sooner or later, unless he had somehow been alerted, he would go back to his own apartment.
If he had been alerted… well, even with the Spartacus File, Beech was a beginner. The file wouldn't be running properly yet. He would make mistakes. Even if he had somehow realized that people were pursuing him, Beech might go home.
Or he might go to Anspack's place; Smith would want to cover that possibility, too.
He picked up the phone.
Ten minutes later he hung up, reasonably satisfied. There wasn't time to set up anything fancy, or even to get to the apartment before Beech did, so it wouldn't be as neat and tidy as he might have liked. Still, the job would get done.
When they emerged from the subway the sky had clouded over, threatening thunder and rain, and the two of them hurried up the block, against wind that was suddenly cold. Casper almost reached out a sheltering arm for Mirim, then thought better of it.
“Here we are,” he said a moment later, pointing.
“You live here? ” Mirim asked, looking up at the building's gloomy facade.
“Sure,” Casper said. He shrugged. “It's not so bad.”
Mirim shuddered.
“You didn't have to come,” Casper said. That sounded more hostile than he had meant it to, though; to soften it, he added, “But I'm glad you did. Would you like to come up for a bite to eat?”
Mirim shrugged. “Sure, why not?” She followed Casper past an overflowing trash dumpster up to the door.
“Careful on the steps,” Casper said. He unlocked the door and ushered Mirim through ahead of him; when they were both inside the dim hallway, behind thick panes of dirty glass, he flicked the light switch a couple of times, but the only illumination came from outside.
“Oh, hell,” he said. “The damned lights are out again. You'd better take my hand-the stairs can be tricky.” He offered his hand, and she took it, neither delicately nor grabbing, but just holding. They started up the steps.