Caine looked at her. “That sounds—appealing.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes constantly on his. “It’s a great way to relax, to release the stress.”
“I suppose it is.” He straightened up. “But that’s for later: what’s next on our agenda?”
“Our own downport—and thanks for reminding me.” She reached into the Rover for the radio, sharply informed whoever answered that she’d be there with the V.I.P. in about twenty minutes, and signed off without a goodbye. She turned a sweeter-than-candy smile on Caine and resumed her review of their schedule: “After the downport, we’ll see the workers’ compound, including the fee-free clinic; our survey command center; and one of our weather-monitoring stations. And then, a quick dip. Before drinks and dinner.”
Caine smiled, nodded, thought: That agenda is one item short of what Helger promised—and one item short of what I really want to see. “Great, but what happened to my visit with the EU’s Deputy Administrator, Ms. Fireau?” Who might not be very happy with the current state of affairs here. Fireau had been in charge before Helger—and the consequent deluge of CoDevCo money, personnel, and influence.
Consuela leaned her arms on the Rover’s hood, adopting a posture that provided a half-obstructed view of her cleavage. She pouted and smiled at the same time: “I’m sorry, I thought Louis sent you word: Ms. Fireau had to fly back to Little Leyden today. Business emergency, I’m afraid.”
Naturally. “When did she leave?”
“Just a few minutes ago. That must have been her vertibird that went over us earlier: we don’t send out a lot of VTOL traffic.”
Okay, so there it was: Helger’s ploy of using Consuela as a subtly salacious species of flypaper had already impeded him and his investigation. It was a shame to miss Fireau, but Caine hadn’t expected Helger to permit a meeting with her. He elected to look surprised, then sound annoyed: “When will Ms. Fireau return?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Riordan. I don’t know.”
Shall I tell you? Just as soon as I’m airborne back for Downport, Ms. Fireau will be on a plane back here. That way, I can’t interview her back in Little Leyden, either.
“And that’s it? That’s our day-trip?”
“That’s it. Why? Was there something else you wanted to see?”
He didn’t hear a probe, but he was sure it was there. She called ahead right before we came here, and she just called ahead to our next stop. She’s calling ahead with a warning everyplace we go. I’ll never get an honest look at anything, particularly what I want to see the most: that big dig to the north. That doesn’t look like oil wells to me. But I can’t let her take me there, can’t even let her know I’m interested in it, or that I noticed. So here’s a bone for you to chase later on, Consuela: “I was hoping to see the river, further downstream: I hear you’ve got some aquaculture experiments going on there?”
“Why, yes, we do. Sure: we can fit that in.”
Caine smiled—then staggered during his attempt to get into the Rover. He half sat down, half fell down, into the front passenger seat.
She came around quickly. “Mr. Riordan, are you quite sure you’re—?”
“I’m okay. But I think—I think I need some water. Do we have some?”
“No—”
I know that.
“—but I can go to the break shed and get you a bottle. Will you be all right here?”
“Sure. Thanks. Sorry about—this.”
She smiled, turned to assume her newest role as his loyal Gunga Dinette—and, from the corner of his eye, he saw that, as she turned, her reassuring smile became tight and contemptuous.
He watched her stride away: this was a woman who didn’t like weakness. Except, of course, when she stood to benefit by it. Right now, she was probably thinking: Outstanding. I get to control him without having to get laid by him.
Caine smiled as she disappeared around the corner: So you don’t like weakness. I hope you like surprises. He swung his legs up into the Rover, scooted over to the driver’s seat, turned the key, and upshifted, turning the vehicle in a slow, dustless arc back onto the road that plunged into the shadows of the not-trees.
Chapter Six
ODYSSEUS
The low buildings of the open quarry—or whatever it was—barely rose above the ferns and clusters of helical, bone-white tubers that seemed frozen in the midst of a delicate, upward-spiraling dance. Caine drove past thickets of them, wondered what they were called, reflected on the utter lack of poetry in the meretricious souls that had come to command the fate of this valley. They probably hadn’t even bothered to name any of the plants they had seen. To them, it would all simply be categorized as “obstructive vegetation—removal pending.”