BETA - Project Avatar, page 13
It was dawn, and the train was heading east into the rising sun. The light glared orange-brown through city smog, and she could already feel the heat. They weren't in the mountains now—no cool breezes down here. It was going to be a scorcher in Chennai today.
She turned on her smartphone and checked the dead drop. Abe had left a message suggesting she call him. When they finally made contact he said, “Brice refuses to carry a cell phone, because the police keep using it to track him. The best way to find out what he knows is face to face. He’s in Geneva, as you suspected. I suppose you could try e-mail, but it’ll leave a trail. I wouldn’t advise it.”
“So it looks like I’m heading to Geneva,” Dee said.
“Hey, we’ll be neighbors! Just a few countries apart.”
She laughed. “Great! You can drop by for a drink some evening.”
“Now, listen, when you arrive in Geneva, don’t stay at a hotel. A regular hotel would write down your new passport number in their register, and that leaves a link between your Collins identity and the place you’re sleeping—dangerous. So find a little inn somewhere outside of town.”
“Okay. Actually, that sounds nice.”
“Tell them your passport’s in a safe-deposit box and you’ve forgotten the combination number. They won’t care. And listen: don’t rent a car! Everywhere you drive, you’d be showing a license tag that’s linked to your credit card number. I’ll take care of the car for you.”
“Really? How?”
“I know a banker in Bern who owes me a whopping-big favor. I’ll arrange for him to have a car delivered to you at the Europcar lot. Pick up the keys at their airport counter. Give your name as, um . . . Helga Hughes. Don’t show them any ID.”
She was starting to wonder about the Substructure. Abe’s network seemed a lot more cohesive and resourceful than she had imagined.
As if picking up on her hesitation, he said, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”
The train was about to arrive in Chennai, so they said a quick good-bye.
Taking a hand mirror from her bag she scrutinized herself. You’ve looked better, Dee, she thought as she fluffed up her sari and tried to smooth the wrinkles in preparation for arrival.
The train station in Chennai set off the alarm bells in Dee’s head. Even at dawn, it was a teeming hotbed of low commerce and petty crime. The thousands of people bustling through the station huddled in tight groups, regarding those around them with suspicion. Dee slung the strap of her shoulder bag over her head and clutched its precious weight to her body as she moved through the station hastily, out into the heat and smoke of day, and planted herself in the taxi line.
She was not in the best of moods when she reached the front of the queue and refused the first two taxis, not liking the look of the drivers. From first-hand experience, she knew that some of them would take you all over town before reaching your destination, all at the metered rate. Even a half hour’s delay at this time of day would mean getting stuck in the morning rush hour, which was no joke in a megalopolis like this.
Her instinct for honest cabdrivers served her well enough on this occasion. The simple-looking old man she accepted a ride from took her on a direct route, and stuck to the major roads. His taxi was comfortable enough, too, except that it had no air-conditioning. By the time they arrived at the airport, though the sun was just a hand or two above the horizon, the wind through the open windows was barely sufficient to keep the inside of the car bearable. The air smelled awful: a combination of rotting vegetation and smog.
The airport wasn’t much better. The arrival lounge was open to the hot and humid outside air and crowded with the morning’s flock of passengers. Even though she had no luggage, Dee had to shoulder her way through the dense crowds to get across the domestic concourse, and the international wing was almost as bad. Backpack travelers from the Western nations, and the ubiquitous large Indian family groups, formed dense, meandering lines over every available inch of floor.
“Beta,” she said quietly.
“Yes, Karen.”
“Which airline has the first flight from Chennai to Europe?”
“Singapore Air. Flight fifty-one to Paris.”
“Thanks, Beta. Save your batteries, please.”
“Entering standby mode.”
The next fifteen minutes or so went pretty well. The airline had a short queue for people with no luggage to check, and the bored young woman behind the counter was happy to run the Karen Collins credit card and charge an exorbitant fare for a last-minute business-class seat. She assured Dee that the possibility of a standby slot was quite good on this flight.
Dee made her way through security in an improving mood, with her hopes rising for a quick departure and a long, uninterrupted sleep. She knew that a blue silk sari and red tikka were not the most inconspicuous clothes to arrive in Paris with, but she would deal with that later.
Her problems began when she got to the emigration counter. Airport officials had always struck her as a universally officious lot, and the one who looked at her fake passport was no exception. He smiled pleasantly enough when he saw the burgundy E.U. cover. He flipped open the photo page and looked into her blue eyes, confirming that this was indeed her.
“You are wearing sari?” he asked her.
This comment struck her as so stupid that she had to swallow the obnoxious reply that came to mind. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“So you are perhaps married to an Indian man? You are perhaps traveling with your husband?”
“No. I’m Irish. And I’m not married.” She gave the most convincing smile she could muster after twelve hours of stress and travail and only five hours’ sleep. “I often wear sari,” she lied. “I think it is beautiful.”
“And you are also wearing tikka? You are perhaps Hindu?” The officer raised one eyebrow critically. He flipped through to her visa page. “And what is this? Are you aware that your tourist visa has expired?”
A rush of despair washed over her and, for a moment, she thought she might faint. Without a word, she held out her hand, and the customs official thrust the open passport out to let her examine the visa sticker. She felt the all-too-familiar urge to strangle Abe with her bare hands.
Sadly, though, there was no time to indulge in such luxuries.
Her eyes grew wide and blinked innocently. “I can’t believe it!” she said. “Oh, the time has just flown by! I’m so embarrassed.” She gave a pathetic can’t we just let this go? pout.
The young man dropped his eyes coldly and pointed toward a door very much on the wrong side of the emigration barrier. “You will speak to my supervisor, please.”
Smiling as agreeably as she could manage, she slowly worked her way around the queue, heading for the door.
“Beta!” she hissed.
“Yes, Karen?”
“My visa is expired! What do I do now?”
“I am now in advisory mode. What is your objective in this situation?”
“I want to catch my plane! And they’re going to make me talk to some official. Don’t you understand? What if they throw me in jail?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“What should I do?”
“Position confirmed by GPS. Chennai Airport. Destination: Charles De Gaulle Airport, Paris. You have been stopped by emigration officials with an expired travel visa. Objective: board Singapore Air Flight fifty-one. Please confirm.”
“Yes!” Dee whispered shrilly. “Hurry up, I’m almost at the door, and they can see me through the glass.”
“I am entering calculation mode. Please wait.”
Three very serious-looking Indian men were inside the glass pane of the metal door beside the emigration stiles. One was older and seated. The other two were young men, standing in crisp uniforms. All three looked up to watch her approach the door.
She smiled at them through the glass and pretended to be fixing her hair before she entered. Still no word from Beta. At least, she thought, she was being spared the elevator music. Then, unable to think of another plausible delay tactic, she opened the door and walked in.
Beta said, “I have calculated 6.1 times ten to the fourth power possible courses of action. Place two one-thousand rupee notes in your passport, and hand it to the ranking official.”
A light of profound understanding shined down on Dee. Her passport was already in her hand, so she quickly palmed it. She opened her bag, stuck her hand inside, and made a great show of rummaging around in it, pretending to search for her passport. She slipped a couple of bills inside the passport’s cover, folded it shut, and pulled it out with a flourish.
All three men in the room could see what she was doing. But when she looked up from her bag, they were all smiling politely at her. No one made the slightest comment.
She gave the seated man a wide-eyed schoolgirl’s smile and handed him her passport.
He pocketed the bribe smoothly, without taking any real pains to hide what he was doing. She reflected that this was probably a nuanced symbol of status. He was so high above these other two guys, he didn’t even have to act honest in front of them.
He flipped to her visa and frowned down at it. Then he pulled a big red stamp out of his desk drawer and gave her a three-month renewal. She was going to make her flight after all.
She boarded her plane with twenty minutes to spare.
The plane was an Airbus 340, new and comfortable. The Malay flight attendant who greeted Dee raised steepled fingers and said, “Namaste.” Despite her nerves and fatigue, Dee enjoyed this and returned the gesture as graciously as she could.
As soon as the plane took off she pulled down the window blind and went to sleep. She awoke a few hours later to use the restroom. It was broad daylight outside, and there were meal trays out. Returning to her seat a few minutes later, she asked the flight attendant if she could still get a meal. She spent a pleasant half hour nibbling at salmon and asparagus and taking the edge off her nerves with a passable little bottle of white Bordeaux.
She sat back in the big, comfortable chair, kicked off her loafers, and nodded off into another round of deep sleep.
She made the transfer at Charles De Gaulle in a somnambulant daze. The sun was high outside the airport windows, and she could see that it was a beautiful spring day in the French countryside. She had been flying west for nine hours or so, and the morning seemed to be dragging on forever. After finding her gate, she allowed herself to be herded onto a little Boeing 717, under the curious but benign gazes of her mostly French fellow passengers. She felt blearily that she might as well be dressed for a costume party. Some disguise.
It was a short flight, but she drifted off into one more nap anyway and awoke to the thud of the landing gear on the main runway at Cointrin Airport, just outside Geneva. She sat up and rubbed her face vigorously, then checked her watch. It was 6:05 p.m. in Bangalore, which meant it was 1:35 p.m. here.
Geneva’s airport was small and quaint, decorated festively with big patches of off-primary colors, reminiscent of the Swiss currency. Two exits led away from the gate area: one to France on the west side of the airport, the other to Switzerland on the east. Dee headed east.
Before reaching the customs line, she found a sundries store and bought a rather indulgent set of toiletries, which she took straight to the nearest ladies’ room. She spent a long time freshening up and emerged feeling ready to face the world for another round. Her tikka spot was gone, and from the neck up, she fit right in with the crowd.
Next stop was the internet café, where she had a double latte and sent an e-mail to Brice Petronille. She proposed a meeting later that afternoon in a public spot, giving full details of place and time but no hint of the subject. She signed it “Crypta”—a nickname that Brice had tried to stick her with, long ago. He would know who it was, and quite possibly would show up at the proposed rendezvous. If not, she would have to try a more assertive approach.
She headed leisurely back out into the international arrivals hallway. Before leaving the duty-free zone, she intended to do a little shopping. She wasn’t about to pass through a European immigration checkpoint while holding an E.U. passport and wearing Indian clothes.
First, she bought a small piece of carry-on luggage covered in black synthetic weave—ordinary looking and anonymous. This time around, she was determined to limit herself to a plain, low-profile look. Unfortunately, the only clothing stores in the duty-free area were boutiques—and French and Italian boutiques, at that. So by the time she approached the immigration and customs queue, she was wearing a black satin sheath top with a big portrait collar, over a clingy knee-length pencil skirt in a granite print. She had been determined to avoid flashy hats, given the circumstances, but she was seduced away from that resolve by a velour cloche hat in rich navy blue with a big bow. It worked well with her long black hair, and it set off her eyes. So much for the low profile.
Walking out onto the passenger loading zone on the Swiss side of the airport, she was back in top spirits. She was five thousand miles from India, and she was Karen Collins, a fashionable Irish tourist on vacation—and most importantly, no one could possibly know the whereabouts of Dee Lockwood.
Chapter 14
Dee was barely through the sliding glass doors when she caught her first scintillating waft of the clean air that rolled down the Alps, funneled along the length of Lake Geneva, and bathed the little Swiss city in faint hints of paradise. She had arrived in the Alps in May—what could be better?
She took a shuttle to the Europcar lot and introduced herself at the counter as Helga Hughes. The little blonde clerk’s eyes widened for a moment, and she led Dee to a stylishly fierce-looking little yellow and black sports car. Very formally, she opened the door and handed Dee the keys.
“Wow! What is this?” Dee asked.
“It ees ze Audi R8, Miz Hughes. It ees not correct?”
“Oh, sure, sure. It’s correct. This will do just fine.”
Dee had never driven anything quite like this before. It was so low to the ground that getting into the driver’s seat felt as if she were lowering her bottom right down onto the pavement. When she turned the key, the engine growled to life with so much power that the little car sat trembling on its wide tires. She felt a bit frightened to touch any of the controls, especially the accelerator.
She looked up at the rental clerk. The young woman was standing two steps away, looking around nervously. Dee realized that the transaction was over. There would be no paperwork, no money exchanged, nothing.
She thinks I’m some kind of international criminal, Dee realized. Then again, that might technically be correct.
She put the stick shift in first, popped the handbrake, and pressed the accelerator gently. The tires left ten feet of smoking rubber on the ground behind her, and she just managed to swerve around a line of parked cars.
After a few minutes on the road, however, she was starting to get used to this car. Her new perspective, less than two feet above the asphalt, made everything seem to rush by even faster than it really did. But it was the car’s handling that amazed her most, as if it were responding to her wishes even before she was aware of them. And it apparently had infinite engine power.
“Beta.”
“Yes, Karen.”
“I think I’d like to find a highway with no speed limit, please. Could you tell me where the nearest autobahn is?”
“The nearest autobahn entrance ramp is two hundred twenty-seven kilometers northeast. Would you like navigation instructions?”
“It’s that far? Well then, no, forget it. It was just a notion.” She slipped the growling engine down a gear and began practicing high-speed lane changes through the thick traffic. The other cars were beginning to look as slow and cumbersome as cattle.
“I have completed a research query into the subject of General Tyrone Grimmer. Would you like me to present a summary of my findings?” Beta offered.
“Yes, thanks Beta,” Dee said, surprised. Beta began droning out a long string of disassociated facts that had apparently been pried out of Grimmer’s personnel files and slapped into a roughly chronological order. She listened intently at first, but then began to lose interest as Beta’s account turned out to be that of a rather ordinary military career. Grimmer’s trajectory had started out a few decades ago with exciting action sequences, but then had gradually fizzled into desk work and politicking as he slogged up the mountain of ranks. To make a dull story even duller, Beta’s report became increasingly obtuse and full of gaps as soon as the chronology reached the point where the word “UMBRA” was first mentioned. Dee had almost given up on any hope of getting anything useful out of all this, when her ears pricked up at an unexpected tidbit of information.
“The UMBRA group is currently tasked with completion of Operation Hydra,” Beta said.
“What’s that? What’s Operation Hydra?”
“Operation Hydra is an ultra-classified operation. Your security level is insufficient to access specific details of files at that level of classification.”
Dee frowned thoughtfully. It was just possible that this might be something she could use to her advantage, one way or another. She made a mental note to ask Abe about Operation Hydra, next time they talked.
Geneva was small but, like most European cities, densely built. Traffic became more crowded and aggressive as she approached downtown. In another car and another mood, she would have found the European driving habits alarming, if not downright terrifying. Compared with her recent experiences in India, it all seemed perfectly low-key and civilized, and in an R8 she was too quick and nimble to be bullied around.
By the time she arrived in the city center, traffic had slowed to a crawl. The streets were crowded with office workers and tourists enjoying the beautiful spring day. Her car attracted a fair amount of gawking, but there wasn’t much she could do about that.
