“A tad short on coin, Mr. Crust?”
Crust immediately got down from the table, seating himself respectfully before them, his knights following suit.
“A smidge. Johnny Dole’s caught in the post again.”
Michael raised an eyebrow, but Kate seemed to know exactly what Crust was saying.
“Are you two waiting on Johnny as well?”
“We are, my lady,” Song and the Frenchman said in unison.
A moment passed, just long enough for Crust’s broad smile to quiver, before Kate uttered the magic words. “Then let’s eat.”
***
Dinner was a kaleidoscopic dream. Michael began the meal anxious to get back to work, but somewhere between a fettuccini Alfredo, several more Tsingtao Lagers, and a sampling of desserts, his anxiety morphed into a sense of general well-being. The atmosphere at the table combined with all manner of folk parading up and down West Street, the soft warm air, and the simple fact that Jimmy Buffett was crooning away, in China, seemed to catch up with him all at once. Unwilling to fight the sensation, Michael simply sat back and listened to Crust’s raspy voice drone on.
“Now I’ve ridden some fine beasts in my time, some exemplary beasts, but none compare to the Bactrian humpback.”
“You mean a whale?” Song asked.
“A camel, of course, my good Madame. Depending where you are, you might be tempted to consider a dromedary, but don’t do it. It’s the Bactrian you want. The Bactrian pulls out all the stops.”
“Is that the one with one hump or two?” Kate asked.
“One big one. But it’s got nothing to do with the humps. When you’re talking camels it’s all personality. A Bactrian will go to the wall for you. He’ll let you ride him as long as you see fit and give you a lick of the tongue when you’re done. But a dromedary, those buggers are a mean lot. And stubborn. They’d just as soon spend the day sniffing shit as walking anywhere with you between their humps. Of course, when they decide to go, they can really move, but all the hemming and hawing in the interim; it’s not worth the stress.”
“So do you do that a lot?” Michael said. “Transcontinental camel travel?”
“When time and geography permit,” Crust said, taking another pull on his beer. “What you’ve really got to watch is that the big fellow doesn’t lick your knickers. You go home with camel slobber on your private parts and there’ll be hell to pay with the wife.”
Kate snorted, trying to contain her laughter. “Please, Crust. You with a wife?”
“It remains a possibility. When I settle down and make something of my life.”
“You’ll never settle down.”
“You mean I’ll never make something of my life.”
“That too.”
“You’re too kind. But say I did?”
“I tell you what,” Kate said, glancing at the check and carefully laying four bills on the table. “If you settle down and make something of your life, I’ll marry you myself.”
“I’m maid of honor,” Song screamed.
“And me, I will be the man,” the Frenchman said.
“You mean best man?” Michael said.
“Yes, the man.”
“Sounds fabulous,” Kate said. “Until then, I’m off to bed. Michael?” Crust and his clan smiled dumbly as Kate took Michael by the hand. “We’ll catch you lot later.”
Within moments they were lost in the crowd.
“Sorry for the quick exit,” Kate said. “Had to nip it in the bud. Sometimes those evenings can go on forever.”
Michael was just able to make Kate’s fine features out in the lantern light emanating from a clothing vendor’s cart. Standing there, staring at her like that, Michael felt it again, that same spark that wouldn’t die. He didn’t like that he felt it, not given the circumstances, but there was no denying it was there and he thought that maybe the weariness he had felt earlier in the evening was fleeting, that maybe, just maybe, the night was young.
“Michael?”
“Sorry,” he said, snapping out of his reverie. “Where to?”
“Where would you like to go?” she said.
“Somewhere quiet,” he said. “Somewhere we can talk.”
“Follow me.”
Chapter 22
Mobi’s unauthorized hack had allowed him to study the Horten project’s schematics, but despite his efforts, only two things were obvious: A — the blueprints were without a doubt based on the old Nazi cold fusion reactor design; and B — what communications data existed on the project was woefully incomplete. These facts not withstanding, it was obvious to Mobi that if the Chinese had indeed lost control of their bird, there would be a way to re-establish communication with it. The question was how?
From Mobi’s calculations, at its current rate of orbital decay, an uncontrolled reentry would be inevitable within thirty-eight hours. As luck would have it, it looked as though the crash would take place within the geographic limits of California. Nevada was a possibility, as was the Pacific Ocean, but if Mobi had to guess, the bloody thing was going to burn in directly above Palmdale, about twenty miles as the crow flies from where he currently sat. It was almost as if the Chinese were aiming it at him.
Mobi needed to take a leak. Logging off of his terminal, he headed down the hall for the restroom. He knew that even if he figured out how to recommunicate with the satellite, he wouldn’t be able to do anything without some very specialized hardware. He entered the restroom through the swinging door and stood at the old porcelain urinal. It boggled the mind how many great minds had worked here at JPL and its sister institution, Caltech, just down the street. Hell, Einstein himself had no doubt once stood before this same old calcified urinal. Mobi found comfort in the idea. Not so much in the fact that the great man had once been here, letting it all hang out so to speak, but on the more human level that even the most brilliant of us still needed to take a leak. And for a brief moment, Mobi let his mind wander free, content in the notion that whoever we were, whatever we said, we were all just jumbles of protoplasmic goo, circling around our tiny sun on satellite Earth, here today, gone tomorrow. He was still lost in the thought when his free arm was pulled abruptly behind his back.
“Mobi Stearn?” a gruff voice said.
“Huh?”
“You’re under arrest for violation of Title Eighteen of the United States Espionage Laws.”
“I’m what?”
“Shut up and follow me.”
Chapter 23
When he was eleven, Michael’s father taught him how to fight. Not karate. Not a martial art with niceties and rules. But how to brawl. How to survive when the other guy wanted you down. It wasn’t because he was getting beat up at school. He wasn’t. But Michael’s dad wanted him to learn anyway and he said it was important that he paid attention. Michael had been going to karate since he was seven and the first move in karate was always defensive. It was a good strategy. A noble strategy. But it wasn’t always the best strategy. Because sometimes you had to hit first and hit hard if you wanted to be the last man standing. He said that for all the moves Michael learned in the dojo, one thing they couldn’t teach him was the will to survive. Nobody could teach him that.
He had to listen to the voice deep within him to learn it. And the will to survive was at the heart of the fight. It didn’t matter how good you were, it didn’t matter how much you practiced, without that will, without that raw determination to put the other guy down, none of it was worth anything. Michael’s dad made him promise that he would choose his battles wisely, but if it came time to fight, he would listen to the voice deep within him and fight like his very life depended on it. Because it did.