"Steven Gould - Jumper 02 - Reflex" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

"Where are we going?" She dabbed at her glasses with her handkerchief.

The driver grunted. "We're meeting up with my boss but first we're feeling for ticks." He
continued on down past the reflecting pool and entered the traffic circle near the Capitol building. He
stayed in the circle three times around, then spun off south on First, spun around the next traffic circle
twice, then took Maryland Avenue toward the south side of the Mall.

The traffic circles made Millie carsick and she leaned back and closed her eyes, taking deep
breaths. When she opened them again, they were running down the far side of the Mall, behind the
Air and Space Museum on Independence Avenue, south of the National Gallery but out of sight.

"Looks like we're clear," the driver said.

Millie looked at him for the first time. He was bearded and looked somewhat middle-eastern,
though his accent was pure Boston. He was wearing dark glasses despite the gray rain.

"I'm going to stop in a second. There'll be a Verizon phone van. Hop out and into it, quick as
you can."

He turned sharply on Seventh, north again. The phone company van was parked illegally on the
corner, orange cones set out, front and back. One of the van's back doors swung open as the cab
braked and she was out the door and inside. She heard the cab's tires squeal on the rain-slicked
pavement as it accelerated away and then the van door was slammed behind her.

The inside of the van smelled of ozone and mildew. It was like the surveillance van they'd used in
Stillwater, cabinets of electronics and monitors and a pivoting workstation seat. Anders was the one
who'd opened the door for her and he moved back, now, threading his way between the operator in
the workstation chair and the sliding door. He sat in the backwards-facing bench seat behind the
driver's seat and gestured her forward.

The console operator, a woman with short gray-streaked hair, moved, too, and patted the
console seat. "Here, dear. We'd like you to look at some pictures."
 Millie set the bag with her coat in it on the floor and edged onto the chair. It was warm in the van
but she'd gotten wet in her run for the cab. She unknotted her scarf and pulled it across her shoulders,
like a shawl.

"This is Becca Martingale," said Anders, indicating the operator. "She's our liaison with the
Bureau."

"FBI?"

Becca nodded. "Yes, Counter-intelligence."

Millie groped for something polite to say, but settled for a tired nod. She looked at Anders and
bit her lip. "Is she fully briefed?"

Anders said carefully, "She knows that Davy was one of ours and was kidnapped. She doesn't
know what Davy did for us."