'Hell. You answer that phone. I'll take that stuff of yours out to your car, wait there to see you off.'
Helen handed the bag over, watched Martha walk purposefully out the door, then picked up the phone.
'Wagner?' Levine sounded angry.
'Sir, I'm sorry-'
'You're sorry. We're supposed to be cleared out of here in three minutes' time.'
Her mind wandered; she looked outside. Martha was walking down the path, carrying the small green bag, her lips pursed, whistling. The sound came faintly to Helen through a half-open window. The day shimmered in a miasma. So much heat, so much lassitude in the hot, meagre air. A battered Toyota pickup was parked next to her Ford. The Toyota looked out of place, as if it had just come off a farm truck somewhere.
'I had a call from La Finca,' she said. 'Lieberman is still missing. We're going to have to re-create the solar activity projections without him and pray we don't need any modifications to the Shuttle gear.'
Levine was mad. 'Fifty damn people dead there, and the President kicking my ass all over the Pentagon. Wonderful.'
There was no one in the van. She looked at the nearby houses. No one mowing the lawns, tidying the flower beds. Something stirred in her memory.
'Those imaging people got us anything to go on yet?' Levine bellowed. 'I mean, we should be having this conversation on the plane, but I got people to brief right now.'
'Nothing so far, sir.'
Martha came to a halt next to her Ford, looked at the sky, pulled a sour face.
'Well, then, you get the hell down here now and let's get moving. We can talk some more in the air and…'
There were sacks in the back of the pickup: sacks and sacks and sacks, all full and neatly tied at the neck.
'Shit!' she yelled, dropping the phone, then ran for the door, stumbled over the coffee table, screaming, words that made no sense, just trying to get Martha's attention. It seemed to take an age to get outside. Her limbs were made of lead. The sun bore down on her like an invisible dead weight. Down the path, yard by yard, Martha with her hand on the door of the car.
'Martha!'
Not looking back at the house, the black woman pulled the door handle, opened the rear door, threw the bag in, turned, and smiled at her, puzzled.
'Run,' Helen screamed. 'Run!'
Footsteps, someone walking. She felt for her purse. There was a service pistol somewhere inside. She had no idea if she could remember how to use it.
Martha walked up and said, 'What on earth is the matter with you?'
And a man in denim overalls strode up to the back of the pickup, pulled at one of the sacks, heaved it off the vehicle, onto the ground, grunting. Something like sand spilled out of the mouth.
'Who the hell is he?' she panted.
Martha shrugged. 'Some guy doing some building work on the house next door. If you spent a little more time at home you'd get to notice things like that, young woman.'
'Right.' And this picture in her head — of Belinda Churton, blown to pieces — just refused to go away.
'Gimme the keys,' Martha said. 'One minute to lock up, make sure that cat of yours is happy, and I'll drive you over to the airport. You look like you could use some thinking time on the way.'
'Thanks,' Helen said, climbing into the passenger seat. And prayed she could stop shaking by the time she reached the plane.
CHAPTER 35
Phaeton
In front of them a line of poplars stirred gently in the tenuous evening breeze, making a sound like distant running water. The day was dying slowly in a wash of ochre, and the small town seemed deserted. With Bob Davis leading the way, they walked over the tiny Roman bridge and sat down in the battered plastic chairs parked outside the bar.
'Beer,' Lieberman said, pulling out the videophone, trying to clear his head. They'd walked for miles through heat that defied imagination, a fierce, burning wall of air that was too thin, too hot to breathe. He punched away at the plastic, missing the buttons he was aiming for, and announced, 'If this damn thing still doesn't work, I'm going to stamp on it here and now.'
The bartender came out of the deserted, dark interior. Mo chattered Spanish at him. He looked miserable.
'I hope your gadget works,' she said when he went back inside. 'He says the phone's down.'
'They heard the explosion?' the pilot asked.
She wasn't looking at Davis when she spoke. 'They heard. He says people are scared, Michael. There's talk on the radio about some kind of international crisis, and he doesn't understand it.'
'Join the club.' Lieberman's head hurt. He could feel the dried blood pulling at his scalp. 'Correction. I have had the last piece of scaredness scared right out of me. I am numb. And if that bartender knows his job, I'm about to get even number still.'
Three San Miguels and a Coke arrived at the table. He looked at Annie. She seemed a million miles away. Exhausted, he guessed. It had been a long, slow climb down from the mountain, trying to catch the attention of the occasional passing helicopter, trying to make the videophone come to life. He downed the beer almost in one swallow, ordered another, then turned on the phone. 'Come on, Irwin. Just this once.'
Grey static on the screen, audio scurf out of the speaker.
'Come on…' The LCD found some colour, a picture came together out of dots. Schulz stared back at him from the screen, goggle-eyed.
'Jesus Christ, Michael. We thought you were dead.'
'Not quite. Four of us here: me, Mo, Annie, and Top Gun Mark Two. Please send someone to get us. In a nice, earthbound vehicle, nothing with rotor blades.'
'Sure. Where are you? Things are happening. You okay?'
He looked at Mo.
'By the Roman bridge in town. Outside the bar,' she said.
'You hear that?'
'Yeah. That's a long walk from the mountain.'
'You're telling me. And my head hurts. I guess you must have been too busy to look for us that hard.'
Schulz seemed offended. 'Not so. We had guys out there. Charley let off one big bang. We're only just managing to assess what's left.'
'And?'
Schulz looked grim. 'Let's put it this way. I'm awfully glad NASA has run with that sunshade idea of yours. They're on countdown to launch right now. I'll run a link through to you. We're pretty much out of it as far as talking to Sundog's concerned. Whatever they had up there took out the command centre.'
Lieberman sighed and tried to replay the picture in his mind: the tongue of flame leaping out from underneath the promontory, the long, low concrete building starting to lose its form. And people running everywhere.
'Many hurt?'
'Yeah.' Schulz nodded. 'But it could have been a lot worse. And you guys got away. You don't know how good that makes me feel. Personally and professionally. Those sunshades could save us, Michael. And they have other leads back home too. They think they may have an idea where Charley is running this little show from.'
'Thank God for that. Deserves a drink or two.'
'Don't even think of it. We've got work for you here. Arcadia's about to get on her way. I'll patch through the live feed. Helen will be delighted to hear you're going to be around to hold their hands. She's en route to Vegas right now.'
Vegas? Lieberman couldn't work out why that made him feel uncomfortable. 'Okay. Just send us the limo.' He switched the phone off, wondered where the beer had gone, and looked around to order another.
'Please don't,' Mo said, putting her hand over the glass. A nice little feminine gesture, he thought. One he'd seen more than once in this world. This was a long day, Lieberman thought. So much traffic through his brain.
The pilot was swirling around the dregs in his glass. 'You think he could be right? If they get back that other dome, we could do something with it? Even if the Shuttle idea doesn't work?'