One of the desk phones chattered, an in-building direct line. Victory Smith flicked a pair of long arms across the table and grabbed the handset. "Smith."
She listened for a moment, then whistled softly. "Theywhat ? But... Okay, Sherkaner, I believe you. Yes, Jaybert was right to pass it on to Underville."
She rang off, and said to Thract, "Sherkaner's found the key. He's deciphered last night's radio intercepts. It looks like the cobblies are being held in the Plaza Spar, downtown."
Now the phone by Thract went off. He stabbed the Public On hole, and said, "Thract here."
Belga Underville's voice sounded faint and off-mike: "They have? Well, shut them up!" Then louder: "Listen, Thract? I've got my hands full down here. Now I get a call from your techie-freaks saying the victims are being held on the top floor of the Plaza Spar. Are you cobbers for real?"
Thract: "They're not my techs. It's important intelligence, Colonel, wherever it came from."
"Damn, I already had a real lead. The city police spotted a silk banner snagged on the Bank of Princeton tower." That was about half a mile from the Plaza Spar. "It was the jacket fabric that Downing described to us."
Smith leaned close to the mike, and said, "Belga, was there anything attached? A note?"
There was an instant's hesitation, and Thract could imagine Belga Underville getting her temper under control. Belga didn't mind complaining to her fellows about all the "bloody stupid technology," but not with Smith on the line.
"No, Chief. It was pretty well shredded. Look. The techs could be right about the Plaza Spar, but that's a busy place. I'll send a team to the lower floors, pretending to be customers. But—"
"Good. No alarms; get in close."
"Chief, I think the tower where we found the banner is a better bet. It's mostly vacant, and—"
"Fine. Go after both."
"Yes, ma'am. The problem is the city police. They went off on their own, sirens, everything."
Last night, Victory Smith had lectured Thract on the power of local police. But that power was economic, and political. Just now she said, "They have? Well, shut them up! I'll take responsibility."
She waved to Thract. "We're going downtown."
THIRTY-ONE
Shynkrette paced about her "command post." Talk about luck. This mission had been designed as a hundred-day lurk-and-pounce. Instead, they'd bagged their targets less than ten days after insertion. The whole op had been an incredible combination of happenstance and screwup. So what else was new? Promotions came from pulling success out of real-world situations, and Shynkrette had survived worse than this. Barker and Fremm getting squashed had been bad luck and inattention. Maybe the worst mistake had been leaving the witnesses—at least it was the worst mistake that could be laid on her own back. On the other hand they had six children, at least four of them the targets. The getaway from the museum had been smooth, but the airport pickup fell through. The Accord's local security was just a little too quick—maybe again because of those surviving witnesses.
This office space ringed the Plaza Spar, twenty-five stories up. It gave an excellent view of city activity, except directly below. In one sense, they were completely trapped here—who had ever hidden by sticking themselves up in the sky? In another sense—Shynkrette paused behind her team sergeant. "What does Trivelle say, Denni?"
The sergeant lifted the phone from his head. "Ground-floor lobby is about average busy. He has some business visitors. An old coot and some last-generation cobbers. They want to rent office space."
"Okay. They can look at the third-floor suites. If they want to look at anything else, they can come back tomorrow." Tomorrow, Deep willing, Shynkrette and her team would be long gone. They would have been gone last night, if not for the storm. Kindred Special Operations could do things with helicopters that the Accord military had never imagined....If good luck and competence held another day or two, her team would be back home with their prize. The Kindred book of doctrine had always been big on assassinations and decapitating strikes. With this op, the Honored Pedure was writing a new and experimental chapter. Deep, what Pedure would do with those six children. Shynkrette's mind shied away from the thought. She had been in Pedure's inner circle ever since the Great War, and her fortunes had risen accordingly. But she much preferred doing the Honored's fieldwork to being with her in the Kindred torture chambers. Things could get so easily...turned around...in the chambers. And death could be so slow there.
