slight headache, are you?” Lillehammer extended a hand. “Here, swallow this.”
Croaker took the tiny white pill, gulped it down with a swig of beer. In a moment, his head cleared. “What the hell was that?”
“Electronic surveillance has become so sophisticated so quickly we’ve been forced to bring into the field counter-measures not always one hundred percent refined.” Lillehammer indicated the workings of the briefcase. “This baby will do the job, but it’s still a bit hard on the brain. Something to do with the pitch of the vibrations it sends out.” He looked down at it rather fondly. “Seems I’ve gotten used to the bastard. Doesn’t say much for my ears, I suppose.”
He finished his beer, smacked his lips. “Regards from Lieutenant McDonald, by the way. I’m certain he’s sorry I pitched him out of his own wicket.”
“Another beer?”
“Only ever have one during the day. Thanks just the same.”
“Just how British are you?” Croaker said, opening another bottle for himself.
Lillehammer laughed. “Very, actually. But where I come from I’ve gotten so used to American idioms I sometimes find myself worrying that the English part of me has gotten snowed under. Out of the office, I’m afraid I have an alarming tendency to become a flaming Brit. It’s what comes from being afflicted with an English mother and an American father.”
“And just where is your office?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t?”
Lillehammer lifted a forefinger. “If you have an office, eventually everyone knows what it is you do. It took the CIA decades to work that one out.”
Croaker saw those X-ray eyes fixed on his left hand. He uncurled the titanium and polycarbonate fingers. “I imagine you’re curious about this. Everyone is.”
Lillehammer nodded deferentially. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ve long gotten over being sensitive about it.” Croaker laid open the artificial hand that a team of biomechanics and surgeons in Tokyo had grafted to what had been the stump of his left wrist.
It looked, more than anything, like a work of art: four fingerlike appendages and an opposable thumb, articulated where human joints—or knuckles—would be. They had underpinnings of titanium and boron, were sheathed in matte black polycarbonate, and were affixed to a stainless-steel and blued titanium hand: palm, back, and wrist.
“I don’t fully understand how it works,” Croaker said, “but the main servos are somehow connected to my own nerves. The hand is also powered by a pair of special lithium batteries.”
Lillehammer bent over, examining the hand like an archaeologist poring over a historic find. He said, “Do you mind telling me what happened?”
Croaker suspected that he already knew, but said, “I was in a pitched battle with one very smart bastard. He was a champion sumo and very strong. He was also an expert in kendo—do you know what that is? Japanese swordsmanship.’’
Lillehammer nodded. “I’ve been lucky enough to examine a number of katana close up.”
“Then you know just how sharp those sword blades can be. In the best of them, the very edge of the blade is so finely ground it virtually disappears. The sumo severed my hand with one of those.”
“And how well does this work?” Lillehammer said, tapping one of the long articulated fingers.
Croaker made a fist, very slowly, then released the fingers back again, revealing the iridescent blue titanium palm. “This is the second model—new and improved. The prototype was amazing enough, but this...”
He rose, went over to pick up one of the empty beer bottles. He held it in his right hand, pressed the tip of one articulated finger against the glass. There was a strange sound, like the tearing of thin fabric. The razor-sharp tip traced its way down the bottle, across the bottom, up the opposite side. A moment later, the bottle fell open in two equal halves.
“Remarkable combination of strength and
Croaker took the tiny white pill, gulped it down with a swig of beer. In a moment, his head cleared. “What the hell was that?”
“Electronic surveillance has become so sophisticated so quickly we’ve been forced to bring into the field counter-measures not always one hundred percent refined.” Lillehammer indicated the workings of the briefcase. “This baby will do the job, but it’s still a bit hard on the brain. Something to do with the pitch of the vibrations it sends out.” He looked down at it rather fondly. “Seems I’ve gotten used to the bastard. Doesn’t say much for my ears, I suppose.”
He finished his beer, smacked his lips. “Regards from Lieutenant McDonald, by the way. I’m certain he’s sorry I pitched him out of his own wicket.”
“Another beer?”
“Only ever have one during the day. Thanks just the same.”
“Just how British are you?” Croaker said, opening another bottle for himself.
Lillehammer laughed. “Very, actually. But where I come from I’ve gotten so used to American idioms I sometimes find myself worrying that the English part of me has gotten snowed under. Out of the office, I’m afraid I have an alarming tendency to become a flaming Brit. It’s what comes from being afflicted with an English mother and an American father.”
“And just where is your office?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t?”
Lillehammer lifted a forefinger. “If you have an office, eventually everyone knows what it is you do. It took the CIA decades to work that one out.”
Croaker saw those X-ray eyes fixed on his left hand. He uncurled the titanium and polycarbonate fingers. “I imagine you’re curious about this. Everyone is.”
Lillehammer nodded deferentially. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ve long gotten over being sensitive about it.” Croaker laid open the artificial hand that a team of biomechanics and surgeons in Tokyo had grafted to what had been the stump of his left wrist.
It looked, more than anything, like a work of art: four fingerlike appendages and an opposable thumb, articulated where human joints—or knuckles—would be. They had underpinnings of titanium and boron, were sheathed in matte black polycarbonate, and were affixed to a stainless-steel and blued titanium hand: palm, back, and wrist.
“I don’t fully understand how it works,” Croaker said, “but the main servos are somehow connected to my own nerves. The hand is also powered by a pair of special lithium batteries.”
Lillehammer bent over, examining the hand like an archaeologist poring over a historic find. He said, “Do you mind telling me what happened?”
Croaker suspected that he already knew, but said, “I was in a pitched battle with one very smart bastard. He was a champion sumo and very strong. He was also an expert in kendo—do you know what that is? Japanese swordsmanship.’’
Lillehammer nodded. “I’ve been lucky enough to examine a number of katana close up.”
“Then you know just how sharp those sword blades can be. In the best of them, the very edge of the blade is so finely ground it virtually disappears. The sumo severed my hand with one of those.”
“And how well does this work?” Lillehammer said, tapping one of the long articulated fingers.
Croaker made a fist, very slowly, then released the fingers back again, revealing the iridescent blue titanium palm. “This is the second model—new and improved. The prototype was amazing enough, but this...”
He rose, went over to pick up one of the empty beer bottles. He held it in his right hand, pressed the tip of one articulated finger against the glass. There was a strange sound, like the tearing of thin fabric. The razor-sharp tip traced its way down the bottle, across the bottom, up the opposite side. A moment later, the bottle fell open in two equal halves.
“Remarkable combination of strength and
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