Pattern Recognition

"And what motivates these model prisoners? Self-interest. They're healthy to begin with, otherwise they wouldn't have been chosen for this. If they stay in the regular system, they aren't going to be. That's one. Two is that when they get here, they see it isn't a bad deal at all. It's coed, and the food is a lot better than what a lot of people in this country make do with. Three is that they get paid for their labor. Not a fortune, but they can bank it, or send it home to their families. There's thirty channels on satellite and a video library, and they can order books and CDs. No Net access, though. No web browsing. No phones. That's an instant ticket back to TB Land. And there's only one choice, though, in occupational training."

"They render the footage?"

"All of it." He offers her the canteen. "How are your feet?"

She waves it away. "Okay unless I move them."

"We're almost there," he says, pointing forward, through the plastic nose. "Final motivating factor that keeps the campers here. Volkov. Prob-ably the name's never mentioned, but if you were an inmate, and Russian, which of course they all are, I think you'd get the drift."

The helmeted pilot, whose face she hasn't seen, says something in crackly Russian, and is answered by another voice, out of the night.

She sees a ring of lights come on, ahead of them.

"I don't understand how this could all have been put together, just to facilitate Nora's art. Well, how isn't a problem, I guess, but why?"

"Massive organizational redundancy, in the service of absolute authority. We're talking post-Soviet, right? And enormous personal wealth. Nora's uncle isn't Bill Gates yet, but it wouldn't be entirely ridiculous to mention them in the same sentence. He was on top of a lot of changes, here, very early, and largely managed to keep his name out of the media. Which must have been a downright spooky accomplishment. Always has brilliant government connections, regardless of who's in power. He's ridden out a lot, that way."

"You've met him?"

"I was in the same room with him. Bigend was doing most of the talking. Translators. He doesn't speak English. You speak French?"

"Not really."

"Me neither. Never regretted it more than when he and Bigend were having a conversation."

"Why?"

He turns and looks at her. "It was like watching spiders mate."

"They got along?"

"A lot of information being exchanged, but it probably didn't have that much to do with what they were actually saying, either through the translator or in French."

The helicopter's four wheels touch down unexpectedly on concrete. It's like being dropped ten inches while seated on a golf cart. It hurts her feet.

"They're going to check you over, patch you up, then Volkov wants to see you."

"Why?"

"I don't know. When you went missing, he flew us all up here in a lot faster helicopter than this."

"'Us'who?"

But he's already removed his headset. Unlatching his harness/ he can't hear her.

41. A TOAST TO MR. POLLARD

- /

With her bandaged feet in oversized black felt house slippers, Cayce tries not to shuffle as she and Parkaboy traverse the corridor of yellow lockers. On their way, he says, to dinner.

The past hour or so (she still hasn't found her watch) have been spent being examined by a doctor, showering thoroughly, and having her feet bandaged. Now she's back in Skirt Thing and the black cardigan, Parkaboy having suggested that dressing for dinner would be a good idea.

Skirt Thing, along with the rest of her clothing, and her makeup kit, had been waiting for her, washed and folded, on one of the beds in the infirmary where she'd regained consciousness.

The slippers, provided by the same woman who'd brought her soup, make her feel ridiculous, but the blisters and bandages rule out her French shoes, and the doctor had used a pair of shears on the Parco boots, to get them off without hurting her any more than he'd had to.

"What was that you said Dorotea gave me?"

"Rohypnol."

"The doctor here said it was something else. At least I think he did. 'Psychiatric medicine'?"

"They told us they'd taken you to a private clinic, from the hotel. Then they told us you were being moved to 'a secure location,' which must've meant here. I guessed Rohypnol from the sound of it; something she thought would make you easy to push around."

"Where is she? Do you know? Do they?"

"That doesn't seem to be considered a proper topic of conversation. They go sort of fish-eyed if you bring it up. Any idea what she was after?"

"She wanted to know how I'd gotten Stella's e-mail address."

"I'm curious about that myself." He's showered, shaved, and changed into new black jeans and a clean but travel-creased white shirt. "But what she slipped you, that's anybody's guess. The bar staff thought you were hallucinating."

"I was."

"Up here," he says, indicating a flight of stairs. "You okay?"