Skin Game

Chapter nine Crash landings

Original Cindy missed Max.

Things seemed to be slipping back into numbing regularity at Jam Pony. Where the bike messengers were concerned, Normal was pretty much back to normal — which was to say, obnoxiously pushing them on and putting them down — and neither he nor anyone else seemed to want to talk at all about what had happened here just five days ago.

It was as if not talking about it made the hostage crisis never have happened — though the shellshocked look in everyone’s eyes said otherwise.

Original Cindy hadn’t spoken to Max, her best friend, her sister, since they’d parted company Saturday evening; and, though she was going through the motions at work, Cindy was on edge, worry boiling in her stomach, like an untended pot of greens on a back burner.

Sunday had been spent curled up in the apartment, trying to withdraw into herself, seeking sleep as refuge; instead, she found herself watching mental movies of her recollections of Max.

Everywhere she looked, something set off another flood of memories — the kitchen, the sofa, the table where they ate — even the damn bathroom triggered another torrent of emotion. It was as if she were eulogizing her friend, and she kept telling herself to stop thinking of Max in the past tense. Max wasn’t dead... but Cindy couldn’t keep from adding yet.

And when Cindy did manage to drift off to sleep, Terminal City invaded her dreams, the siege turning into a pitched battle that — as the dreams became more and more nightmarish — always ended with Max lying lifeless...

Monday had come as a relief. Jam Pony held Max memories, of course — good and bad — but being around Sketchy and the others seemed better than being alone at home.

Bullet holes still pocked the exterior, and crime scene tape sagged around the door like ghastly prom decorations still hanging the day after. Entering, Original Cindy walked past where CeCe died — the floor scrubbed too clean in that spot — and wandered back to where the messengers were gathered in the slapdash employee’s lounge. Normal stood in front of the group, a clipboard clasped in both hands like a life buoy he was clinging to.

“Come on in, missy,” Normal said. “Just show up whenever you’re ready. It’s not like we keep regular business hours here.”

A few messengers sat in the scattered chairs, while most stood, their eyes bouncing back and forth between Original Cindy and Normal.

Though his words carried their usual sarcastic edge, Normal’s tone did not, and she took small solace in the fact that even Normal — who saw himself as the model of stoicism — remained a little off balance.

She stepped up next to Sketchy and stood quietly, her only response to her boss a barely audible, “Whatever.”

Normal winced — apparently noting her atypical lack of wit — and picked up where he’d left off. “As I was saying, the police have finished their investigation and have said that we can reopen. So, today we’re starting over — starting anew.”

They all looked at him, dead-eyed, saying nothing. Typical of Normal’s idea of a pep talk, it was long on talk and short on pep. Ignoring their indifference, he pressed on.

“Looks like we’re going to be a little short-handed here for a while,” he said, with a glance at his clipboard, “and so there will be overtime for those that want it — nothing mandatory.”

They all looked at each other in confusion. The words “mandatory” and “overtime” had always come out of Normal’s mouth as one long compound word. To hear him say that overtime wasn’t mandatory was the Pope casually stating that birth control was cool with him.

The announcement seemed to trigger a mass short circuit among the messengers. They didn’t respond with an “All right!” or a “Yeah!” — they all just stared at their leader, numb.

“That must be the good twin,” Sketchy said under his breath to Cindy, beside him.

Cindy might have laughed at that, if the suggestion that the real Normal had been kidnapped hadn’t struck her as reasonable.

“I’ll check the basement for a pod,” she whispered.

“Anyway,” Normal was saying, “best way to keep your mind off the unpleasantness is to work hard. Do that, and we’ll all get through this together.”

With that rather remarkably human comment from their usually tight-assed boss, life had started on the road back to the everyday.

Now, on Wednesday, life at Jam Pony was mundane again, as if the past week’s events were nothing more than a bad dream. Standing alone in the locker area, Original Cindy — in black slacks, gray turtleneck, and orange quilted vest — looked over at Max’s locker. Her gaze held for only a few seconds before she had to look away.

She felt she was letting her Boo down — and, in a way, that her Boo was short-changing her, as well. The idea was that Original Cindy would be working for Max and the besieged transgenics here on the outside... but no orders from Terminal City headquarters had been forthcoming.

Sketchy came up, handed her a paper cup of coffee and gave her a big forced smile. Dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt, he looked all right from a distance, but closer examination revealed red-rimmed eyes, his blond and brown locks hanging weedlike in his face, like they hadn’t been combed since he’d left Terminal City.

“Heard from her?” he asked quietly.

Original Cindy shook her head. “You?”

The phony smile faded. “Nope.”

She saluted him with the coffee. “And what did I do to deserve this?”

“Nothin’, just... You look kinda lonely.”

“Do I look lonely enough that I would need the company of a fool like you?”

He thought about that, then said, “Yeah.”

And Original Cindy did something she hadn’t done for days: she laughed.

“I miss her too,” Sketchy said. “I wish to hell we’d hear from her — we were supposed to be out here, on this side of the fence, helping....”

“I know. I’m afraid maybe Max jus’ wanted us outta there, jus’ to protect our asses. I mean, we can’t hang around that toxic shit too long — Original Cindy don’t wanna grow no extra eyeballs or nothin’.”

He let out a mirthless chuckle. “I was... I mean, she’s...”

“Spit it out.”

“You were right, Cin — what you said at Crash that night, after... you know... after I found out about her. That she was... special.”

Original Cindy knew Sketchy was referring to that day in the not-too-distant past when he’d caught Cindy pilfering Max’s and Alec’s records from Normal’s files, to keep the documents out of the hands of government agents. Even Sketchy had been able to put together that Max and Alec were transgenics.

Sketch said, “You know what? Max is the best person I know... and she is the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Cindy nodded. “True that. Same for this one.”

“You know, I been thinking back on all those lunches with you and Max, Herbal and me, and I...” He swallowed. “I just wanna say... well, I...”

She kissed him on the cheek. “You said it nice and clear, Sketch.”

Sketchy’s face turned a lovely shade of fuchsia.

Normal strolled up to them. “You leaving the sisters of Sappho for this lump, Cynthia?”

Turning to their boss, Original Cindy said, “I’m not turning to the dark side, no — but if I did—” And she ran her fingers through Sketchy’s hair. “—my brother Sketch here would not be the worst catch.”

Brightening, the lanky messenger seemed to grow a couple of inches, in at least one direction.

“I’ll do my best to form no mental images,” Normal said. “Enough banter.”

He handed an envelope to her and a package to Sketchy.

“Bip bip bip,” he said.

Normal flashed the pair a quick grin, then put on a frown and went off to hassle the short-timers.

“Hmmm,” Sketchy said. “Is it my imagination, or does Normal seem to be softening here?”

Original Cindy shook her head and made a tsk-tsk noise. “That’s some scary shit, ain’t it?”

“More than my tender nerves can take.” Sketchy held up the package. “Well, I better get bip-bip-bipping... If you hear from our girl, you’ll let me know?”

“Bet your pasty white ass.”

“You know, you liking me doesn’t seem that different from when I sickened you.”

“It’s a fine line,” Cindy admitted.

Sketch smiled, shook his head, and headed outside to his bike.

Turning back to glance at Max’s locker one last time, Original Cindy looked farther down the aisle and saw that kid no one ever seemed to notice. What was his name? Bobby Suzuki? Tommy Nagasaki? Kid had less personality than Normal in his sleep.

Sitting in front of his locker, the kid glanced around, and apparently didn’t catch her watching as he pulled a bottle of pills out and unscrewed the lid. It looked identical to the bottle of Tryptophan pills that Max kept in her locker to control her seizures.

Slowly moving closer, careful not to be spotted, Original Cindy watched as he shook two pills out into his hand. He screwed the lid back on the bottle and stuck it in the pocket of his vest. She caught only a glimpse of the pills in the kid’s hand as they headed to his mouth, but that was enough for her to see the pills were just like the ones Max took.

Sliding up next to him, she asked, “Hey, Tommy boy — you stealin’ my girl’s meds?”

The kid shook his head emphatically. “No, no. I’d never hurt Max... And it’s Bobby.”

“So, if I check my main girl’s locker I’m gonna find her meds still in there?”

Now the kid nodded with equal enthusiasm. “Go ahead and look. I swear I didn’t take anything!”

Eyeballing the guy — God, what a nonentity! — Original Cindy moved over in front of Max’s locker and dialed the combination lock.

Opening the door, she looked inside and saw Max’s bottle perched on the top shelf, where it always sat, safe and sound. She picked it up, shook it, found it to be maybe three-quarters full. That seemed about right.

“All right, Robby,” she said. “My bad.”

“It’s Bobby... Can I go now?”

“No — not till you tell me why you’re takin’ Tryptophan.”

“It just relaxes me. It’s over-the-counter med.”

“Not in that quantity. Listen, Timmy — maybe you weren’t around durin’ the party we had the other day...”

“The hostage crisis? I was here. Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway — if you was here, you should know where I stand on a certain controversial issue.”

“I do. You’re Max’s friend.”

“And you’re...”

They both looked around to make sure no one was watching.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked.

Normal strolled by, like a hall monitor trolling for trouble. “You two still here? This is not Club Med, people. There’s work to do — get moving.”

They walked outside together and mounted their bicycles. She looked at the kid in the morning sunshine. For some reason, she felt like this was the first time she’d really seen him.

Why did she think of him as a kid? He could be twenty... or thirty... or...? Whatever, he was of indeterminate race, with full lips and black curly hair that reminded her a little of her own. Like Max, he appeared to be a mixture of all people, only his features seemed almost blurred compared to Max’s well-defined face.

Looking closer, though, he might have some Afro blood in him...

Together, they rode away slowly, her envelope stuck inside her vest, his package in a bag over his shoulder.

“I never told Max,” he said, “but, yes, I’m a transgenic, too.”

They rode side by side in the street.

“How long you been passin’?” she asked.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Since Max got us out of Manticore.”

“That’s not all that long... You seem to be fitting in okay.”

“That’s no problem for me.”

“You and Max are friends?” Funny, she thought, that Max would have a friend at Jam Pony that Cindy didn’t also know.

He nodded. “If it wasn’t for Max, I’d still be there. At Manticore.”

“But Manticore was burned.”

“I’d just be some more ashes.”

“I gotta say, man, you seem so regular, I woulda thought you were on the outside as long as Max.”

They paused at a light.

He shook his head. “I’m supposed to seem regular — that’s what I do.”

She shook her head. “It’s still not safe for you out here by yourself.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he said with a sad smile. “But they’re all in Terminal City and I’m stuck here. What am I gonna do — march up to the gate and ask to be let in?”

Cindy thought about that. “There’s other ways.”

“You think?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you saw what went down Friday.”

“Sure.”

The light changed.

“I was with her when she left, right? And we all ended up in Terminal City.”

“And you got out?”

“What do you think, chump? Do I look like a mirage to you?”

“Come to think of it, Sketchy went along with you and Max, too, didn’t he?”

She nodded.

“And that friend of Max’s — Logan?”

“You know him?” she asked, a little puzzled now.

“Seen him with Max before. Stops by Jam Pony sometimes.”

That was true.

“Yeah,” she said, “Logan went, too.”

“Did all of you leave?”

They were riding slowly through the light traffic.

“Well... you saw Sketch at work, right?”

“What about Logan?”

She frowned. “Why are you so interested in Logan?”

“Well, it’s just... I wondered if he was transgenic, too — ’cause that’s the only way he could stay in Terminal City, right? I mean, ordinaries get sick if they stay too long.”

“Well... you’re right about that. That’s why Max got us out of there — me and Sketch and Logan.”

“If she got you out, could you get me in, the same way?”

Something felt way whack about this to her. If this mouth-breather was a transgenic, why hadn’t Max or Alec ever pointed him out? And why in the hell was he so worried about the three ordinaries? Last, but not least, she reminded herself, was the fact that now he suddenly wanted to know the route she’d used to get in and out of Terminal City...

They were at another light.

“Look, Teddy,” she said slowly. “It’s not that I don’t trust you — it’s just that I need some kind of...”

“Proof,” he said. “I’ve been a human the whole time you’ve known me... with no sign of transgenic ability... then I start in with all these questions.”

She nodded, liking the fact that he got it so fast. “That’s a big bingo, Barney. Why don’t you whip up a little super somethin’ for me?”

“Can’t do it,” he said, almost sadly. “The drug — the Tryptophan you saw me taking earlier?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s an inhibitor. It works to keep my abilities from taking over my life.”

“That’s not how it affects Max...”

“We’re all different. You know what an X5 is? I’m not an X5. I’m more like Joshua.”

“You ain’t no dog boy.”

“No — and I can show you what I am, later... when the dose has worn off. But not now.”

“Works for me,” she said, suddenly nervous. “Look, I better get my shit in gear — Normal’ll fire my ass.”

“I want your help, Cindy.”

“Maybe we could hook up at Crash later, Benny, and when nobody’s lookin’, you could show me your stuff, then.”

“Sure.”

Original Cindy nodded at the guy and pedaled away.

That weirdo was way too interested in Max... Cindy felt like she’d nearly, if accidentally, betrayed her best friend. No way in freakin’ hell would she show that strange character — soul brother or not — the tunnel into Terminal City.

After pumping a few times, Original Cindy glanced back and he waved. She faked a smile and waved herself. Then, once she’d gone two blocks, she looked back again and he was gone.

She heaved a sigh of relief, the whole exchange with that kid having weirded her out completely. She made a mental note to call Sketch as soon as possible and warn him — right after she warned Max. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her cell phone.

Glancing to her left, she saw the kid riding easily right next to her. In her surprise, the phone slipped from her hand, crashed to the street, and shattered.

“Even on my meds,” he said calmly, “I still have my transgenic speed.”

Her mouth dropping open, Original Cindy veered right, trying to get away from the guy; but her wheel clipped a crack in the pavement and she went down hard, the bike tumbling over her, her head smacking hard off the pavement.

As things slowed and grew very quiet, she felt a dull throb in her head, the bike seeming to fly away from her unbidden, and she looked up to see the strangely unformed face of her fellow Jam Pony bike messenger, looking down at her just as her world turned colorless, then dark gray, then black.

“And it’s ‘Bobby,’ ” she heard him say, just before all consciousness left her. “For now, anyway...”

Less than forty-eight hours to negotiate a settlement before the tanks rolled in... and the residents of Terminal City weren’t any closer now than they’d been when the police followed them into the parking garage last week.

Sitting in the media center, exhaustion weighing her down like her bones were made of lead, Max rubbed a hand over her face and wondered what she and her mutant band could do to stave off a full-scale army invasion.

Dix and his crew sat arrayed around the monitors, the room quiet, almost funereal, as they went about their business. Rubbing her forehead with the tips of her fingers, Max pondered her missing friends.

Alec and Joshua remained incommunicado in Clemente’s custody, assuming the pair was still alive. Thinking back to her own hospital adventure — she’d been shot trying to save a kid’s life, only to have a nurse try to administer a prescription of poison — Max wondered if Ames White had gotten to them yet.

She knew Logan could find out what hospital they were in; but even so, the risks of a rescue would be great. If White had located them, Alec and Joshua might already be dead, or moved, or simply used as bait for a trap to lure her. And if Max left Terminal City to go break them out, she would break faith with Clemente and put everything and everyone at risk.

If the only risk were her safety, she’d already be on her way. But now she had to take into consideration the effects of her actions on others.

Damn leadership, anyway — a pair of handcuffs.

Mole strode in, dropped his shotgun on the table and lit a cigar. He shook out the match and sat down across the table from her. “You okay, kiddo?”

“Peachy. Anything going on out there?”

He shook his lizard head. “Ever see them old war movies? ‘Quiet — too quiet.’ ” He took a long drag on the cigar, then blew so much smoke out, it was like fog rolling in. “Cops ain’t movin’. They seem content to just wait for the big boys to get here with their tanks and shit.”

“Yeah — won’t be long now. The whole damn circus will be in town.”

“Our people, though...” His voice trailed off ominously.

“What?” she asked, sitting up.

“Mood’s changing. They’re worried out there, Max — maybe even scared. Look at the compound monitors.”

Dix turned from his monitor. “Yeah, we got little pockets of somethin’ or other, all over the place.”

Max and Mole went up and looked over his shoulder. Almost every camera showed cliques of transgenics around the compound. Three or four, sometimes six or eight to a group, they all just seemed to be talking among themselves.

“What are they jawin’ about, anyway?” Dix asked.

“They’re planning,” Max said. “In case we’re not.”

Mole puffed on his cigar. “Why? Don’t we have a plan for when the Army gets here?”

She wished she had a good answer to that; but all she could give him was: “I’m still hoping it won’t come to that.”

“Yeah, I’m kinda hopin’ my complexion clears up, too,” he said, rubbing his reptilian cheek. “But just in case our dreams don’t come true—” He waited for Max’s eyes to meet his. “—might also make sense to have a plan in place.”

Trouble was, there was no spin she could put on the notion of doing battle with the combined forces of the U.S. Army and National Guard within Terminal City that made it more palatable. “Tomorrow we’ll put our heads together on that.”

Sitting heavily on the edge of Dix’s desk, the lizard commando said, “Anything you say, Scarlett O’Hara.”

Not wanting to take this conversation any further, Max went back down the two stairs to the main floor. “Gotta check a couple of things. Be back.”

Mole waved absently and Dix sat forward, eyes on his monitor, all his concentration focused on watching the splinter groups.

Stepping out into the sunshine, Max walked aimlessly for a while, allowing herself some quiet time. As she passed the groups they had seen on the monitors just a few minutes ago, some of the transgenics looked up at her expectantly. She smiled and tried to exude a confidence she didn’t really feel. Most of them allowed her some space, but at the fourth group she passed, one of them — probably an X6, judging by the young man’s features — separated himself and approached her.

He wore his brown hair shaved except for long braids set on each corner of his skull. His jeans and T-shirt both looked like they hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine for months. Thin-faced, he had wide-set brown eyes, a small, straight nose, and full lips.

As he fell into step beside her, a smile creased his face. “How ya doin’?” he asked.

Returning his smile, she said, “Good. You?”

His smile disappeared. “Kind of... worried, actually.”

“I can understand that.”

“Rumor says the Army’s comin’ soon and that they have orders to kill everybody. I even heard there might be an air strike.”

“Doubtful,” Max said. “The media blade cuts both ways. We have a few protesters supporting us, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah — they got their own signs, ‘Save the Transgenics,’ ‘Stop All Animal and Human Testing,’ that sort of thing. Not a huge group, but it indicates support we can build on. What’s your name?”

“Travis.”

“Travis, it’s going to be all right.”

He frowned in thought. “So, the Army’s not coming?”

“I didn’t say that. I just don’t think they’re coming today.”

“But when they do come...?”

He was keeping up with her as she walked the compound.

“We’ll be ready.”

Now he found another smile. “Thanks. Can I tell that to my buddies?”

“Sure — tell everybody and anybody that whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

The smile faded. “Frankly... that isn’t much comfort, when you’re worried that you’re going to be... slaughtered...”

Max stopped and so did the young man. She looked unblinkingly into his eyes. “That’s what this whole thing is about, Travis. It’s not about whether we win or lose or tie. It’s about facing this together, not alone. The Army wouldn’t have any trouble with just one of us, would they?”

Travis shook his head.

“But what about hundreds of us? Thousands?”

He saw her point and grinned. “I’ll spread the word,” he said.

As she watched him leave, with some spring in his step, her cell phone chirped. She pulled it out and flipped it open. “Go for Max.”

“Hey, you.”

Logan.

She smiled. “Hey.”

“I thought I should let you know — I’m going to be gone for a while.”

“How long a while?”

“Most of the day probably,” he said. “I’m meeting Asha at Crash. I think I’ve got a lead on Sage Thompson... and I need to talk to her about checking it out.”

“Logan... it’s getting tense here. I just talked to a young guy named Travis. He doesn’t want the Army to come in and kill us all like animals.”

“Can’t blame him.”

“What kind of name is that? Travis?”

“Well, Max... there was an officer at a famous battle in Texas, a long time ago, named Travis.”

“What battle was that?”

“The Alamo.”

“I haven’t run across that in my reading, yet. How did it turn out?”

“... Great. Everybody was a hero.”

“That’s something, anyway. Hey... be careful.”

“I will. You too.”

She disconnected.

Logan Cale sat at his desk looking at the phone for a moment.

Max sounded exhausted, and he wished there was more he could do to help her. She took so much on her shoulders, but now there was nothing to be done about that...

... except, maybe, get to the bottom of the skinner mystery, and see if clearing that hateful story out of the headlines could help ease the tension on the transgenics’ situation in Terminal City.

Rising, Logan gathered his cell phone, his keys, and headed for the door. His car was parked near the end of the exit tunnel, and within ten minutes he was speeding toward the bar.

Crash, the favorite hangout of the Jam Pony gang, was nearly vacant at this hour of the day, the big video screens with the racing and other sports footage playing to a mostly nonexistent audience. Brick archways separated the Crash’s three sections: the bar, the game room, and the restaurant area, with its tables and chairs. The jukebox, which usually screamed with metal-tinged rock music, stood mercifully silent; the occasional knock of pool balls from the back and the news on the television at the far end of the bar were the prominent sounds. A small lunch crowd would be in, in a half hour or so; but for the time being only the bartender and Asha were at the bar.

Logan came down the stairs and took a seat next to the blonde freedom fighter.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi, Asha.”

A cup of coffee with cream sat in front of her. If it was her first, he wasn’t that late. She’d taken only a few sips and the liquid still steamed.

The bartender, a skinny, tattooed guy with long, greasy, black hair, shambled toward them from the TV. His name was Ricky and he usually worked nights; judging from the bags under his eyes and the frown etched into his face, morning duty didn’t suit him. He brought Logan a cup of coffee and shambled off again.

“He doesn’t say much in the morning,” Logan said.

Asha smiled. “He doesn’t say much more at night. Now, tell me what the rush is.”

“It’s about that NSA agent we were looking for.”

“Thompson,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “I may have found something.”

“Yeah?”

“Eyes Only has tracked him to the Armbruster Hotel.”

“I know the place.”

“Well enough to watch my back?”

“Oh yeah.”

Daylight sliced across the bar, and they both looked up to see the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. The sun blinded them and they couldn’t see him clearly, but there was something about the guy that seemed familiar. The tail of the man’s overcoat waved once more, then the door closed.

Blinking furiously to readjust his eyes, Logan peered up at the man, who was already halfway down the stairs: black hair slicked back, tight dark eyes, and an olive complexion; dark suit with a white shirt and conservative striped tie.

Logan turned casually to Asha, but his words were as urgent as they were quiet. “Go — he’s White’s man.”

Asha slipped off the stool and meandered toward the back. She was a memory by the time the man came up and stood next to Logan, showing him a badge.

“I’m Special Agent Otto Gottlieb. Can we talk?”

Logan simply shrugged.

“May I sit?” Gottlieb asked, gesturing toward the stool.

“Free country.”

“That’s the theory,” Gottlieb said as he hopped onto the stool. “Your friend sure left fast.”

“Not my friend. I think she was a working girl, got a glimpse of you and thought, ‘Cop.’ ”

“She wasn’t wrong, was she?... Mr. Cale, I need to talk to you.”

So he knew Logan’s name.

Ever casual, Logan said, “I’m listening.”

“Not here. We need to go somewhere else.”

Smiling, Logan said, “You’ll pardon me if I don’t jump at the chance, Agent Gottlieb, but that’s not the most enticing pickup line I’ve heard in a bar... People who go ‘somewhere else’ with government agents, these days, have a tendency to disappear for good.”

Gottlieb looked shaken, a bead of sweat trailing down one side of his face, like a teardrop that lost its way. “Look, Mr. Cale — you work for Eyes Only.”

“Actually, I’m self-employed.”

“I need to talk to him.”

Logan smiled broadly. “Why sure, no problem. He’s an underground cyber journalist you feds have been after for years... and now by simply asking me, you’ll get a direct line to him, no questions asked... And what would you like for your other two wishes?”

“Mr. Cale, what if I can give you an assurance that—”

“I don’t work for Eyes Only. I share some of his distrust of the government, but it ends there. So maybe you better just leave.”

Gottlieb didn’t move. His attitude shifted, subtly. “As someone who doesn’t know Eyes Only, Mr. Cale, can you tell me why your fingerprints were all over the apartment where we traced his last broadcast to?”

Logan started to rise, but Gottlieb put a hand on his arm. “I’m not here to arrest you. In fact, I have a gift for you — a show of good faith.”

Withdrawing a manila envelope from his overcoat, he laid it on the counter between them.

Sitting down again, Logan asked, “What’s this?”

“All the fingerprint files from the apartment. White never saw them.”

Logan studied the agent; the man’s face had a tortured sort of sincerity etched on it. “What about the NSA fingerprint people?”

“They’re no problem,” Gottlieb said. “They delivered the print identification just as they were supposed to... to me. Agent White lost interest in Eyes Only when the situation at Jam Pony came up. I give them to you now as a sign of my sincerity.”

“These prove nothing,” Logan said. “This could all still be in a computer anywhere.”

“I’ve dealt with that. They’re gone.”

“Well, hell — what more assurance could I need than that?”

“Listen, Mr. Cale! Just hear me out.”

Ricky the bartender wandered up. The agent shook his head and the bartender went back to the TV. Logan wanted to bolt, but after slipping the envelope inside his jacket, he turned to face Gottlieb. “So talk.”

“Can’t we go somewhere?”

“No — this place is empty and not bugged, unless you’ve bugged it. Tell me here or not at all.”

After mulling that for a few seconds, Gottlieb kept his voice low and asked, “The name I mentioned earlier... the man I work for. You know him?”

Logan nodded.

“I think he may have gone rogue.”

Laughing out loud, Logan said, “No wonder the NSA snapped you up — you don’t miss anything. Anything else hot off the presses? Any word in yet about whether Nixon’s a crook?”

Gottlieb’s eyes fell, his face turning crimson, as he said, “I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. We’re supposed to be on the same team, after all, he and I.”

“Ames White is on a team, all right,” Logan said. “But not the one you’re playing on, or any team that’s trying to help this country.”

“I figured that out.”

“Good for you, Agent Gottlieb! Now, why don’t you go talk to your superiors about it?” Logan rose, tossed a bill on the bar, and took a step.

Gottlieb grabbed onto Logan’s arm. “I can’t talk to my superiors, or to anyone else in the government. White’s got ties everywhere — I couldn’t trust anyone. My friends in the government may be his friends. There’s no way to know.”

Logan let the hand rest on his arm as he nodded. “You’re right about that much. But why Eyes Only?”

“If you can’t trust your friends,” Gottlieb said meaningfully, “who’s left but your enemies?”

That was a good point.

“All right, follow me out,” Logan said.

Then he climbed the stairs and headed outside. The sun had grown warm and felt good on his face. With Gottlieb stepping up next to him, Logan heard the cock of a gun and wondered if he’d been suckered...

... until he turned to find Asha standing behind them, her pistol aimed at Gottlieb’s skull.

“Maybe we should find somewhere more private,” Logan said as he lifted Gottlieb’s pistol from its holster.

The three of them turned down an alley, trooping far away from the street and into the shadows, Gottlieb leading the way, but Asha prodding. The alley smelled of decaying food and urine; somewhere, a cat cried out. Slipping behind a Dumpster, the three of them stood out of sight of the traffic on the street, though Gottlieb still peered around nervously, looking for prying eyes and eavesdroppers.

“Tell us what you know,” Logan ordered.

Otto Gottlieb gave them his story — all of it.

Logan had suspected much of what Gottlieb had to report, and had actually seen the assassins outside Jam Pony; but he knew they needed more.

“Do you have proof of any of this, Otto?”

Gottlieb shook his head. “There never is any — White calls it ‘plausible deniability.’ ”

The phrase had an all-too-familiar ring to Logan. “Where can we get proof?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have come looking for Eyes Only.”

Logan decided to change course. “Where’s Sage Thompson?”

Looking as though he’d just been punched, Gottlieb asked, “How the hell do you know about him?”

“Because Eyes Only found out about Calvin Hankins.”

“I can’t believe it...”

“Otto, do you know where Thompson is?”

“No! But if I did, he might be able to corroborate some of what I’ve told you.”

The smell in the alley was as unpleasant as it was thick; Logan — ready to find a new office — said, “If you’re on the level, Otto, you’ll have to do exactly what I tell you.”

Gottlieb sighed. “I’m good at that.”

“You got a car?”

“Sure — just around the corner.”

The three of them marched to the vehicle. Asha got behind the wheel, Otto sat on the passenger side, and Logan got in the back.

“Hand me your cuffs, will you, Agent Gottlieb?”

“Make it ‘Otto.’ ” He fumbled around behind himself and got them out, then held the cuffs up over his shoulder.

“Right hand,” Logan ordered.

Gottlieb frowned. “What?”

Asha stuck the gun in his ribs, and the agent’s right hand went behind the seat.

Locking the bracelet over that hand, Logan said, “Now the left.”

Gottlieb obeyed, awkwardly extending his other arm around the seat, and Logan cuffed him with his arms pulled behind him.

“What’s this about?”

Logan got out and Asha rolled down the passenger side window for him to lean in. “Show of good faith or not, I can’t trust you, Otto. So, you’re going to have to trust me. Asha will watch you — she’ll take you to a safe place. I’ll join you as soon as I can. If I find Agent Thompson, we may be able to help you. If you’re lying... well, I think you can fill in that blank, yourself. Do we have an understanding, Otto?”

Looking very scared, Gottlieb nodded.

Logan shook his head slowly. “I hope you’re telling the truth, Otto. A lot of people are depending on you... and if we don’t find Agent Thompson, they might all be in serious trouble.”

And right now Otto Gottlieb looked like he knew all about what it was like being in serious trouble.