The group quieted; the mood had changed. Their quarry had turned and bared teeth. Now, the hunt would be in earnest. The next jackal that jumped in tried to attack a different flank. “Mr. Riordan, is it true that you were present when Admiral Corcoran died after the Parthenon Dialogues?”
Caine pushed away the mixed emotions that Nolan’s name summoned. The ex-admiral-turned-clandestine-mastermind had arguably ruined Riordan’s life, but had also striven to make amends and forge an almost paternal bond. Caine heard himself reply, “No comment,” just as the maglev car rose, sighed away from the platform, and headed off with a down-dopplering hum.
“Mr. Riordan, do you have any insights into how Admiral Corcoran’s alleged ‘heart attack’ occurred?”
“Why do you call it an ‘alleged’ heart attack?”
“Well, it’s a rather strange coincidence, don’t you think? First, you were reportedly present for Admiral Corcoran’s heart attack in Greece, and then for the similarly fatal heart attack suffered by his Annapolis classmate and crony, Senator Arvid Tarasenko, less than forty-eight hours later in DC. Comment?”
“Firstly, I don’t recall any prior assertions that I was near Senator Tarasenko at the time of his death—”
“Well, an anonymous source puts you in his office just before—”
An anonymous source like Astor-Smath, I’ll bet. “Madam, until you have verifiable information from verifiable sources, I’m not disposed to comment on my whereabouts at that time. In the more general matter of the heart attacks of Misters Corcoran and Tarasenko, I cannot see any reasonable explanation except coincidence.” Which was superficially true; Caine had no other explanation for the heart attacks that had, within the span of two days, removed the two leaders of the shadowy organization which had sent him to Delta Pavonis Three: the Institute of Reconnaissance, Intelligence, and Security, or IRIS. On the other hand, Caine remained convinced that the two deaths had been orchestrated. Somehow. “Timing aside, there’s not much surprising in either of these sad events. Admiral Corcoran never fully recovered from the coronary damage he suffered during the mission to intercept the Doomsday Rock twenty-six years ago. And Senator Tarasenko was not a thin man. His doctors’ warnings to watch his weight and cholesterol are a matter of public record.”
Tasting no blood, the jackals tried nipping at a different topic. “Mr. Riordan, our research shows that you spent most of the last fourteen years in cold sleep. And that your ‘friend’ Captain Opal Patrone was cryogenically suspended over fifty years ago. What prompted each of you to abandon the times in which you lived?”
As if choice had anything to do with it. “In the matter of the recently promoted Major Patrone, she’s the one you should ask about her reasons.” Hard to do, since Opal’s on Earth by now. “But I can assure you that she did not ‘abandon’ her time period. She was severely wounded serving her country. In that era, her choice was between cryogenic suspension and death.”
“And your reason for sleeping into the future?”
“Is none of your business.” And is a non sequitur, since it wasn’t my choice. Caine had simply stumbled across IRIS’s secret activities, which had earned him an extended nap in a cold-cell. “Next question.”
“A follow-up on your long absence from society, sir. Some analysts have speculated that, as a person from another time, you were just the kind of untraceable operative needed for a covert survey and research mission to Dee Pee Three. What would you say in response to that speculation?”
Caine smiled, hoped it didn’t look as brittle as it felt. I’d say it’s too damned perceptive. Aloud: “I’d say they have excellent imaginations, and could probably have wonderful careers writing political thrillers.”
Bad-Skin Worse-Hair jumped back into the melee. “Stop evading the questions, Riordan. And stop playing the innocent. You knew that the Parthenon Dialogues were going to be biggest news-splash of the century. So did you also advise the World Confederation on how to shroud the Dialogues in enough secrecy to pump up the media hype? Which in turn pumped up your consultancy fees?”
Caine stepped toward the young reporter, who hastily stepped back, apparently noticing for the first time that Caine’s rangy six-foot frame was two inches taller than his own and decidedly more fit. Riordan kept his voice low, calm. “It’s bad enough that you’re plying a trade for which you haven’t the aptitude or integrity, but you could at least check your conclusions against the facts. Without commenting one way or the other about my alleged involvement with the Parthenon Dialogues, it must be clear to anyone—even you—that the world leaders who attended were grappling with global issues of the utmost importance, and that the secrecy surrounding them was a policy decision, not a PR stunt. In short, whoever brought information to the Parthenon Dialogues may have delivered a sensational story, but not for sensational purposes.”
But if that admonishment curbed the jackals momentarily, Caine could already see signs that they would soon regroup and resume their hunt for an inconsistency into which they could sink their collective investigatory teeth. And there were still at least five minutes before the next passenger car arrived. Five minutes in which even these bumbling pseudo-sleuths might begin to realize that the real story was not to be found in the storm and fury of Parthenon itself, but rather, in the surreptitious actions that had been its silent and unnoticed prelude. They might begin asking how the mission to Delta Pavonis had come to be, and—in the necessary nebulousness of Caine’s responses—discern the concealed workings, and therefore existence, of some unseen agency. An agency that was unknown even to the world’s most extensive intelligence organizations—because its select membership dwelt amongst their very ranks. An agency, in short, like IRIS—
From behind Caine, the maglev rails hummed into life, braking and hushing the approach of a passenger car. Surprised by the early arrival of the train, Caine turned—and saw that this passenger car was a half-sized private model, furnished with tinted one-way windows. The pack of reporters fell silent as the doors hissed open—
—to reveal a shapely blonde woman, sitting at the precise center of the brushed chrome and black vinyl interior. She smiled. It was a familiar smile.
Caine grimaced.
Ensign Brahen looked from the woman to Caine. “Isn’t that Heather Kirkwood? Isn’t she a reporter? A real reporter? On Earth?”
Caine resisted the urge to close his eyes. “She is that. And worse.”
“Worse?”
“She’s my ex.”
“Your—?”
Heather cocked her head, showed a set of perfect teeth that were definitely more appealing—and far more ominous—than those possessed by the half-ring of jackals surrounding them. She crooked an index finger at Caine. “You coming? Or are you enjoying your impromptu press conference too much to leave?”
If possible, Ensign Brahen’s incredulous eyes opened even wider. “Do we go with her?”
Caine sighed. “Do we have a choice?” He led the way into the car.
Chapter Two
It was typical of Admiral Martina Perduro that she started talking as soon as Trevor Corcoran opened the door. “Well, Captain, ready to ship out?”
The admiral’s tone was jocular, so Trevor replied in kind. “Not at all, ma’am.” He attempted to conceal his slight limp with a bouncing stride. “Heck, I was just getting used to the luxury billets here at The Pearl.”