| |
Spooky took the seaplane after all, not because he was impatient – not entirely. It was more because he felt increasingly vulnerable sailing along the south coast of Australia. One missile, one torpedo, one remote-controlled suicide speedboat and both the current and former heads of Direct Action would be out of the way.
For the same reason he ordered Ann to stay on the yacht, at least until the seaplane’s next sortie. He hadn’t thought much beyond Earth’s temporary salvation, and now he was filled with a feeling of important things undone, of political undercurrents he no longer had a sense of. Months had elapsed since Orion’s liftoff; a lot could happen in the small shark-pool of the Committee of Nine.
Approaching Sydney, he diverted unscheduled to land on Lake Burragorang, where a wad of cash bought him a ride into the town of Penrith from a startled local There he slipped into one of the directorate’s safe houses and logged on to a waiting secure terminal.
His codes were still good, another indication that Alkina was either loyal, or very subtle. Spooky allowed himself to be nearly certain of the former.
Spending the evening in seclusion, he trolled through his own information systems and those of his rivals, using backdoors he had had installed. While no computer wiz himself, he had some extremely competent people working for him. He learned many interesting things, but nothing so fascinating as a piece of virtual paper waiting in the intelligence report bin titled Daniel Markis, a subfile of his people’s spying on the other Free Communities and its council.
Marked Most Secret, it began with the words, “Dear Spooky,” and ended with “Your friend, DJ.” Between the greeting and closing was an invitation to meet, either at Carletonville or some neutral place of his choosing.
At what game are you playing, Daniel? A secure channel should be good enough, with modern encryption. On the other hand, Direct Action’s people had discovered this message in Markis’ computers, or perhaps it had been slipped into his own heavily defended system. Either answer demonstrated that nothing was uncrackable.
I need time to make sure of the situation here, he thought. Ariadne had tried to blackmail MacAdam into a shipboard coup, and Ann had rescued his family to remove that lever from her grip, but the fencing match between Direct Action and Smythe’s Central Authority undoubtedly continued.
A nice name, that, he’d always thought. Spooky mentally tipped his hat. It subtly reinforced her legitimacy even in its nomenclature. Direct Action, on the other hand, conjured up an unsubtle brutality that served him well, since its actual operations were normally executed with perfect finesse.
Usually.
After shooting off a note to Ann, he reviewed her actions in his absence and was pleasantly surprised. Oh, he might have tweaked something here, improved something there, but by and large he was satisfied. He went to sleep with as much peace of mind as he ever had.
The machine beeped early with a reply from Alkina, and an hour later he hopped into a nondescript Japanese sedan indistinguishable from a million others on the road. This time Ann had dressed in her Australian Army uniform.
“Brigadier now?”
“I thought as your proxy on the Committee it was appropriate.”
Spooky chuckled. “Soon you will outrank me.”
“Perhaps you should dispense with ranks and just be yourself.”
“I am myself. I like the rank. As a young Army sergeant I used to dream of putting on the godlike rank of Master Sergeant. That’s all the higher I expected to go, as a foreign-born Green Beret with no degree. Look at me now.”
Alkina laughed. “As you wish, my lord.” She gestured at a package in the back seat. “Speaking of uniforms, I brought yours.”
Spooky glanced back at it. “Later. For now, just get me in to DA HQ unobserved. By the way...did you see the Markis message?”
“Of course.”
“Thoughts?”
“He’s your friend. I wouldn’t presume. I don’t think he’s setting you up, if that’s what you’re asking. At least, not physically. Politically, perhaps, but politicians are all the same backstabbing lot.”
“Not Markis,” popped from Spooky’s mouth before he could stop it. “Funny, that’s the least cynical thing I’ve said in some time, but it’s true. He’s a good man, and he wouldn’t screw me over, politically or otherwise...unless he thought I deserved it. As I see it, he owes me on every level, from the return of his children to the role I played in getting certain countries on board with the Orion project, to going along on it myself.”
“So what are you asking?” She turned down an unmarked but well-traveled road leading into the green almost-mountains.
“I suppose just your opinion of the logistics. Where should we meet?”
“Antarctica would be the safest. It’s an FC stronghold, very hard to infiltrate for the Russians or the Chinese or any rogue elements. Either that or South Africa itself.”
“I agree. Do me a favor and get in touch with Cassandra Johnstone. Set it up for their remote facility. The day after tomorrow, if you can.” Spooky turned to snake over the seat into the back. Popping a catch, he folded down the central armrest and slowly, with careful nanite-assisted strength, pulled it loose from its fittings. A few more moments work opened a pass-through to the sedan’s trunk.
“I also brought a commando skinsuit,” she called. “It’s in the bag there.”
“Excellent. I’ll put it on in the boot.”
Once he had squirmed through the small opening, he turned around to fit the armrest back into its space, leaving nothing to show what he had done. A few minutes later he heard them pass through security, where Brigadier Alkina overrode her own protocols to decline a search.
Once parked deep underground, she opened the back and a figure, black-clad head to toe including full face shield, accompanied her to her office, hiding Spooky’s return from even his own people. One more day working, and a night together in the attached contingency quarters, and they were ready.
