And while all that was going on, his own frantic messages would be being dumped to the system, feverishly seeking to alert his superiors to Simões' berserk efforts to punish the Alignment for everything it had done to his daughter and to him. They'd been very carefully crafted to create the impression that McBryde was in personal pursuit of Simões . . . and that the two of them were headed directly for Mendel, where Simões intended a suicide run on the capital itself.

That would be the final touch, the perfect cover for their escape, because that fearless protector of the Alignment, Jack McBryde, would stop the madman who'd become his friend by ramming his explosive-laden air car in midair short of the city's airspace. It would be a very large, very noisy explosion, and any wreckage would be distributed (harmlessly) over large areas of wooded countryside just outside Mendel. Eventually, it would become evident to the crash investigators that there were no human remains strewn about with it, but given how pulverized the wreckage was going to be, it would probably take them a while to reach that conclusion. By which time—

His com pinged suddenly, and he twitched in his chair as he recognized the priority of the signal. His heart seemed to explode inside his chest for a moment, but then he shook himself. There were all kinds of reasons someone might be reaching for him on a priority basis, given his duties, he reminded himself, and hit the acceptance key.

"Yes?"

"Jack, it's Steve." Steven Lathorous' image appeared on the display as he spoke. His dark eyes were even darker than usual, and his expression was deeply worried.

"What is it, Steve?" McBryde asked, concern deepening his own voice as his friend's obvious distress registered.

"What the fuck have you been doing?" Lathorous half-blurted.

"Me?" Somehow McBryde put genuine surprise into his voice. He looked at Lathorous for a moment, then grimaced. "What do you mean, what have I been doing?"

"I just got off a really strange com conversation," Lathorous said. "One with Bardasano."

"Bardasano?" That name was enough to justify showing at least a little concern, a corner of McBryde's brain told him with lunatic calm, and he let his grimace turn into a frown of mingled confusion and apprehension. "A conversation about what?"

"About you, dummy!" Lathorous shook his head. "When you offered to take Irvine off my back, it never occurred to me that you'd try to mount some kind of idiot investigation of your own! I mean, you're one of my best friends, Jack, and I think you're one of the smartest people I know, but you haven't worked in the field in years. I may not like the son of a bitch, but if you felt like someone else just had to look into Irvine's reports, you should've brought it to me."

"Oh, hell," McBryde muttered while his brain raced frantically. "I didn't want to bother you," he went on improvising on the fly. "It didn't seem all that complicated. Besides, I figured I could use the change of pace. Get away from worrying about Simões and all the rest of the crap here at the Center."

"Oh, yeah? Well, let me tell you, buddy, you're gonna need a better story than 'I got bored pushing chips around' for this one. Unless I miss my guess, Bardasano's on her way to the Center right now to personally rip you a new one for screwing around with procedure this way. I don't think she's feeling very amused, Jack."

"Shit," McBryde said. Then he gave himself a shake. "Thanks, Steve. I appreciate the heads-up, and I hope none of this splashes on you."

"The hell with splashing on me, you just get started now on figuring out how to spin this the best way you can when she stalks into your office with blood in her eye," Lathorous snorted.

"Best advice I've heard yet," McBryde replied with a somewhat forced smile. "Thanks again. Now I'd better go get started on that spinning, I guess. Clear, Steve."

"Clear," Lathorous replied, and the com blanked.

"Steph, shut up." Anton met the restaurant owner's glare stolidly. "There's no point yelling at me. I'm sorry it came to this, but it did. You have no choice. You either come with us, bringing your daughter, or you'll be dead within a week. So will Nancy."

She sagged a little. "Dammit, I told you I had no part—and didn't want any part—of Saburo's business."

"We're not actually Ballroom. But that's no help to you, because from the standpoint of the people running this planet, we're a lot worse. They will kill you, Steph. You and Nancy both—after squeezing you dry even though there's nothing to squeeze. They'll never believe you weren't involved."

Despairingly, her eyes looked around the kitchen. "But . . . This is all I have. Everything in the world."

Anton smiled. "Well, as far as that goes, you're in luck. Winning the lottery sort of luck. I'm stinking rich, Steph. My wife is, rather. But Cathy's been donating to good causes since she was a kid. She won't blink at setting you up with a restaurant way better than this one."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Now can we please get moving?" He looked at the teenage girl standing wide-eyed against one of the stoves. "We haven't got time for any packing, Nancy. So if there's anything you or your mother desperately need to take with you, it'll have to be something from this kitchen."

Steph took a ladle, which she claimed was her "lucky ladle." Her daughter Nancy, exhibiting a great deal more in the way of practicality or fighting spirit or both, took the biggest knife she could find. In her small hand, it almost looked like a sword.

Chapter Fifty-Three

McBryde sat staring at the empty display for two or three heartbeats, and his earlier swirling hollowness was suddenly very still, very calm. He knew what he had to do.

His hands went back to the computer keyboard, and he called up one of the sequences he'd just installed. It wasn't in the order he'd planned on activating it, but it ought to do the trick, and he bared his teeth as the central computer's memory was adjusted to show that Herlander Simões had entered his office with him. Information on the personnel movements in and out of the Center was automatically copied to an off-site stand-alone system. He could have reached the off-site system from his personal terminal here in the Center if he'd wanted to erase the information in it, but that was the last thing he wanted, because that stand-alone system was what was going to cover Simões' escape . . . he hoped. He felt a sudden, deep pang of sorrow as he thought about the sergeant down at the entrance foyer, but he couldn't warn the man without undoing Simões' cover. Besides, despite the weekend, the sergeant wasn't the only other person in the complex with him, and there wasn't anything he could do about any of them now.

This was proving to be an interesting experience, actually. Curiosity was one of Herlander's most prominent traits, and he now realized that he could possibly use that trait to keep his fear under control.

A climate controlled crate—with top-of-the-line air scrubbers and what looked like an emergency backup air tank—that appeared, from the outside, as if it was carrying nothing more delicate than heavy machinery.

It was lit inside, too. Very dimly, but it was still light. He'd expected to make the whole trip in darkness, which he hadn't been looking forward to at all.

The woman looked at her timepiece, for perhaps the hundredth time. "They should be here soon," she muttered. "Well. Maybe another half hour."

Herlander's eyes, moving around with interest, were arrested by a panel in one of the corners of the crate.