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Authors: Robert J. Crane
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before he could watch things on the screen go from bad to worse for me.
“Oh, oh,” Webster said, flushing as he fought to spin back around and stop the video. “Oh. All right, there you are.”
“Here I am,” I said. “And there I am.” I gestured toward the monitor, and he clicked the mouse rapidly toward the “shut down” command without even bothering to close the browser window. “And where are we?”
He blinked in confusion as I saw his mind try and catch up. “Oh, right. Ah, we are nowhere. No other hints of any of your friends around the city. We sent out units to all the last known addresses and came up a bit dry. It looks like the rest of them are in hiding, but perhaps your friend Angus didn’t get the message.”
“I told you, they’re not my friends.” I let out a slow exhalation. “So, what do we do now?”
“Well, I don’t know about you,” he said, standing, pulling his trench coat off the back of his chair, “but I’m at a dead end for the night and bloody tired.”
“Right,” I agreed. “We should get some rest and come back to this tomorrow. Call me if something comes up in the meantime?”
“Certainly,” he said. “I’ve got your mobile number.” He frowned. “Is your mobile still working after that explosion?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. The screen was a little cracked, but it lit up when I pushed the button. “Looks salvageable.”
“Are you going to check into a hotel?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’ll just—” I reached for my credit card in my back pocket and pulled it out with a snap. It emerged as half the card it used to be.
“Well, damn,” I said, staring at my half credit card. “I hope they’ll still accept it.”
“Is the RFID still intact?” Webster asked, leaning down to peer at it.
“The RF-what?” I held up the half card and tugged the other half free from my pants pocket. They were too damned tight. Always. Pants were not made for my hips.
“There’s no RFID on this card,” Webster said with a shake of his head. “It uses the magnetic strip, and that’s snapped clean in half. You’re not going to get them to accept this because no one can read it.”
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.
“You can just stay at the U.S. embassy,” he said, putting his coat on. “Doubtless they have some extra space.”
I glanced back at Mary Marshwin’s office, where I’d left the U.S. ambassador in a pile on the floor. “Yeah… that’s… probably not going to happen…”
“Perhaps you could ask the commissioner for a housing allowance,” he said.
I looked at the door of her office. The lights were still burning, and I hadn’t heard anyone leave. “Maybe.”
“No cash?” Webster asked, pulling my attention back to him.
“I didn’t exactly have time to hit the bank before I came over,” I said. I could feel the fatigue settling on my bones. I’d been awake for over twenty-four hours, and I’d flown here, which took a toll. Especially at supersonic speed.
Webster had his coat on now, and it had bunched up on his shoulders, crooked lines that told me he was tense. “I’d suggest you could stay with me, but I’ve only got a one-bedroom flat.” My heart raced a little at the mere suggestion and fell at the next words he said. “It’s truly a disgrace, though, an utter mess. I think I might die of embarrassment if you saw it, actually.”
“It’s fine, I’ll figure something out,” I said. “I’ll just… grovel to your Foreign Secretary. Maybe he’ll come up with something. Or try and get someone from my office to send me a wire transfer—”
“I rather doubt you’ll find a Western Union open at this hour,” Webster said apologetically. His face was crumpled, and I watched it loosen. “There is one other option,” he said. I could tell he was still running it through his mind.
“Oh?” I was open to just about anything, even a youth hostel at this point. (Not the torture porn kind.) The
“Oh, oh,” Webster said, flushing as he fought to spin back around and stop the video. “Oh. All right, there you are.”
“Here I am,” I said. “And there I am.” I gestured toward the monitor, and he clicked the mouse rapidly toward the “shut down” command without even bothering to close the browser window. “And where are we?”
He blinked in confusion as I saw his mind try and catch up. “Oh, right. Ah, we are nowhere. No other hints of any of your friends around the city. We sent out units to all the last known addresses and came up a bit dry. It looks like the rest of them are in hiding, but perhaps your friend Angus didn’t get the message.”
“I told you, they’re not my friends.” I let out a slow exhalation. “So, what do we do now?”
“Well, I don’t know about you,” he said, standing, pulling his trench coat off the back of his chair, “but I’m at a dead end for the night and bloody tired.”
“Right,” I agreed. “We should get some rest and come back to this tomorrow. Call me if something comes up in the meantime?”
“Certainly,” he said. “I’ve got your mobile number.” He frowned. “Is your mobile still working after that explosion?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. The screen was a little cracked, but it lit up when I pushed the button. “Looks salvageable.”
“Are you going to check into a hotel?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’ll just—” I reached for my credit card in my back pocket and pulled it out with a snap. It emerged as half the card it used to be.
“Well, damn,” I said, staring at my half credit card. “I hope they’ll still accept it.”
“Is the RFID still intact?” Webster asked, leaning down to peer at it.
“The RF-what?” I held up the half card and tugged the other half free from my pants pocket. They were too damned tight. Always. Pants were not made for my hips.
“There’s no RFID on this card,” Webster said with a shake of his head. “It uses the magnetic strip, and that’s snapped clean in half. You’re not going to get them to accept this because no one can read it.”
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.
“You can just stay at the U.S. embassy,” he said, putting his coat on. “Doubtless they have some extra space.”
I glanced back at Mary Marshwin’s office, where I’d left the U.S. ambassador in a pile on the floor. “Yeah… that’s… probably not going to happen…”
“Perhaps you could ask the commissioner for a housing allowance,” he said.
I looked at the door of her office. The lights were still burning, and I hadn’t heard anyone leave. “Maybe.”
“No cash?” Webster asked, pulling my attention back to him.
“I didn’t exactly have time to hit the bank before I came over,” I said. I could feel the fatigue settling on my bones. I’d been awake for over twenty-four hours, and I’d flown here, which took a toll. Especially at supersonic speed.
Webster had his coat on now, and it had bunched up on his shoulders, crooked lines that told me he was tense. “I’d suggest you could stay with me, but I’ve only got a one-bedroom flat.” My heart raced a little at the mere suggestion and fell at the next words he said. “It’s truly a disgrace, though, an utter mess. I think I might die of embarrassment if you saw it, actually.”
“It’s fine, I’ll figure something out,” I said. “I’ll just… grovel to your Foreign Secretary. Maybe he’ll come up with something. Or try and get someone from my office to send me a wire transfer—”
“I rather doubt you’ll find a Western Union open at this hour,” Webster said apologetically. His face was crumpled, and I watched it loosen. “There is one other option,” he said. I could tell he was still running it through his mind.
“Oh?” I was open to just about anything, even a youth hostel at this point. (Not the torture porn kind.) The
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