He frowned, tipping back in the battered armchair in the tiny kitchen of the cramped apartment to which his trustee's status entitled him, and thought hard. McBryde wasn't like that asshole Lathorous. Oh, he had some of the same star line's "my shit doesn't stink" attitude, but he had it under better control. And he'd at least always tried to look like he respected the unglamorous and thoroughly unpleasant duty of deep-penetration agents like Irvine. And he had suggested he'd be keeping his own eye on the situation Irvine had reported to him. He was far enough up the seniority tree that he could do it just about any way he wanted to, too, but still . . .

He's been an office puke for years now, Irvine reflected. It shows, too. He's so far out of practice he didn't even come up with a disguise that would have fooled anyone. And it never occurred to me to mention to him I'd left bugs in the place.

Irvine grimaced and reminded himself to be fair.

No, it didn't fool me, that's true, but, then again, I know him. I doubt anyone in that restaurant has ever met Mr. Jack McBryde, Secret Agent at Large. In fact, the only people who would recognize him would be other Security types. But in that case, his eyes narrowed, why worry about a disguise at all? As far as I know, he's never been operational here on Mesa, so who the hell is he disguising himself against?

Irvine sat thinking for several more seconds, then leaned forward and replayed the imagery from the very beginning. It wouldn't have been obvious to most people, but Irvine wasn't "most people." He was a highly trained intelligence officer, and his frown deepened again as he realized McBryde was there for the express purpose of speaking with the waiter. And, Irvine decided, both of them were working very hard at pretending that he hadn't. They were doing a damned good job of it, too. If anything had been needed to convince Irvine that the big seccy really was an operator himself, watching him "not talking" to McBryde would have supplied it.

And McBryde was doing exactly the same thing back, although not quite as well. Probably because he was rusty from so many years sitting behind a desk. But why was he bothering? What the hell were they talking about? It had to be some kind of infiltration operation, but what the hell did McBryde think he was doing, pulling that kind of stunt on his own? And why hadn't he even bothered to get more background out of Irvine? Or at least alert Irvine so that he'd have had some kind of backup if this bizarre effort of his went belly-up?

It wasn't just stupid, it was dangerous, and something about it was ringing bells somewhere deep inside Lajos Irvine's brain. Obviously, McBryde was senior enough to him that there was absolutely no reason the other man should have bothered to get Irvine's permission. He had the authority to initiate investigations whenever and wherever he chose, if he thought there was any threat to the Gamma Center's security. But—

Irvine's train of thought stuttered abruptly, and he sat suddenly bolt upright in his chair.

No, he told himself. That's just too fucking off the wall even for you, Lajos! The man's the frigging head of security for the Gamma Center, for crying out loud! He's a Level Fourteen, damn it, and Bardasano's only a Sixteen, herself!

Yes, he is, a small, quiet voice said in the back of his brain. And there could be all kinds of perfectly legitimate reasons for him to be doing this. The fact that you can't remotely begin to imagine what one of them might be doesn't mean they don't exist. But what if that's because he doesn't have a reason—a legitimateone, at least?

The thought sent an icy shudder down Lajos Irvine's spine. It was preposterous, and he knew it. But if McBryde was up to something, his general knowledge and—especially!—his assignment as the Center's security chief put him in a position to do a terrifying amount of damage. And he was the Center's security chief, so who'd question anything he might choose to do?

Oh, shit. I do not need this. I really, really do not need this. If he is up to something, then God only knows how much damage he's already done. But if he's not up to something and I start punching alarm buttons, he's not going to like it very much. And he's going to be in a hell of a position to make me wish I'd never opened my mouth. Besides which, whose alarm buttons do I punch? Not his, that's for damned sure! And that bastard Lathorous is not only a major pain in the ass in his own right, but he and McBryde go way back. Taking this to him wouldn't be the most career-enhancing move I can think of, either. But if I don't take it to someone and there's anything at all to it . . .

He sat staring at the frozen imagery, and his brain raced.

"Tomorrow? So soon?" Herlander's tone of voice was more that of a man puzzled than one distraught. By now, the estrangement between Simões and everyone he knew except Jack was essentially complete. The only thing he really cared about any longer, besides his anger and desire for vengeance, was the memory of his daughter—and he could take that wherever he went.

"Tomorrow's Saturday," McBryde explained. "I've already been told to have one last interview with you, in order to settle everything before you go off to Siberia."

Simões frowned. "Where's Siberia?"

"Sorry. It's just an old reference. It means a long exile, Herlander, and under very tough conditions. In your case, it's probably going to mean a long stint of 'rehab' and a series of shit assignments where they can sit on you and be sure you don't fuck anything up looking for some sort of revenge. You're too valuable to just get rid of entirely, but it's going to be a cold day in hell before anyone really trusts you again, and you know it."

Simões looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

"Okay, I can't argue with any of that. But why is tomorrow significant?"

"I already told Bardasano that it'd be best to have our last meeting on a Saturday. There won't be a lot of people around in Gamma Center, so I said it'd be more relaxing for you. Make it easier for me to get whatever final wrapup information you might be able to provide." He shrugged. "I was planning to stall until next Saturday—maybe even the one after that—but given the new developments we should do it right away."

Herlander took a deep breath. "Okay. What should I do?"

"Early tomorrow morning, go to this address." He slid a piece of paper across the table. "Memorize it and destroy the note. Someone will be there to take you to the rendezvous with the people who'll be taking us off the planet. I'll meet you there later, after I finish some last business at the Gamma Center."

"What bus—? Oh. You'll be laying false leads."

Jack smiled. "That's one way to put it."

Anton looked around the table. "Is everyone clear on what needs to happen?"

Carl Hansen gave his three subordinates a quick glance. "Yes, I think so. David, you've got the trickiest assignment. Any questions?"

David Pritchard shook his head. "No, it's straightforward enough. After whoever-it-is-whose-name-remains-unknown leaves this 'Gamma Center' place—which I'll be told by a signal from Karen—I park the aircar in the lot of the sports stadium next door and walk away, giving myself plenty of time to get clear. Cary will trigger the device we've already planted in the old Buenaventura tower as soon as word comes from Carl that he's on his way to the spaceport with whoever-it-is. Then I blow mine."

"It probably won't even scratch the 'Center,' " Hansen said, "given how deep it's buried. But it should do some major damage to Suvorov Tower." Like the other members of his group, Hansen had only the vaguest notion, even now, of what the Gamma Center truly was, but he didn't have to know what it was as long as he knew it was important to the authorities he hated with every fiber of his being. "Suvorov's right on top of it," he continued, "so the scorpions're bound to assume the Center's the real target of whatever is happening."