"So this is the Bates Motel I've heard so much about," Vance said,
casting a glance down the dull, cinderblock walls. "Hitchcock's version
had a lot more character."
"You're right," Cally agreed. "But wait till you see what it's like
upstairs. It sort of gives new meaning to the phrase no frills.' A hell
of a place to cut corners, given all the money Bill poured into this
facility, but he said he wasn't building a resort." She gestured around
the utilities room, where a maze of insulated steam and hot-water pipes
crisscrossed above their heads like a huge white forest. "Anyway,
welcome back to the slightly unreal real world."
"Maybe what we need is less reality, not more. But if you can find us a
beer, I think I could start getting the hang of the place. Let's just
try not to bump into anybody."
"Okay, my feeling is that if we stay out of Level Three, upstairs,
we'll be all right. That's got to be where they're holding everybody
who's not on duty. Locked away for safekeeping."
They had entered Level One via a trapdoor in the stone water conduit
that picked up waste heat from the environmental control unit in the
residential quarters. Around them now was silence, save for the clicks
and hums of motors and pumps.
"All right, who do we see about something to eat?" He had just finished
drinking deeply from a spigot on one of the incoming cold-water pipes.
Even though he was still soaking wet from the trip through the conduit,
he was feeling severely dehydrated and the water tasted delicious, as
though it had come from a well deep in the island's core. It had.
"You see me," she replied. "We're going to head straight for the
kitchen. There's got to be something edible there. So let's take the
elevator up and see what's on the menu. I think today was supposed to
be calamari."
"I'd settle for a simple American T-bone if you've got one in the
freezer. The more American the better. I'm sort of down on Greece at
the moment."
"You can have pretty much what you want here. As long as it's not a
pizza or a decent hamburger." She was pushing the button to summon the
elevator. The lights above the door told the story of the facility:
three levels, with the top being the living quarters; Level Two being
services such as food preparation and laundry; Level One, utilities.
"Hit two," she said as the bell chimed, and she stepped on, taking one
last glance about the basement. The elevator whisked them up quickly,
then opened onto another empty hallway.
"You know," she said, her voice virtually a whisper, "this corridor is
almost always full of people. I guess they really do have everybody
confined to quarters. Lucky us."
"They're thorough, and they know what they're doing. They--"
That's when he noticed the line of explosives that had been placed
along the wall next to the elevator, neat yellow bars of Semtex,
wrapped in cellophane. The first was wired to a detonator, which was in
turn connected to a digital timer.
"Hello, take a look." He nodded down. "Guess my wild hunch was right.
They're not planning to leave any witnesses when this is over. When
they're finished, they'll just pack everybody in here and blow up the
place. Nice and tidy. Won't even interfere with the computers, just in
case they need to keep them running for a while after they leave."
He bent down and examined the timer, now scrolling the minutes in red
numbers. It was set to blow in just over twenty-nine hours.
"Guess we just got the inside track on their timetable."
"My God," she said, looking at the device as though it were a cobra.
"Can't we just turn it off?"
"Sooner or later we'd better, but it's still got plenty of time left on
it." His voice turned slightly wistful. "Tell you the truth, I'd rather
some of the guys from ARM did it. I'm slightly chicken when it comes to
bomb-squad operations. Cut the wrong wire and . . . eternity takes on a
whole new perspective." He shrugged. "Also, there's a chance it's
booby-trapped somehow. The thing's a little too obvious, sitting out
here in plain view. When something looks too easy, I always get
suspicious. Maybe for no reason, but . . ." He motioned her away. "I
suggest we forget about that for now and focus on finding a steak. I
also wouldn't fling a hot shower back in your face."
"That's only on Level Three. It may have to wait." She took his arm.
"Come on. I don't like being around bombs, even if they have timers."
She led the way down the abandoned corridor, its lighting fluorescent
and its floor covered with gray industrial carpet. There was a total,
almost palpable silence about the place that made it feel all the more
eerie and abandoned. It seemed utterly strange and alien.
"The kitchen is in here," she said, pushing open a large steel door.
Vance stepped in and surveyed it: all the fixtures needed for a mess
that served several hundred people three meals daily. In fact, it
looked as though the evening's cleanup operation had been halted in
mid-wash. Dirty pots sat cold on the big industrial stoves, and piles
of half-peeled vegetables were on the wide aluminum tables. The storage
lockers, refrigerators, and freezers were located across the room,
opposite.
"By the way." He had a sudden thought. 'This place must have TV
monitors somewhere, am I right? Every other place here does."
"Well, you're right and you're wrong. It does, but they're on the
blink. It always seemed like a stupid idea anyway, almost like spying,
and then one day somebody just cut the wires. Probably one of the
cooks. I never bothered getting them fixed. I just couldn't think of
any good reason to bother."
"Well, for once laziness paid off. Maybe we're safe here for a while."
He had opened the freezer. "Hello, Lady Luck has decided to get with
the program." He was pulling out two thick steaks. "Care to join me?"
"Those are there for Bill," she noted, then laughed. "I'd still rather
have a pizza, but I don't guess he'll mind if we dip into his private
stock."
"So I repeat the question." He was already unwrapping two, both thick.
"Yes, of course. I'm famished." She shivered. "And I also wouldn't mind
a set of dry clothes."
"Maybe one of these will warm you up." He was popping the steaks into a
gleaming white microwave for a quick thaw.
"Right."
"And while dinner is coming along, how about drawing me a diagram of
what's up there. Maybe we can go up later, take a look around."
"Let's eat first. I'm too wired to think." She switched on one of the
large, black electric grills. "My vote is that we just sit tight for
now."
And why not? This man with the sexy eyes and healthy laugh attracted
her. Mercurial in his spirits, he appeared willing to take chances.
Just the way she remembered her father. And Alan. But she wondered why
he was here risking his life for a bunch of total strangers. Even Alan
wouldn't have done that.
"You know, Mike Vance, I have to tell you, you don't look much like a
commando."
"Guess what? I'm not."
"You know what I mean. For that matter, you don't look like the guys
who came and installed our wonderful security system. I'd like to know
your real story."
"How are retired archaeologists supposed to look? But I wasn't good
enough at it, or maybe I was too good at it--I'm not sure which--and as a
result I ended up doing what I really wanted to for a living. Running a
sailboat business." He looked her over. "You seem to like what you're
doing, too. And from what I've seen, I'd say Bill's getting a bargain,
no matter what he's paying you."
She laughed. "I'd say you're an even better bargain. He's getting you
for free."
"Freebies are only a deal if they pan out." He lifted their steaks out
of the microwave and flipped them onto the grill. They immediately
sizzled deliciously, a sound he had loved since he was a child growing
up in Pennsylvania. It all mingled together with the scent of trees and
summer.
"God, those smell great." She came over to take a look. "I think the
aroma is giving me some backbone. There's nothing like the smell of
grease."
"I figured you'd come around." He patted her chastely on the back, half
imagining it was farther down, then lifted one of the steaks to see how
they were going. Well. Just like his spirits.
But now she was moving off again into a space of her own. She
scrutinized his weathered face, feeling a little hopeful that maybe,
finally, she had run across somebody like Alan. Though she still hardly
knew a damned thing about him.
"With people I meet for the first time, I like to play a little game,"
she said finally. "It's always interesting to try and guess. What are
they really like? Does character show?"
"What happens if you guess right?" He nudged a steak. "Do you own their
soul? Like some primitive tribes think a photograph captures their
spirit?"
"Guess you'll have to find out, won't you?" She checked him over again.
"Okay." He smiled and gave her the same look back. "But it's only fair
if we both get to play. So, if one of us hits the truth, what happens
then. Do we get to go for Double Jeopardy?"
"Be warned. The prince who learns the princess's secrets can end up
getting more than he bargained for." She came back, full of feeling.
Then she paused for a second, thinking, and began. "All right, I get to
go first. Woman's prerogative. And I want to start with the sailboat--
what did you call it? _Odyssey_ _II_?--and what it says about you. I
think it means you're a doer, not a talker. I like that."
"Maybe." He felt uncomfortable, not sure what to say, so he decided to
let it pass. "Now it's my turn." He leaned back and examined her,
hoping to get it right. Make a good first impression. Ignore the fact
she's a knockout, he lectured himself, at least for now. Look for the
inner woman.
"You like it here," he started. "But the isolation means everybody
knows everybody. No privacy. And you're a very private person. So--to
use that famous cliche--you bury yourself in your work. You could be
happier."
"That goes for you, too," she quickly began, a little startled that his
first insight had been so close to the mark. "And you're a loner. The
good news is . . . I think you're pretty loyal. To friends. To women.
The downside is you keep your friends to a close circle."
"Hey, I'd almost think you've been reading my mail." He seemed vaguely
discomfited. "But I'll bet you suffer from the same malady. You made
some tight friends early on, but not much in that department since.
They're all engineers, and mostly you talk shop. Oh, and no women. You
want them but you don't respect them enough. They're not as committed
as you are. In fact, your last good friend was in college. Sometimes
you have trouble getting next to anybody."
"Well, for the record I'll admit that my best friend was from before
college, and it's a he. Georges." She decided to skip over the matter
of Alan Harris. He had been a friend as well as a lover. A good friend,
or so she thought. Once. "But I think the buzzer just went off. Game
over."
"Whoa, don't bail out now, just when it's getting good. This was your
idea, remember? And I'm not through." He leaned back. "Okay, let's
really get tough. Go personal. You figure falling for some guy might
just end up breaking your heart. Maybe it already happened to you once
or twice. So these days you don't let things go too far." He rubbed at
his chin as he studied her. "How'm I doing?"
"The rules of the game don't include having to answer questions." She
took a deep breath. Mike Vance was definitely better at this than she'd
reckoned. "But if you want to keep going, we'll have round two. Back to
you. I'd guess you're always in control, or you want to be. So what
happens is, you co-opt the things and people around you, make them work
for you. And from the way things have gone so far, I'd say luck seems
to be on your side; some people are like that and you're one of them."
"Don't be too sure." He checked the steaks again, then flipped them
over. They were coming along nicely, the fat around the edge beginning
to char the way he liked. "Luck always has a way of running out
eventually."
"Tell me about it . . ." she said, letting her voice trail off.
"But I'd also guess you're a homebody in your soul. You like a roaring
fire and a glass of wine and a good book over going out to paint the
town."
"And you're probably just the opposite. You want to be out in the sun
and wind and rain. Sitting around bores you."
"Guilty." He nodded. "Now for round three. That glass of wine you have
with the book is probably something tame. Say, Chablis."
"You drink . . . mmmm, let me see. Scotch is too mundane. I'll bet it's
tequila. Straight."
"You're psychic. But you missed the lime."
"Oh, I almost forgot the most important thing." She grew somber. "You
like a good battle. So taking on these thugs is going to be the most
fun you've had all week."
"That's where you just went off the track." His eyes narrowed, the
corners crinkling. "We're definitely on the wrong end of the odds here.
These bastards are dug in, they've probably got A-bombs, and we know
for sure they've got a lot of helpless people in their grasp. That's
not a recipe for heroics. It's more like one for pending tragedy." He
paused, deciding it was definitely time to change the subject.
"Speaking of tragedies, it would be a major one if we didn't have a
Greek salad to go with those steaks."
He walked over and checked the fridge. Sure enough, there was a massive
bowl of ripe, red tomatoes sitting next to a pile of crisp cucumbers.
Most important of all, there was a huge chunk of white feta cheese.
Yep, the chef had to be Greek. And up there, on a high kitchen shelf,
were rows and rows of olives, curing in brine. Throw them all together
with a little oregano, lemon juice, and olive oil, and the traditional
side dish of Greece was theirs.
"Just the stuff." He pulled down a jar of olive oil and one of dark
Greek olives. Then he selected some tomatoes and a cucumber and went to
work.
"You know, you're not a half-bad Greek chef. My mother would have loved
you. You're making that salad exactly the way she used to." She made a
face. "Every day. God, did I get sick of them. All I wanted to eat was
french fries. So when I finally got away, off at college, I practically
lived on cheeseburgers and pizza for years after that."
"Shame on you. This is very wholesome. Very good for your state of
mind." He finished slicing the tomatoes, then opened the fridge and
fished out a couple of brown bottles of the local beer. "Retsina would
be the thing, but this will have to do." He looked over. "By the way,
how're the steaks coming?"
"Looks like our feast is ready." She pulled them off the grill and onto
plates. "How long has it been since you ate?"
"Think it's about two days now." He finished tossing the salad and
served them each a hearty helping. "Didn't realize how famished I was
till I smelled those T-bones broiling." He popped the caps on the beers
and handed her one. "Bon appetit. Better eat hearty, because this may
be the last food we're going to see for a while."
She took a bite, then looked up, chewing. "It's delicious. And I want
to say one more thing about our game a while ago." She stopped to
swallow. "And I mean this. It's always a little sad when I see a person
who can do a lot of things but doesn't really find total satisfaction
in any of them. Nothing they ever do really makes them happy. And I
think that's you, really. I'll bet that whenever you're doing one
thing, you're always thinking about some other things you could be
doing. Which means you're never really content. You always want more."
"That's pretty deep stuff." He had launched hungrily into his steak.
"Maybe you're right, but I'm not going to come out and admit it. It's
too damning. So let me put it like this. Maybe I happen to think it's
possible to care about a lot of things at once. That's--"
"Such as?"
"Well, okay, I'll give you a 'for instance.' I like sailing around
these islands, but all the time I'm doing it, I'm thinking about what
it must have been like two, three thousand years ago. The archaeology.
It's intrigued me as long as I can remember. My dad was the same; he
spent his life digging around in Crete. I thought that was the most
marvelous thing in the world, so I did it, too. For years. Even wrote a
book about that island once. I loved the place. Still do."
"That's funny. I was born practically in the shadow of
Crete, and yet I've only been there a couple of times." She sighed.
"Well, what happened? I mean to your love affair with Crete. Sounds
like that's what it was."
"Maybe I loved the place too much. I don't know." He paused to take a
drink of the beer, cold and refreshing. "Well, when you love somebody,
or something, you want to find out everything there is to know about
them. But when I did that, and told what I'd concluded was the real
story, or what I passionately believed was the real story, nobody
wanted to hear it. I had some ideas about the island's ancient age of
glory that didn't jibe with the standard theories. Made me very
unpopular in the world of academia. Scholars don't like their boats to
be rocked."
"And you let that get you down?" She snorted. Being a woman, she'd had
an uphill battle all her life. Men could be such babies sometimes.
"See, when the world's against you, that's when you're supposed to
fight hardest. That's always been my rule. I'm not a quitter. Ever."
He winced and stopped eating. "Hey, I'm back, aren't I? In Greece." He
looked at her, impulsively wanting to touch her again. "But it's nice
to have somebody like you to pitch in and help. Maybe we'll manage
something together."
"Maybe you should have had somebody around the first time." God, he was
really reminding her of Alan. The same buttons. "Maybe you're not as
tough as you think."
"Adversity depresses me. Like bad weather. I prefer life without too
many psychodramas." And this Greek fireball, he told himself, had
psychodrama written large all over her. Still . . .
"Then the question now is what I should do." She looked at him, taking
a last bite. "Go back, or stay with you."
"We need to learn from _Ulysses'_ experience with the Cyclops," Vance
said, clicking back into the real world. "The one-eyed giant had
trapped him and his crew and was devouring them one by one. So how did
they overcome him? They got him plastered on some good Greek wine, then
put out his eye with a burning post. That done, they proceeded to
exploit his disability."
"What are you saying?" She frowned.
"This guy is killing off your people, right? Pierre is coming in with
his crew to try and take this place down, but in the meantime it would
be good if we took a shot at putting out their eyes."
"Put out their eyes?" She was still puzzled.
"It's a metaphor. It would be extremely helpful if we could blind them
enough that they didn't know ARM was coming in. Couldn't 'see' the
team. Maybe shut down the radars, something."
"Michael"--it was the first time she had used his name, and she liked
it--"that's why we're in this mess in the first place. There are no
radars that could spot an insertion. That's how these bastards got in
here in the first place. Bill gets the Saddam Hussein Military
Preparedness Award. There is no radar to monitor the shore."
He laughed. "Okay, but now that oversight has turned into a plus.
What's good for the goose is good for the you- know-what. If there are
no peripheral radars, then they're not going to know where Pierre and
the boys make their insertion."
"Right. The bad guys are already blind. It's got to make a difference."
'Then what we need to do"--he was thinking aloud--"is to get them all
together in one place."
'They're not going to let it happen." She was questing, too. "Unless .
. . unless we can make it happen. Something . . ."
"Keep thinking," he said. "I don't have any ideas either, but somebody
better come up with one."
"Well, let's go back up on the mountain before they find us here," she
said finally, clearly itching to get going and do something. "We're
going to screw these guys, wait and see."
Vance nodded, wishing he could believe it as confidently as she did.