Charles Gannon - Fire With Fire

“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.

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.”

He eased off the accelerator as he approached: don’t want to look like I’m in a rush . He heard and ignored yet another page on the radio, thought a moment, then reached under the dashboard and disconnected the unit.

He emerged into the clearing and, as he heard the spatter of loose rock under his tires once again, he realized that the road to this site was more worn, and smoother, than the one to the oil rigs. It either got more use, more attention, or both. Yet it led to the one location that was left off Caine’s itinerary. Whatever Helger didn’t want him to see was here.

He slowed as he came amidst the cluster of prefab buildings: newer and better maintained than the ones out at the oil field. More vehicles, also. But it was the small groups of workers-two lounging against a truck, three more under the awning of an administrative prefab, another two walking slowly past a pile of white and dusty dig spoor-who were the most strikingly different. It took a moment for Caine to see what the difference was, as they looked up briefly over the rims of their coffee cups before resuming their casual chats. It wasn’t their crisply clean clothes, or their neatly groomed hair, or even their alert faces and scanning eyes: it was their postures of relaxed self-assurance.

One or two looked up from their coffee again, matching Caine’s gaze. Christ: don’t stare. Get moving.

He swung his legs out the door port that had been scalloped low into the chassis of the Rover, settled his hat on his head as he looked up at the sun, and then at his watch. He peripherally saw the watching eyes withdraw as he walked with a casual surety that was pure bluff; he only knew that he needed to get to the excavations.

Caine hadn’t been sure what to expect in the way of challenges, but was utterly surprised by what he did encounter: nothing. Slowing to a stroll, he passed compact excavating equipment: caterpillar-tracked backhoes, drills, one small articulated hoist jury-rigged on the back of a large truck. One hard-hatted mechanic emerged from the truck’s cab, stared at him without nodding, went on his way.

And that was it: no Cerberus guarding the gate to whatever buried secret CoDevCo had found here. Caine suppressed the urge to laugh at the anticlimax of the moment, kept walking forward-

— into a litter of chalky white rock. Oval pits dug here and there, one of which was long and narrow. Beyond that was a high berm of loose dirt. Well, might as well start looking-

“Hello there.”

Caine managed not to flinch, turned to face the voice. A middle-aged man, half-a-head shorter than Caine’s six feet, was approaching. He looked more like a librarian than a machine operator: it wasn’t just his clothes-appropriate for a company picnic-but his soft, almost delicate face and bookish glasses. “Yes?”

“Hello,” the man repeated. “Can I help you?”

“You in charge here?”

“Well, I–I have final authority over dig priorities and scheduling, so I suppose-”

“Fine, then I can talk to you. I’ve got to check drainage and pump placement. We don’t have any details on it and the weather stations are confirming a possible hurricane. So I need to see a schematic of your flood-management systems.”