'The guy you call Number One. I hear he's really Sabri Ramirez. Didn't you know?"
The German's startled look betrayed his disbelief. His small, pig-like eyes narrowed. "Who told you such a thing?"
"Just a little birdie."
Schindler shrugged, unconvinced, then pushed her on. "That's impossible. Everybody knows Sabri Ramirez has been dead for two, maybe three years."
Well, she thought, with any luck he soon will be.
"Whatever you say," she continued.
"It's absurd. Ramirez was South American. Number One is from Beirut. Now come on, hurry. Just keep your hands where I can see them." Schindler was almost shoving her around a rocky outcrop. "We have to get up to Launch before he gets impatient and sends somebody else out looking."
"Well, if you're in such a big rush, there's a quicker way
to get into Launch than the way we're going. We can just enter through the loading bays"—she pointed—"up there. We don't have to go all the way around."
"Are they unlocked?" He looked up and squinted through the mist. The bays were distinguishable by tall metal doors that were sized to accommodate some of the large vehicle components that had been delivered over the past couple of years. They could just be seen now, dark silhouettes against the horizon.