He found them crouched in the narrow strip of shade provided by a length of gray wall. Three of them; he smelled the coffee before he saw them, the fire-blackened enamel pot balanced precariously on the tiny Primus cooker. He was meant to smell it, of course; they were expecting him Other- wise, he’d have found the ruin empty, and then, somehow, very quietly and almost naturally, he would have died. Two men, a woman; cracked, dusty boots out of Texas, denim so shiny with grease that it would probably be water- proof. The men were bearded, their uncut hair bound up in sun-bleached topknots with lengths of rawhide, the woman’s hair center-parted and pulled back tight from a seamed, wind- burnt face. An ancient BMW motorcycle was propped against the wall, flecked chrome and battered paintwork daubed with airbrush blobs of tan and gray desert camo. He released the Smith & Wesson’s grip, letting it pivot around his index finger, so that the barrel pointed up and back. “Turner,” one of the men said, rising, cheap metal flash- ing from his teeth. `Sutcliffe.” Trace of an accent, probably Australian. “Point team?” He looked at the other two. “Point,” Sutcliffe said, and probed his mouth with a tanned thumb and forefinger, coming away with a yellowed, steel- capped prostho. His own teeth were white and perfectly even. “You took Chauvet from IBM for Mitsu,” he said, “and they say you took Semenov out of Tomsk.” “Is that a question?” “I was security for IBM Marrakech when you blew the hotel.” Turner met the man’s eyes. They were blue, calm, very bright. “Is that a problem for you?” “No fear,” Sutcliffe said. “Just to say I’ve seen you work.” He snapped the prostho back in place. “Lynch” nodding toward the other man’ `and Webber’ `toward the woman.
“Run it down to me,” Turner said, and lowered himself into the scrap of shade. He squatted on his haunches, still holding the gun. “We came in three days ago,” Webber said, “on two bikes. We arranged for one of them to snap its crankshaft, in case we had to make an excuse for camping here. There’s a sparse transient population, gypsy bikers and cultists. Lynch walked an optics spool six kilos east and tapped into a phone . “Private?” “Pay,” Lynch said. “We sent out a test squirt,” the woman continued. “If it hadn’t worked, you’d know it.” Turner nodded. “Incoming traffic?” “Nothing. It’s strictly for the big show, whatever that is.” She raised her eyebrows. “It’s a defection.” “Bit obvious, that,” Sutcliffe said, settling himself beside Webber, his back to the wall. “Though the general tone of the operation so far suggests that we hirelings aren’t likely to even know who we’re extracting. True, Mr. Turner? Or will we be able to read about it in the fax?” Turner ignored him. “Go on. Webber.” “After our landline was in place, the rest of the crew filtered in, one or two at a time. The last one in primed us for the tankful of Japs “That was raw,” Sutcliffe said, “bit too far up front.” “You think it might have blown us?” Turner asked. Sutcliffe shrugged. “Could be, could be no. We hopped it pretty quick. Damned lucky we’d the roof to tuck it under.” “What about the passengers?” “They only come out at night,” Webber said. “And they know we’ll kill them if they try to get more than five meters away from the thing.” Turner glanced at Sutcliffe. “Conroy’s orders,” the man said. “Conroy’s orders don’t count now,” Turner said. “But that one holds. What are these people like?” “Medicals,’~ Lynch said, “bent medicals.” “You got it,” Turner said. “What about the rest of the crew?” “We rigged some shade with mimetic tarps. They sleep in shifts. There’s not enough water and we can’t risk much in the way of cooking.” Sutcliffe reached for the coffeepot. “We have sentries in place and we run periodic checks on the integrity of the landline.” He splashed black coffee into a plastic mug that looked as though it had been chewed by a dog. “So when do we do our dance, Mr. Turner?” “I want to see your tank of pet medics. I want to see a command post. You haven’t said anything about a command post.” “All set,” Lynch said. “Fine. Here.” Turner passed Webber the revolver. “See if you can find me some sort of rig for this. Now I want Lynch to show me these medics.”