Yeah. Somebody who knows the system pretty good. You think the Chinese?
“Yes, exactly.”
Richard, if you had to take a wild stab… bad choice of words. But if you did?
“Ramirez,” he said assuredly. “He's got advanced degrees in computer science and he's one of the people who wrote the damn ship's O/S. He has been cultivating Trevor Koske, and you wouldn't do that without a reason. I've got no proof, but I'm working on Wainwright.”
No shit. The vial's smooth under my fingertips. I haven't had coffee yet, and although I'm tempted to see if there's any bourbon in the minibar I'm not quite fallen far enough to go plead with the prime minister stinking of booze.
“Jenny—” Richard says, a caution and a warning.
I know. Putain de marde. Fucking hell. Richard, you don't have to remind me.
“I know.” I feel his smile. “But I'm going to. Knock them dead, Jenny Casey.”
That's what I'm afraid of, Richard. But he gives no sign he's heard, and I'm left alone in the dark under the rhythmic flicker of streetlights and then just the cold, distant gleam of the northern lights, waiting for the sun to rise.
6:00 AM
Friday 15 December, 2062
West Side
Toronto, Ontario
Indigo dozed with her face leaned on the car window, cold glass pressing her temple against an all-night-wakeful headache, a wet breeze trickling in around the edge. The fresh air was the only thing keeping her awake: the scent of warm bodies and Farley's cologne half drugged her. She jerked into consciousness as Farley laid a big hand on her arm. “Hey, Indy.”
She coughed slightly as she sat upright. “Message?”
“Better. We've got a tracking signal. Casey's on the move, and control says this is it. She's supposed to meet Riel this morning. They're heading north on 400. It should be interesting to see where they think they're going.”
“Excellent. Drive.”
“Guns?”
“I'll load once we're out of the city.”
0930 Hours
Friday 15 December, 2062
Le Camp des Pins
North of Huntsville, Ontario
The Mounties who meet me at the gate and check me — meticulously — for weapons vanish into the trees like mist afterward, and although we're not far from town I can't see a trace of human habitation anywhere except the fence and a coil of smoke off in the distance.
I'm checked again at the massive, red-painted door, where an armed woman — a blond with a smile on the sunny side of professional — takes my coat and hangs it in the hall closet. She picks a bit of lint off the sleeve of my dress greens and straightens my collar.
They've sure gotten more careful about guarding the PM since I was a kid.
I don't point out to them that I am a weapon, and they don't ask if my left arm comes off. I figure if I get too out of hand they'll toss an EMP grenade into the room, and that will handle that.
Riel could have worse taste in secret clubhouses. The floors in the comfortably furnished living room I'm ushered into are old, wide wooden boards, the walls paneled in cherry on either side of a fieldstone fireplace. To look out the windows, I'd swear I was two hundred kilometers north and more than spitting distance from anywhere. The low circular table between two overstuffed chairs in front of that window is laden with plates, a carafe of coffee you could wash your feet in if you were so inclined, and covered platters that smell enticingly of waffles, eggs, and other good things. Constance Riel — trim, dark, with flashing eyes over a hook-sharp nose that betrays some Italian blood — rises as I come, unescorted, into the room.
“Master Warrant Officer Casey,” she says, extending her hand. I take it, and she clasps her other over mine, warmly, meanwhile stealing a glance at my metal hand. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“I hope that wasn't supposed to be reassuring, Prime Minister.”
“Can I offer you some coffee? Better yet, food?”
“That would be very nice, ma'am. Thank you.”
She gestures me to the left-hand chair, sits herself, and pours me coffee with her own hands. It's meant to be an honor, or maybe to set us as equals. I take it as such, but I'm not about to presume. When I have the mug in my hands — generous, a working woman's portion and not the dainty porcelain I expected — she looks me in the eye and drops her bomb. “So tell me why I should protect you, Master Warrant.”
Birds stir outside the window. Its clarity is a little off. A moment later, I realize that it's bullet-resistant glass. One of the things they teach you in the service is that nothing is bulletproof. “I was unaware that I needed protection, ma'am. I'm here to pass along some information I don't trust to anyone else, and to argue for the starflight program.”
She stirs her coffee absentmindedly with the sugar spoon, then looks down at it ruefully and sets it on a napkin with a shrug. “Are you aware that there's a subpoena in existence for you in Hartford? For Colonel Valens and Dr. Holmes as well?”
“I'm not surprised.” She thinks I'm looking for — a benefactor? Somebody to save me from Holmes's schemes? The eggs are fluffy and golden, and I haven't tasted anything better in days. “I'm more concerned with what's going to happen to Canada.”
“I hadn't heard you were such a patriot.”
“Twenty years in service, ma'am.” Just spit it the hell out, Jenny. “Prime Minister. There are a number of things we're going to have to go over, if you have time — but the short form is, the starflight program is the key to Canada's current survival, and Alberta Holmes plans to have you killed. And I aim to ensure the one and prevent the other—”
Gunfire.
Riel's eyes lock with mine. “That's just too perfect, Casey,” she says, calmly setting her fork aside. “Can I hire your stage manager?”
“You won't have much use for him once I wring his throat. Are you armed, Prime Minister?” Richard, can you tell me anything?
“No.” Two voices at once.
“Then get down, please.” Richard, record this if you can. And whatever you do don't distract me.
Shots closer now. An older assault rifle, one of the Korean ones by the sound of it, and a big handgun, too. I count and hear — some return fire, two or three. Probably everybody out there has smart targeting and palm locks. I couldn't use the damn things if I could get my hands on them. I wonder how the Mounties are faring. I wonder if it's Indigo and Farley, or if Holmes has sent someone else. Best to keep something like this small, I imagine. And then the pressure changes as the front door is opened, and I hear more gunfire — the wrong gunfire — and curse. I liked that cop.
Riel crouches beside the fireplace. I shove the biggest chair in front of her. “This had better not turn out to be an elaborate scheme to prove your loyalty. You're also not armed.”
“I don't need to be.” I cross the room on cat feet, flatten myself against the wall beside the single door. If it were me, I'd shoot through the wall a couple of times before I came into the room. But then, I do a lot of things more carefully than most people do.
Fucking amateurs.
Except not so amateur as all that.