Arc Riders (32 page)

The rest, either his way or Roebeck’s way, was soon going to be history.

His second rented car had been no problem to acquire despite his local ID, because the accident he’d had with his first one
had been in this horizon’s future—his fake driving record was as yet unmarred.

This time, he was going to make an appointment with Bates that Bates would have to keep.

And this time, he had an automobile with an automatic shift, so he wasn’t forced to leave his personal security in Roebeck’s
slow hands. If there was reason to open fire, he wasn’t willing to depend on her to do it. Not after last time.

The worst of the situation was that you couldn’t drive around the country in your hard suit. The bulky suits wouldn’t exactly
fit in automobile’s trunk, so the suits were again stashed out of phase. Roebeck had wanted to leave them with TC 779 and
he’d flatly refused the mission if that were to be the case.

So there was open discord now. Chun knew he didn’t trust her and there was no way to make up for that. Machiavelli had warned
that you kept your friends close and your enemies closer. Overt hostility in an ARC Riders team couldn’t be tolerated.

Roebeck had told them both so in no uncertain terms.

Not happy campers, this time out, not any of them.

Roebeck turned on the RF receiver and music poured out. Some female was singing something about baby love, in an impossibly
childish voice. Roebeck spun the dial. There was no newscast that she could find.

She sighed and sat back, pulling her membrane down from her headband peevishly. The style of the day allowed for all sorts
of strange headgear and clothing, which made utilizing their coveralls and basic commo gear less of a problem than it otherwise
could have been.

Three hours after insertion, Roebeck was still so angry about the tone of the hot wash that she was talking to him through
her commo link, despite the fact that he was right beside her.

“Tim, you’ve got to patch it up with Chun. That’s an order. If you don’t trust her, that’s your business. Keep it your business.
We’re literally dependent on her for our lives—unless you want to spend the rest of yours here in the worst possible version
of the next two weeks of 1967, or disappear with this horizon if we’re successful.”

“Don’t think I hadn’t considered that. I’m sorry. I told her. I apologized. I’m just jumpy.” If Chun decided to leave them
here—or him here—there’d be no recourse. And any ARC Rider would be in lethal trouble if one—or more—were still on this horizon
when the calendar reached March 15, the day they’d first inserted. Staying here was a death sentence, whether or not the mission
was successful. And Chun could decree them MIA/KIA by failing to retrieve them before that date.

It was interesting to know one possible date of your death. It gave things a singular perspective. He’d known the risks when
he’d politicked for preemption, but he hadn’t felt them until the capsule shimmered out of phase and he and Roebeck were on
their own within such a severely circumscribed survivable timeframe.

“Tim, I’m sorry, too. You and Chun are both critical to this team. Let’s go get this toad Bates and his girlfriend Rhone and
be out of here before dawn. Then I’ll forget the whole thing. You and Chun can prove each other’s trust by succeeding. Do
that, and life and the world as we know it can go on. All right?”

“Just what I had in mind,” he said with real fervor.

In lieu of any more best-laid plans which might go awry, they were going to confront Bates at a Democratic fund-raiser he
was known to have attended on March 1, according to Chun’s data on the recent past of Timeline B circa March 15, 1967. The
local newspapers had reported their names among the socialites gathered at the Hay-Adams Hotel to hear the President speak.
Lucky Bates was political. Lucky Chun was such a good researcher.

Maybe too lucky. But Roebeck didn’t want to think that way.

He couldn’t talk to her about his reservations, so he said, “Nan, we’ve got to go somewhere to get the appropriate local clothes
for this.” Coveralls could do only so much. Over them, he was going to need black tie. Nan was in worse straits: you couldn’t
wear coveralls under most mid-20th century evening gowns. She was going to need something of the sort a Muslim woman might
buy if required to attend a formal dinner in the West. Lucky this was Washington.

Grainger hated luck. He didn’t trust it. There was too much of it showing up on this mission. The bell curve was going to
catch up with them: all the bad luck they weren’t getting might fall on their heads like an avalanche.

The matter of access to the fund-raiser had nothing to do with luck. It was a simple case of buying into power: you paid your
money, you got your ticket. That was what fundraisers were about. Chun had already registered both of them from TC 779 before
she phased out, charging the door fee to Grainger’s credit card. She’d been told that there would be an “opportunity to contribute
further to the cause by check.”

So now they had manual checkbooks: pieces of paper on which you wrote the amount by hand which you wanted debited, and the
payee’s name. Somehow, Chun had assured them, the name alone provided a destination for the debited funds. All without having
to know the routing numbers. It was amazing that the local banking system kept things straight.

Chun had quizzed them on the procedure until they could write the paper debit creditably in the new checkbooks she’d made
for them, which carried the appropriate numbers of a local bank to which actual funds had been transferred from some luckless
bastard’s offshore account by her manipulation. So the checks were good, at least for the next few weeks. After the 15th of
March, it wasn’t going to matter to him and Roebeck whether anyone caught the banking manipulation.

If they were still here on the Ides of March, they’d cease to exist before the end of the night.

Getting the proper clothes for a black tie fund-raiser was harder than Grainger had anticipated, and more costly. They used
up nearly half of the checks Chun had given them doing it. When they had finally purchased tuxedo (alterations promised for
later that day at an extra charge), bow tie (which he was taught to tie in the store), dress shirt, suspenders, shirt studs,
collar stays, cuff links, socks, shoes, overcoat, long-sleeved and high-necked evening dress (so that Roebeck could wear her
coveralls underneath), pantyhose (!), high heels, evening bag, and fur coat, they had visited five stores and raised their
visibility considerably. Worse than that, it was getting late and Grainger hadn’t yet collected his altered tuxedo.

His instincts were telling him they should get invisible, fast. He was exhausted from watching crowds and passersby for repeating
faces and scanning every establishment they visited for possible traps.

He flat didn’t want to go back to the store to pick up the dinner suit. He told Roebeck that. “Returning someplace at a scheduled
time window? I just don’t think we should.”

“Well, you’re not going to that fund-raiser dressed like that.” Roebeck, now an expert on contemporary customs, looked him
up and down critically. “You look like a hippie. We’re lucky we pulled this off. Let’s go to the hotel and send someone for
your things, then.”

It wasn’t a much superior option, but Grainger agreed. Driving the big car without incident through early evening’s impossibly
congested traffic arteries to the hotel opposite the White House was about as much as he could handle right now.

The Hay-Adams was comfortable, antique even in its own time, and full of staff eager to please. As they checked in, Grainger
held his breath. No problem. His local credit card worked fine. The receptionist agreed to send someone to pick up his tuxedo
and deliver it to their room.

They had three hours to rest, dress in the complex clothing, and do recon on the site of the fund-raiser.

In the suite furnished with antiques, soft divans, and a four-poster bed, he nearly fell asleep to the sound of Roebeck enjoying
an unlimited H
₂
O shower. At this level of society, people lived well enough to envy, even in 1967.

He turned on the television to keep awake, but couldn’t find the news channels. He mastered the phone system and ordered coffee
by voice from a person with a slow southern drawl. He swept the room for bugs and found nothing electronic whatsoever, not
even a hotel-generated RF security scan.

Then the tuxedo and attachments arrived, and he was at pains to remember how to put all the pieces of the evening wear together.
He was still struggling with the bow tie when Roebeck came out of the shower in a towel.

“You’re not going to bathe?” Her hair was wet and she shook it at him.

“Is it part of my job?” He was dressed. He didn’t want to go through all this again.

“It should be obvious to you that a bath or at least a wash would improve your ability to… blend in,” she said scathingly.

Roebeck standing wet in a bedroom wrapped in only a towel was different from Roebeck his boss in uniform. He knew it and she
knew it. They both needed to ignore it for the sake of the mission. He’d never realized how pale her skin was, or how freckled.

He said, “I’m going downstairs to get a look at the room.” He had his acoustic pistol, his handheld scanner, and that was
it. “You’ll have to handle all the sensory sweeps.” He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “I’ve got my gear inside
my hat, but you evidently don’t wear those hats indoors. When you’re ready, come down in your coat and we’ll go outside. Then
we can come in again and take the opportunity to do a thorough spectral sweep.”

Best he could do. He had to get out of there.

He wandered around the hall, found the elevator. In the lobby he drifted down the stairs into the dining room, and up another
flight until he was stopped by a very polite waiter dressed just as he was, who told him this room was for a private party.

He said, “I know. I’m a guest.” Just to make sure he wasn’t mistaken for part of the staff.

“Staying with us, sir? I see. Well of course, if you wish to look around…” Now the waiter thought he was some sort of special
security.

Grainger was unsure whether to take the opportunity to walk the room, and the concomitant chance that the waiter would mention
it to someone, or to leave as unremarkably as possible. He had his hat in his hand so he could see the telltales of his commo
system, and his overcoat on his arm to hide the bulge of his acoustic pistol against his thigh. Just in case. “Thank you,
I’ll do that.”

He drifted around, turning his hat in his hands as unobtrusively as possible. The waiter ignored him. Maybe it would be all
right. There wasn’t an Oriental waiter in sight. The room was scanning pretty much as it should….

Then two big guys in gray suits with hearing aids came up to him, one on each side, lighting the RF telltale jammed into his
hat. He was willing to bet that 1960s hat bands didn’t light up and blink at you. He flipped the disabling switch as if flicking
a spot of lint, then looked up at them, hat held against his chest.

Before they opened their mouths he knew he was in trouble.

The President was going to speak here. The Secret Service advance team was on site hours before, even in 1967, on behalf of
their soon-to-arrive “protectees.”

“Can we help you, sir?”

“I was just looking for my name tag,” he said lamely. “My wife likes to know where she’s going to sit before she decides what
jewels to wear.” Did that sound like 1967 snobbery? He hoped so.

“And what’s the name, sir?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Rainer.”

One of the beefy Secret Service men stood in Grainger’s way while another stalked off to check the seating list. He was going
to have a real problem if Chun hadn’t successfully gotten them on that list.

As it was, he didn’t want to explain the hardware in his hat. He let the hand holding it drop casually to his side.

Just then Roebeck’s voice called out, “Tim, dear, come on,
please
! You can talk to your friends later. I want to get a little air.” Imperious, demanding. Just perfect.

The beefy Secret Service agent looked past him. Grainger looked, too. The woman in the fur coat and the evening gown was tapping
her fingers on crossed arms.

“Guess you can go along, sir. I’m sure we’ll—”

“Right here,” called the second agent, pointing to a seat directly in front of the raised dais which held the head table.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rainer.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Grainger, and turned on his heel.

Under his overcoat, his hand relaxed on the pistol that had somehow slipped into it when he wasn’t paying attention. When
he reached Roebeck, he was sweating.

“I owe you one—darling.” He pecked her chastely on the cheek and guided her toward the doors and the relative safety outside
with one hand in the small of her fur-clad back.

As they were bowed out of the doors by staff, he wondered how many chinchillas had died for that coat. Outside, Roebeck asked,
“What happened in there?”

“I met the Secret Service advance team.” He shrugged. “At least I know who they are. And no, I didn’t show any ID.”

“Walk, damn it,” Roebeck hissed. She put her arm in his and nearly dragged him along. Then he saw why.

A presidential motorcade was turning this way, flags on the front fenders, motorcycle escort, flashing lights, and all.

From nowhere, press was coalescing. The ARC Riders had to get out of sight.

This operation was sliding quickly into the dumper. Between sirens and motorcycles, you couldn’t hear yourself think. He put
on his hat and stepped into the shadows near the wall of the building so that he could slide his commo gear into position.
“Nan, this isn’t going to work.”

“Tim, I’m getting that feeling, too. But—look.”

He turned to look where she pointed.

The presidential limousine was pulling into the circular drive of the hotel. Secret Service swarmed the car and kept back
press with cameras that still had flash attachments. The effect of the flashing cameras was nearly blinding until Grainger
pulled down his membrane and enabled his eye protection. Then everything was murky, but he did see the President and his wife
get out of their car. Those ears were unmistakable.