As if to emphasize the point, the lead jeep jammed its gears into reverse and pulled back beside the limo. On the other side, the rear one drew up level. The maneuver had an instant effect on the crowd around the burning wrecks. The knot that had wandered away from the fire simply to check on the vehicles were suddenly halted. Some ran, fearing an attack, but others stood their ground and even kept on coming. There were shouts. A rock hit the roof of the limo. The crowd was growing in size. The bulk of them kept their distance but every few seconds someone, usually a kid or a teenager, would dart forward, yell abuse and hurl something. The little motorcade was rapidly creating its own riot. In the front seat the driver was talking into a microphone, presumably coordinating action with the jeep drivers. A bunch of youths dashed out of the crowd dragging a chunk of blazing debris from the fire. They launched it into the air. As it flew, it disintegrated and one chunk landed on the hood of the limo.
"That's fucked up the paint."
The driver threw the limo into screaming reverse. At the same time, the two jeeps rocketed forward, straight for the crowd. The crowd broke, howling. Vickers couldn't see but he thought the jeeps had actually hit some of them. He, Bruce and the nurse were tossed back into their seats as the limo breaked and then took off after the jeeps. Bruce was cursing but the nurse, save for a strand of blonde hair that had fallen out from under her cap, maintained her absolute calm even when the car seemed to be accelerating straight for the burning wreckage. The limo was laying smoke as the driver stamped down on the special overdrive designed to save millionaires from kidnappers. At the last minute, he threw it into a shrieking, drifting turn. They bounced across a section of sidewalk and then were racing down clear road. A jeep had stopped and was waiting for them to catch up. Someone was putting down covering fire with a heavy riot gun. As soon as the limo had passed it, the jeep spun its wheels and accelerated to maintain the rear position. Somewhere nearby there was the sound of helicopters. Bruce was still cursing.
"That'll be the Stress Squad. I hope they gas the bastards. I fucking hate structural."
Vickers looked at Bruce with a raised eyebrow. "How can you hate them? It isn't their fault they got the bad breaks."
"I hate them because I got out and I don't like to be reminded how it was. They had camps for structural outside Melbourne. I spent five years being shuffled around those fucking hellholes until I volunteered for New Guinea. Even that was a lottery. Can you imagine that? Hoping that you can win a chance to get your head blown off in some stinking jungle?"
Vickers said nothing. Bruce abruptly turned up the sound of the TV. The subject had clearly been dropped. They drove in silence for another twenty minutes. By that time they were in open country. A bright moon made the scrub desert landscape look like the surface of Mars. On TV, the episode of Rogan's Vengeance had reached its bloody finale. The nurse seemed to treat this as a signal. She took out a small zippered wallet and opened it. Inside was a loaded syringe. She smiled.
"I think it's time for your shot, Mort."
The room contained exactly three pieces of furniture, an iron hospital-style bed, a metal locker and a chair. His luggage had been dumped in a corner. Another cool, leggy nurse was sitting on the chair watching him.
"How long have I been out?"
"Twenty-seven hours."
"Unh?"
"They kept you under while they ran some tests and stuff."
"Oh shit."
"Worried that you might have missed something?"
"Worried what I might have missed."
Vickers had woken on his back. He turned over on his side, wrapping the blankets protectively around him. He stared at the wall. It was painted a drab, duck's egg green. The paint was brand new with a fresh turpentine smell. The effect was someplace between a hospital and a prison. He realized that someone had removed his clothes. He glanced around. They were folded on top of his bags.
"Where am I?"
"Do you know that's the very first time I've ever heard someone use that line in real life?"
Vickers slowly sat up. Whatever drugs they'd used on him had left him dizzy and his stomach kept threatening to heave. He was also profoundly depressed by a rapidly fading dream. It was like the drugs had taken him to some wondrous place where all the secrets of the universe had been revealed to him. As consciousness came back it had melted away like the morning mist, leaving him with a gaping, empty sadness.
"I guess it's just the drugs."
"I'll try and get you something."
"Am I allowed to get up?"
"You can do pretty much whatever you like… except leave, of course."
He wrapped the blanket around himself and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"What do I call you?"
"You could try 'hey nurse.'"
"You don't give much away."
"I'm not paid to."
"What are you paid for?"
"To sit here and make sure you don't vomit or choke or anything."
"It sounds boring."
"It was." She held up a book, The New Celibacy by Wilma Deering.
He wasn't sure that he could stand but he tried anyway. He swayed dangerously. Hey Nurse was quickly beside him.
"Jesus Christ!"
"I think you'd better sit down.'
He sat. Sweat was running down his face. "I feel like I've been poisoned."
"They really did keep you under for a very long time."
"What were they looking for?"
"Ah, come on, you know I can't tell you that."
He waited a few minutes and then tried to stand again. This time he was more successful and Hey Nurse didn't have to help him.
"Can I take a shower?"
There were two doors in the room. Hey Nurse opened one of them; a small hotel-style bathroom was behind it.
"I'll fix the water for you."
"Do I have to leave the door open?"
"Don't do me any favors."
He closed the door behind him, dropped his blanket and stepped into the warm spray. Gradually the water worked on his locked muscles until he no longer felt like he was mummified. His brain also started working again. If he'd been out for twenty-seven hours, he could be just about anywhere in the world. He could assume nothing and he'd be well advised to get past Hey Nurse and on to someone who was a little more informative. So far, it had been a bit too close to brainwashing. Part of his wish had already come true when he came out of the shower. A tall, broad-shouldered man in military fatigues was flirting with Hey Nurse. He turned and extended a hand.
"Mort Vickers, my name's Streicher. I'll be in charge of you while you're here."
Vickers felt a little awkward accepting introductions wrapped in only a towel.
"I'm glad to meet you. Do you mind if I get dressed?"
Hey Nurse made her excuses. "I'll leave you two alone."
After she'd gone, Streicher grinned at Vickers.
"Isn't she a peach? Don't you just love nurses? It's all that starched cotton and those white stockings…"
Vickers was pulling on his pants.
"Where, exactly, is here?"
Streicher looked a little disappointed that Vickers didn't want to share his appreciation of nurses.
"Just like you were told, a desert location about sixty clicks outside Vegas."
"I've been out so long I could be anywhere."
"That's true, but you ain't."
Vicker unzipped one of his bags, looking for a clean shirt. He was surprised to see that both his weapons were right there on top. The ammunition he'd bought had, however, vanished. Streicher didn't have to be asked.
"You'll get ammunition when you need it."
"Are you going to tell me what I'm here for?"
"You look like you could use some breakfast."
Vickers had met a lot of men like Streicher. They were the perpetual NCOs. They hung securely in the middle levels of authoritarian violence. Having raised themselves from the drudgery of the common soldier, they somehow lacked the wit, the intelligence, the courage or the contacts to scale the lonely peaks of real command. Instead, they carved out miniature empires based on a capacity for unquestioning loyalty and a talent for keeping things extremely simple and, on occasion, also extremely brutal. Sometimes they were sadists, sometimes they were closet homosexuals. Almost all had problems with relationships that weren't based on regulations and orders. This was the basic Military model. Other variations were Gangster and Law Enforcement. The differences were mainly ones of style. Streicher seemed to have learned his mannerisms from watching old John Wayne movies. He also seemed to have something of a body fetish. In what Vickers estimated to be his leathery late forties, Streicher was in perfect condition except for a slight beer belly. He was tanned and his visible muscles, on his forearms and neck, stood out like ropes. His eyes were blue and calculating, his hair was cropped to little more than a suede scalp and his jaw was polished by a lifetime of close shaves. Vickers knew there was just one way of dealing with people like Streicher. If you made it very clear, very quickly, that you were the boss you could have them kissing your ass. If you didn't, they would undoubtedly force you to kiss theirs. The first rule was not to give an inch.