panes of glass. The place smelled faintly of disinfectant and the peculiar but indefinable odor given off by heated electronics.
He walked forward now, into the dusty sunlight, circling around until he faced the islands of electronics. He turned and saw Annika bending over her grandfather’s body. She must have done something, given him another drug. Dyadya began to move. He said something to Katya, who was standing beside him. She bent down and kissed him. Then he said something to Annika and she helped him into a sitting position. He swung his legs over the side of the gurney. When he saw where Jack was standing, a smile creased his face.
“You see, Annika, it’s as I predicted,” the old man said. “Jack knows you triggered our backup plan.”
S IX
A S WAS his wont, Mr. Waxman inclined his head in the formal European style at Vera’s introduction. “Charmed.”
“And her friend, Vera Bard.”
“Equally,” Mr. Waxman said with the precise economy of age.
His face was long and thin, with a nose like a knife blade and thin lips the color of fried liver. Incongruously, he wore a natty porkpie hat similar to the sort sported by fifties jazz musicians and current hipsters. Just below hung elephantine ears, filled with whorled cartilage. He sat with some difficulty between Alli and Vera, as if any movement of his bones pained him.
Turning back to Alli, he said, “Ms. Simpson has apprised me of your current situation. Also of the information she has been able to glean from her scouring of the Internet. She has taken the investigation as far as she can.”
“I understand that, and I’m grateful.” Alli had to remind herself that Caro’s current identity was Helene Simpson. “Can you help?”
“Allow me to explain.” Waxman’s lips compressed to pencil lines as he smiled. “Ms. Simpson came up against a firewall and she ceased her work immediately. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get through this particular firewall. On the contrary, I have every confidence that in time she would have breached it if she tried. She chose not to.”
Alli glanced at Caro, but she spoke to Waxman. “Why not?”
Waxman had hands like a marmoset, small and neat. He wrapped them over the knobbed head of his walking stick, so that his knuckles, swollen with arthritis, stood out, white as birch bark. “Why not?” he echoed. “Well, for one thing, she’s an exceedingly clever creature. For another, infiltrating a government military firewall is a treasonable offense.”
Le Tigre had finished, the loudspeakers effortlessly segued into “Who Am I to Feel so Free,” from their new incarnation, MEN. The song scarcely registered on Alli; she was too shocked. Her thoughts chased each other madly, her head pounding. Her lips felt glued together.
“I don’t…” Clearing her throat, she was at last able to speak coherently. “Are you saying that the person who put up that site works for the federal government?”
“Military intelligence,” Waxman said, “not to put too fine a point on it.”
Alli bent over, head in her hands. Now she understood how this person knew the intimate details of her kidnapping—he was working for the government, protected by it. Which meant that he had been at the crime scene or had been privy to the eyes-only report. She shuddered to think that he had stood in the same room where she had been bound and psychologically beaten by Morgan Herr. A dreadful chill rippled through her. Did that mean he knew her as well as Herr had? Please, God , she thought, don’t make it so .
“Alli?” Vera came and sat next to her, a sheltering arm pulling her close. “Come on. We’re all here to help you.”
“She’s right,” Waxman said. “Listen to your friends.” His smile was benign, reassuring. “We’re all here to help.”
Alli shuddered again, her nightmare past roaring back at her full-throttle, overtaking the present. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Bolting up, she ran down
He walked forward now, into the dusty sunlight, circling around until he faced the islands of electronics. He turned and saw Annika bending over her grandfather’s body. She must have done something, given him another drug. Dyadya began to move. He said something to Katya, who was standing beside him. She bent down and kissed him. Then he said something to Annika and she helped him into a sitting position. He swung his legs over the side of the gurney. When he saw where Jack was standing, a smile creased his face.
“You see, Annika, it’s as I predicted,” the old man said. “Jack knows you triggered our backup plan.”
S IX
A S WAS his wont, Mr. Waxman inclined his head in the formal European style at Vera’s introduction. “Charmed.”
“And her friend, Vera Bard.”
“Equally,” Mr. Waxman said with the precise economy of age.
His face was long and thin, with a nose like a knife blade and thin lips the color of fried liver. Incongruously, he wore a natty porkpie hat similar to the sort sported by fifties jazz musicians and current hipsters. Just below hung elephantine ears, filled with whorled cartilage. He sat with some difficulty between Alli and Vera, as if any movement of his bones pained him.
Turning back to Alli, he said, “Ms. Simpson has apprised me of your current situation. Also of the information she has been able to glean from her scouring of the Internet. She has taken the investigation as far as she can.”
“I understand that, and I’m grateful.” Alli had to remind herself that Caro’s current identity was Helene Simpson. “Can you help?”
“Allow me to explain.” Waxman’s lips compressed to pencil lines as he smiled. “Ms. Simpson came up against a firewall and she ceased her work immediately. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get through this particular firewall. On the contrary, I have every confidence that in time she would have breached it if she tried. She chose not to.”
Alli glanced at Caro, but she spoke to Waxman. “Why not?”
Waxman had hands like a marmoset, small and neat. He wrapped them over the knobbed head of his walking stick, so that his knuckles, swollen with arthritis, stood out, white as birch bark. “Why not?” he echoed. “Well, for one thing, she’s an exceedingly clever creature. For another, infiltrating a government military firewall is a treasonable offense.”
Le Tigre had finished, the loudspeakers effortlessly segued into “Who Am I to Feel so Free,” from their new incarnation, MEN. The song scarcely registered on Alli; she was too shocked. Her thoughts chased each other madly, her head pounding. Her lips felt glued together.
“I don’t…” Clearing her throat, she was at last able to speak coherently. “Are you saying that the person who put up that site works for the federal government?”
“Military intelligence,” Waxman said, “not to put too fine a point on it.”
Alli bent over, head in her hands. Now she understood how this person knew the intimate details of her kidnapping—he was working for the government, protected by it. Which meant that he had been at the crime scene or had been privy to the eyes-only report. She shuddered to think that he had stood in the same room where she had been bound and psychologically beaten by Morgan Herr. A dreadful chill rippled through her. Did that mean he knew her as well as Herr had? Please, God , she thought, don’t make it so .
“Alli?” Vera came and sat next to her, a sheltering arm pulling her close. “Come on. We’re all here to help you.”
“She’s right,” Waxman said. “Listen to your friends.” His smile was benign, reassuring. “We’re all here to help.”
Alli shuddered again, her nightmare past roaring back at her full-throttle, overtaking the present. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Bolting up, she ran down
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