"What the Captain is suggesting here, Sir," Nyborg said, "is that coming up with this 'notional missile'—that was her idea, Sir, but I think it was a damned good one—will start our tac people thinking in terms of the offensive potentials of that kind of weapon . . . which will also start making them fully aware of the threat potentials. Frankly, it's our ability to stop or seriously degrade, at least, Manty missile strikes that concerns us the most, so starting an open consideration of ways to do that strikes us as making a lot of sense."
"I can't argue with that," Trajan told her. "So tell me about this 'notional missile.' "
"Well, Sir," Nyborg said, "what we started with was—"
Chapter Fifty-One
October, 1921
"So, Jack . . . how much longer do you think it'll be till the Center hands me my severance pay?"
"Not long, actually," McBryde admitted.
He leaned back in his own chair, taking his beer stein with him, and shook his head. He and Herlander Simões sat in his kitchen once again, as they'd sat so often over the past months. The fact that they'd been just about due for one of their regular conversations when he paid his visit to Turner's diner had had more than a little to do with his timing.
"That's about what I figured." Simões managed a twisted smile. "I don't suppose you have any idea what they might plan on doing with me after that, do you?"
"No. To be honest, though, I don't think it's going to be very pleasant, Herlander." He grimaced. "All those e-mails of yours to Dr. Fabre aren't exactly likely to weigh in your favor, you know. To be frank, I've been worrying a little bit about you over the last couple of weeks. We both know your time at the Center's getting short. I figure that's one reason your temper's been even worse than usual lately, to be honest. And I've also been wondering just how tempted you've been to try something to get even."
"Get even with who?" Simões laughed harshly. "The Alignment? You think they'd even notice anything I could do at this point? And I'm pretty sure Fabre's security wouldn't let me anywhere near her. Or any of the rest of the LRPB, for that matter! And"—his voice softened ever so slightly—"I'm not going to do anything to 'get even' with the Center, Jack. Not when I know how that would have to splash on you."
"Thank you," McBryde said softly.
He took a swallow of beer, giving his guest a moment or two, then leaned forward.
"Thank you," he repeated, "but, be honest with me, Herlander. You do want to get even, don't you?"
Simões looked at him silently for several seconds. Then his nostrils flared, and his face took on a strange, hard expression—a focused expression, harsh with hatred.
"In a heartbeat, Jack," he admitted, and it was almost as if he found it a relief to say the words out loud, even to McBryde, the man—the friend, as well as keeper—whose job it was to keep him from achieving exactly that. "Oh, in a heartbeat. But even if I wanted to, how could I? It's not like I'm in a position to accomplish anything on the grand scale. And, to be honest, I could spend the rest of my life 'getting even' and never come close to what those bastards deserve."
He looked McBryde straight in the eye, letting him see the anger, the hatred, the concentrated bitterness, and McBryde nodded slowly.
"That's what I thought," he said quietly. "But tell me this, Herlander. If I were to show you a way you could get even, or make a down payment, at least, would you be interested?"
Simões' eyes narrowed. McBryde wasn't surprised. Even now, after the months they'd known one another, despite the fact that Jack McBryde was probably closer to Herlander Simões' soul than anyone else in the universe, there had to be that instant suspicion. Was this the Alignment's final betrayal? The "friend" completing Simões' destruction by luring him into an overtly treasonous statement?
McBryde understood that, and he made himself sit calmly, looking back at the other man, waiting while Simões' highly competent brain followed that same logic chain to its conclusion. There was no need for McBryde to "lure "him into anything—there'd been more than enough past conversations to provide all the evidence Alignment Security needed to lock him away for the next several decades, at the very least.
The seconds trickled past, tensely, slowly, and then Herlander Simões drew a deep breath.
"Yes," he said, his voice even softer than McBryde's had been. "Yes, I'd be interested. Why?"
Lajos Irvine's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline when he played back the imagery from his bug and recognized the "stranger" at the diner's table. His surprise was heightened by the fact that this was a bug he'd put in place weeks ago and this recording was now fairly dated. He didn't check these records regularly, since he didn't want to visit the diner often enough to be recognized.
What the hell . . . ?!
He realized he was sitting there, frozen in astonishment, and gave himself an impatient shake. It still didn't make any sense to him, but he triggered the fast forward, watching the take from the bug, and there was no question what he was seeing.
What the fuck is Jack McBryde doing sitting around drinking coffee in a dive like Turner's? That's so far outside his bailiwick it's not even funny. And if he's going to run an op on my turf, why the hell didn't he tell me he was?
He frowned, tipping back in the battered armchair in the tiny kitchen of the cramped apartment to which his trustee's status entitled him, and thought hard. McBryde wasn't like that asshole Lathorous. Oh, he had some of the same star line's "my shit doesn't stink" attitude, but he had it under better control. And he'd at least always tried to look like he respected the unglamorous and thoroughly unpleasant duty of deep-penetration agents like Irvine. And he had suggested he'd be keeping his own eye on the situation Irvine had reported to him. He was far enough up the seniority tree that he could do it just about any way he wanted to, too, but still . . .
He's been an office puke for years now, Irvine reflected. It shows, too. He's so far out of practice he didn't even come up with a disguise that would have fooled anyone. And it never occurred to me to mention to him I'd left bugs in the place.
Irvine grimaced and reminded himself to be fair.
No, it didn't fool me, that's true, but, then again, I know him. I doubt anyone in that restaurant has ever met Mr. Jack McBryde, Secret Agent at Large. In fact, the only people who would recognize him would be other Security types. But in that case, his eyes narrowed, why worry about a disguise at all? As far as I know, he's never been operational here on Mesa, so who the hell is he disguising himself against?
Irvine sat thinking for several more seconds, then leaned forward and replayed the imagery from the very beginning. It wouldn't have been obvious to most people, but Irvine wasn't "most people." He was a highly trained intelligence officer, and his frown deepened again as he realized McBryde was there for the express purpose of speaking with the waiter. And, Irvine decided, both of them were working very hard at pretending that he hadn't. They were doing a damned good job of it, too. If anything had been needed to convince Irvine that the big seccy really was an operator himself, watching him "not talking" to McBryde would have supplied it.