Convergence Point (8 page)

Edwin laughed. “This isn't humid, not yet. Come summertime, we'll have over a hundred percent humidity and triple-­digit temperatures.”

“A hundred percent humidity is called rain. We have plenty of that in Chicago,” Mac said as he followed the junior agent down the suggestion of a game trail that might–if he squinted and used his imagination–be a path to a campsite.

“Down here, it gets so hot the rain evaporates before it hits the ground. It's like walking through a sauna.”

“Oh, I remember days like that.” He'd hated them in Alabama until he realized those were the days Sam wore her thinnest shirts. On the weekends, she liked to wear lacy camisoles that the wet air plastered to her body like a second skin. “It wasn't so bad, actually.”

Edwin looked over his shoulder at Mac. “You've been here before?”

“I was in Alabama. The humidity isn't quite so bad, but there were days.”

“Right.” Edwin snapped a branch and took a breath. “Ever eaten alligator?”

“Um . . . no. Am I about to get the opportunity?” Mac stepped behind Edwin and, much to his chagrin, had to go on tiptoe to see over the other agent's shoulder. “We found our swamp.”

Edwin smiled. “It should be too early in the season for the gators to be this far north. They like to stay down in the Everglades until the weather really warms up, but there's always a risk of early migration and water snakes.”

“Fun place, Florida. Why do these pirates live here again?”

“Cheapest rent in the district.”

“Right.”

Edwin waded into the murky water, and, with a reluctant grimace, Mac followed. “It's chillier than I thought it would be.”

Agent Edwin pointed up. “Canopy cover. I'm not sure if this actually qualifies as a rain forest, but the upper-­level foliage gets most of the light. Down here, it's dark and shady . . .”

“And humid, and buggy, and damp,” Mac finished for him. “I think I see why Agent Rose lets you handle the pirates.”

“Oh, she's come out here. Once at least.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. It was hard to picture Sam wading through the mud for fun. “She didn't recognize Nealie.”

Edwin shrugged and forged deeper into mangal swamp, walking around the mangrove roots and leaving slow eddies in the water. “All I know is they've mentioned her. I think she first came out here in late January. Nealie mentioned seeing her once, didn't remember her name, but I knew her from the description. Maybe she only talked with Connor Nu. All I know is Nealie thought she had a funny accent.”

“Not that I've noticed.” He replayed Sam's voice in his head.

“She doesn't have a noticeable accent, unless you count Commonwealth Newscaster as an accent. Agent Rose always sounds very polished. Maybe that's what he meant.” Edwin stopped and looked around. He pointed in a southwesterly direction. “This way. I think.”

“You think? That's not what I want to hear. Landnav is not an exercise in guesses.”

Edwin sighed. There might have been an eye roll. “I think this is the right island for the main camp. During high tide, it's easy to lose count and go down one too many. But I didn't hear anything, so it's probably this one.”

“Fair enough,” Mac said. He scrambled up the muddy bank after Edwin. “Sorry for, uh, you know.”

“Questioning my every move?” Edwin said.

“Yup. That. Sorry.”

“Don't worry about it. The only person who treats me like a real agent is Agent Rose. I don't think it's crossed her mind I might fail.”

“Have you?” Mac asked.

Edwin looked confused. “Have I thought I might fail?”

“No, have you ever actually failed?”

“No.”

“Then why would she think you'd fail? Sam expects the best out of ­people. She always has.” Mac climbed the small bank and pushed aside a tangle of vines along with his thoughts on how Sam had first viewed him. She hadn't been a fan, but then he hadn't been someone worth rooting for when they met. But, if her flirtatious smiles last night over dinner were anything to go by, he was growing on her. “This is the camp?”

Edwin nodded. “One of them. They travel between the islands for fishing and whatnot, but this is the main base of operations.”

There was a suggestion of habitation. A circle of cleared space on the muddy island. Fewer Brazilian pepper vines wrapping around the mangrove trees, and compacted earth suggested someone had been here recently.

Edwin walked in confidently and started scuffing the ground with his wet boots. “They were here.”

“Yeah?” Mac walked farther into the circle and looked around. The dusty, dry ground looked rippled.

“Their bags are still here.” Edwin pointed up, and Mac saw nets and plastic boxes hanging from a rope a good eight feet off the ground. “It keeps the bears away,” Edwin said.

Mac nodded. “I'm sure it keeps it dry, too.”

“Exactly,” the junior agent said. “Here!” Edwin ran across the encampment, kicking up dust, and gestured for Mac to follow. “Tents and everything. Although . . . I wonder why they're over here.”

Mac followed, eyeing the pile of broken tents and scattered shoes with distrust. He reached for Edwin's arm. “We should go.”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to Sam.”

Edwin frowned. “I thought you wanted to interview the pirates.”

“I need to talk to Sam first, and there's no phone signal here.” Mac took out his phone and snapped pictures of the camp. “Let's go.”

He hoped Sam would tell him he was crazy. There were dozens of reasons the site looked like this. Maybe the pirates had decided to draw some geometric designs to fancy up the swamp, but the last time something had shattered in neatly concentric rings, ­people had died.

 

CHAPTER 7

Every expansion event is followed by a collapse. Every collapse is preceded by a series of decoherence events. One iteration of time collapses into the other like tumbling dominoes creating chaos and noise, but nothing more.

~ excerpt from Lectures on the Movement of Time by Dr. Abdul Emir I1–20740413

Friday March 3, 2073

Broward County, Florida

Federated States of Mexico

Iteration 3

G
ant regarded Bahia Corsario—­or Privateer's Bay—­with a dispassionate look as Donovan steered their stolen car down the well-­lit boulevard as the car's AC breathed out tinny, recycled air. “It looks like a church.”

“It is, almost.” Donovan turned the car away from the buildings and down a side street lined with boutiques and pastry shops.

“What's the security like?”

“Tight. Zoetimax Industrial owns the complex. Twelve acres of paradise for the wealthy. A modern San Carlos, full of treasure.”

“San Carlos held an army, not a treasure.”

“It was a treasury before Mexico took their independence from Spain,” Donovan said. He took another turn, and the difference between Bahia Corsario and the rest of the sheltered city of Pembroke Pines became visible.

Entire houses were missing. Empty lots choked by vines filled the places where humanity had been vanquished. “What happened?”

“Hurricane, three years ago. The whole area was destroyed. Pembroke Pines was far enough inland that some of the buildings stood. The government paid to relocate ­people to safer towns with low populations. Zoetimax bought up as much land as they could.”

“Good for them.”

“Everyone here works for Zoetimax in one way or another,” Donovan said as he pulled up to a house and into the car park behind it. The metal awning wasn't much protection from sun, rain, or satellite, but most ­people weren't worried about the government sky cameras. “All those little businesses you saw? The mom-­and-­pop shops down the main jag? Zoetimax fronts. Zoetimax owns the bank. ­People get loans, open preapproved businesses, charge a set amount.”

“Manuel Helu still owns Zoetimax, doesn't he?”

“Zoetimax and the senate and the palace if he can get it. This is his
ciudad de la perfección
. His blueprint for the modern Federated States of Mexico.” Donovan got out and looked across the withering grass of the house's backyard. “Makes me sick.”

Gant rolled his eyes. Smooth-­talking politicians weren't his business. Money meant security, and security wasn't what he wanted in a mark. “Whose house is this?”

“No one's. The owner ran into trouble with some buddies of mine. Took a fishing trip.” Donovan met his eyes. “Fell off the boat.”

“Tragic,” Gant said. “Won't his boss be looking for him?”

“Not for a few more days, and by then we'll be long gone.” He tossed a roll of lock picks to Gant. “Open the door while I get my gear.”

Amateur hour.
Gant hadn't had much time to research Donovan and his crew, but what he'd found was enough to keep him from slitting Donovan's throat while he slept. He walked the back of the house once, kicked over a rock, and picked the key and security code up. Honestly, sometimes he despaired at the intelligence of his fellow humans. A shiny plastic rock from the Peso General garden center wasn't how you hid a spare key. He grabbed the doorknob, and the door swung open.

“Depressing, isn't it?” Donovan said from behind him. “Company villages like this make ­people sloppy. They don't stop to think.”

Donovan was wrong. ­People never even started thinking. “I'm beginning to be insulted you asked for my help,” Gant said. “At this point, I could be replaced by a toddler with a toothache.”

Donovan's mouth twitched up in a one-­sided grin. “We haven't started yet.” He pulled two sets of binoculars out of the bag and handed one to Gant. “Come upstairs.”

The house was everything Gant hated about southern Florida: mold, mildew, alarming shades of green on the walls mixed with unnatural orange tiles on the floor. All the furniture was a knockoff from the set of
La Usurpadora
. All that was missing was for a beautiful woman in a tiny bikini to come screaming about how her husband had betrayed her.

That's pretty much all everything is missing
, Gant thought.

The stairs creaked under his weight as they climbed to the second floor.

Donovan opened a door bringing in a gust of jasmine-­scented night air. “The roof was never properly fixed. We can get a good view of the target.”

Gant followed him into the tiled balcony that had once been a bedroom, perhaps, and onto the roof. Donovan looked north to the glow of Bahi Corsario. Gant took out his binoculars and did the same. “What am I looking for?”

“Security guards.”

“I don't see any.”

“Now you know why I need you.” Donovan jumped down to the floor. “A building made of glass, and we can't do a smash and grab. Shame really.”

Gant didn't say anything to that. From what he'd learned, Donovan's crew specialized in brute-­force maneuvers. All of them were former Fuerzas Especiales, FES. Men trained by the military to do the impossible. Their war record was impressive, and most of it was available for public perusal. The socially acceptable rescue missions, at least. What puzzled Gant was that the record of Donovan's last year in ser­vice, and his reason for leaving the military, were classified to the point even Gant couldn't break the encryption. He had yet to find out how a decorated war hero had become the leader of one of the better heist crews in the northern territories.

Donovan hadn't been in a sharing mood.

“Coming down?” Donovan watched him. With good reason. His last job had ended when his second-­in-­command betrayed them. Two of his men had died, the rest went to jail. Donovan had escaped, his former friend hadn't.

Gant climbed back down. “When do we go in?”

“Two hours. The guards are behind bulletproof glass while they're on shift. Everything locks down if anything moves. Not a gnat gets through the building. Except during shift change. There's an eleven-­minute window where the motion sensors are off. Six minutes of debrief when the sensors are on, and a ten-­minute window where we can move again.”

“More than enough time for you to get to the Timeyst Machine. Alone.” Gant raised an eyebrow. “I'm your diversion, Donovan.”

Donovan chuckled. “If I needed a salsa dancer, I'd have bought one off the streets in Miami. There are two things needed to make the machine work. Do you know what they are?”

Gant shook his head.

Donovan motioned for him to follow as he walked back downstairs to the kitchen, where their gear was waiting. “You know how all their ads end?”

“Yeah: ‘Book now!' ”

“Exactly. Book
now
is the key,” Donovan said. “The machine only works sometimes. Something about stars aligning or some nonsense. You can't just punch in the date you want to go visit, there's math involved.”

Gant closed his eyes. “Math? You hired me to do your math homework?”

“I hired you to get the key. The machine is locked behind several doors and three layers of guard posts. It's in the inner sanctum of the church of gratuitous wealth. The key is kept on the far end of the building in the offices of the operators. Director's name is Juana Carlisle. You've seen her on TV.”

Gant narrowed his eyes as he tried to put a name to the face. “Blond hair, low-­cut v-­neck lab coat, plastic tits?”

“That's the one.”

“She can't be the brains behind this.”

“Doesn't matter. She's the
face
. Her office is in the south campus near the Fountain of Aphrodite.” Donovan smiled. “I cased the place a few weeks before I found you. At first I thought a long con might get me in. Get myself hired, work on security, butter up Dr. Carlisle.” Donovan shook his head. “There was a hiring freeze. Couldn't get in.”

And I don't see you having nearly enough butter
. “Why didn't you go in as a buyer?”

“Not enough
dinero
. It's two million up front to plan the trip. Another eight on top of that to go. Putting the funds together would have put me back on the
federales'
radar. And Dr. Carlisle was too well protected for me to kidnap her. This way's quicker. I neutralize the problems on my side, you get the key, we both skip town and go to a place where no one's ever heard of us.” Donovan held out a laminated square of paper no bigger than Gant's palm. “That's your route. My pace count is a little longer than yours, so watch for the landmarks.”

Gant nodded as he looked over the tiny map. Donovan had him breaking through a sealed door and several computerized locks. That made sense. Electronics and locks were his strong suit.

He'd started as a second-­story man lifting jewels and smart watches. The murder had come later, an expansion of his repertoire as he chased larger dreams and embraced a simpler life. Breaking a neck was so much more efficient than talking himself out of a sticky situation. “How far between the south campus and the machine room?”

“Three-­quarters of a mile, at most. You can run, can't you?”

“Ha-­ha,” Gant said dryly. “How close to the entry point can we get before go time?”

“Less than a block. There's a wrought-­iron fence. Pretty, decorative thing. Don't touch it if you don't want to be electrocuted.”

S
kulking was never a necessity. Running between bushes looking like a hunchback only drew attention. Walking sedately down the road was the best way to approach a mark, be it a house full of priceless art or a gentleman who had failed to pay a debt. A person walking down the street had many reasons to be out, even at half past three in the morning. Anyone seeing an early-­morning walker would make an excuse.

Early-­morning skulkers got the police called on them.

So Gant walked, calm and relaxed, along the well-­maintained sidewalk next to the terrifying wrought iron. Inside the grounds of Bahia Corsario, floodlights illuminated multiple fountains. Donovan had been wrong: the fountain wasn't Aphrodite. The artist had re-­created Botticelli's
Birth of Venus
with luminous marble. The divine Venus Anadyomene seemed to glow with inner light, hinting at serenity and hidden knowledge with a cheeky nod to lust and power, impossible to miss.

No doubt the gift shop had postcards of this very scene, the fountains at night.

Perhaps he'd take one for himself. A memento of the night he escaped Detective Rose for good.

He slipped a handheld acetylene blowtorch from his pocket and poked it into a nearby bush. There was a thunk and sizzle of torch meeting iron bars. He moved along, stopping here and there, always tracking the distance to Venus's fountain. Every fence had a weakness. This time he had to turn a corner to find it.

In a narrow alley between a shop selling gourmet dog biscuits and the business park, there was a small gate and a hedge-­lined walkway.
Of course
. It wouldn't do to have the wealthy elite see the maintenance crew removing the trash. And this close to the coast, the tunnels inland cities used to hide their workers were problematic, if not entirely out of the question. The answer was naturally the concealed walkway.

Gant checked his watch. Thirty seconds to go. He peered down the walkway. There were no cameras marked on Donovan's map, but he didn't trust the other man completely. He scanned the bushes and eaves of the building until he satisfied himself that Donovan's information was good. Zoetimax was trusting to their reputation to keep ­people out.

Idiots.

And then it was time to go.

Gant pulled his blowtorch out and pressed the little red button. Searing hot flames poured out, melting the gate's lock. Copper oxide, magnesium, and aluminum—­such simple things, but in the right quantities, they made a metal vapor torch that was the devil's gift to thieves. He ran down the walkway, pressed the button again, and cut away the lock of the metal security door. There was no handle, but he was able to nudge the door open with his foot. He squirmed past the still-­cooling metal and looked down the back hall of Zoetimax Industries' temple to filthy lucre.

His heart leapt with unadulterated joy. If he'd only known this place existed as a younger man. Forget a smash and grab, he'd have gotten a job and taken this place apart. Art restorer maybe. Lift the real masterpieces and replace them with elegant fakes.

Gant walked down the hall, admiring the paintings. Rare masterpieces.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee
by Rembrandt.
View of the Sea at Scheveningen
by Vincent van Gogh.
Waterloo Bridge, London
by Claude Monet. There was a king's ransom hanging here by the janitor's door. Those three paintings alone would get him out of the country and to a life of ease in any place he cared to name. He stopped, eyeing the frames. No. Anywhere he went, Detective Rose would follow. Better to go with Donovan into the past and come back to lift these paintings off the walls then.

The sound of heavy footsteps along the adjacent corridor propelled him forward. He took two more halls in haste, only realizing he'd lost his bearings when he nearly walked into a domed room with a gilt fountain. There was a map of the facilities on the wall, and Gant quickly reoriented.

Curse Donovan and his rushed endeavors—­he'd left out a hallway.

Gant was certain he was going to miss his turn until he found the life-­size painting of Juana Carlisle hanging on one wall next to a tasteful Degas. The director was no
Dancer with a Bouquet of Flowers
, but she certainly had an ego meant for center stage and the spotlight. He knelt, unlocked the office door in record time, and walked into a rotunda with a panoramic photograph of a pastoral scene printed on the walls. The place was familiar, but the artist's name escaped him (if the photograph was indeed meant to be the work of a classical artist, that is).