The elf looked completely out of place standing within the rough-hewn walls of the cabin. His suit was strictly ’plex wear, and his shoes were beyond salvation after their meeting with the local mud. His accent was pure metroplex and his hands were soft, unmarked by any dirty work. The primitiveness of his surroundings should have discomfited him a little. The gun on the table and Hart’s reputation should have done more.
“I am only the messenger,” he said in a cool and distant voice.
Hart bit back a retort. What was the point? Her earlier outburst hadn’t affected him. He was slick, riding the smooth edge. She should have been equally so, but she hated it when a job went sour. This one had had enough problems. She lifted the gun from the table and holstered it.
It should have come as no surprise that the touted Tír border patrol had muffed it even worse than she had thought. That they should miss her was understandable. That had happened often enough. But to miss that corporate pigeon made them look like noids. It was a fluke, a bad toss of the dice. Pure good luck for that suit Verner—and bad for her.
The messenger was still there. “Get out of here,” she snapped, still caught up in her annoyance.
“Do you wish to send a response?”
“To your nameless principal? Get serious.”
“He has the continued health of your reputation at heart.”
“But won’t let himself be named? I’m touched.”
“His name would be quite familiar, I assure you. It would only be unwise for you to know it at this time. I was told to say that you would find his favor most useful in the future. His good will is easy to earn. All he asks in return for the information I have brought is a general outline of your plans.”
“Smoke and mirrors.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell him that. Smoke and mirrors.”
The messenger drew himself erect with indignation. “Very well.” He turned and strode from the cabin, his expensive leather loafers squishing slightly with each step.
Got through the shine at last. A petty victory, but better than nothing. Let the elf take her answer back to his Mr. Mystery. Two could play at the confusion game.
Whoever sent the messenger could have any of a dozen reasons for passing the information to her. Mr. Mystery could be playing on just about any side in the conflict. Or he could be someone not directly involved but using the opportunity to turn things against a rival or to twist them in favor of a friend. Without more information, she could not tell. Whatever someone’s reason for giving her the information, now that she had it there was no time to look into the source. The only source she could rule out was the ornery old worm that was her own contractor. Had he known of Verner’s survival, he would have sent an army of goons to convey the message that she had failed in her contract.
Tessien needed to know; it had the same contract. Hart shrugged on a jacket against the cool night air. She didn’t bother to lock the cabin; there was nothing to steal and no one here to steal it. She took the trail further up the mountain to the dry cave where Tessien lay coiled and dozing. The feathered serpent awoke as she entered its lair.
“Bad news, Tessien.”
“Anything that disturbs my rest is bad.” Annoyance washed through the cave.
“Well, rest time is over.”
She felt the serpent’s curiosity, even though it said nothing.
“Verner, that suit we pulled out of Renraku as cover for the doppelganger plant, is still alive. The Tír border guards didn’t get him, and he’s popped up in San Francisco in the company of a runner called Dodger. This runner’s some kind of wiz decker, and the two of them are snooping around the Matrix. Sounds like their search is still mostly random, but they’ve got our names and will follow that up sooner or later.
“They’ve got Drake’s name, too.”
“Does he know the suit is alive?”
“Don’t think so.”
“We must take care of this quickly.”
“My sentiments exactly. I hate fragging loose ends.”
The serpent growled its agreement.