It was just past four a.m. when the old-fashioned phone in Simon’s hotel room rang-a long, burring, ugly tone. It didn’t wake him up; he hadn’t been able to sleep at all since he had set foot in Santiago hours before.
He put a hand out to answer it-an automatic gesture, a standard response to stimulus-and then he stopped himself.
Who could be calling him at this time of night? The only people who knew where he was would use the secure phones if they needed to talk to him, not an open line. And even then, they knew better than to call. Anyone could be listening.
His hand was hovering over the handset when it rang a second time. He peered at the tiny screen on the phone, with its crude approximation of caller ID. It told him the call was local-coming from somewhere within Santiago, which made even less sense.
Will answering this jeopardize the mission? he asked himself. If it is someone on the team, for whatever reason, not answering the phone might…
It rang a third time. Seconds before it cut off he thought, What the hell, picked up the handset and put it to his ear.
The voice at the other end did not wait for him to speak. “Simon,” it said in a calm and strong tone.
The voice was familiar. But so much had happened recently, so many changes had taken place that he couldn’t quite place it from a single word on a bad connection.
“Who is this?” Simon asked.
“What do you mean, who is this?!” said the voice on the other end, sounding amused and offended at the same time. “I can’t believe you don’t recognize my voice! Come along: it’s four in the morning, I’m tired and easy to annoy, and you could have at least chosen a more reputable location.”
It’s him, he realized. Simon’s jaw actually dropped open in amazement. “Max?” he said. “Is that you? How did you…” but he stopped himself. It’s still an open line, he thought. Be careful.
“So, are we going to look at that cafe or what?” Max said easily, as if they were continuing a conversation they’d begun just minutes before. “I have a lot of other projects to design and I just flew in.”
Simon smiled to himself. Clever bastard, he thought. “Sure,” he said, trying to match the casual tone. “Do you want to meet downstairs at nine a.m.? I’ve got the plans, but the owner said the lease has to be signed, so you better impress him.”
“No problem,” Max replied. “But let’s make it eight forty-five. See you in the morning.” He hung up before Simon could utter another word.
Suddenly the ancient handset was heavy as a stone in his hand. He plopped it back in the cradle and slumped back on the bed, excited but utterly confused. He took a deep breath and straightened up. Finally, he thought. Finally.
Minutes later, he composed himself and started to pack his belongings. Max was an unexpected surprise, and a great one, but he still had business to conduct-another appointment to make and keep.
He stopped long enough to pull out the slip of paper he had found with his fake passport and other identification. It took only a moment to key the numbers into his secure phone-no reason to leave a record on the hotel’s number. As he dialed he wondered who, exactly, had put that note in his packet to begin with, and why it was so important.
The phone at the other end never really rang. A beat after he finished keying in the sequence, a soft and slightly accented female voice spoke to him.
“Nastasia.”
Simon was speechless for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and said, as steadily as he could manage, “I think we need to meet.”
The answer came immediately and without hesitation. “Three thirty at the Longo Cafe.” Then the phone cut off abruptly.
Simon was left holding the dead instrument in his hand, almost overwhelmed with apprehension and futility. Something didn’t seem right here, he knew, but what choice did he have-did any of them have? They needed all the help they could get and someone-someone friendly, it seemed-was trying to put them together.
He sat on the edge of the bed with his eyes closed, going through the entire operation…and oddly enough, he felt a rising wave of confidence. Max was with them now. They had slipped UNED’s surveillance net and traveled halfway round the world, apparently undetected. And now with Max he could see the journey unfold with greater clarity.
* * *
Simon tried to nap one more time and gave it up for good an hour later. He showered, changed clothes, packed a second time as slowly as he could, and still arrived in the lobby half an hour before Max was scheduled to arrive. He paced the well-worn carpet for a few minutes, then decided to get a cup of coffee at a cafe he remembered passing, right across the street. Sooner or later, he told himself, the lack of sleep is going to hit you, and you’re going to need that caffeine.
A skeptical bell boy twice his age nodded at him as he pushed through the revolving glass door to the sidewalk, and he flinched as the chill of the outside air nipped at his cheeks, as if to remind him that Antarctica was far closer than it had ever been before.
He stopped on the sidewalk and took in the frozen morning, pausing for a moment to get his bearings, then trotted through a gap in the early morning traffic to enter the small coffee shop. Just one espresso, he promised himself, and I’ll be ready to meet Max.
The shop was warm and pleasantly claustrophobic, smelling of good coffee and busy people. There was a long line just inside the door, and he had to press forward a bit to let the door close behind him. As he waited, he noticed a pair of scientists huddled at one of the cafe’s many tiny tables, speaking in hushed, excited German, gesturing over a wrinkled paper map. Something to do with an exploration, Simon could tell; he knew that much German, but not much more. It wasn’t surprising, really: Santiago was the closest modern city to the now forbidden continent, and many of the researchers, soldiers, and businesspeople who had been exiled because of the quarantine had come here to wait, and plot, and be first in line to return.
When he reached the counter he asked for a double espresso and a small panini. As they prepared his order, he noticed the front page of a discarded newspaper lying on the polished wood. His first thought was, look at that, an actual paper newspaper. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen one. His second thought concerned the image on the front page: a murky shot of a ship, half-submerged in a choppy sea.
The text was in Spanish, and Simon was embarrassed to admit that his Spanish was even worse than his German. While he waited for his order, he reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and removed the card-shaped reading lens-standard equipment for international travelers. It took only a moment to pass the translucent card over the printed material; an instant later an AI with the gentle voice of a British female whispered the translation in his ear: “UNED gun ship sinks freighter off Valparaiso,” it said.
Simon’s heart raced at the translation. Could it be the Munro? All his plans would be for nothing if some overeager UNED unit got trigger-happy. But the voice in his ear continued to read, and he quickly learned that the sunken ship was named Orchid Dawn that sailed under United Korean registry. It was chartered to a private energy exploration firm and was going the opposite direction of the Munro when it was identified as the victim of a pirate hijacking. In short, it had nothing to do with them. Simon felt a wave of relief as he pocketed the lens and received his espresso.
He looked for a place to sit for a minute or two and spotted one small table with a single occupant, a man hiding behind another old-fashioned newspaper, this one fully opened like the wings of a giant, ink-stained bird. There were two other empty chairs at the table. Simon wound his way through the crowd, pulled out a chair and sat down. The other man, still hidden, continued to read and nurse his cup of coffee.
Simon sipped his espresso, enjoyed the first bitter bolt of caffeine, and then glanced at the wall clock. Eight twenty-five, it read.