“And how the hell did all this—?”
“I’m not done. Phone records for her palmcom: nothing unusual until about 6:40. Then it’s like a cheap spy novel. Call to the Chinese Consulate. Return call from them four minutes later. Call to Beijing, World Confederation Provisional offices. Return call six minutes later. Call to a secure land line in China that we can’t trace and probably would start a war if we tried. Which means she was talking with Someone Big. Possibly Ching himself. Seven-minute conversation. And about ten minutes after that, all the travel plans and clearances start blizzarding across the State Department’s night watch desk. Which called in the Deputy Secretary to verify it.”
Who the hell did Elena know in the Chinese government? Had she struck up and maintained an exchange with Ching when, after Dad’s death, he had called the family with his personal condolences? Or was Elena just trading on name recognition, relying upon the strong implications that Dad and Ching had crafted some pretty high-power agreements before the Parthenon Dialogs—and that they had grown to admire each other in the process? Or maybe both?
“Hey, Trevor, we’re not done.”
“Oh. Sorry, Duncan. What else?”
“Here’s the real kicker. Just thirty-four minutes ago, her palmcom was—”
The line went dead.
For the fourth time, Downing waited for Elena to answer her palmcom. And waited. Then—after almost a full minute—he was greeted by the innocuous intonations of a prerecorded message. “Hello. We’re sorry, but the individual you are trying to reach has discontinued service and has not registered any forwarding information. We regret any inconvenience this might cause you—”
There was a brief flash like distant heat lightning, hardly bright enough to be noticed over Papillon’s subdued lighting.
“—and we hope—”
The line went dead.
So did Downing’s palmcom and his watch. The espresso machine guttered to a halt. The faux art nouveau clock over the bar stopped ticking. The light winked out on the cash register a split second before the overheads flicked off. Downing stood, knowing what he would—and did—hear next. There were several crashes in the street, cars suddenly drifting without control, carrying drivers who had forgotten the government’s warning when the Arat Kur had first arrived in orbit: know where your handbrake is and how to use it. And there would be no active passenger protection devices deploying to save their lives. Here or in New York or Berlin or Tokyo or Beijing. He only hoped that the bloc leaders had listened to the intel warnings, or had seen it coming themselves, and stopped the trains a few minutes before the deadline had run out.
The waiter came to stand next to Downing and, for the first time, failed to offer him more water. “Some kind of power failure, huh?”
Downing shook his head. “No. Some kind of attack. EM pulse bombs. Probably a few miles up.”
“What? I didn’t hear anything—”
“You wouldn’t.” Downing hoped his smile wasn’t as sadly patronizing as it felt. “These bombs don’t really explode. They send out a wave of electromagnetic energy that overloads electrical systems, particularly if they’re unshielded, operating at the time of detonation, or are connected to a large active power grid.”
“You mean—?” The waiter dug frantically in the pocket of his black slacks, produced his own palmcom. “You mean—? Oh, man, they fried it. The bastards fried my ’com. That’s just—just wrong. How am I going to get things done? How am I gonna call my friends?”
Downing looked at the outraged young man and tried not to smile. You don’t know the half of it yet, Sunshine. Just wait until you try to get the train home, cook some dinner, and turn up the heat.
Downing turned and looked back out the window, saw a hint of fire growing at the nexus of a three-car collision two intersections away and noticed a few flakes of snow starting to drift down. I hope it’s not a cold winter. But either way, it’s going to be the coldest you’ve ever lived through, Sunshine.
Downing went to the door, got his coat while the staff stood gaping down the street and into the darkness around them. At least it wasn’t going to take too long to get to San Diego by secure government train now.
Because, for the next few days at least, there wasn’t going to be a lot of rail traffic in the way.
Beyond the closed bathroom door, Djoko could hear the bule Riordan groaning faintly. Shit, I get all the lousiest jobs. He turned and looked at his fellow guard. The Arat Kur—or Roach, as people were calling them—rotated to look back up at Djoko. Disgusting. He banged on the door. “Hurry up! We’ve got to—”
All the lights went out. The steady hum of the air-conditioners faded.
Shit.
From far down the corridor—the men’s room had been quite a walk—Djoko heard his sergeant yell. “Hey, get a move on!”
“I can’t! The bule is still in there.”
“Well, make him come out. We’re going outside. Can’t see to put the batteries back in our palmcomps. Hurry up!”
“I’m hurrying!” Djoko yelled back, and then muttered, “Anda keparat.”
Beyond the door, the toilet flushed and then the tap started running. Djoko was grateful that both of them still functioned. He had been unsure if any of the running water in the high-tech complex would work without electricity. Well, any minute now, the bule will come out and we can—
Beyond the door, the bule ambassador cried out: a yell of inarticulate pain.
The Roach’s eyes rotated up swiftly toward Djoko. “Human needs help?” came out of its translator, accompanied by the faint chittering of its natural “voice.”
Djoko felt himself start to sweat, probably more from nerves than the subtly rising heat and humidity in the dark hallway. What was he supposed to do? No one had given him any orders about what steps to take if—
The toilet flushed again and the bule was now either choking or coughing. Then he groaned hoarsely. “I think—I need help. I’m bleeding—I need—” There was no further speech, but a moment later, Djoko heard a heavy, limp thud beyond the door.
The Roach started, its eyes shifting toward Djoko. “You help!”
“I don’t know—”
“You help,” it chittered/spoke again. “I notify leaders.” The oversized bug spun about and skittered quickly back down the corridor.
Djoko looked after it for a second, annoyed to take orders from an alien cockroach, then listened. Still no sound—but the water, which was still running, had started to seep out from under the door. Ah, shit—He did not know what he could do to help, but his sergeant would flay him skinless if he stood outside and did nothing. He pushed open the door.
Almost complete darkness, except for a tiny spindle of light coming from higher up on the far wall, just above his head. He approached, feeling for the bule ambassador with his feet, wondered what the light was coming from. “Ambassdur?” he asked in uncertain English—just as he discovered what the light was.
The bule had removed the grate covering the air duct into the room. Two screws lay just inside the exposed ventilation shaft. An escape? Except, now that Djoko looked carefully, the duct was too small for even him to fit into, much less a bule that was easily six foot tall—