“Sorry, sir, what if you get delayed?”
“Look, call Mrs. Rowan. She'll promise you I'll be out by three. You know her â if she made the promise to you, she'd see to it I got out in time. It's a three-month out, for chrissakes.”
“What about the desk?”
“I'll bullshit my way past. I've got an understanding with Turnip. Thesh captain's bars are good for more than just a spot at the front of a ration line, eh?”
“Sir, maybe that's the way they do things up in the Great Lakes, but not here.”
Valentine held his breath, forcing his face to color and his tone to harden. “Do they stand their watches indoors here?”
Hinks blanched. “Aww, Mr. Rowan sir, have a â ”
“Heart?” Valentine finished.
The guard looked inside the Station Rooms. “Okay, Mr. Rowan, three a.m. You're not here by three-oh-five, I'm phoning up. Okay? Mr. Turner isn't at the desk anyway. Reading in the john again. You wanna report someone, you should start with him.”
“Forget about it, Ed, errr â Perry. You're a good egg. I'll bring you back a bottle of rum or something, how'sh that?”
“Just be out by the time my shift ends, or I'm perishable.”
“Hey,” Valentine slurred, “I promished, right? Just a quick visit, and we ain't spending it talking.”
The guard opened the door. “Mrs. Rowan's some lady, sir. I hope I get some rank and get a chance to take my pick.”
“That's the shpirit, Perry,” Valentine said, coming in out of the rain and wiping his hair back. “One way to move up is to do favors for higher ranks. Maybe I can get you into the Coastal Marines. Quick advancement. Dishipline isn't too hard, if you do your job.”
The sentry shook his head. “Like my outfit just fine, sir. Going ashore and attacking a blockhouse full of outlaws ain't my idea of a career.”
Â
David Valentine waited for the sentry to unlock the inner door, and moved across the stained carpet to the stairs. The night manager's desk was empty, as Hinks predicted. Most of the lights were off, and the remaining elevator that still worked was always shut down at night when the hotel closed up to conserve electricity. Valentine smelled soap and heard splashing water coming from the basement: someone was doing laundry in one of the slop tubs there.
He climbed to the top floor, remembering the intolerable heat of their arrival that summer, the last in a series of moves as he performed his duties as a Quisling Officer. His real home lay in the hill country of Arkansas, Missouri, and Eastern Oklahoma, on free soil, though since being recruited as a Cat, he'd hardly spent six consecutive months there. For the past year, he'd been dragging Duvalier all around the Gulf Coast, worming through the Kurian Order, obtaining a commission and a promotion under a dead man's name and background provided for him by Southern Command â it made him feel like a maggot in a corpse.
Though the Station Rooms predated climate control and therefore had fair-size windows, the bars prevented residents from escaping to the fire escape to nap out the heat. The bars and windows were the only part of the Station Rooms inspected and kept in prime condition. Elsewhere the paint was peeling, the walls were dimpled, and the plumbing fixtures were maintained in a condition that shifted back and forth between inoperative and barely functioning.
Valentine reached the chipped wooden door to “Mrs. Rowan's” apartment. He knocked softly, using a three-and-two rap to identify himself, three soft and two loud. The sole lightbulb in the hallway faded for a moment and then brightened; New Orleans's patchwork power system was having its usual nighttime irregularities.
The door opened, revealing an attractively angular face under short red hair sticking out in all directions.
“You're out late,” Alessa Duvalier said, still half-asleep. She wore an oversize yellow T-shirt of tentlike proportions, which was coming apart at the shoulder seams. “What is it?”
He ducked inside and flicked off the light. To his Cat-eyes, the room remained lit and as detailed as ever. There was just the usual color-shift that came with low-light vision.
“I was recognized.” He used old American Sign Language to convey this information as he said for the benefit of the microphones: “Baby, we're out tomorrow. Last chance for ninety nights.” They'd found a bug when they'd first moved to the Station Rooms months ago, and asked for a different room â complaining, with justification, about bedbugs. Management moved them to the stifling top floor, and a Coastal Marine widow, Mrs. Kineen, took an empty room next to them the same day.
Duvalier woke up fast. “Somebody made you? How?” she signed.
He flopped down on the bed as soon as he got his coat off. He let out an occasional moan as he told her, spelling out some of the words with his fingers. They'd had training in sign language before setting out from the Ozark Free Territory, and though they practiced, Valentine's usually quick-acting brain faltered after the long day and the encounter with Alistar.
The woman who'd taught him to be a Cat sat in her chair, folded herself up so her chin rested on her left knee, and rocked the bed with her right leg so the headboard banged the wall they shared with Mrs. Kineen.
The room smelled of cloves and walnuts. Duvalier had picked up intestinal parasites in her travels, perhaps as long ago as their trek into the Great Plains Gulag when she first recruited him three years ago, and was dosing herself again in an effort to flush them.
“This week has been nothing but bad news,” she signed, interrupting the tale when he began to describe his disposal of the corpse. “Laundry-room intelligence says there's been a lot of new faces in town. Troops moving in. Some say a push into the Tex-Mex borders; others say it's Southern Command's turn again. I know the train station's been busy. Lots of cars taking on supplies coming in from the Gulf Coast and moving west. This didn't turn into such a dull assignment after all. I've been able to watch the station and pick up a little.” She peeked out the window. “Hope you can get going soon. Southern Command needs to know details.”
“I don't think the Wolves are going to show,” he decided. “I'm going to have to go with it and improvise. Figure out a way to oust Captain Saunders and get control of the
Thunderbolt â ”
She let out a yelp, faintly orgiastic, and winked at her partner.
“You'll improvise yourself right onto the Grog gibbet,” she signed. Valentine never tired of admiring her quick, dexterous fingers. They were the first thing he'd noticed on her when she bandaged his former captain on Little Timber Hill. “Who will help you?”
“The crew.”
“Quislings?” She added the question mark with her sharp eyebrows.
“They wouldn't be in the Coastal Patrol if they didn't like being away from the influence of Kur.”
“All the more reason for Kurians to pick the men for loyalty. Remember what you had to do to get your commission down here, and then the promotion to captain.”
“Don't remind me,” Valentine signed. Elaborate fake papers showing his service record in the Great Lakes took him only so far. For the past year, Valentine had put his manifest talents to the service of Kur, assembling a good record in a rear area before being offered a promotion in exchange for “more active duty.” He had seen men shot, hanged, or given over to the Reapers without batting an eye. And more.
He'd learned the reason for the elaborate groundwork only a few months ago, once he had received his commission on the
Thunderbolt.
Ahn-Kha appeared afterwards, bearing his detailed orders. In twenty-four hours, he memorized the instructions, based plans on the objective, and destroyed the letters, maps, and drawings. Since then, he concentrated on making friends in the crew and learning all he could about the Caribbean, and particularly Haiti.
“So are you ever going to tell me?” Duvalier asked. “Once you're at sea, it couldn't hurt for me to know.” She stopped the headboard-thumping with her leg, waited a moment, then started again with renewed vigor.
“You know better. If you were really in on it, I'd have your opinion every step of the way. But I can't risk the Kurians finding out if it goes amiss.”
Amiss.
The word was a kind of shorthand between them. A euphemism for “capture, torture, and death.”
She climbed on to the bed next to him, lay close so she could breathe in his ear. “We're good together, Valentine. Hope they haven't tasked you with a one-way trip. Some things shouldn't even be tried. Like turning that crew. We should blow and get out of here. The mission is down the drain, and Mountain Home needs to know about this buildup.”
“Taking the ship's not the half of it,” he whispered back, feeling his skin tingle at her scent. “Or I should say that's not your half of it.”
She rubbed her hand through his damp hair. “David, I know I had the easy part this time. Maybe old Ryu thought I needed a rest. I got to look around, safe behind my ID, then disappear after you ship out. But now my stomach's hurting, and you have that never-say-die look like in the Dunes. You didn't come up here for a good-bye.”
Valentine smiled in the darkness. “No. I have to ask you a favor. It would make my job easier if you could get some of the other wives and families out.”
She quit toying with his cowlick.
The room waited in silent darkness. His sensitive ears could not even pick up the sound of her breathing. “How many families?” she finally whispered.
“As many as you can. Make contact with the pipeline, and have them help guide you all out.”
She sat up, pulled her knees up to her chest, and thought before she started signing again. “Val, that involves getting about a hundred people out of New Orleans. On my own. I've no gear, no weapons but a skinning knife. Lots of kids, so I need transport for everyone and food to last us out of the KZ. It can't be done.”
Valentine signed back: “Of course it can't be done. Since it can't be done, I don't think the Kur will be expecting it.”
“No one expects me to step off a thirty-story building either. But if I do it and give everyone a big, effing surprise, that doesn't mean much when I hit.”
“The only way I have a chance with the men is if they think there's hope for their families.”
“Valentine, full abort. Set all this back up somewhere else. Mexico. There's got to be plenty of transport â ”
“And blow a year's worth of work. It's the ideal ship. Who'd 'ave ever thought I'd get assigned to a gunboat? I figured we'd have to settle for a troop trawler full of men. If we get her, there's hardly a ship in the Carib that can say boo to us, plus she's seaworthy in case of bad weather. She's not some coast hugger.”
“Good arguments in favor of a bad idea.”
“Didn't you say you had made friends among the women? That a lot of them were discontented?”
“Who wouldn't be?” she signed back. “We get out of this building only twice a week when you're away, and even then it's to a fenced-in market. I'm sick of this place, too. If it weren't for the danger to some of the people I've met here, I'd torch it as soon as you're out of the harbor and vanish. They'd think I maybe . . . Whoa there . . .”
Valentine could almost feel her brain revving up. “You know, if you got everyone out and rigged some kind of explosion . . .” he suggested.
“Don't have the tools to collapse the building,” she signed, “but this is an old structure. Set a fire somewhere hard to put out but not immediately dangerous, the authorities evacuate everyone, and I have someone from the pipeline who knows just where to be, and when. Maybe they would have a few people around to make sure we don't wander off, but they wouldn't expect an organized breakout. I can handle them.”
“Be careful who you tell,” Valentine advised. “I'd just let a couple of trustworthy people know. Wait until the absolute last minute to spread the word.”
“Who taught who this game, Val? I was keeping myself alive in the KZ while you were still running with the Wolves, if you recall.”
“Keep yourself alive. The Cause needs you. So can I count on you? Think about it while I sleep.”
“I'll do it â if I can get the pipeline to open. You can tell your men that. Guarantees aren't my style. I like to bug out if things get hairy. I think you're headed for a noose, or maybe a long drag through the ocean back to the nearest port. Getting a mutiny started won't be easy. I've never heard of that being done before.”
“All the more reason for it to work, they won't be expecting â ”
She cut him off with a forceful thrust of her hand. “Oh God, don't start on
that
again!” she said, this time aloud. Then they smiled at each other. What would Mrs. Kineen make of that?
Â
Valentine dreamt of the Ozarks. A fall breeze rustling a million leaves all around, cool streams running in the morning, the sounds of fish splashing as they jumped â
He felt Duvalier shaking him by the shoulder. The hour's rest was not nearly enough, but it would have to do. “Last chance, Valentine,” she signed after handing him his coat. “Full abort, plenty of reason to justify it. I don't like the feel of this, not at all.”
His doubts had also rested, and returned refreshed.
No! Ignore them!
“I'm not happy about it either. But if you knew more, you could see that I don't have a choice. This could turn the tide.”
“You and your coulds.” She hugged him, nuzzling her chin against his chest. Duvalier was seldom affectionate toward him, their bond exhibited more through ribbing than rubbing. Though he was attracted to her, she had a wall around her he couldn't break. Sometimes she lowered the drawbridge. Tonight was one of those moments.