A figure stepped from the shadows, head distorted by the bulbous goggles of an image-amplification rig. It waved them on with the blunt, clustered muzzles of a Lansing flechette gun. Biohazard, Conroy said as they edged past. Duck your head here. And watch it, the stairs get slippery.
The rig smelled of rust and disuse and brine. There were no windows. The discolored cream walls were blotched with spreading scabs of rust. Battery-powered fluorescent lanterns were slung, every few meters, from beams overhead, casting a hideous green-tinged light, at once intense and naggingly uneven. At least a dozen figures were at work, in this central room; they moved with the relaxed precision of good technicians. Professionals, Turner thought; their eyes seldom met and there was little talking. It was cold, very cold, and Conroy had given him a huge parka covered with tabs and zippers.
A bearded man in a sheepskin bomber jacket was securing bundled lengths of fiber-optic line to a dented bulkhead with silver tape. Conroy was locked in a whispered argument with a black woman who wore a parka like Turners. The bearded tech looked up from his work and saw Turner. Shee-it, he said, still on his knees, I figured it was a big one, but I guess its gonna be a rough one, too. He stood, wiping his palms automatically on his jeans. Like the rest of the techs, he wore micropore surgical gloves. Youre Turner. He grinned, glanced quickly in Conroys direction, and pulled a black plastic flask from a jacket pocket. Take some chill off. You remember me. Worked on that job in Marrakech. IBM boy went over to Mitsu-G. Wired the charges on that bus you n the Frenchman drove into that hotel lobby.
Turner took the flask, snapped its lid, and tipped it. Bourbon. It stung deep and sour, warmth spreading from the region of his sternum. Thanks. He returned the flask and the man pocketed it.
Oakey, the man said. Names Oakey? You remember?
Sure, Turner lied, Marrakech.
Wild Turkey, Oakey said. Flew in through Schipol, I hit the duty-free. Your partner there, another glance at Conroy, hes none too relaxed, is he? I mean, not like Marrakech, right?
Turner nodded.
You need anything, Oakey said, lemme know.
Like what?
Nother drink, or I got some Peruvian flake, the kind thats real yellow. Oakey grinned again.
Thanks, Turner said, seeing Conroy turn from the black woman. Oakey saw, too, kneeling quickly and tearing off a fresh length of silver tape.
Who was that? Conroy asked, after leading Turner through a narrow door with decayed black gasket seals at its edges Conroy spun the wheel that dogged the door shut, someone had oiled it recently.
Names Oakey, Turner said, taking
in the new room. Smaller. Two of the lanterns, folding tables, chairs, all new On the tables, instrumentation of some kind, under black plastic dustcovers.
Friend of yours?
No, Turner said. He worked for me once. He went to the nearest table and flipped back a dustcover. Whats this? The console had the blank, half-finished look of a factory prototype.
Maas-Neotek cyberspace deck Turner raised his eyebrows. Yours?
We got two. Ones on site. From Hosaka. Fastest thing in the matrix, evidently, and Hosaka cant even de-engineer the chips to copy them. Whole other technology.
They got them from Mitchell?
They arent saying. The fact theyd let go of em just to give our jockeys an edge is some indication of how badly they want the man.
Whos on console, Conroy?
Jaylene Slide. I was talking to her just now. He jerked his head in the direction of the door. The site mans out of L.A., kid called Ramirez.
They any good? Turner replaced the dustcover. Better be, for what theyll cost. Jaylenes gotten herself a hot rep the past two years, and Ramirez is her understudy.
Shit Conroy shrugged you know these cowboys. Fucking crazy...
Whered you get them? Whered you get Oakey for that matter?
Conroy smiled. From your agent, Turner.
Turner stared at Conroy, then nodded. Turning, he lifted the edge of the next dustcover. Cases, plastic and Styrofoam, stacked neatly on the cold metal of the table. He touched a blue plastic rectangle stamped with a silver monogram: S&W.
Your agent, Conroy said, as Turner snapped the case open. The pistol lay there in its molded bed of pale blue foam, a massive revolver with an ugly housing that bulged beneath the squat barrel. S&W Tactical. .408 with a xenon projector, Conroy said. What he said youd want.
Turner took the gun in his hand and thumbed the batterytest stud for the projector. A red LED in the walnut grip pulsed twice. He swung the cylinder out. Ammunition?
On the table. Hand-loads, explosive tips.
Turner found a transparent cube of amber plastic, opened it with his left hand, and extracted a cartridge. Why did they pick me for this, Conroy? He examined the cartridge, then inserted it carefully into one of the cylinders six chambers.
I dont know, Conroy said. Felt like they had you slotted from go, whenever they heard from Mitchell...
Turner spun the cylinder rapidly and snapped it back into the frame. I said, Why did they pick me for this, Conroy? He raised the pistol with both hands and extended his arms, pointing it directly at Conroys face. Gun like this, sometimes you can see right down the bore, if the lights right, see if theres a bullet there.