As she moved down the hill, dawn was beginning to show dimly through
the fog to the east, promising an early morning clearing of the skies.
The prospect made her fearful. The dark had been better, a shroud to
cover mistakes. Now, without the fog, she would be almost as exposed as
the barren rocks that pockmarked the hillside. The birds this morning
were strangely silent, as though they knew ill doings were afoot. Even
the pale, fog-shrouded glimpse of VX-1 and VX-2 down at the other end
of the island had never seemed more plaintive. She had worked for
almost three years to put those vehicles into space, and now she had to
try and stop the very thing she had been aiming for all that time.
She had told the ARM team she could be there in eight minutes, but now
she realized that was optimistic. Though she was moving as fast as she
could manage, hugging the line of the security fence, the island seemed
to be getting bigger all the time. And smaller.
The fence, which had seemed so reassuring when it was installed, wove
among the trees and rocks as it went down the hill, almost a meandering
presence. But it was not hard to follow, even in the reduced visibility
of the half-dark and fog. The trick, she realized, was going to be
finding the ARM team. Or maybe they would find her. Finding things was
what they were supposed to be good at. . . .
Thank God. There was somebody up ahead, barely visible through the dim
light. Only one, however, which immediately made her wonder.
She paused, drew a deep lungful of the fresh morning air, and waited to
see what he would do. For one thing, he was moving along as though he
was searching, yet with an air of owning the terrain.
Shit, it was one of Ramirez's men, out on patrol. She recognized him.
It was one of the European hoods who had barged into Command the
fateful evening now half a lifetime away.
Quickly she tried to melt into the shadow of a tall bush, but she was
too late. His head jerked around and he saw her. Up came an automatic.
He was dressed in black, and as he approached her, he flashed a crooked
smile, then produced a German accent. "So, it's you. We've been missing
you."
"Which one of them are you?" She didn't know what else to say.
"I am Max Schindler," he replied, in heavily accented English. He was
at least thirty pounds overweight, the hard-earned rewards of a
lifetime of potatoes and strudel. He looked like a puffing, black
balloon. "Number One vill be pleased to have you return to us. He
thought you were an assault." He laughed as he gestured her forward
with the weapon. "Come on. This morning, I think, is going to go
quickly. Just another couple of hours and the real excitement will
begin."
"I can hardly wait."
"Good"--it sounded more like goot--"you are going to have a circle-side
seat." He seemed extremely pleased with himself, both with his own
humor and with the fact that he had been the one who would be bringing
her back.
"You mean ringside. Great." The time was already flashing by, she
thought--the eight minutes she had given ARM were undoubtedly up--which
meant they probably would be changing plans again, working their way.
Would they just forget about her and move on? "Tell me, how did a smart
guy like you end up working for a maniac like Ramirez?"
"Who?"
'The guy you call Number One. I hear he's really Sabri Ramirez. Didn't
you know?"
The German's startled look betrayed his disbelief. His small, pig-like
eyes narrowed. "Who told you such a thing?"
"Just a little birdie."
Schindler shrugged, unconvinced, then pushed her on. "That's
impossible. Everybody knows Sabri Ramirez has been dead for two, maybe
three years."
Well, she thought, with any luck he soon will be.
"Whatever you say," she continued.
"It's absurd. Ramirez was South American. Number One is from Beirut.
Now come on, hurry. Just keep your hands where I can see them."
Schindler was almost shoving her around a rocky outcrop. "We have to
get up to Launch before he gets impatient and sends somebody else out
looking."
"Well, if you're in such a big rush, there's a quicker way
to get into Launch than the way we're going. We can just enter through
the loading bays"--she pointed--"up there. We don't have to go all the
way around."
"Are they unlocked?" He looked up and squinted through the mist. The
bays were distinguishable by tall metal doors that were sized to
accommodate some of the large vehicle components that had been
delivered over the past couple of years. They could just be seen now,
dark silhouettes against the horizon.
"The big doors are probably locked, but there's a side entrance that's
always open." She paused. "Do what you want. But I guarantee you it's
quicker than going around."
"All right"--he nodded, a quick bob of his beefy neck-- "you lead the
way."
What she really was thinking about was the rocks and trees covering
that back route. This German blimp escorting her would be no match if
she simply took matters into her own hands and made a dash.
Why not? It was a desperate move, but this was a desperate moment.
"Wait . . ." She bent over, as though to tie a shoelace, and when she
came up, she was swinging. Schindler was tired, and perhaps because of
that he was caught completely off guard, staggering backward. It was
the moment of disorientation she needed. She grabbed at the Uzi, hoping
to wrench it from his grasp. He may have been surprised, and
overweight, but he had lost none of his dogged Stasi tenacity. His one-
handed grip tightened on the weapon as his other hand flew up to defend
his face.
Now she had one hand on the breech of the automatic, and with the other
she reached out and seized the muzzle. It was the leverage she needed
to swing the butt of the metal stock up against his jaw. The blow
caught him with his mouth open, smashing his lower lip against his
teeth and slicing his tongue.
He emitted a moan and yanked the Uzi away with both hands.
But now Calypso Andros was already stumbling through the brush, up the
hill and into the fog.
Schindler felt his bleeding lip as he recovered his balance, and he
fleetingly considered just taking her out with a quick burst, nice and
simple. Though Number One had insisted she be returned alive, he told
himself he was mad enough he didn't care. He wanted to kill the bitch.
But the second he took to make that calculation proved to be crucial.
She had gotten into the heavy brush that ringed the hill farther up.
_Scheisse_.
He plunged after her, puffing and seething. It was one thing not to
have found her; it was another to have had her within his grasp and
then let her escape. He would be a laughingstock, again. Wolf Helling,
who had given him this job, would be humiliated once more. It was
unacceptable, unthinkable.
The rocks along the fenceline were jagged, cutting into his boots as he
half ran, half stumbled through the dim light. She was up there,
somewhere. She had said something about the loading bay, so she
probably was headed there. In any case, there weren't that many places
to hide. It was just a matter of time. Just a matter of time. . . .