But Sasaki’s reaction was disappointing. Her eyes widened briefly—surprise?—and then narrowed into a questioning, almost disbelieving gaze. “Located or caught?”
“Located. That’s why I have to leave. I’m taking four locals from security and the two top systems texperts with me.”
“Where is he? Is it a he?”
“The Pacific Northwest. Oregon. I’m not sure on the other.”
She frowned. “Then this is hardly an authoritative identification, is it?”
“No. Not yet. We have two addresses, one a business. We’ll sort it out when we get there.”
“He tracks you,” Sasaki said, fretting. “He will be gone before you arrive.”
“He tracks my screamer,” said Dryke. “Which is leaving any minute for Chile, with appropriate disinformation on the bounce. I’m going off the net until I have him. There’ll be nothing out there to point to where I am, and I’m telling no one but you.”
“He may already be gone.”
“The line’s been active within the half hour.”
She nodded, accepting the point. “What was the break? Was it Katrina Becker?”
“No. Becker has been—immovable.” Dryke smiled coldly. “No, it was the bragging that got him. We backtraced his rant over the Munich hit past the Albuquerque node which had stopped us the last time. This time we had more ears to the ground and matched to a dedicated line.”
“How easily?”
“What?”
“I remind you of your discourse on the art of fishing, and the lesson of the great fish.”
Dryke stared, the self-congratulation leaving his face. “I have a good feeling about this, Hiroko.”
“You are too valuable to lose to a feeling,” she said. “If an Evan Silverman was willing to kill a Malena Graham for such little gain, would a Jeremiah hesitate to kill you?”
“I won’t give him that chance.”
Frowning, she wrapped her arms around herself. “Mikhail, I am most serious about insisting that you examine your judgment. You received the failure of the Munich operation and the death of Malena as personal defeats. You may have perceived them as blows to your prestige. Am I unreasonable to think that Mikhail Dryke might be so eager to restore himself in my eyes that he would alter the equation of risk?”
He looked away, up toward one corner of the ceiling, and sighed. “No,” he said finally. “You’re not unreasonable.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’re wrong,” Dryke added. “This is Jeremiah, and I can get to him.”
Her hands slid down the sleeves of her kimono until her arms were crossed over her chest in a more forceful pose. “Despite the week’s events, I do not require vindication of your competence, Mikhail. And I do not welcome assurances spoken by the voice of personal pride.”
Dryke felt himself bristling. “We’ve been closing in on him all year. Every time he spoke, every stunt he pulled. There were already signs pointing in this direction. This is consistent with all of them.”
“And it is exactly when all is as expected that the wary may become inattentive, and a trick most effectively employed. I ask only that you exercise prudent caution.”
To be reminded by Sasaki of such an elementary principle stung Dryke’s pride. “If you really believed in me, you wouldn’t need to ask that.”
“Have I lost the right to question you, Mikhail?” she asked, eyebrow arching. “What message should I read in your defensiveness—insecurity, or impatience? Either would be reason to send someone else in your place.”
Drawing a quick breath, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then looked at her and nodded. “You’re right. My apology.”
“Not necessary,” she said, relaxing. “But accepted.”
“It is personal. I don’t deny it,” said Dryke. “I want him. But that won’t make me reckless. Just the opposite—I’ll be that much more careful. I’ve been chasing Jeremiah long enough. I want it to be over.”
“As do I,” Sasaki said. “As do I. May your journey be fruitful. Report to me at first opportunity.”
“I will. But there’s something else we need to settle. Do I still have authority? Will you support me?”
She studied him for a long time, her eyes deep crystal black and unblinking. “Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“But be sure. Be very sure.”
“I will.” He glanced at his watch. “The others should be ready. I have to go,” he said, and started for the door. Then he paused and added, “I nearly forgot—”
“Yes?”
“Word came in while you were in the convo. The command and navigation package is safely aboard the ship.”
That earned a smile. “I am glad to hear it.”
“Feist says that the virus turned up with every archive copy of the package on site in Munich. All five of them. Every time they tried a restore, the virus would come up, look for its parent on the main net, and go crazy when it came up missing.”
“Then consider yourself vindicated,” said Sasaki. “Can you tell me now where the operational copy was stored?”
Dryke grinned. “In a bulk cargo cask in the holding yard at Palima Point, waiting for a cheap ride to orbit.”
“Tagged as what?” Sasaki’s eyebrows were frowning.
“As the personal freight of a new Takara immigrant, one Atsuji Matsushita.”
“Did he know?”
“The only person who knew was Matt Reid, who had to make the intercept.”
“And the awkward questions from Mr. Matsushita, wondering what’s become of his socks?”
“For the price of his immigration fee, Mr. Matsushita was prevailed upon to help smuggle some contraband up to the colony,” said Dryke. “Believe me, he’ll be too scared to ask any questions about its disappearance.”
An hour later, Dryke’s team boarded the tube at the DFW transplex. Already dispersed through the waiting line, the five men and two women ended up scattered between six different compartments on the two-car train.
Dryke, with an end seat in number 9 of the second car, was able to watch through the window as the containerized cargo and luggage slid on board below his feet. He wondered if the team’s kits had passed railway scrutiny; the bags did not carry the Federal Weapons License scanner tags to which he and the corpsecs were entitled. Although that limited their options, it also avoided a verification call-out, which could alert Jeremiah of their approach.
At the Phoenix interline station, the team separated into two groups. The texperts drew the longer route, the Midlands tube back to Chicago, then west again to Seattle, where they would wait for Dryke’s call. Dryke and the four corpsecs stayed on board for the coast run to Portland.
The elderly woman at his left was garrulously inquisitive, but Dryke was not interested in conversation. Before long, he detached the eyecup display and earpieces from his slate and donned the slender headset which held them, pointedly withdrawing to the artificial reality they created.
But it was hard to make the time pass quickly, impossible to calm his inner restlessness. The correlation files and quicksearch reports stored in his slate were dry as a brittle leaf. And the DBS link of the expensive Korean-made slate was useless a hundred meters underground. The train was isolated from the direct broadcast skylinks, except for what the National Railway chose to relay from surface antennas—and to sell by the minute to its captive audience. But Drake could not afford to have his account show any activity, especially not aboard a tube.
He realized suddenly that he was tired. The adrenaline that had sustained him through the preparations was gone, leaving him weary-limbed and energyless. His kit contained antifatigue tablets, but it was just as well that they were out of reach. Watchman worked as advertised, but exacted a horrible price when it finally wore off.