They bade each other goodbye without military formality and Caitlin resumed her journey back to the hotel. She was intrigued by Milosz’s mention of the two smugglers in New York . . . Could they be connected to the pair of clowns she’d encountered when looking for Baumer’s command post on the upper eastside? Or was it even those two themselves – the shifty Sloane Ranger and her idiot Viking sidekick, that slob with the busted-ass novelty cowhorn helmet. Jesus what a fucking pair of retards.

She made a mental note to contact Vancouver to request an encrypted burst of Master Sergeant Milosz’s service record. If she had even an indirect connection to him via those looters, she’d need to be careful about maintaining her cover here.

The refurbished lobby of the Kyle Hotel was alive with activity, for Temple, on a wet weekend afternoon. Ten or more people were enjoying a drink in the bar that Musso told her they’d built from salvage collected around the city. It was a comfortable but eclectic space, unsurprisingly, with no theme to tie the disparate elements together. Was it a sports bar, a ladies’ reading lounge, a Victorian-era gentlemen’s club or a military mess? Depending on where you looked, it could’ve been any of those things. It worked as a social space, however. Food, drink, company. All you had to do was ask.

Caitlin drew a few looks as she hurried through the lobby. A new face always would in an environment like this. She took the elevator to her room on the fourth floor and ran a hot shower. She’d read McCutcheon’s profile in the briefing package back in KC: air force major; forty-two years old; unmarried at the time of the Wave; no children; working on secondment as Blackstone’s aide at Fort Lewis; resigned his commission the same day as the general and followed him down to Texas, where he ran Mad Jack’s successful campaign for governor in ’05. A fixer, in the style of Jed Culver, if she wasn’t mistaken.

And a pants man.

Would’ve been easier if he was gay, she thought, as she stepped under the hot water. It felt scalding on those parts of her body that had been exposed out in the cold air. Her fingers, her face and neck. After a few seconds she grew used to it, appreciating the way the heat worked out some of the cramps she’d picked up on the flight down here.

After towelling off, she debated what to wear to the meeting, eventually going with casual drill pants, a black tee-shirt and her leather jacket. After all, it was just a getting-to-know you drink on a slow Sunday afternoon. She didn’t want McCutcheon thinking that Colonel Murdoch had gone to any special effort for him.