Camouflage Part 18

Russ had dropped his business card into a box for a once-monthly drawing that awarded a weekend for two at Aggie Grey's, at either the Wing Room or the Presidential Suite. He won the Wing Room, the weekend after the honeymooners left.

They knew they would have to deal with Russ sooner or later. Best do it directly.

There were three possibilities: Russ would arrive first, or Rae, or they would come in together. The last was not likely, since they were still being discreet. But the CIA team was ready for any of the three, as well as the trivial case where neither showed up.

If Russ had come through the door first, they would have had to do some fast explanation. But it was the woman.

The changeling came into the sumptuous room and tossed its overnight bag on the bed, and went into the bathroom to check its hair. It heard a vague sound in the hall, which was a man shoving a wooden wedge between the door and frame, jamming it shut, and the plain sound of another door opening and closing.

It sped out of the bathroom and saw the man and woman who had just entered from the adjoining room.

"Don't make this difficult," the man said. "You know why we're here."

The changeling answered automatically while considering various options: "You tell me."

"You're not Rae Archer. But you match her so precisely that you must be a clone or something."

"I don't know what the h.e.l.l you're talking about."

"We just talked to the real Rae Archer, in Pasadena. You're someone else."

"Who do you work for?" the changeling said.

The woman shrugged. "The United States intelligence community."

"So you have no jurisdiction here."

"We just want to ask you some questions."

The changeling picked up its overnight bag. "No." Halfway to the door it heard a rubber-band sound and felt a sting in the middle of its back. It reached back-revealing unusual suppleness-and pulled out a dart with plastic wings.

The man was holding what looked like a toy gun. "That won't hurt you. It will just make you a little groggy."

The changeling inspected the dart, sniffed it, and shook it next to its ear. "Seems to have a bit left."

"Doesn't take much-" The spy grunted, dropped the pistol, and fell to his knees. The dart was in his neck, deeply imbedded into the carotid artery. He managed to pull it out but his knees gave way and he fell over p.r.o.ne, arms and legs trembling and then twitching.

"You want to be careful where you inject that." The changeling tried the door, but it was stuck. It heard the soft sound of metal on leather, and in three leaping steps was on the woman before she could raise the automatic to fire. It jerked her gun hand sideways and heard finger or knuckle bones breaking just before the weapon discharged, almost silent, into the wall, and pulled it out of her hand.

She screamed in pain and a small man swung out of the door to the adjoining room, pointing a double-barreled shotgun. The changeling leaped sideways just as the first hammer went down, and the hot blast just missed its face. It reached for the weapon and the second blast blew off its left arm at the shoulder.

In the reverberating silence, blood pulsing from the ragged stump, the changeling raised the pistol to point between the man's eyes. "Bang," it said, and dropped the gun.

Two steps and it vaulted the couch and crashed through the gla.s.s balcony door. It hit the balcony railing and tumbled over, falling onto the awning over the hotel entrance.

Russ was a half block away, and had looked up at the sound of the shots. He saw someone slide off the hotel awning and hit the sidewalk hard, and come up running, bleeding from the stump of an arm.

It seemed to have no face, as if it had a stocking over its head. Russ rubbed his eyes.

It ran over over the slow traffic, one step on the roof of a southbound car, the next on a northbound, then onto the opposite sidewalk, over the low fence into the harborside park, and while tourists and picnicking families gaped, it ran like an Olympic sprinter and was over the stone breakwater in a flat dive. the slow traffic, one step on the roof of a southbound car, the next on a northbound, then onto the opposite sidewalk, over the low fence into the harborside park, and while tourists and picnicking families gaped, it ran like an Olympic sprinter and was over the stone breakwater in a flat dive.

By the time anyone got to the breakwater, there was nothing but ripples. A siren threaded through the air.

The changeling sought shelter on the harbor bottom, under the shade of a tanker that was drawing half the depth of the water. It strained to become a fish as quickly as possible, bone into cartilege and denticles and teeth, muscle and guts into the streamlined swift form of a reef shark; b.l.o.o.d.y clothes left behind as a red herring.

The metamorphosis was just complete when it heard divers splash into the harbor back where it had dived in. It breathed a surge of warm salt water liberally flavored with diesel spill-delicious-and flexed the one huge muscle of itself toward the open sea.

A helicopter commandeered by the police made a search pattern low over the harbor, and with binoculars and sonar found nothing but the usual a.s.sortment of fish and discarded debris, from the surface to the bottom. A couple of large sharks, one evidently spooked by the helicopter.

Russ hadn't recognized the apparition as the woman he loved. Still trying to sort out what he had seen-there was a movie company shooting up in the hills; maybe they were using Aggie Grey's as a location for an action sequence-he stepped into the lobby of the hotel like a sleepwalker.

All the people at the registration desk were jabbering into phones. Two policemen with pistols drawn ran through the door and thundered up the stairs. While Russ was watching them, a man beside him said, "Russell Sutton?"

It was a short, stocky man who smelled odd. Gunsmoke? "Who are you?"

He held up identification. "Kenneth Swanwick. I'm a CIA investigator."

Russell shook his head. "I don't get it."

"Rae Archer is a spy. We-"

"Is this part of that movie?"

It was the agent's turn to be confused. "What movie?"

"The one they're shooting up by the waterfall."

He took a deep breath. "This is not a movie." He held up the ID again. "We used the raffle here as a ruse. We knew Rae Archer was a spy and wanted to catch her unawares."

"Come on. I know know she couldn't be." But certain oddnesses began to crystalize. she couldn't be." But certain oddnesses began to crystalize.

"We picked her up to interrogate her and she killed one agent, injured another, and escaped by crashing through a gla.s.s door."

"That couldn't have been her. Maybe somebody who looked like her."

"That's exactly it," Swanwick said, "and we think we can prove it."

"Wait." Russell pointed out the door. "That "That was-" was-"

"We don't know who that was. Claimed to be her. Looked like Rae Archer. Had her fingerprints."

"But-"

"But the real Rae Archer is still in California. We talked to her. She claims not to know anything about this, and I think we believe her."

They were joined by an attractive woman whose tense face was as pale as her ash-blonde hair. She was tightening a bandage around her right hand. "This is Mr. Sutton?"

"Yeah," Swanwick said. "He's a little confused."

"Like we aren't." She was the same height as Russell and fixed him with her large gray eyes. The pupils were pinpoints from medication. "My name is Angela Smith."

"And you're a spy?"

"An investigator."

He stared at her weird eyes. "And this is not a movie."

"I wish to G.o.d it was. We could strike the set and start over." To Swanwick: "You're going to have to go with the police in a minute. There should be a lawyer by the time you get to the station." She swiveled back to Russell. "You knew Rae Archer better than anybody else. You were intimate with her."

He nodded cautiously, and then shook his head. "Look, she couldn't do this. Not at all."

"So maybe it wasn't her," Swanwick said quickly. "Whoever it was is pretty d.a.m.ned dangerous, and on the loose."

"We have to talk but can't go up to the room," Angela Smith said. "Get in the way of the cops." She gestured toward the bar with her bandaged hand. "Uncle Sam will buy you a beer."

One of the few tables in the small bar was unoccupied. The bartender came over and took their order. The window that looked out over the park and the harbor showed a growing crowd of curious people, held back by two policemen in incongruous parade uniforms.

"Just for a minute, try to think of Rae as a spy," Swanwick said. "Did you ever get the feeling she was pumping you for information?"

That had an annoying alternate interpretation. "Not really," Russell said with some asperity. "We're both working on the same thing. We talked about it all the time. So does everyone else on the project."

"Think about it this way-ow!" Gesturing, she had b.u.mped her bandaged knuckle. "She's supposed to be an astronomer. Did she seem like one to you?"

"No doubt about that. You'd have to ask Dr. Dagmar to be absolutely sure; she's our top astronomer. But Rae seems to really know her stuff, a lot more than me. I'm just a marine engineer, but I've been into astronomy all my life."

Swanwick nodded. "Did she show any special interest in defense or military applications of this thing? The artifact?"

He thought about that for a moment. "Defense? I can say no almost without exception, since that's an angle I'm not interested in. I'd remember if she tried to 'pump' me on that."

A policeman came into the bar, holding a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in a heavy plastic bag. Swanwick stood up.

"Did you shoot that woman with this?"

"In self-defense. She was-"

"Ya, ya." He gestured to a big officer behind him, who came around quickly with handcuffs.

"That won't be necessary," Swanwick said, but the big man spun him around roughly and snapped them on. "She had a gun," he said.

"And you had this in your room for the little mice," the first policeman said. He turned to Russell. "Dr. Sutton, please wait here with your lady. A man will take your statement soon."

They watched the three of them leave. "He shot her ... with that?" that?"

"Hit her, too. Blew off her arm." There was a moment of dead silence. The people at the other tables were looking at them. She let a breath out in a puff. "Speaking of 'ladies'?"

He pointed. "Behind the gift counter, down the hall to the left."

She picked up her purse. "I'll be right back."

Unsurprisingly, he never saw her again.

-40-.

Faleolo, Samoa, 15 July 2021

Once on the other side of the reef, the changeling stayed in the relatively deep water, plying west slowly toward the airport at Faleolo. There was a plane out the next day, to Honolulu.

It would take human form and come ash.o.r.e after dark. Hide for awhile and then walk into the airport. Then go about the problem of getting a ticket, without pa.s.sport or credit cards. It could create counterfeit cash, but even under normal circ.u.mstances, it would look suspicious to try to purchase an expensive ticket with cash. Maybe a Samoan could get away with it, but it didn't know the language well enough to pa.s.s among Samoans.

Eighty or ninety years ago, it would have just isolated someone, killed him, and used his ident.i.ty and ticket. That was repugnant now. Maybe the man who shot Rae's arm off. The world might be a better place without him.

By the time it got to Faleolo, it had a better plan. Not without risk, but it could always escape into the water again. They'd eventually catch on to that. But it had escaped from a few jails in its time, too.

It went a half mile past Faleolo, to get away from the light. The moon, not yet first quarter, was no problem. The changeling sat in the shallows and changed.

About a pound of its substance became a plastic bag full of circulated fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Another twelve pounds, a light knapsack with a change of dirty clothing and a wallet that had enough Samoan tala for a few cab rides and a night of drinking, with an American Universal ID and a California driver's license, matching the persona it painfully built. Newt Martin, a common type of denizen in this corner of the world. Young, restless; escaping from something. Money enough for food and drugs and a flop, and maybe a little more. Maybe a lot.

It made a pa.s.sport that would pa.s.s visual inspection. The computer at pa.s.sport control wouldn't be fooled.

At about eight thirty it crept ash.o.r.e, squeezed the water out of its long blond hair, and walked down to the airport. It got into a cab and told the man to take him to the clock.

It was a simple plan of action. Find a young American desperate enough to temporarily "lose" his wallet and pa.s.sport and ticket out, in exchange for a lot of money. The kid wouldn't find out until later that there was a little more than that involved.

"The clock" is an early-twentieth-century tower in the center of town, the main landmark. The changeling paid off the cab and walked down Beach Road toward the harbor. It knew there were some seedy-looking bars about halfway to Aggie Grey's, but it had never been inside one. "Rae Archer" wouldn't have done that. Newt Martin definitely would.

Bad Billy's looked promising. Smelled right even from the sidewalk, spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke. Loud rap music from twenty years ago. The changeling sidled in through a ma.s.s of people standing in the door, for the air, and went to the bar. There were only two other customers there, the rest of the clientele either shooting pool or sitting in cl.u.s.ters of folding chairs around small tables full of drinks, talking loudly in two languages. Its keen hearing picked up a third, a French couple away in a corner, whispering about the scene around them.

One of the English conversations was about the strange goings-on at Aggie's today. One of the Samoans had a friend in the police, and he said that he said it was an industrial espionage deal that had gone bad.

Right, somebody said-shotguns and old Jackie Chan superspies. It was just a publicity gag for the movie.

Wanting to draw attention, the changeling ordered a double martini. It had to explain what that meant, and wound up with a half-liter gla.s.s of cheap gin and ice with a quarter lime floating on top. (Having been a barmaid itself, it knew the smell of cheap gin. This stuff came in big plastic recycled soft-drink bottles from a distillery outside of town.) The flavor was interesting, reminiscent of the underwater taste of bilge and oil spill.

An aromatic Samoan prost.i.tute came over next to him. "What ya drinkin'?" She was still young but getting puffy.

Put an egg in your shoe and beat it, the changeling thought. Chase yourself, get lost-working up through the decades-bug off, f.u.c.k off, haul a.s.s, twist a braid, give air. Instead it said, "Martini. Want one?"

"What I have to do for it?"

"You're not what I need."

She haunched up on the stool, short skirt casually revealing no underwear.