Страница 66 из 74
"The B-list."
"Wine 'em, dine 'em, and keep 'em out of my hair while I'm making the pitch." Miriam fa
Brill smiled. "Watch me," she said. "It's your job to relax and enjoy yourself. Then give a good presentation!"
In a mosquito-infested marsh on the banks of a sluggish river, a draft of peasants from the estates of the Earl of Dankfurt had assembled a scaffold. The scaffold, of stout timber with a surface of planking, bore a winch and some additional contrivances, and despite its crude appearance it had been positioned very carefully indeed. Blood and sweat had gone into its location, and the use of imported surveying tools to measure very precisely indeed its distance and altitude relative to the four reference points where Clan couriers had established accurate GPS locations before crossing over from Washington D.C.
(Accurately locating anything in the Sudtmarkt was problematic, but where there was a need-and urgency-there was a way: and with four reference points, theodolites, and standardized lengths of chain, positioning to within a couple of inches at a distance of up to a mile was perfectly achievable. Besides, Gu
"This is the entry point?" asked the visitor.
"Yes, my lord." Gu
"Intrusion tests?"
"A courier, outfitted with cover as a tourist, to make sure our proposed sites were workable. They crossed over ten minutes after the museum closed, to ensure there were no human witnesses, then made their way out when the alarm system went off. Their story was that they'd been in the rest room and hadn't noticed the time. Along the way, they check for motion detectors in the rest rooms, that sort of thing, to ensure a witness-free transit point."
"Excellent. And the others?"
"Shops are a little bit harder to probe, so I checked the store in reverse, myself-I crossed over from the other side. Found we were three inches too low on this side, so I raised the platform accordingly. We will have to risk their store security noticing that they lost a shopper, but they are most likely to assume that I was simply an artful thief."
One of the visiting lord's companions was making notes in a pla
"Ah, well." Gu
"What about the subway station?"
"It's been closed since 9/11, unfortunately, otherwise that would be ideal. Damned amateurs with their box-cutters…"
"Leave me. Not you, Gu
Gu
The parasol- and pla
Heads ducked; without further ado, the servants and guards backed away then turned and filed towards the edge of the clearing. His lordship watched with ill-concealed impatience until the last of them was out of easy earshot, before turning to Gu
"You must tell me the truth, sir. I'm informed that our superiors have a definite goal in mind, for which they require certain assurances. Both our necks-and those of others-are at risk should this scheme fail. If, in your estimate, it is doomed, please say so now. There will be censure, certainly, but it will be nothing compared to the punishment that will fall on both of us should we make the attempt and fail."
Gu
"At least two spies, for opposing factions."
"Ah, well that makes it clear, then." Gu
"The spies in question will have a boating accident involving alligators around sunset this evening." His lordship smiled humorlessly. "We-my superiors-have chewed the plan to pieces. Our other choices are no better. The pretender saw to that with his betrothal-day massacre and the radicals have been happy to complete his work. But. My question. Can you make it work?"
"Well." Gu
"And site three?"
Gu
"Hmm."
"What about team four?" Gu
"Team four?" His lordship raised one sculpted eyebrow. "There is no team four."
"Really?" Gu
His lordship snorted. "They're targeting the White House, the Capitol, and the Pentagon-what more do you want?"
"That bitch in Niejwein."
His lordship winked. "Already taken care of, Sir Gu
Room 4117 was scaring Mike. Not the room itself, but what its contents implied.
Matthias's-source GREENSLEEVES's-voice featured prominently in his dreams as he doggedly plowed through the box of cassette tapes, transcribing and backing up, listening and rewinding, making notes and cross-checking the dictionaries and lexicons that other, more skilled linguists were working on with the detainees FTO had squirreled away in an underground dungeon somewhere. FTO had access to some of the NSA's most skilled linguists, and they were making progress, more progress in weeks than Mike had made in months. Which realization did not fill him with joy; rather, it made him ask, why has Dr. James stuck me in here to do this job when there are any number of better translators available?