less compelling-a bunch of little ball bearings were rolling toward his cannonball, and the deep-warning-system of his brain was yammering for attention. This was an instinct he had learned to trust.
Yes, something was wrong.
* * *
"You can keep us covered all the way up?"
"Yes," Bjarnesson said, matter-of-factly. "Telepathy works on line of sight, and he won't have that until we open the door. It's easy to disguise the faint impressions he might feel until then."
"So I've heard," Garibaldi answered.
Girard had begun to wonder just what the hell he was supposed to be doing here. His investigation had spiraled completely out of his control. Just like his life. First Garibaldi had horned in, then the EABI, now Garibaldi again.
Looking back on it, it had almost been a relief. When he, Girard, was in charge of things they tended to go wrong, especially lately. When he learned that one of the century's worst war criminals was the object of his pursuit, he had talked himself out of the case. He had been a coward, in that way, ready to let outsiders take the risks, even if it meant they would also get the prize.
Now things had gotten damn muddy, though. Who was in charge? Garibaldi, clearly, mostly by the force of his bullying, but also because he had been right. And because Sheehan's betrayal had mired the EABI forces in uncertainty.
Parisian citizens were paying for all of this, though. His citizens. The people Girard was sworn to protect-the people Garibaldi and the rest didn't give a damn about.
He took Garibaldi aside. "I'm going through the door," he said, mildly.
"It's okay, Girard, I've got that covered."
"No, it's not okay," Girard said. "There's a woman and a little boy up there in danger. I will not let you burst in, guns blazing.