Alien in the Family

could get through one without wanting to barf my guts out was in Martini’s arms, with my face buried in his neck. He stepped us through, and in a second we’d gone from the middle of the New Mexico desert to the middle of the Nevada desert.
    McCarran was one of the few airports where a bunch of people coming out of a stall, three of them women, didn’t cause too much notice. Anything went in Vegas. We lucked out in that there weren’t any men in the bathroom, and our little parade coming out of the men’s room didn’t attract any looks—there were slot machines all over the airport, and people were paying a lot more attention to them than to us.
    However, once we were in the area to get to a taxi stand, I noticed someone watching us. He was hard to miss—he had a camera the size of his head. And it was aimed at us.
    I nudged Martini. “Why are we getting our pictures taken?”
    He looked over and shrugged. “Guy likes to take pictures of pretty women.”
    “Um, Jeff, really? That’s what you’re picking up?”
    He sighed. “Baby, we’re in an airport. Loaded with people with their emotions going off the charts.”
    “Oh. You have all your blocks up on full.”
    “Right. He’s not giving off any kind of threat emotions—those I can still feel. So what if he takes pictures of us? We’re in a tourist spot, and Christopher’s people will alter anything we don’t like.”
    The man had snapped several shots while we were talking. He lowered the camera and grinned at me. He was under six feet, dressed in casual, baggy clothes, well worn but clean. I couldn’t tell if the clothes were hiding muscles or a slight pudge. Black hair, beard, and, as he walked closer, I could see twinkling blue eyes. I couldn’t tell his age—maybe 30s, maybe 40s, maybe not.
    “How’re you folks doing?” he asked. He had a slight twang in his voice, but I couldn’t place it, other than to say I’d bet he was from the Southwest somewhere.
    “Fine. We don’t want our pictures taken.”
    His grin got wider. “Pity. You shouldn’t be out of Home Base then, should you?”
    Chuckie had trained me well. The only people who referred to Nellis Air Force Base or the Groom Lake portion of it as Home Base also called it Area 51. Based on how he looked, this man wasn’t an A-C, and based on how he dressed and was acting, he wasn’t a human agent, either.
    “Just who are you?” I tried to ask nicely. His grin managed to get wider, indicating I’d failed.
    “Mister Joel Oliver. World Weekly News .” He put out the hand not holding his humongous camera.
    None of us extended ours in return. “What does a rag photographer want with pictures of tourists?” Tim asked, more politely than I’d have managed.
    Oliver shook his head as he retracted his hand. “You’re not tourists.” He leaned closer. “I know who . . . and what . . . you are.” He straightened up. “And I’d love to do an interview. I’m our top photojournalist.”
    “I’m sure that’s impressive to someone, Oliver,” Martini said casually. He seemed so calm and cool. Glad one of us was.
    “ Mister Joel Oliver, please. Full name.”
    “Why?”
    Oliver shrugged. “Ensures my byline’s always right, my sources are sure who they’re talking to, and I like hearing the Mister.”
    “Like Mister T?”
    “And for similar reasons.” Oliver shook his head. “You’d be amazed at what names I get called.”
    “I’ll bet you twenty dollars none of them would shock or surprise me.”
    He laughed. “I don’t take sucker bets.” Oliver looked straight at Martini. “I know your people alter my photos. But they can’t alter what I write. You have powerful friends who do that, though. But it won’t stop me.”
    Martini shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a meeting to attend.” Martini jerked his head at us, indicating it was time to move on.
    “With the head of the C.I.A.?” Oliver asked as we headed for the limo line.
    Martini smiled. “Nope.” He clearly wasn’t lying and it was obvious Oliver could tell if the look of disappointment that flashed across his face was any indication.
    Of course, that’s because Oliver hadn’t asked the question properly. Chuckie wasn’t the head of the C.I.A., so Martini wasn’t telling an untruth. He was avoiding telling the truth, which was about the only way the A-Cs could manage lying. It was nice of Oliver to have made it so easy. I