Wolf Island (The Demonata 8)

efcase. He sets them down, then drags the desk by the wall out into the middle of the floor and lays his gear on top of it. Fires up the laptops, takes a few plug-ins out of the briefcase, and connects them up.

“Wi-Fi is a blessing from the gods,” he mutters as I stare at him. “It was hell on Earth when I had to hook these up to ordinary phone lines. Who are we looking for?”

“A woman called…” I hesitate. “Do you want me to wake Shark?”

Timas shakes his head. “I can work without him. Who are you after?”

“Prae Athim.”

“Spell it.”

When I’ve done that, I tell him she works for an organization called the Lambs. I start to describe the attacks and why we want to find her, but he holds up a hand. “That is enough information for me to be getting on with,” he says curtly, and bends over his laptops like a pianist. He’s soon tapping away at a fierce speed, oblivious to all else, working on both computers at the same time.

Meera wakes before Shark. She’s surprised to find the odd-looking stranger in my room, but says nothing once I’ve told her in whispers of his approach to business. We eat breakfast, then return to watch Timas Brauss. At one stage I ask if he’d like anything to eat or drink. He

shushes me without looking up.

Shark finally rises close to midday. When he steps in to find Timas hard at work, he doesn’t look surprised. Stretching, he nods at Meera and me, then grunts at the man hunched over the laptops. “What do you have?”

Timas spins neatly to face Shark, letting his fingers rest on his knees. He looks like an overgrown schoolboy. “I have a full profile of the woman, Prae Argietta Athim. Do you want to know her background?”

“Couldn’t care less,” Shark sniffs. “Where is she?”

Timas clicks his tongue. “I would need more time to answer definitively. But I can tell you where she should be if she’s adhering to her regular schedule.”

“That’ll do,” Shark says.

Timas reads out a long address, down to the zip code, finishing off with her floor and office number.

“It’s a regular building?” Shark asks.

“Yes. The Lambs own the complex. A mix of offices, laboratories, and miscellaneous divisions. I’ve downloaded a schematic plan of the structure and environs.”

“Let’s see.” Shark pushes Timas aside and studies the right-hand screen. Meera and I edge over to look at it with him. The blueprints mean nothing to me — my eyes go blurry from looking at all the lines — but Shark nods happily as he scrolls down. “Should be easy enough to crack. Security systems?”

“Downloading,” Timas says, tapping the other laptop.

“How much longer?”

“Maybe an hour. They are very cleverly protected. An invigorating challenge.”

Shark stretches again. He looks pleased. “Unless they’ve packed the corridors with troops, this should be a piece of cake. We’ll put a small team together, waltz in, grab Prae Athim, shake her up… be home in time for supper.”

“You really think it’ll be that easy?” Meera asks skeptically.

“Like hell.” Shark grins. “But you know me — ever the optimist.”

While Timas continues to play his keyboards, Shark gets back on the phone with those on his shortlist. Meera also makes a few calls, in case any of her contacts have discovered anything about the Lambs. I sit around as impatiently as the day before, twiddling my thumbs.

The first of Shark’s team arrives at five, a chunky woman called Pip LeMat, an explosives expert. She’s followed by three men over the course of the evening — James Farrier, Leo DeSalle, and Spenser Holm. They’re all soldiers but I don’t learn much more about them. They retire with Pip and Shark to his room shortly after they arrive, making it clear they don’t want to be disturbed. Apart from the clinking of bottles and glasses, and the occasional cheer or bellow, we don’t hear from them for the rest of the night.

Shortly before eleven, Timas steps away from his laptops, takes a blue satin handkerchief from a pocket and dabs at his forehead, then folds it neatly and puts it away again. “Could I have some milk and a selection of whatever pastries the hotel has in stock?” he asks.

“Pastries?” Meera frowns. “This late?”

“Yes, please,” Timas says calmly. “I would like an ice pack also, for my frontal cranium, and could you please make up a cot for me beside the desk?”

“I’m sure we can find a room for you,” Meera says.