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not sure, what do you think?
?I m on my way. I ll be with you soon as I can. Fiorinda,don t worry. It won t
be as bad as you re making out. I ll talk to Sage, I ll go and haul him out
?Oh. She looked around. ?You re outside. Can other people see me? Do I look
weird?
?Yeah, they can see you, like a ghost. They won t worry. It doesn t
?Shit. I d better break the connection, this is contraband. Please, please come
home as quickly as you can. I love you.
She had vanished before he realised that he could have touched her.
He was on his feet. He sat back on the bench and reached for his cooling paper
cup of coffee. His eyes were fixed on the Art Deco fountain; his mind was racing.
I must go home, I must get back. They ve had a bust-up over the Zen Self, and
Fiorinda s alone: but there s something else. Something I ought to know. I can feel
it. Ideas started to click together in his mind, hints he d dismissed, disregarded
inferences, a cascade that he couldn t stop. Straws in the wind, random objects
out of place that reveal the direction of a great secret mass of moving air
?Oh my God! he gasped, starting to his feet again, his whole body thrilling
with fight-and-flight. ?My God, Sage ! What have you done?
If desperation had been enough he would have dived through the ether,
around the world, and snatched her out of danger, as if from a burning building. A youngish,
good-looking Hispanic bloke, in worn-down funky leisurewear, was
coming towards him. ?Mr Preston? Hi, I m João. You waiting for me?
It was his underground ticket home connection.
The man offered his hand. In the split second before he took it Ax recalled that
this was no longer a gesture between negotiating strangers in the USA. Yesterday
morning the President clapped Ax around the shoulders and squeezed his arm,
getting physical without a qualm; but he didn t shake hands. They don t wear
gloves, that would be too weird, but they don t touch skin to sweaty skin on the
first date. Bio-terrorism s a real danger. He remembered, but he took the hand
because it was too late, and everything went black.
Where am I? He was lying on his side on a hard, dusty surface. He thought it
was wood, floorboards or planks. He was handcuffed, blindfold; he couldn t
hear anything. When he moved, he found the cuffs were locked to a wall. Further
inventory: he was wearing teeshirt and underpants, he had some bruising he d
rather not think about, a sore face, the taste of old blood in his mouth, but no
serious physical pain. Where am I now? I ve been moved. I was somewhere
different, floating in a sea of drugged daze, they have moved me. A blurred
impression of the past few days began to surface. He lay still, deathly afraid, Oh,
Fiorinda . . . Okay, it could be worse. I could be naked, could have been hurt
much worse. This isn t too bad. This is not an absolutely hopeless fix. Objective
one, calm yourself. Be open and ready for whatever chance comes. At last, footsteps. Someone ripped
off the blindfold.
It was the bloke from Dupont Circle, with others. Two deeply tanned white
guys, one with grey bristle hair, the other much younger. Two stocky, dark
skinned guys, alike as brothers; and a tall, thin man black as tar. They all had
handguns. The older white guy was clutching his and looking trigger-happy. The
others less so, guns in reserve.
?What s going on? What s happening?
?Same as last time, Ax. You ve been kidnapped. You know the score, you co
operate, be nice, or we ll hurt you.
He sat up, cuffed to the wall, and tried to look around without appearing to
do so. The bed had no mattress, just dusty planks. No window was in his line of
sight, and neither was the door. A sink in a corner. Bare dingy-brown walls. It
could be a very cheap, shabby and dirty hotel room. He couldn t hear traffic.
?So, what is it you want? He gave them a rueful smile. ?Contrary to the sound
of the thing, I don t have easy access to large sums of money, but
?It s not for money! shouted the old white guy, the gun shaking in his hand.
?We re not interested in your fucking money!
?Hey, we dowant money! countered one of the two stocky guys, in a hurry, as
if fearing Whitey would wreck the deal.
?Yeah, but this isn t aboutmoney! repeated the older bloke, furiously. He
sprang forward and gave Ax a smack in the face with the side of the gun that
knocked his head back, ringing, stinging. ?This is about the blow! ?I don t have any cocaine, either. Not
on me.
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