leave.
It would take a long time, and a lot of luck, to trace them through the Interstate system. Fortunately, the powder blue was an unusual color. But before she settled into that mind-numbing chore, she decided to go check the monastery for clues.
She put on her business suit over the weapons and assembled the ID package and pocket litter that identified her as an FBI agent from Washington. She wouldn’t get past a retinal scan at a police station, but she didn’t foresee going into any police station alive.
Again, no response from the doorbell. It took her only a couple of seconds to pick the lock, but it was dead-bolted. She took out the pistol and blew the deadbolt off, and the door swung open.
She hurried in with the gun drawn and shouted “F.B.I.!” at the dusty waiting room. She went into the main corridor and started a hasty search, hoping to get through and out before the police arrived. She figured, accurately, that it was possible the folks at St. Bart’s didn’t have a burglar alarm because they didn’t want any police showing up suddenly, but she didn’t want to count on that.
The rooms off the corridor were disappointing—two meeting rooms and individual dormitory rooms or cells.
The atrium stopped her, though, with the towering trees and active brook. A trash container had six empty Dom Pérignon bottles. Off the atrium, a large circular conference room built around a huge hologram plate. She found the controls and turned it on to the peaceful woodland scene.
At first she didn’t recognize the electronic modules at each seat—and then it dawned on her that this was a place where two dozen sinners could jack together!
She’d never heard of anything like that outside of the military. Maybe that was the military connection, though: a top-secret soldierboy experiment. The office of Force Management and Personnel might indeed be behind it.
That made her hesitant about proceeding. Blaisdell was her spiritual superior as well as her cell leader, and she would normally follow his orders without question. But it seemed increasingly obvious that there could be aspects to this he was unaware of. She would go back to the hotel and try to set up a secure line to him.
She turned off the hologram and tried to return to the atrium. The door was locked.
The room spoke up: “Your presence here is illegal. Is there any way you would care to explain it?” The voice was Mendez’s; he was viewing her from Guadalajara.
“I’m Agent Audrey Simone from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have reason to believe—”
“Do you have a warrant to search this establishment?”
“It’s on file with the local authorities.”
“You forgot to bring a copy when you broke in, though.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. Show yourself. Open this door.”
“No, I think you’d better tell me the name of your supervisor and the location of your branch. Once I verify that you are who you say you are, we can discuss your lack of a warrant.”
With her left hand she pulled out her wallet and turned in a circle, displaying the badge. “Things will go a lot easier for you if—” She was interrupted by the invisible man’s laugh.
“Put the fake badge away and shoot your way out. The police should have arrived by now; you can explain about your warrant to them.”
She had to shoot off both hinges as well as the three bolts on this door. She ran across the brook and found that the door out of the atrium was now similarly secured. She reloaded, automatically counting the number of remaining air cartridges, and tried to open this one with three shots. It took her four more.
* * *
i was watching her on the screen from behind Mendez. She was finally able to push the door down with her shoulder. He pushed two buttons and switched to the corridor camera. She went pounding down the corridor in a dead run, the pistol held out in front of her with both hands.
“Does that look like an FBI agent going out to reason with the local cops?”
“Maybe you should have actually called them.”
He shook his head. “Unnecessary bloodshed. You didn’t recognize her?”
“Afraid not.” Mendez had called me when she shot down the front door, on the off chance that I might recognize her from Portobello.
Before she went out the front door, she slipped the pistol into a belly holster, and buttoned just the top button of her suit, so it was like a