“I like it,” he says.
“Thought you might,” replies Lynx.
Tunnel walls surge past as the train charges ever deeper into the world beneath the mountains. On the zone, Spencer’s watching grids dance within his head. He’s pulling strings across the Eurasian zone, closing in on the moves that will take him and Sarmax to the next level within this place.
But he’s also trying to make sense of a whole new factor. He’s realizing just how out there the man who called himself Alek Jarvin was. The handler’s book consists of hundreds upon hundreds of pages of symbols, grids, numbers. And letters, of course: Spencer reckons he’s dealing with at least six different alphabets. None of which are even remotely discernible. The only thing he can make out is the initial section that Sarmax spoke of. Which seems to serve as a preface. Written in a low-rent cypher that was easy enough to crack, probably because all it does is make promises.
Though threats might be a better word. It goes on and on about a Eurasian weapon that will change the face of war. A device so revolutionary that nothing the Americans can put into the field will stand against it. Spencer wonders whether it’s for real—wonders if Jarvin transcribed what he’s reading from Eurasian propaganda. He wonders why he didn’t sell the details to the Americans if he really had them. Was CICom’s rogue handler killed by Sarmax before he could? Or was he playing his own game? Did he give up on America because he’d been declared a traitor? Did he send his nation’s agents on a wild-goose chase? Spencer knows there’s only one way to find out. He sets his own software upon the cyphers—even as the software continues to run patterns on the place around him too—and on the train that’s now moving in on parallel rails behind the one he’s on. It’s a lot shorter, gaining steadily on the flatcar and the jet-copter that sits upon it. Within the jet-copter, one of the officers starts giving orders. Spencer and Sarmax get to their feet, open the copter door, and hop out.
As they steady themselves upon the flatcar, more freight cars haul alongside theirs. The door of one of the cars is open. Suited soldiers are standing there, extending some kind of makeshift bridge. Spencer and Sarmax grab it as it reaches them and secure it to the flatcar. More soldiers are leaping from the door of the jet-copter, pulling prisoners along with them—past Spencer and Sarmax, onto the bridge and into the arms of the soldiers who wait on the other side.
Fifteen prisoners later, and the bridge retracts. The freight car’s doors slide shut, and the train beside them accelerates. Cars stream past Spencer’s visor, leaving tunnel wall flashing in their wake.
“Any idea where they’re going?” says Sarmax.
“Probably where we want to be.”
“But you don’t know where.”
“When I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
“You’re saying we’re high and dry?”
“Actually I think we’re under arrest.”
“What?”
Looks that way. The other soldiers on the flatcar are pointing guns at them. One of the officers steps forward. The sergeant flanks him.
“Spies,” he says in Russian.
“That’s a lie,” says Spencer in the same tongue. But he and Sarmax are getting worked over now by their fellow soldiers, who start stripping ammo from their suits, disengaging their guns, detaching and then removing their helmets.
“What the hell are we guilty of?” says Sarmax.
“Being American,” says the officer.
“Sir,” says Spencer, “that’s not true.”
“It’s total rubbish,” says Sarmax.
“You’re the rubbish,” says the sergeant.
“And you can take it up with them,” says the officer, gesturing at the rail. Something else is emerging from the darkness, moving along the train’s cars, catching up with the flatcar, matching speeds. It’s a single gun car, running sleek and low to the rail, not much higher than the flatcar. Another bridge extends.
“Get them in there,” says the officer.
Soldiers start hustling Spencer and Sarmax onto the bridge. The anxious look on the soldiers’ faces isn’t due to the narrowness of the bridge they’re on. It’s the dreaded military intelligence insignia upon the gun car. The soldiers shove Spencer and Sarmax inside and hastily retrace their steps.
The door closes behind Spencer and Sarmax. They’re standing in a railcar, a cockpit at each end, and a turret hatch in the ceiling. A driver’s sitting in the cockpit that faces forward. He doesn’t look round, just hits the throttle. Spencer grabs onto the wall to steady himself, looks at the driver’s back.
“Uh … hello?”
Legs emerge from the turret. A man drops down to face them. He wears a Russian captain’s uniform and a scruffy beard. He looks at them.
“Your codes,” he says.
Spencer transmits codes. The man salutes.
“Sir,” he says. “What now?”
“Now we root out the state’s enemies,” says Spencer.
“Any news from HK?”
“Those scientists are a poison pill. We’ve got a traitor on the loose.”
“As we feared.”
“Worse than that. The West’s involved. They’re trying to take advantage of the scientist roundups to infiltrate some of their agents. And someone in this place is turning a blind eye. We’ve got to proceed with utmost caution.”
“We’ll have to,” says the captain. “This place is moving onto full war footing. It’s like we’re expecting an attack at any moment.”
“Or else we’re going to launch one,” says Spencer. “Something the traitors might be counting on. I need your data, and I need it quickly.”
“Take the rear cockpit,” says the captain. “Access whatever you need from there.”
Spencer turns. The captain goes up to confer with the driver. Sarmax joins Spencer in the rear cockpit, activates the one-on-one.
“What kind of a fucking plan is this?” he demands.
“I figured we might not have enough leverage on escort duty,” replies Spencer. “So I’ve been running some scenarios to get us a better view.”
“By working with this guy?”
“The captain’s just an errand boy, Leo. Albeit a discreet one. He thinks our infiltration of the escort was part of our cover. That our arrest will make any traitors rest easy.”
“But there aren’t any traitors.”
“If there are, more power to ’em. Now how about we start the investigation?” Spencer leans forward, starts punching commands into the terminal.
“How about you keep me in the loop going forward?”
“You’re one to talk.”
“I outrank you, Lyle.”
“Look,” says Spencer. “I had to be sure they weren’t hacking our one-on-one link. Anything we said there had to be chalked up to part of the cover.”