They also had Dorlup, she concluded. Then her job was finished.
She had a drink, listened to a sultry-voiced girl render the latest popular song, and went outside into the cool night air. A sleek car roared to a quick stop in front of her. The back door opened. "Get in," someone said in the darkness.
She hesitated. Hands reached out, tugged at her, pulled her. She was too surprised to try fighting them off, but they were big, strong hands and it would have been futile anyway. She was deposited on the back seat of the car, between two men. The one on her right she had never seen before. She had seen pictures of the one on her left, the handsome man who was approaching middle age so attractively.
He was Mulid Ruscar, Chief of the Century Agents.
"Where's my father?" Laniq demanded.
"I'll take you to him." The man led them down a street lined with prefabricated, Quonset-like houses. People smiled at Laniq, but wanly—and most of the houses were deserted.
An old man shook his head sadly, said, "There was great carnage in Afghanistan. We don't know how it happened; we can only guess. Someone was followed, despite all our efforts."
They walked on, came at last to one of the prefabricated dwellings which seemed no different from all the others. It was late autumn, 1954, but here in southern Nevada, warm winds swept uncomfortably through the dusty street.
A short, stocky man met them at the door. "You'll have to be quiet," he said.