Fire with Fire(110)
“Trev, I can’t give you a detailed explanation right now. But I can reassure you that joining it is not a contravention of your Constitutional loyalty oath.”
Trevor’s eyes—and eyebrows—returned to a more quiescent state. “Okay, we’ll sweat the details later. What needs doing right now?”
Pure Trevor: always ready to act. “First, we ensure the safety of our group.”
ODYSSEUS
Halfway through Caine’s post-sparring shower, his apartment’s fire alarm started shrilling.
He stumbled on the wet tiles as he tried to make it out the bathroom door in a single long stride. He caught himself on the countertop, the fingers of one hand hooking down securely into the basin. But for some reason, he wasn’t steadying as quickly as he expected; staring into the sink, the drain swam lazily at the approximate center of his blurring vision. What the—
O2 leak? CO2 concentration too high? But no—there was also a new smell, slightly medicinal. Like—gas! Christ—assassins. Again.
Grabbing a towel and sticking it under the shower’s spray, he dropped to the floor . . .
MENTOR
Downing handed the rest of the group’s dossiers to Trevor. He glanced at them, then asked, “So, am I Riordan’s only security?”
“No. Primary overwatch is assigned to another former sleeper—Opal Patrone. Captain, US Army.”
“What’s her story?”
“On the surface, she’s simply a security asset that we can be sure is not a double agent.”
“And beneath the surface?”
“She’s close security for Riordan. He doesn’t know. And neither do you.”
“Understood.” Trevor looked sideways at Downing. “‘Close security,’ huh? Just how close is she?”
“Yes, you have the idea. But there’s no intimacy—yet.”
Trevor shifted in his seat. “Christ, Uncle Richard, what do you use to check up on them? Hidden cameras?”
“No, her reports. Yes, I know: it’s a beastly thing to monitor, but it’s imperative, in this case. If she doesn’t become intimate with Riordan, then she has no plausibly deniable reason to remain with him almost constantly. Which is the kind of overwatch that we need to maintain on him.”
“Why?”
“Because, before Parthenon, there were at least three attempts on his life.” Trevor sat up straighter. “That’s why your father had you babysit him a mile under the Atlantic.”
“Christ, Dad never told me that. Neither did Riordan—although we had orders not to talk to him, anyway. Something about minimizing potential intel leaks?”
“Yes—which reminds me: we have to give you a code name. Homeric. Your father’s idea, I’m afraid.”
“Okay.”
“Your code name is ‘Telemachus.’”
“Okay, so I’m Telemachus. What’s Riordan’s code name?”
“Odysseus.”
“Wait: if I remember my Odyssey, that makes me his son.”
“What is it with you Corcorans and these code names? They’re just labels. Telemachus was a loyal and helpful family member: good enough?”
“Sure. I guess. So, what’s the larger mission?”
Downing feigned puzzlement. “What do you mean?”
“Uncle Richard, please. Elena’s right: the memorial is a cover, and bringing all these people out to Mars means you’re assembling a team of some sort. And a team means a mission.”
Downing relented. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow. With everyone present. Be advised, though, that once we depart from Mars, your security personnel will return Earthside, where they will await further instructions.”
The door chimes—a muted three-tone hum—sounded the same moment that Richard’s collarcom beeped. He tapped it, listened to his earbud. “Yes? Very well; send her straight back.”
“We have a visitor?”
Richard replaced the handset. “Yes.” He rose. “She’s expected. Actually, she’s late.”
ODYSSEUS
The door leading from the foyer into the living room was already opening, and whoever it was, they moved pretty quickly. From his prone position, half in the hallway closet—wet towel over his nose and mouth—Caine could see that the intruder was in a light-duty hard suit, the helmet’s black visor sweeping from side to side. But where’s the gun? Caine disciplined his curiosity: you don’t have time to look, and there’s at least one more moving in behind him. He tightened his grip on the plastic comb he had snagged while crawling out of the bathroom and pushed.
The comb shoved the hastily grabbed butcher’s knife into the access panel he had just pried open at the bottom of the closet wall. Caine turned his face away as the steel blade made contact with both of the two splicing screws that connected the apartment’s wiring to the community power mains.