Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,67
it up,” I say. “But it's definitely some sort of tracking chip.”
She checks on the bleeding and satisfied that it seems to have slowed, she nods toward the pile of personal effects on the counter. “A watcher?” When I nod, she puts down the washcloth and starts rifling through the pile. “Did you…?” She shakes her head. “Where were they?” she asks instead.
“Lobby. Standard stake-out. Waiting for us to come downstairs.”
“So they don't know which room we're in?”
“Or they don't want to corner us here,” I point out. I try to remember if I had seen anyone loitering around when I had gone out for my walk. Were they covering the side exits too? I point at the tracking chip. “If they're keying in on that, we have a slight advantage now. They know where the chip is, but they don't know that it isn't in you anymore. If we leave it here, they'll think we're still in the room.”
“How long will that illusion last, do you think?”
“Long enough for us to get to the airport.”
“And then what? There are two flights out of here per day. One heading for Tahiti, and the other one goes east. To Santiago, Chile. It won't be hard to figure out which way we've gone. If they don't grab us as soon as we walk out of here.” She shakes her head. “It'd be easier if we could just fly out of here ourselves.” Her mouth quirks into a tiny smile. “Too bad we can't turn into sparrows. And fly home.”
Sparrows.
I recall the painting on the wall of the crypt beneath the laboratory. Tiny birds wreathed in flowers.
“Hyacinths,” I say. “That's it.”
“What's it?” she says, but she's talking to my back as I leave the bathroom. “What are you doing?” she asks as she follows me.
“I'm looking for the folder that comes with the room,” I tell her. “The one that has the room service menu and the listing of all the other services the hotel offers.”
“Why?”
I find the leather-bound folio, and start flipping through it. “Because there's always a page filled with market speak about the hotel, and it always contains some reference—”
A buzzing noise interrupts me, the sound of an angry bee caught in the bathroom. “The phone,” Mere says. “I'll get it.”
I nod and stand there, holding the folder, staring at the page. The words are bending out of whack, and I struggle to bring them back into line, just as I'm struggling to bring my memory back.
What I need is in my head. I just can't get it ordered correctly. I can almost see the shape of the puzzle. I almost know where the pieces go.
Mere returns from the bathroom, holding the Secutores agent's cell phone. “Text message,” she says, showing me the display.
It's a message from someone named Albatross, and it reads: “Sr loc?”
“Situation report,” I translate. “And asking about her location.”
“Sent a few minutes after nine. Do you think it's routine?”
“Top of the hour check-in?” I shrug. “Probably.”
Mere's fingers fly over the phone's quartet of control buttons, easily navigating the maze of submenus. “Yeah,” she says. “On the hour. One word responses. Zero. Zero. Zero. Down. And then nothing before that for something like twelve hours.”
I nod, following the sequence. Down was the note that she had arrived on Easter Island. “Text zero back. Keep it simple.”
Mere does so, and then starts looking at other screens. “These are cheap phones,” she says. “Ah”—she finds something of interest—“here's her contact list. Albatross. Bear. Caribou. Dingo. Falcon. Gopher.” She ponders the list. “No ‘E'?”
“She's ‘E,'” I intuit. “Albatross is her commanding officer.”
She giggles slightly. “Do you think it was assigned?”
“What was assigned?”
“That code name.”
I think about it for a second, recalling albatrosses of legend and those that found their way into literature. “Probably not.”
The phone buzzes in Mere's hands and she nearly drops it. “Shit,” she reads the message. “It just says ‘Loc' again.”
“You didn't answer all of the question the first time,” I say.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Tell him something.”
“Like what?”
In the maid closet. Second floor. I shake my head, putting that suggestion away. “Type ‘pissing,'” I suggest.
Mere smiles. “‘Pissing,'” she says as she works the phone's keypad. “And I'm adding ‘K?'” She hits send.
“Good idea. That'll explain the delay.”
She checks another menu. “That's the only one who has been texting. Albatross. God, what a goofy code name. A big white bird, hanging around your neck.” She shakes her head.