"The flaw is obvious. Far too many people know about it. The decoy limousines, and soldiers, the escorts. You're sure that not one of those people is a plant? Because if any of them is reporting to Achilles' sponsors, then they already know which vehicle really has me in it, and where it's going."
"They don't know where it's going."
"They do if the driver is the one who was planted by the other side."
"The driver doesn't know where we're going."
"He's just going around in circles?"
"He knows the first rendezvous point, that's all."
Petra shook her head. "I knew you were stupid, because you became a talk-therapy shrink, which is like being a minister of a religion in which you get to be God."
The psychiatrist turned red. Petra liked that. He was stupid, and he didn't like hearing it, but he definitely needed to hear it because he clearly had built his whole life around the idea that he was smart, and now that he was playing with live ammunition, thinking he was smart was going to get him killed.
"I suppose you're right, that the driver does know where we're going first, even if he doesn't know where we plan to go from the first rendezvous." The psychiatrist shrugged elaborately. "But that can't be helped. You have to trust someone."
"And you decided to trust this driver because . . . ?"
The psychiatrist looked away.
Petra looked at the other man. "You're talkative."
"I am think," said the man in halting Common, "you make Battle School teachers crazy with talk."
"Ah," said Petra. "You're the brains of the outfit."
The man looked puzzled, but also offended--he wasn't sure how he had been insulted, since he probably didn't know the word outfit, but he knew an insult had been intended.
"Petra Arkanian," said the psychiatrist, "since you're right that I don't know the driver all that well, tell me what I should have done. You have a better plan than trusting him?"
"Of course," said Petra. "You tell him the rendezvous point, plan with him very carefully how he'll drive there."
"I did that," said the psychiatrist.
"I know," said Petra. "Then, at the last minute, just as you're loading me into the van, you take the wheel and make him ride in one of the limousines. And then you drive to a different place entirely. Or better yet, you take me to the nearest town and turn me loose and let me take care of myself."
Again, the psychiatrist looked away. Petra was amused at how transparent his body language was. You'd think a shrink would know how to conceal his own tells.
"These people who kidnapped you," said the psychiatrist, "they are a tiny minority, even within the intelligence organizations they work for. They can't be everywhere."
Petra shook her head. "You're a Russian, you were taught Russian history, and you actually believe that the intelligence service can't be everywhere and hear everything? What, did you spend your entire childhood watching American vids?"
The psychiatrist had had enough. Putting on his finest medical airs, he delivered his ultimate put-down. "And you're a child who never learned decent respect. You may be brilliant in your native abilities, but that doesn't mean you understand a political situation you know nothing about."
"Ah," said Petra. "The you're-just-a-child, you-don't-have-as-much-experience argument."
"Naming it doesn't mean it's untrue."
"I'm sure you understand the nuances of political speeches and maneuvers. But this is a military operation."
"It is a political operation," the psychiatrist corrected her. "No shooting."
Again, Petra was stunned at the man's ignorance. "Shooting is what happens when military operations fail to achieve their purposes through maneuver. Any operation that's intended to physically deprive the enemy of a valued asset is military."
"This operation is about freeing an ungrateful little girl and sending her home to her mama and papa," said the psychiatrist.
"You want me to be grateful? Open the door and let me out."