“We can’t buy other people’s clothes,” said Calinga.
“You can buy anything if you’ve got the money for it,” said Wit. “But we might not have to buy other people’s clothes. Cleaners have unclaimed stuff, too. Shirts and pants people forgot they sent there or didn’t pick up. And we’re close to the university. So we’ve got a better chance of finding something functional.”
They found the dry cleaners two blocks later. The owner was a small man sitting behind the counter, watching a sat feed of the landers in China. He heard the door ring as Wit and the men entered, but he didn’t look up from the monitor. He was riveted.
Wit waited a moment, then cleared his throat. The man looked up at them, took in their number and size, and his eyes widened in surprise.
“We need clothes,” said Wit. “For forty men. Mostly big sizes. Warm and comfortable. With lots of pockets, preferably. We’ll pay well and we’ll throw in the uniforms we’re wearing. A nice trade. Probably the best sale you’ll make this year. You could probably shut the place down for a week after we leave and still come out ahead. That is, assuming you have what we need.”
The man had plenty. A whole storage room full. There were unclaimed items, yes, but new items as well. Smuggled stuff. A lot of Chinese knockoffs. Thick cargo pants with plenty of pockets, cotton undershirts, socks, heavy wool shirts, knit caps. Wit even found a baseball cap for a Major League team back in the States. Wit hated baseball—one guy throws a ball, one guy swings, and twenty other guys stand around watching and spitting—but the cap was precisely the type of thing a civilian would wear.
They were careful to mix up the wardrobe. Matching civilian clothes could look like uniforms too. So not everyone wore cargo pants, and those who did wore different colors, black or khaki or navy. Their shirts were different too. Similar, but not identical.
Wit paid the man in full and threw in a healthy tip. He and the men then changed and left their uniforms in a pile back in the storage room. Wit then split the men into ten groups of four and had them take different routes to the rail station. He had no worries about being seen in India—he had every authorization to be here. But now everyone around them was a potential fellow traveler to Pakistan, and suspicious passengers were likely to alert authorities, which Wit wanted to avoid at all costs.
They set out. Wit left with Calinga, Deen, and Lobo, and they got no suspicious looks whatsoever on the way.
They bought their tickets in their small groups and took the first train heading west into Pakistan, all ten of the four-men groups taking separate cars on the train. No one paid them any attention. Everyone on the train was watching news feeds from China on their holopads.
Wit pulled out his own holopad and dug around on the net until he found recent footage from China. It was more video from the first aircraft on the scene.
Wit watched. The constantly moving camera from the underside of the aircraft was a little nauseating, however, and Wit was about to abandon it and look for other footage from another source, when something on screen caught his eye. He tapped the screen and rewound the video. The aircraft was setting down and attempting a rescue. A soldier was out, pulling someone from the mudslide. A small child, a boy perhaps. The soldier had him in his arms and was moving back toward the aircraft. For only a few seconds, the soldier’s face came into view. Wit froze the video and showed the image to Calinga, seated beside him. “Look familiar?”
“That’s the Maori,” said Calinga. “The one we tested.”
“Mazer Rackham,” said Wit.
“How did he get into China that fast?”
“He must have been there already.”
“He’s working with the Chinese?”
“Not when this was recorded,” said Wit. “He can’t be. The Chinese would never allow a New Zealander to make a rescue like that. Not with the whole world watching. Saving a child from disaster? That’s the holy grail of PR. If Mazer were flying with the Chinese, it would be a Chinese soldier saving that kid. Mazer is spoiling their moment in the sun.”
“So who’s in the aircraft with him?”
“No idea,” said Wit. “But it’s not the Chinese.”
CHAPTER 15
Formics