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were no people in sight,
just great machines trundling along on huge wheels—giant
slave-beasts of unseen masters.
    The grid layout of the city’s streets allowed
for a fairly direct route to his destination. Ten minutes after
leaving the highway Svoljsak was on Wentworth Street checking out
the buildings. He had the address but almost missed it.
    Anonymity is a basic security device for
corporations that handle sensitive material. The sole identifier
for Simedyne was a small fingerboard that directed delivery trucks
to the loading dock at the rear of the building. Svoljsak drove
around the block and then parked where he had a view of both the
front and left side of the building.
    Four stories tall and the same length and
width as a football field it was set back from the street, old
style, with a parking lot in front. Below the first-floor windows
some attempt had been made to green the place up, but the small
shrubs only heightened the sense of nature being crushed by
industry.
    Save for the rolling gate across the
driveway, the property was surrounded by a chain-link fence. Three
tall stadium lights stood waiting for dusk. He’d been told the
company had one hundred and fifty employees, and did not run
shifts. Only security staff and workaholics would remain in the
building at night.
    From a camera bag kept in the trunk, he
retrieved a single lens reflex camera and used its telephoto lens
to scan the roofline. That would be the standard place to mount
surveillance cameras yet the only visible technology was a small
satellite dish and a three-pronged antenna. He captured those on
film, took a couple more panoramic shots, then moved the Buick down
the block and parked again.
    This angle revealed the white housing of
security cameras tucked beneath the shields of the stadium lights.
From there, they could cover the entire face of the building with
illumination behind them. There would probably be a similar setup
around the back so, as discussed, getting in and out would require
a degree of subtlety. He’d return after dark to check out the
shadows and habits of the staff but, for now, a trip to a one-hour
photo booth would give him something to ponder.
    Back on the freeway, Svoljsak’s thoughts
returned to the woman and he wondered what her angle really was. He
was suspicious of females in general and found them hard to read.
They seemed to have ulterior motives for their ulterior motives and
it was damned confusing. Like last night. Why bother with all that
intrigue when a phone call would have sufficed? Still, he was
rather looking forward to his next ‘briefing’.
    As long as it wasn't tonight, although that
was highly unlikely. Sneaking from the room without waking him
might add to her mystique but it didn’t make her superhuman.
Svoljsak had no doubt that she felt every bit as ragged as he
did.
    It was nice to know he could still go round
for round with the young pizda .
     

 
     
    CHAPTER
7
     
    Monday, October
12th
     
    While the rest of the world was making
coffee and toast, Marty Durrell opted for bratwurst and beer. He
carried them on a tray to the terrace and lit the propane barbeque.
The sun had already banished the morning mist and the warming air
pushed the dissonant sounds of the day’s commute up to his tenth
floor perch.
    The grill would take a couple of minutes to
heat up. He leaned on the railing and flicked a few flakes of
peeling paint into the void. He watched them helicopter down until
the fickle breeze blew them around the corner and out of sight. The
bed of a pickup truck, directly below, was an inviting target and
Durrell swallowed a fizzy mouthful then snapped his beer cap at
it.
    The trajectory was good. The tiny missile
stayed the course only to shear off at the last second and hit the
asphalt with a faint tink. It rolled across the lot to stop within
a few feet of his dark blue Camaro. The yellow numbers that
reserved the spot with his apartment number needed repainting but
he could