Mind Magic (29 page)

“It’s a Yamaha,” she said reverently. “Is it really okay? I can play it?” At his nod, she opened the case and carefully took out the pieces, screwing them together. She held it near her mouth and closed her eyes. Then lowered it. “I haven’t played in so long. I won’t sound good. Could I . . . is there a way for me to be alone?”

Rule struggled with himself. He wanted answers now
.
Wanted to know if Lily had somehow reached out and touched this young woman’s mind. If she could do it again. If she was all right and could tell them
where she was
 . . . he took a deep breath. Danny was tough as nails in some ways, yet fragile in others. If she had truly been a child of his clan, what would he do?

Probably, he thought grimly, he’d continue to browbeat her, as gently as possible. But knowing the attempt at mindspeech had come from Lily wouldn’t tell him where she was or what kind of shape she was in. It was of no immediate help . . . except to his raw emotions.

“José found a tent for you,” he said at last. “Complete with sleeping bag. It’s as much privacy as I can offer. Will that do?”

She nodded eagerly.

“Danny . . . if someone tries to talk in your head again, will you come tell me right away? If it’s Lily . . .”

She thought it over first. Then nodded.

Twenty minutes later Danny, her backpack, and Saul’s flute were all in the small tent José had cleared out for her. She’d wanted to retreat there immediately, but Rule insisted that her blistered foot be washed, the blister disinfected and bandaged. Then Mike had to show her where the latrine was, since her human nose didn’t provide that information, before escorting her to her temporary quarters.

Almost the moment the flap closed, a few uncertain notes floated out. Then, more strongly, a scale, followed by the opening bar to “Greensleeves” . . . high and pure and lovely, with none of the fumbled notes or hesitations Rule had expected. Everyone listened. Most of those on two legs smiled.

Rule did, too. Then he sighed and got down to business. Hal Brownbeck waited about twenty feet away. A much younger man stood with him. “Theo, is the young man with Hal the one you recommended for my other
nuntius
?”

“Richard Swan. He’s young and untrained, but his memory’s good. I told him to ask Hal for a quick introduction to acting as
nuntius.
” The councillor lifted a hand, beckoning. The two men started for them. “A question, Rho, if I may.”

Rule nodded.

“What happens to the girl in twenty hours?”

“I will offer to extend my protection.”

“Is this wise? She’s charming in her vulnerability and lack of fear, but she’s also a liability. Hiding her from the authorities may be difficult and exposes us to possible arrest.”

Rule smiled. Theo was coming along well. When Rule first became Leidolf Rho, Theo had been exceedingly deferential on the surface and deeply hostile underneath. The hostility was no surprise, under the circumstances. The deference, however, had been excessive. The previous Rho had been a son of a bitch who tolerated no dissent, even from his councillors—whose job was to disagree at times.

Theo was still polite, but a good deal less hostile. He was learning to disagree. Moreover, this was exactly the right sort of question to put when they had an audience. It allowed Rule to reinforce his orders with reason. “Danny is the most important person in this camp right now. There’s more to her than the, ah, charming vulnerability you mention. At the age of sixteen, she penetrated the NSA’s computers by stealing the log-in information of a high-ranking official there. She used his access to create a ghost persona which gave her ongoing, undetectable access to those computers. She has identified our enemy and may offer the means of bringing him down. I suspect she’ll be able to help us hide her. She’s been in hiding from the NSA and Homeland Security for nearly a year now, so clearly she knows something about how to do it.”

Theo’s eyebrows had risen. “I see.”

“Any more questions?”

“Not just now.”

Rule gave his two
nunti
prepaid Visa cards that shouldn’t be on any governmental list and told them how to identify and be identified by their targets. Richard would drive to D.C. to reach Ruben—or Deborah, if Ruben had been arrested. Hal would have to fly to reach Abel in Oregon, but his ID matched his apparent age and he wasn’t known to be lupus, so his name shouldn’t be flagged.

“I will break my message into three parts,” he told them. “Part One. Our principle enemy is Edward Smith, special assistant to the director of the NSA. He is being assisted, knowingly or unknowingly, by a person or persons in Homeland Security. His motives and goals are unclear, as is the extent of his organization, but he does have an organization. The nature and extent of his actions suggest he is smart, patient, and methodical. I believe he is unaware of the existence of the Shadow Unit.”

“But—” José started, then clamped his mouth shut and ducked his head low in apology.

Rule continued as if José hadn’t spoken. “While he has targeted both Ruben and myself, in both cases the charges being leveled are fake, based on data tampering. If he knew about our involvement in a clandestine organization but was unable to find proof, he might decide to manufacture evidence—but that evidence would expose or at least suggest the existence of the Shadows. That hasn’t happened, which is why I believe he doesn’t know about the Shadow Unit.

“It’s unclear why he targeted me. His reasons for targeting Ruben are also murky, but obviously include shifting the blame for his own clandestine operation in order to avoid discovery.

“That operation involves using a nonprofit, Bright Haven Refuge for Gifted Young People, to acquire custody of Gifted children and teens who’ve been orphaned or abandoned. These children and teens are tested and trained and given a drug which enhances their power and control. My source believes that neither Congress nor the administration is aware of what Mr. Smith and his people are up to.”

He paused then and had the men repeat what he’d said. Unsurprisingly, Hal did beautifully. Richard needed coaching, but after a few repetitions did fairly well. Rule went on to Part Two—a brief bio of Danny, what she’d done, and how she’d done it, with a description of the records she’d sent to the reporter and how they’d been altered to direct blame at Ruben.

Again he stopped and had them repeat that, then repeat both parts. “Part Three. It seems likely that these records were altered magically. Danny believes it would be impossible to alter records kept in so many places simultaneously and undetectably without the use of magic. This suggests that Smith has at least one extremely competent practitioner at his disposal. Danny doesn’t believe Smith himself has the knowledge, experience, or training to do this, nor does she think the children and teens under his control have such training.” Rule paused. “Based on comments made by Cullen Seabourne about the nature of the process needed to use magic on computerized records without disrupting the system, I believe Smith’s practitioner may be a sorcerer.”

*   *   *

AN
hour later, the two men had left for their separate destinations. Rule had spoken at greater length with Theo and José, getting their input and speculations. At last he headed for the flimsy sanctuary of his own tent.

Danny was still playing “Greensleeves.”

An hour after that, the flute at last fell silent. A soft rain had started, more a heavy mist than drops. Rule stared up at the roof of his tiny shelter, listening to the hushed sound of it on canvas.

For the twenty-one thousand, four hundred and forty nights he had been on this planet, he had mostly slept alone. Roughly ninety percent of the time, according to the calculations he’d performed while trying to bore himself into sleep. You’d think he had the knack of it.

Apparently not. He couldn’t sleep alone tonight. No, this morning, for the darkness was softening, stirred by the approach of dawn. He couldn’t shut his mind off, couldn’t stop from thinking about Lily. Couldn’t stop—as his wolf put it—living in a world of terrible maybes. Four-in-the-morning thinking at what must be nearer six than four.

He gave up, stood up, and Changed. A moment later a large black-and-silver wolf trotted out, unbothered by the misty rain. He curled up with a small group of his fellows. They woke; one licked his muzzle briefly.

Warmed by the feel and scent of clan, equipped with a brain less likely to founder on its own imaginings, at last he slept.

TWENTY-FIVE

OUTSIDE,
the sun had barely crept above the horizon, but sunlight or the lack of it made no difference in the underground conference room. One of the fluorescent lights hummed loudly.

Edward Smith occupied his usual spot at the head of the table, with the soldierly Greg at his right hand. Sharon sat at his left; the redheaded Chuck was across from her. The man sitting in the chair at the foot of the table was Greg’s opposite in every way except gender. Where Greg was tall, upright, and tidy, this man was short, slumped, and rumpled. His pale hair was at least two months overdue for a trim, and his short-sleeved yellow shirt might have been grabbed off a pile of dirty clothes.

At the moment, he was using the tail of that shirt to clean his glasses while he spoke. “. . . twenty-seven heat signatures in the werewolf camp last night, but we . . . um . . .” He put his glasses back on and shuffled his papers. “We have no way of knowing how many . . . um . . . were away from camp. The state has agreed to . . . um . . . additional flyovers, but there are over eleven thousand acres in the . . . um . . . Crown City Wildlife Area. And of course, there are those . . . um . . . homeless men. Can’t tell from the air who’s homeless and who’s . . . um . . . a werewolf.”

“Thank you, Barry. You may go.”

Barry nodded and did so.

As soon as the door closed, Chuck spoke. “God, but it’s painful to listen to him.”

“We’ve got a bigger problem than Barry’s speech habits,” Sharon snapped. “In case you weren’t listening—”

“Painful as the experience was, I heard every word.” Chuck sighed. “Times like these I wish I still smoked.” He looked at the round little man at the head of the table. “So what are we doing about it?”

“At the moment, planning. Our response will depend—”

The door opened again. “Sorry I’m late,” Tom said breezily, not sounding sorry at all. He shut the door behind him. Today the Asian man wore ripped black skinny jeans, a black T-shirt with a smoking skull, and athletic shoes. No socks. His shaggy hair and the shoulders of his tee were damp. “There are too many idiots on the road, slowing down those of us who actually know how to drive in the rain. And this is a pathetically early hour for those of us who don’t live in D.C.”

Sharon gave him a sour look. “And yet I managed to make it on time.”

“That’s because you’re a better person than me.” He smirked at her and sat on Chuck’s side of the table, leaving a chair between himself and the other man. “What have I missed?”

Smith answered. “Barry updated us on the number of lupi who’ve gathered in the wildlife area outside Whistle. Thirty have been confirmed. He declined to estimate how many might be nearby who weren’t in camp when the state sent the helicopter.”

“Ohio’s sharing information freely, then?” Chuck asked. “With us or with Homeland?”

“Homeland, of course. Eric says the state authorities have been most helpful, unlike our brother agency at the federal level. He’s annoyed by the Bureau’s foot-dragging.”

Sharon frowned. “I thought moving Mathison into the head spot at Unit Twelve would take care of interagency problems.”

“That was essential, but not sufficient to make the FBI as a whole eager to cooperate with Homeland. You know how arrogant they are. They continue to believe everyone else should cooperate with them. We’re getting off-topic. Chuck, how is Prism doing?”

“Buggy as hell,” Chuck said promptly, “being still in beta, but I should have some probables within three to four hours. After that, we’ll have to pass it to the regular system for full intercept.”

Smith nodded. “Sharon, please advise us about Adrian’s efforts to find Target Duo among the lupi.”

She shook her head. “Still nothing. He can’t even get a clear enough image of the werewolf camp for me to confirm Barry’s count. We tried increasing the dosage slightly, but he isn’t able to penetrate . . . well, he calls it a fog. We don’t have an explanation.”

Perhaps Smith was the only one who saw the quick flicker of reaction on Tom’s face. “Tom? Do you have something to add?”

The Asian man cocked his head as if listening. “Not really, although this convinces me that Turner—”

“No names, Tom.”

“—that Target Duo is at the lupi camp.”

Sharon’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I can’t say,” he answered sweetly.

“That’s not acceptable. If you know something we don’t—”

“I know so many things you don’t, Sharon. We haven’t the time to list them all, much less go into detail.”

“And yet,” Smith said softly, “this seems especially pertinent.”

Tom looked at him. “I can’t say. Not won’t. This is privileged information under the terms our deal.”