“You will have independent verification soon enough.” The man picked up the box and put it in his pocket. “I believe I hear sirens.”
If he did, then either his ears were extraordinary, or Astor-Smath’s were in need of retesting. “Excellent, most excellent. However, this is hardly what I—we—expected. Your methods—”
“Are my concern alone. You requested an accommodation; it has been provided.”
Astor-Smath cleared his throat—and heard, faintly, a single approaching siren. “Well, regardless of your methods, you have done us a great service today.” The tall man moved away from the window: if he was listening, he seemed unaffected by Astor-Smath’s words. Robin tried a little harder. “This marks a major step forward in our cooperative agreement, and you have also struck a significant blow against the agents of national sovereignty, who stand in the way of—”
“How gratifying. I would welcome another dish of olives.”
Then the tall man sat down in the shadowed corner. He did not speak again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CALYPSO
Opal saw Caine emerge from the Capitol’s West Face at a brisk walk that carried him straight to the descending flight of stairs at the southern end of the portico. At the same moment, a small horde of medtechs started charging up the staircase on the northern side. The EMTs were accompanied by a smattering of suit-and-sunglass security types who were about as unobtrusive as a flock of condors in a day-care center.
Caine fast-foot-shuffled down the second, lower flight of stairs, headed straight toward Opal but didn’t show any sign of stopping near her. She took her cue, fell in beside him. “What’s the excitement?”
He smiled—too brightly and cinematically for comfort—and said nothing, only looked past her at the taxis on First Street, scanning from one to the next.
What the hell is he looking for? His favorite brand? “Caine—”
He peered down to where First Street emerged from the Maryland Avenue traffic circle. He snapped straighter, flung up a hand: “Taxi!”
A cab—one of the few driven by a human—swerved to the curb. Caine scanned its interior—and driver—quickly: What the hell is he looking for? It seemed an odd choice: a dilapidated gypsy cab, and a primitive one at that, without any comm or call number stenciled on the side, just the rather battered legend, “Sim’s Taxi Service.”
The window edged down unevenly. Caine’s question sounded strange, even to her: “Who are you?”
The driver started. Too surprised to come up with a retort, or a lie, his response was gruff: “I’m Sim. Who wants to know?”
“A high-tipping fare.”
Sim’s eyebrows went up. “Glad to hear it.” He reached over the back seat toward the rear door.
“Not so fast. You own and operate this cab yourself?”
“Do you think I’d be out here if I had anyone to do it for me?”
“Are you subscribed to a dispatching service, or a fare-share cooperative?”
“What, and go bankrupt between the fees and the percentages I have to share out? Listen, buddy, I just barely get by as it is.”
“Then you’re taking us to Reagan International.”
“Suborbital or orbital terminal?”
“Orbital. And if you get us there in thirty-five minutes, there’s a fifty dollar tip in it.”
“Luggage?”
“No luggage.”
“Then hop in.”
Caine pulled open the door. Opal stepped forward, paused, started to look back up the stairs of the Capitol Building—
Caine put a hand on her arm: it was not gentle. “Don’t look back. Get in.”
* * *
She waited until they had crossed the Potomac and then toggled the privacy screen. After it was done grinding and groaning closed, she turned to Caine. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
Caine was removing his collarcom. “I’m taking a trip.”
The first person singular pronoun left a burning feeling along Opal’s brow. Okay: keep it relaxed: don’t give yourself away. She looked around the soiled interior of the cab. “Well, you’ve certainly picked some first-class transportation for this leg of your journey.”
He did not smile: at first, she wasn’t even sure he had heard. However, as he began fishing around in his pants pocket, he finally replied, as if in afterthought: “Actually, this cab is exactly what I need. It’s not automated, so there’s no commlink. It’s self-owned, so no central dispatcher. And he’s not connected to any of the gypsy cooperative services. So the only way Downing—or anyone else—can find me is to trace the signal of my phone.” Which he had now extracted from his pocket.