Unless, Javna suddenly realized, whoever fed Soram his information knew that the girl couldn't be delivered.

Javna checked his watch. By this time, Harry and the Baker lady would be having their little date at the mall. He reached for his desk communicator to call Creek; as he did so his incoming service light went on and Barbara, his assistant, came over the speaker. "The Nidu ambassador is here to see you, Mr Javna," she said.

Fuck, Javna thought. Just like that, he was out of time.

"Send him in, please," he said, and then grabbed at his keyboard to bang out a note to Creek. Javna had the dread sense that Creek and the mysterious Miss Baker were about to find themselves in serious and possibly fatal danger. In the short run, until Javna could figure out who was stage-managing this interference and for what end, it was better and safer that Creek and the girl go away.

Javna had no doubt Creek could disappear; he just hoped he'd be able to find to him again when he needed him, which he figured would be all too soon.

Javna banged the "send" key just as the office door opened, and cursed inwardly even as he stood to receive Narf-win-Getag. Having Creek and Baker go to ground was just about the least convenient thing he could have them do at this particular moment in time. Its only advantage was that it was better than the both of them being dead.

Good luck, Harry, Javna thought as he plastered a welcoming smile on his face. Stay safe, wherever you are.

"Where the fuck is he?" Rod Acuna jammed himself through the door of the apartment, Takk following close behind, and stood over Archie at his computer. Archie stared agog at Acuna, who looked like he'd just run a gauntlet of large predators. Acuna whacked Archie hard upside the temple with his good hand. "Where the fuck is Creek?" he repeated.

The smack on the temple got Archie back into work mode. "He's on the Metro," Archie said. "I'm tracking him and the girl with the pen. I lose the signal here and there because of the tunnels, but it picks up again when they get near a stop."

"They're going to the State Department," Acuna said.

"I don't think so," Archie said, and punched up a map of the Metro system. "Look, here's the Foggy Bottom/GWU stop," he said, pointing. Then he pointed at the tracking window, which noted longitude and latitude, updated every second. "These coordinates are past that stop and are moving at speed consistent with a Metro train. They're still on the Metro."

"What are they saying to each other?" Acuna asked.

"I'm not picking up anything," Archie said. "She must have the pen in a purse or something." Archie looked around again. "Where's Ed?" he asked.

"Pretty sure he's dead," Acuna said. He pointed at the computer screen. "Don't you lose him, geek. I want to know where that fucker comes out and where he goes next. I'm going to have that son of a bitch dead by sunrise. So don't you lose him. You get me?"

"I get you," Archie said. Acuna grunted and hobbled his way over to the bathroom. Archie watched him go and then turned to Takk. "Is Ed really dead?" he asked. Takk shrugged and turned on a game show. Whatever Ed's professional qualities, it was clear he would not be deeply personally missed by his former colleagues. Archie suspected that if he screwed up finding Creek, he would be even less missed.

Archie turned back to his computer screen, the pen coordinates, and Metro map. Come on, Creek, he thought to himself. Where are you going?

"Where are we going?" Robin asked Creek.

"I have no idea yet," Creek said. "Give me a minute."

"Okay," Robin said. "But I'd really feel more confident if you had a plan."

"So would I," Creek said. "Would you mind if I made a call?" Robin shrugged. "It's your communicator, Harry. Do you want me to stand somewhere else?"

"You don't have to," Creek said. Robin dropped herself into the seat next to Creek. Creek flipped open his communicator and accessed his home network; Brian's voice popped up a second later.

"You're alive," Brian said, without preamble. "You should know most of the Alexandria Police Department is crawling through the mall right now. The police network tells of a shootout and three or four guys dead and another couple wounded. You should also know the Alexandria police have put out an APB for you and your redhead friend. They got your description from a shoe salesman, apparently. You left your signature on something?"

"A rental agreement," Creek said. "For shoes."

"Not the smartest thing you could have done," Brian said. 

"We weren't expecting to be attacked by armed men," Creek said.

"You might want to internalize that as a given from now on," Brian said. "Anyway. You and she are wanted on a truly impressive number of charges. Are you okay?"

"We're fine," Creek said. "We're on the Metro right now."

"I'm aware of that," Brian said. "I'm getting your position from the signal. Which by the way I've now spoofed so that if anyone else, say the police, get the bright idea to call you, they won't be able to track your movement."

"Thanks," Creek said.

"It's nothing. Your communicator is on the network. It's like redecorating a spare room."

"Listen," Creek said. "That credit card receipt I had you follow up on. What did you get off of it?"

"It's fraudulent, of course," Brian said. "The money in the account is real enough—it's a debit-style card. But the name on the card is 'Albert Rosenweig,' whose identity is about one document thick. After the card there's nothing."

"So you don't have anything on this guy," Creek said.

"I didn't say that," Brian said. "The man signs his name every time he uses the card—the signature gets sent and stored. I paid a little visit to his card issuer to get more samples of his signature, developed a good handwriting model for our man Albert, and then cross-referenced the handwriting style with the government's database of signatures that go with our National Identity Cards."

"That's good thinking," Creek said.

"Thanks," Brian said. "It's also dreadfully illegal and a true pain in the ass, since there are over 250 million American males at the moment. Fortunately, I'm a computer now. And after combing through DNA, this is a comparative breeze."

"Who is he?" Creek asked.

"I'm ninety-three percent sure it's this guy." Brian sent a picture that popped up on the communicator's small display. "Alberto Roderick Acuna. I say ninety-three percent because the handwriting samples don't have all the information I need—signing on the signature pads for your credit card purchases doesn't capture stuff like the amount of pressure you apply to certain parts of your pen stroke. I had to do some estimating based on general handwriting statistical models. Which didn't previously exist, I should note. I've been keeping busy in your absence."

"Well, good job," Creek said. "That's the guy."

"Congratulations, then, because you've got yourself a real winner," Brian said. "This Acuna character was an Army Ranger—he fought at the Battle of Pajmhi, incidentally—but received an dishonorable discharge. He was suspected in a floater accident that killed his colonel. Court-martialled but acquitted. Apparently the evidence wasn't great. Right after being discharged he spent ninety days in the DC lock-up for assault. He beat the hell out of an aide to then-Congresswoman Burns. In what I'm sure was a total coincidence, Acuna thumped the aide just before a vote on tariffs for Nidu textile imports. Burns was usually pro-trade but went against her voting record on that one. Since he got out he's worked as a private investigator. You'll be interested to know that one of his biggest clients is the American Institute for Colonization and its head, Jean Schroeder. Acuna's also been more or less continually investigated by DC, Maryland, and Virginia police as well as the US and UNE feds. He's a suspect in at least a couple of missing persons cases. Missing people who, in what I'm sure is another total coincidence, had crossed swords with either Schroeder or the AIC."