Short and sweet: “Mr. Page will see you at four o’clock.” When Hutch returned to the gate, the same guard gave him two passes, one for his dashboard, the other to pin to his jacket. The guard handed him a map of the campus, with the route to the Outis facilities marked in red. As he’d suspected, they were located on the west side of the campus, where the satellite photos had been retouched. The map showed five other distinct clusters of buildings. Considering Page Industries’ Shiva-like reach into all things war and defense, its compactness spoke to Page’s fastidiousness and efficiency—appropriate, Hutch figured, for a paramilitary organization. “We ask that you not deviate from this route, sir,” the guard had said. Something in Hutch’s expression may have prompted him to add, “If you do, alarms will sound, and a security car will escort you off the premises.” “Hellhounds and helicopters too?” Hutch said, eliciting as stony a face as Michelangelo ever carved.
