“I take it back. Not just a flasher, but a cross between that and a deformed hobo.”

Brian walked over and unwrapped the scarf, took off the dark glasses and hat to reveal the plant pot mounted there.

“This is the best I could do for a head now. The next thing I need will be the head of one of those shop window dummies.”

“In the order book,” Snaresbrook said weakly.

“All right. You can take off the rest,” he said.

The mysterious flasher took off the overcoat to reveal its metal body, then removed gloves, trousers and shoes. Sven spread its clumped branching manipulators wide, became a machine again.

“I was right — the ultimate flasher.” Snaresbrook laughed. “Takes everything off — including its humanity.” Then she glanced from the MI back to Brian in sudden understanding. “I take it that Sven is going out of here with you? I just hope that he won’t give any of those young soldiers heart attacks. That’s an effective but, shall we say, a little exotic disguise, Sven.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I am making every effort.”

“No one will have a look at the disguise,” Brian said. “Because Sven will not be leaving here looking like that. He’ll be broken down into mechanical components and packed in a box. The box that will leave here in the trunk of your car, if that is okay with you. I’ll be flat on the floor in back with a blanket over me. You have been keeping the blanket there ever since we talked about it?”

“It’s there all right, I’m sure the guards have seen it by now.” She sighed and shook her head.

“It will work, don’t worry. Unless you are having second thoughts. I’m not going to force you, Doc. If you want out I’ll find another way.”

“No, I’ll do it. I do not go back on my word. I was just beginning to realize what a mad idea the whole thing is — and I worry about you.”

“Please don’t. We’ll be all right, I promise. Sven will look after me.”

“I will indeed,” the MI said.

“When is D-day?” Snaresbrook asked.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll give you as much advance notice as I can. A week minimum. There are a lot of things to do first.” He gave her a photocopy of a catalog page. “You’ll have to buy one of these shipping boxes and bring it out on that day. This one here. It’s one of those tough metal pieces of baggage that TV people, and cameramen, ship their delicate equipment around in. I will take Sven apart and pack all the components in the box. The military will help us with that.”

“Brian — you are getting positively Machiavellian in your planning.”

“You’ve lost me, Doc. As a fourteen year old I never ran across the term.”

“Using the techniques described by Niccolo Machiavelli,” Sven said. “These are characterized by political cunning, duplicity or bad faith.”

“You sound like you swallowed a dictionary,” she said.

“I did. Many,” it answered. Was there a touch of humor there?

“Possibly,” Brian said. “But if duplicity will get me out of here — just watch me dupliciate. Because there are a lot of soldiers standing guard, and only one of me. The only thing that I have going is the fact that they are protecting me from possible threat from the outside. They are not guarding me, I hope, with the thought that I will be cracking out from the inside.”

“Have you come to any decisions about what you will do when you get out?”

“Plenty. At first I thought of getting a hotel room and holding a press conference. Blow the whistle on General Schorcht and charge him with kidnaping and so forth. But I don’t think that would work. Too much of a chance of his calling me irresponsible, possibly insane, poor boy with that head wound. Back into the hospital and no way I could ever break out a second time. As far as the world is concerned I’m just going to drop from sight.”

“In Mexico?”

“Possibly. Do you really want to know?”

“I do not. What I don’t know I cannot reveal. I’ll get you out of here, as I promised, and then you will be on your own.”

“You’re a sweetie, Doc. And don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I found something in my personal possessions when they were brought here. This plan is going to work because it really is Machiavellian.”

As soon as she was gone they went back to work. Brian took the purple Irish passport from the safe and slipped it out of its plastic cover. A photo of himself as a nine-year-old stared back, wide-eyed and frightened. Brian Byrne, born 1999.

“Two things to be done,” he said. “The photograph and the expiration date will have to be changed. The signature is all right. One thing the nuns taught me, with the lesson made memorable by the crack of a ruler across the knuckles, was good handwriting.”

He opened it on the table and weighted the edges so it wouldn’t close. Sven bent over it and looked at it closely with one eye, then straightened up.

“The manipulators have better optical resolution,” it said, pointing its right arm at the passport and looking at it with what appeared to be its fingertips. “There will be no problem making the alterations that you suggest.”

Sven had taken a number of close-up photographs of Brian, then had made an enlarged, life-sized print.

“Red hair,” Brian said, pointing. “It has to be black.”

“Not a problem. These manipulators are effective at the forty-micron level. I have obtained satisfactory dye and now will color each hair in the photograph black.” It did — and quite speedily as well.

The MI’s skills at forgery were equally impressive. The micromanipulators removed the original photograph by chipping away the glue that held it in place, one microscopic particle at a time. The retouched photograph was photographed again and a passport-sized print made. It was no better — or worse — than any other passport photograph. Before it was glued into place the embossed letters of the seal were carefully duplicated. Changing the dates of issue and expiration was equally as simple. Brian leafed through the altered passport — then put it back on the table.

“These other dates will have to be changed too. The one that the customs officer stamped in when I left Ireland, and the other one put there when I arrived in the States.”

The ping of the annunciator at the front entrance sounded. He gaped at the screen to see Shelly standing there.

“Hi, Brian, I just got back. Open up, please, there are some things we have to talk about.”

But she couldn’t come in. Impossible! How could he explain the altered Sven, take the time to hide the photographs, the money spread across the table, the passport? He couldn’t do it.

“Welcome back — it’s nice to see you.” Yes, that was it. He would have to see her — just not in here. “I was just washing up, give me a moment. It’s been a long day. Can we talk over a drink in the club?”

“Yes, of course.”

He left Sven laboring away on his new criminal career and joined her outside, blinking in the sudden glare. “What’s up?” he asked.

She frowned, pushed the hair out of her eyes as a dust devil swirled around them.

“It’s complex. Let’s get that drink first.”

“I hope it’s not bad news about your father. You said he was doing well last time we talked.”

“He’s fine, much better. Complaining about the hospital food, which is a very good sign. In fact I could make the time to get down here to see you because he is so stable now. They’ll do a bypass soon. I’ll go home for that, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

They had the club to themselves as they settled down over bowl-sized frozen margaritas. Nostalgia music played quietly in the background, ancient classics by the antique old-timers U2. She slurped and sighed, touched her lips with the napkin, then put her hand on his.

“Brian, I don’t think that it’s fair, locking you up in this place. As soon as I heard about it I put in a formal report, lodged a complaint, all through the proper channels. Not that it will do much good. They didn’t even bother to answer me. You know that I have been transferred back to Boulder?”