Cally Andros felt disgusted, physically nauseated. And partly it was
with herself. Blame the victim. She wondered if all hostages felt this
way: powerless, angry, and scared. What would she feel next? She had
heard that strange things happened to your mind when you lost all
control. You started forgetting recent events and remembering oddities
from long ago, childhood memories you'd totally repressed, stashed away
somewhere down in the lower cortex. It had already started, dwelling on
her father's death and blaming herself, when the real reason was his
overwork and grief.
And other memories were creeping in, little things that only the child
inside would regard as anything but trivial. That first bumbling sexual
disaster, in the Cal Tech dorm that weekend, when she got drunk, then
threw up on his pillow. She'd repressed that one completely, never told
anybody about that, hoping the memory would just go away. God! It was
horrible. And now it was back, right at the top of the remembrance
file.
More memories, the first year at Bronx Science, when her very first
real date stood her up, and she ended up sitting home all night crying
and praying everybody was going to believe her when she told them she'd
had the cramps and couldn't go out after all. (They didn't. Everybody
found out exactly what had happened.)
Humiliations? Stupid things that meant so much at the time that they
stuck. You felt your life had been a string of mistakes and you wanted
to go back and get it right before you checked out. And try as you
might, you didn't care at all about the triumphs--degrees, ceremonies,
honors. No, all you could remember were the little, trivial things,
joys and sadnesses that were yours alone. Remembrances of trivialities
past. That's what being a hostage was all about.
On the other hand--and she hated herself for this feeling--there was
something almost erotic about men with so much sudden, ill-gotten
power. Evil had its own allure, just as surely as good. Were they just
two opposite sides of the same emotion? Wasn't Satan the real hero of
Paradise Lost ? Was Ramirez that same figure? The sexiness of power.
Bill Bates had the same aura. . . .
Georges and his young staff engineers were sitting listlessly and
staring at their computer screens, looking exhausted and defeated. Bill
had been confined to his office, where he could do nothing but fume
since his radio had been shut down and there was now only one phone
remaining connected to the outside world--the one on her desk, which
they monitored.
It got worse. Isaac was coming in, which meant they'd have a real prize
for a hostage. As if Bill weren't enough, to have a famous American
Jewish professor in hand would be the topping on their whole grab.
She tried to catch Georges's eye, across the room. He seemed to be
drowsing at his terminal, almost as though nothing had happened. Since
he had always held a political stance slightly to the left of Che
Guevara, maybe he secretly enjoyed being taken hostage by these self-
appointed enemies of American Capitalism.
No . . . she saw an eyelid flutter ... he was just faking his calm. He
was scared to death. And he was thinking. About what?
She had done some thinking of her own, about the guy who called himself
Number One, the terrorist now sitting at the other end of Command,
calmly smoking a thin cigar. As she examined him, the gray temples and
perfect tan, the beige sunglasses, she began to find his appearance a
little incongruous. What was it?
Well, for one thing, he looked too perfect. Something about him . . .
He had to be at least in his late forties, but nobody's face looked
like that at his age. It was too smooth, too tight.
Plastic surgery. The bastard had changed his appearance. So who was he,
really? He hadn't given his name, but his face must have mattered once.
Who?
Try and put it together, she told herself. He's not Middle Eastern.
Maybe he's trying to pass as an Arab, but he's not fooling me. No, he's
Latin. It's in the way he moves, the way he brushes at his sleeve, the
way he holds his cigar. He's just like Domingo, the guy in junior year,
who thought he was God's gift to the feminine gender.
Yes, Domingo was a Latin caricature, but this guy has all the same
moves. They can't escape it. They're just so proud of being male. The
ironic part was, half the time Domingo couldn't get it up unless some
act of violence was involved. He liked to dominate, or be dominated.
Power was what he was all about. Power.
Think. Can you use that some way to get to this guy?
No, she told herself, this killer has all the power he needs. He's
about image. And money.
She moved through the rows of workstations, now merely flashing updates
of the status of the various components of the Cyclops system. The
power plant was idling now, the superconducting coil in standby mode.
The crew of technicians, armed with a punch list of post-power-up
items, was checking out the Cyclops itself. The test had been a total
success.
"Miss Andros, you are a beautiful woman." Ramirez glanced up as she
approached. He had seemed to be meditating on his cigar, inspecting the
ash as he slowly allowed it to accumulate. "I was wondering why a
creature of such beauty would want to submit herself to this kind of
manly trade?"
"Not as 'manly' a trade as yours. Killing for profit." She felt her
anger coming back, and her courage. "As far as I'm concerned, there's
no difference between a so-called 'terrorist' and a common murderer.
You disgust me."
His face flushed for a millisecond as he impassively drew on his cigar.
"It would be better if you would consider me, and the rest of these
men, as economic freedom fighters. Perhaps I'm a modern-day Robin
Hood."
"Right." She felt like spitting on him, a definitely unladylike
response. "You steal from the rich and give to yourself. But you've
made a big mistake this time. All you're going to do is ruin SatCom."
"Ruin you?" He seemed amused at the notion, taking another puff on his
cigar. "I have no desire to ruin your precious American corporation. As
a matter of fact, I'm going to make you the beneficiary of a billion
dollars' worth of free publicity. Truly, no money in the world could
purchase what I am about to do for you. And all I want in return is to
borrow your Cyclops laser for a few days. If anything, you should pay
me . . . though there will be others to do that."
"I don't know who you expect to come up with any money. It sure as hell
isn't going to be SatCom. We're totally tapped out. If this launch
doesn't meet our schedule, day after tomorrow, a bunch of banks in
Geneva and Tokyo are going to take us over. And I doubt very much
they're going to pay off you and your goons. They'll tell you to go
screw yourself."
"They can do whatever they wish. They're not the ones who're going to
pay." There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. "We are going to make
the Americans pay. For their crimes against the Muslim peoples of the
world."
'That's a lot of crap." She hated the man, really hated him. "You don't
care a damn about the 'Muslim peoples,' do you, senor?"
He pulled up sharply and stared at her, startled. For the first time
since he had barged in, he seemed momentarily at a loss for words. But
he covered it quickly by reaching out to tap his cigar ash into a half-
filled trash can.
"What are you suggesting?"
"You're a fake, through and through." Keep him on the defensive, she
thought. "As phony as they come. Who are you, really?"
His composure was returning, an instinct for chivalry that could
operate on autopilot if need be. "I'm flattered by your interest in me,
but who I am need not concern you. All you need to worry about is
following my instructions. Then you and I will get along nicely."
"Listen, you creep, there's no way we are going to get along, nicely or
otherwise." She felt her resolve growing. "You don't know me. I'm going
to fight you with everything I have. You're going to have to kill me to
stop me."
"Do yourself a favor, Miss Andros." He pulled again on his cigar,
inhaling the harsh smoke. "Don't make that necessary."