Few people were on the street in the light of day, and many of them were GC. They saluted politely the Indian and the westerner in high-level officers' garb and smart white caps piped in blue braid. Albie had taught Hannah and Chloe a proper salute, which they soon realized was crisper and more dead-on than most of the real GC used. Indifference was their mask. No eye contact, no talking to each other loudly enough for anyone else to hear. A serious look, close to a scowl, made them look all busi

ness. They had places to go and people to see, and their demeanor discouraged cordiality and small talk.

From the GC Palace complex in New Babylon, Chang along, through carefully placed confidential memos from pseudo high-ranking palace Peacekeepers, had sparked a rumor in Greece that the bra.s.s were sending a top guy to start cleaning up the mess there.

Chloe believed that GC forces who looked at Hannah and her twice were not just lonely men. She a.s.sumed they a.s.sessed the uniforms and put two and two together. Some had to a.s.sume these two were with the new guy, whoever and wherever he was.

Hannah had affected the perfect walk, and Chloe had she not been so on edge would have been amused at "Indira." They hurried to a dingy storefront, where a cracked window had been crudely taped.

A dusty TV sat on a shelf and pointed to the street, and a half- dozen or so GC knelt or squatted in front of the window watching it. One noticed Chloe's and Hannah's reflections in the window and cleared his throat. The others quickly stood and saluted.

"Just make way, gentlemen," Hannah said, again with her practiced accent.

It was all Chloe could do to compose herself when first she saw Petra burning, and eventually whatever it was that had caused GCNN to pull the plug on the coverage. The milling GC leaned forward and stared at the TV, then at each other. "What was that?" one said. "Survivors?"

Others laughed and punched him. "You're crazy, man."

"Back to work, gentlemen," Hannah said. "Yes, sir, ma'am," one said, and the others laughed. "You know the difference between a male and a female officer, son?" Chloe snapped. "Yes, ma'am," he said, straightening. "You think that was funny?" "No, ma'am. I apologize." "Where's the nearest pub?"

"Ma'am?

"Hard of hearing, boy?" "No, ma'am. Three blocks up and two over." He pointed.

"You on duty, Peacekeeper?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Where are you supposed to be?"

"Squadron headquarters, ma'am."

"Carry on."

The women had left their phones off, having agreed with Mac that they would not use them until after their first contact with the underground or in case of an emergency. Chloe knew her father and her husband would be trying to reach her after what she had seen on TV, but that would have to wait.

A few minutes later a young man in a chair in front of the pub Chloe guessed him in his early twenties glanced at them from behind his Global Community Weekly. Chloe wondered if the young man would believe her husband used to publish that very magazine.

The boy appeared to casually shift position, pulling a corduroy cap lower over his eyes and resting his foot against a window at sidewalk level. "Did you see what I saw?" Hannah said under her breath.

"Yep. Stick with the plan."

The women treated the lookout as if he were invisible and entered the pub. The shades were pulled and it took a minute to adjust to the darkness. The place carried the stench of stale alcohol and an indifference to plumbing.

A couple of GC at a table in the corner immediately slipped out a back door on the street side. Chloe and

Hannah pretended not to notice. The proprietor greeted them apologetically in Greek.

"English?" Chloe suggested.

He shook his head.

A nearby man in a turban rose and said something

quickly to Hannah in an Indian dialect. Chloe was stunned at how Hannah covered. She looked the man knowingly in the eye and winked at him, shaking her head slightly. This somehow satisfied him, and he sat.

The proprietor swept a hand toward a row of liquor bottles behind him. Chloe shook her head. "Coca-Cola?" she said.

"Coca-Cola!" he said, smiling, and reached below the counter.

Instinctively, Chloe rested her elbow on the handle of the Luger at her side, and she noticed Hannah casually place her hand on the leather strap snapped over the grip of her nine-millimeter Glock.

The man behind the counter kept his eyes on them even when reaching, and now he smiled, bringing into view one ancient gla.s.s bottle of c.o.ke. He held up one

finger, pointing at the bottle and pushing two gla.s.ses across the counter. Chloe lay two Nicks in front of him and carried the stuff to a table.

After a sip, the lukewarm liquid biting at her dry throat, Chloe turned in her chair and quickly surveyed the room. People who had been gawking turned away. "English?" she said. "Anyone?"

A chair sc.r.a.ped and a heavyset man wearing several layers of clothing, his face moist from perspiration, approached with shy, small steps. He saluted politely, a

though he was clearly not GC. "Leedle Englees," he said.

"You speak English?" Chloe said. "You understand me?"

He made a tiny s.p.a.ce between his thumb and index finger.

"A little?" she said.

He nodded. "Leedle."

"Downstairs," Chloe tried. "Where's downstairs?"

The man furrowed his brow, wrinkling the small tattooed on his forehead. "Dounce?" he said.

She pointed down. "Downstairs. Bas.e.m.e.nt. Cellar?"

He held up a meaty hand and shook his head. "Clean," he said.

"Wash. Launder."

"A laundry?" she said, and felt Hannah's gaze. This was it.

He nodded.

"Thank you," she said.

"Tank ye," he said, but stood there, thick fingers entwined.

Chloe dug half a Nick from her pocket and held it out to him. He took it with a bow and headed for the bar.

"Wonder what they know?" Hannah said quietly. "Rest of the place seems to be waiting for us to make a move."

"Uh-huh," Chloe said. "Let's just sit awhile, then mosey out. The laundry is a front, but people must actually take clothes there."

Hannah shrugged. "Do they have to come through here to get there?