“Your control room?” Jon asked Peter.
“Right.” Peter nodded. “Good to keep busy.”
It was more than any one private citizen should— or could— have. Obviously, Peter Howell was still working for somebody.
Marty rushed toward the computer installation. “I knew your PC had far too much power to be ordinary. It must be connected to this Goliath. It’s gorgeous! I want maps like yours for my bungalow. You’re monitoring activities in these countries, aren’t you? Are you linked directly to centers in each one? You must show me what you’re doing. How the maps are linked. How—”
“Not now, Mart.” Jon tried to be patient. “We’re on our way out. We’re evacuating, remember?”
Marty’s face fell. “What’s so important about leaving? I want to live in this room.” The sullen expression vanished. His round face was as alight as the maps above. “That’s what I’m going to do! It’s perfect. The whole world will come to me here. I’ll never have to leave or—”
“We’re leaving right now,” Jon said firmly, pushing him toward the door. “You could help us load, okay?”
“As long as we’re here, I’ll take my files.” Peter grabbed a stack of brown files from the top of the free-standing cabinet. As he walked out the door, he pressed a finger against the frame. Jon heard a quiet click. “You two take what food you like from the kitchen to tide us over a day or so. We’ll need weapons and ammo, and the whiskey, of course.”
Jon nodded. “We have things in our car, too. How the hell do we carry it all?”
“Ah, trust me.”
A low crooning sound came from the control room. Marty had slipped away from Jon and now sat in Peter’s power chair before the wall-sized console. He rocked from side to side, his gaze locked on the shifting array of lights on the transparent wall maps. He was beginning to understand what they all meant, how they interconnected. It was intriguing. He could almost feel the lights pulse in rhythm with his brain—
Jon touched his shoulder. “Mart?”
“No!” He whirled as if bitten. “I’ll never leave! Never! Never! Nev…”
Jon tried to hold him as he kicked and writhed. “He needs to go back on his meds, pronto,” he told Peter.
Wild with rage, Marty lashed out with his fists, swearing incoherencies. Jon gave up and grabbed him in a bear hug, lifted him so that his feet were off the floor, and moved him away from the console as he continued to kick and shout.
Peter frowned. “We don’t have time for this.” He stepped forward and slugged Marty on the chin.
Marty’s eyes widened, and then he collapsed in Jon’s arms, unconscious.
Peter’s wiry frame trotted back out into the hallway. “Bring him.”
Jon sighed. He had a feeling Marty and Peter were not going to get along. He picked up Marty, who had a peaceful expression on his round face. He dropped him over his shoulder and followed the ex-SAS trooper and MI6 agent through the rear door in the kitchen into what turned out to be a garage.
Parked and waiting was a medium-sized RV.
“There’s another road,” Jon realized. “Of course, there has to be. You’re not going to live anywhere where you know you’re trapped.”
“Right. Never have only one way out. It’s a dirt road. Not on the map, not maintained well, but it’ll do. Stash Marty in the RV.”
Jon deposited Marty on one of the three bunk beds fastened in a stack in the back. The rest of the RV’s interior was the usual— kitchen, dining nook, bath, all in miniature, except for the living room. That was the heart of the vehicle. It was a compact version of the map-and-computer center from the house, complete with wall maps, console, and tiny colored lights that came to life as Jon watched.
“Adding a final boost to the batteries,” Peter said as Jon returned to the garage. The Brit had hooked up the RV to the house current.
For the next hour they carried food, whiskey, guns, and ammo from the house. While Jon packed it away, Peter vanished to make arrangements. Finally Marty moaned on the bunk and flopped one arm. At the same time, Jon heard the approaching engine of a low-flying aircraft.
He pulled out his Beretta and raced into the house.
“Relax,” Peter told him.
They went out front to stand together and look up at the mountain sky. A single-engine Cessna swooped low and roared over the cabin. A small steel tube dropped from it into the clearing. Moments later, Peter returned with the tube.
“The little man’s medicine.”
Inside the RV, Jon sat the groaning Marty up on the bunk, gave him a pill and a glass of water, and watched him take the drug, grumbling the whole time. Then he lay back without a word and stared up at the RV’s ceiling. He rarely spoke of his affliction, but sometimes Jon caught him in an unguarded moment like this, staring off as if wondering what other people felt and thought, what a `normal life’ was really all about.
Peter stuck his head inside the door. His face was grim. “We have company.
“Stay down, Mart.” Jon patted his friend and hurried out into the garage.
Binoculars dangled from Peter’s neck. He held his cleaned H&K MP5 in one hand, and with the other he tossed Jon the bullpup Enfield. His lined, perpetually tanned face had some kind of strange inner glow, as if who he really was— what he really liked, what made his blood course— had suddenly come alive.
Jon inhaled and felt the buzz of excitement and fear that he used to crave. Perhaps the killers had arrived. And he was ready to meet them. In fact, eager.
With Peter in the lead, they loped through the house and out onto the front porch. They stayed hidden behind bushes that rimmed the porch as they studied the steel footbridge that crossed the deep ravine and the five figures on the far side, who were investigating Jon’s rental car.
Peter watched through binoculars. “Three are sheriff’s deputies from the county. Two are wearing dark suits and hats and appear to be running the show.”
“They don’t sound like our killers.” Jon took the glasses and focused. Three definitely were uniformed police of some kind, and the other two were doing the ordering. The two in suits stood apart talking to each other as if the police weren’t there. One pointed at the cabin.
“FBI,” Jon guessed. “They won’t come over shooting. I’m just AWOL.”
“Unless they’re in cahoots with your villains, or unless the situation has changed. Best we take no chances. Let’s give them something to think about.”
Peter left Jon and disappeared back into the house. Jon continued to focus on the FBI men, who were instructing the deputies to stay back as they advanced. All five took out their weapons and, with the FBI in the lead, approached the bridge. The first FBI man carried an electric bullhorn.
They were only steps from the bridge when the five men came to an abrupt, astonished halt. Jon blinked, unsure himself. One second the footbridge had been there. The next, it vanished.
There was a slapping sound, and dust rose from the ravine in a hazy brown-and-white cloud.
The intruders’ mouths fell open. They looked down, then up and across. The two cops ambled forward. Through the binoculars, Jon watched them grin and peer appreciatively down into the steep ravine again. It was a joke on the FBI. The men laughed.
Peter returned to crouch beside Jon. “Surprise them a trifle?”
“I’d say. What happened?”
“Electric legerdemain. The bridge has deucedly massive hinges on this side. When I release the gadgets that attach it at the far side, it swings down into the ravine, bounces against the wall, and comes to rest hanging straight down. A job putting it back, but a crew from Lee Vining will do that when I need them.” He stood. “Anyway, that should hold them a half hour or so. It’s a nasty climb down and up. Come on.”
Jon chuckled as they trotted back through the house and into the garage, where Marty now sat on the RV steps looking tired and rueful. “Hi, Jon. Was I trouble?” His words were slow.
“You were brilliant as usual, but we’re going to have to abandon our clothes again. The FBI’s found us. They’ve got our car, and we’re leaving fast.”
“What can I do?”
“Get back inside and wait.”
Jon stepped out back again. He found the Brit sitting cross-legged in the pine-needle duff under the trees. Sunlight shone through the pine branches, making intricate patterns on the Englishman and the golden mountain lion sitting on its haunches, facing him.
Peter spoke quietly. “Sorry, Stanley, but I’m off again. A nuisance, I know. So it’s back to the missus and fend for yourself for a bit, I’m afraid. Hold the fort until I return, and I’ll be back before you can say Bob’s your uncle.”