The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [181]
Her foggy brain couldn't quite grasp the meaning of these words. “Reassigned? To where?”
“I have absolutely no idea.” He picked up a large manila envelope; the flap was sealed with wax. “This just arrived for you. It came directly from the Philosophers. I assume it contains all of the relevant details.”
Deirdre took the envelope in shaking hands. Maybe she did understand. Hadn't she decided that he had to be one of the Philosophers? The one who had been helping her.
“It must be about—”
Nakamura held up a hand. “No, Miss Falling Hawk, please don't tell me. If I was supposed to know what your mission was, then I would have been informed.”
Lines furrowed the assistant director's usually smooth forehead, and his voice was tight. Was he angry at being kept out of the loop?
“I imagine you'll be leaving immediately. However, do be assured that we'll want you back as soon as we can have you, Miss Falling Hawk.”
Not angry. Worried. Nakamura reached across the desk and touched her hand. “Take care of yourself, Deirdre.”
“I'll try.”
Then, before she broke down, she rose and hurried from his office. Madeleine had a car waiting for her. Deirdre climbed into the back, and as the driver navigated the rain-slicked London streets, she broke the seal on the envelope and emptied the contents onto the seat next to her.
Plane tickets to Denver. Passports. Colorado state driver's licenses. Everything she had planned on asking Nakamura for that morning. There was a set for each of them, including Anders. So whoever the one helping her was, he knew what she had done, and he approved. That was something, she supposed.
The false passports and IDs were of superior quality, each one issued under a new identity. She recognized the pictures of Anders and herself as staff photos on file at the Seekers. By the clothes they wore, the photos of Beltan and Vani had been taken last night with a telephoto lens through the windows of Deirdre's flat. So he had been watching them.
“Who are you?” she whispered, holding up one of the fake passports. “What do you really want?”
It didn't matter. Right now what he wanted was exactly what she wanted. To find Travis Wilder. Deirdre scooped all of the papers back into the envelope as the car eased to a stop.
“Wait for us,” Deirdre said to the driver. “We'll be down in five minutes.”
“And where will you be going, Miss Falling Hawk?”
“Heathrow,” she said.
Their flight left at noon. They made it to the airport with time to spare, and everything on their trip to Denver went without incident.
Mostly, at any rate. There was a moment of panic when Vani was pulled aside at the departure gate for a random security scan. Deirdre feared the assassin was going to break the security guard's neck as he ran the magnetometer wand up and down each of her legs. However, Deirdre locked eyes with her, and Vani stood stiffly until the examination was over.
Vani muttered in outrage as they boarded the plane. “If a man of my people touched an unmarried woman in such a way without her consent, a va'ksha would be placed on him, a curse that would make his thaloks shrivel like raisins.”
Anders winced. “Does thaloks mean what I think it means?”
“It does,” Beltan said. “So be on your best behavior.”
The flight was long, tedious, and frustrating. At least for Deirdre. Vani appeared content to meditate most of the time, and Beltan stayed glued to the miniature television that popped out of the arm of his seat. Occasionally he let out a loud guffaw that caused heads to turn, and once he shouted, “Look out behind you!” at the top of his lungs. Deirdre glanced at his screen in time to see Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff.
“That is a cruel bird,” Beltan said, jabbing a finger at the television.
Once the other passengers stopped staring, Deirdre patiently explained the concept of cartoons, and her words—in combination with the beers the flight attendant brought—seemed to calm the blond man down.
Deirdre readjusted herself in her seat. Across the aisle, Anders was drinking club soda