"No," Cayce says, seeing Voytek produce one of his notebooks from his pouch, "he's trying to get her to fund a project." Marina makes a dismissive gesture and goes into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Voytek crosses to the couch, smiling, notebook in one hand, bottle of beer in the other. "Casey, where have you been?"
"Away. Have you met Fergal?"
"Yes!" He sits on the couch. "Damien calls me from airport, asks me to meet here with keys and tandoori and beer. This producer, Marina, she is very interesting. Has gallery connections in Moscow."
"You speak Russian?"
"Of course. Magda, she was born there. Myself, Poland. Our father was Moscow civil engineer. I do not remember Poland."
"Christ," cries Damien from the kitchen, "this khoorma is heaven!"
"Excuse me," Cayce says, standing. She goes into the yellow kitchen and finds Damien transfixed with joy, half a dozen foil dishes open on the counter in front of him.
"It's not fucking stew," Damien says. "At the dig we live on stew. No refrigeration. Stew's been simmering for the better part of two months. Just keep tossing things in. Lumps of mystery meat and boiled potato in what looks like gray Bisto. That and bread. Russian bread's brilliant, but this khoorma—"
She gives him a hug. "Damien, I can't stay here."
"Don't be silly."
"No. I'm pissing off your girlfriend, being here."
Damien grins. "No you aren't. It's her default setting. Nothing to do with you."
"You aren't making a lot of progress in your relationship choices, since I last saw you, are you?"
"I can't make this film without her."
"Don't you think it might be easier if you weren't in a relationship as well?"
"No. In fact, it wouldn't be at all. She's like that. When are you coming'?"
"Where?"
"The dig. You have to see this. It's amazing."
The tower of gray bone. "I can't, Damien. I'm working."
"For Blue Ant again? I thought you said that that was over, when you e-mailed me about the keys."
"This is something else."
"But you've just gotten off the plane from Tokyo. You're here, there's a bed upstairs, and I'm back tomorrow. If you go to a hotel, we won't see one another at all. Go upstairs, sleep if you can, and I'll deal with Marina." He smiles. "I'm used to it."
Suddenly the idea of actually having to find a hotel room and go there seems far too difficult. "You've convinced me. I can't see straight. But if you go back to Russia without waking me, I'll kill you."
"Go up and lie down. Where did you find this Voytek, anyway?"
"Portobello Row."
"I like him."
Cayce's legs feel like they belong to someone else, now. She'll have to try to communicate with them more deliberately, to get them to carry her upstairs. "He's harmless," she says, wondering what that means, and heads for her bag and the stair to the room overhead.
She manages to get the futon unfolded, up there, and collapses on it. Then remembers Boone asking her to phone him. She gets out her cell and speed-dials the first of his numbers.
"Hello?"
"Cayce."
"Where are you?"
"Damien's. He's here."
A pause. "That's good. I was worried about you."
"I was worried about me too, when I heard you bullshitting Bigend on the way in from Heathrow. What was that about?"
"Playing it by ear. There's a chance he knows, you know."
"How^"
"How is academic. It's possible. Who gave you the cell you're using?"
He's right. "And you thought he might give something away?"
"I thought I'd take the chance."
"I don't like it. It makes me complicit, and you didn't give me the opportunity to decide whether or not I wanted to be."
"Sorry." She doesn't think he is. "I need that jpeg," he tells her. "E-mail it to me."
"Is that safe?" she asks.
"Taki's e-mailed it to your friend, and your friend e-mailed it to you. If anyone is keeping track of us that way, they already have it."
"What are you going to do with it?" ,'
"Count angels on pinheads, with a friend of mine."
"Seriously."
"Improvise. Poke at it. Show it to a couple of people smarter than I am."
"Okay." She doesn't like the way she winds up doing what he tells her to do. "Your address in the iBook?"
"No. This one. Chu-dot-B, at…" She writes it down. "What's/that domain?"
"My former company. All that's left of it."
"Okay. I'll send it. Good night."
"Good night."
Sending the jpeg to Boone requires getting out the iBook and ca-bling it to the phone. She does this on automatic pilot, apparently remembering how to do it correctly, because her message to chu.b sends immediately.
Automatically, she checks her mail. Another from her mother, this one with unfamiliar-looking attachments.
Without really thinking about it, she opens Cynthia's latest.
These four ambient segments were accidentally recorded by a CCNY anthropology student making a verbal survey of missing-person posters and other signs near the Houston and Varrick barricade on September 25th. We've found this particular tape to be remarkably rich in EVP, and have recovered several dozen messages by a variety of methods.
"He took a duck in the face," Cayce says, closing her eyes. Eventually she has to open them.
