Read Online Count Zero by William Gibson - Free Book Online

said.
    “We sent out a test squirt,” the woman continued. “If it hadn’t worked, you’d know it.”
    Turner nodded. “Incoming traffic?”
    “Nothing. It’s strictly for the big show, whatever that is.” She raised her eyebrows.
    “It’s a defection.”
    “Bit obvious, that,” Sutcliffe said, settling himself besideWebber, his back to the wall. “Though the general tone of the operation so far suggests that we hirelings aren’t likely to even know who we’re extracting. True, Mr. Turner? Or will we be able to read about it in the fax?”
    Turner ignored him. “Go on, Webber.”
    “After our landline was in place, the rest of the crew filtered in, one or two at a time. The last one in primed us for the tankful of Japs.”
    “That was raw,” Sutcliffe said, “bit too far up front.”
    “You think it might have blown us?” Turner asked.
    Sutcliffe shrugged. “Could be, could be no. We hopped it pretty quick. Damned lucky we’d the roof to tuck it under.”
    “What about the passengers?”
    “They only come out at night,” Webber said. “And they know we’ll kill them if they try to get more than five meters away from the thing.”
    Turner glanced at Sutcliffe.
    “Conroy’s orders,” the man said.
    “Conroy’s orders don’t count now,” Turner said. “But that one holds. What are these people like?”
    “Medicals,” Lynch said, “bent medicals.”
    “You got it,” Turner said. “What about the rest of the crew?”
    “We rigged some shade with mimetic tarps. They sleep in shifts. There’s not enough water and we can’t risk much in the way of cooking.” Sutcliffe reached for the coffeepot. “We have sentries in place and we run periodic checks on the integrity of the landline.” He splashed black coffee into a plastic mug that looked as though it had been chewed by a dog. “So when do we do our dance, Mr. Turner?”
    “I want to see your tank of pet medics. I want to see a command post. You haven’t said anything about a command post.”
    “All set,” Lynch said.
    “Fine. Here.” Turner passed Webber the revolver. “See if you can find me some sort of rig for this. Now I want Lynch to show me these medics.”
     
    “He thought it would be you,” Lynch said, scrambling effortlessly up a low incline of rubble. Turner followed. “You’ve got quite a rep.” The younger man glanced back at him from beneath a fringe of dirty, sun-streaked hair.
    “Too much of one,” Turner said. “Any is too much. Youworked with him before? Marrakech?” Lynch ducked sideways through a gap in the cinderblock, and Turner was close behind. The desert plants smelled of tar; they stung and grabbed if you brushed them. Through a vacant, rectangular opening intended for a window, Turner glimpsed pink mountaintops; then Lynch was loping down a slope of gravel.
    “Sure, I worked for him before,” Lynch said, pausing at the base of the slide. An ancient-looking leather belt rode low on his hips, its heavy buckle a tarnished silver death’s-head with a dorsal crest of blunt, pyramidal spikes. “Marrakech— that was before my time.”
    “Connie, too, Lynch?”
    “How’s that?”
    “Conroy. You work for him before? More to the point— are you working for him now?” Turner came slowly, deliberately down the gravel as he spoke; it crunched and slid beneath his deck shoes, uneasy footing. He could see the delicate little fletcher holstered beneath Lynch’s denim vest.
    Lynch licked dry lips, held his ground. “That’s Sut’s contact. I haven’t met him.”
    “Conroy has this problem, Lynch. Can’t delegate responsibility. He likes to have his own man from the start, someone to watch the watchers. Always. You the one, Lynch?”
    Lynch shook his head, the absolute minimum of movement required to convey the negative. Turner was close enough to smell his sweat above the tarry odor of the desert plants.
    “I’ve seen Conroy blow two extractions that way,” Turner said. “Lizards and