by R S Penney
She left him to struggle with his own horror. The illusion would vanish once she stopped thinking about him, and she would prefer to get inside before he worked up the courage to come after her. Controlling the guards on Ganymede had been far simpler than silencing this one man.
She'd had years to make inroads with every last one of them, years to chip away at their defenses, years to plant the subtle suggestion that they might want to listen to her. People who hadn't grown accustomed to her touch on their thoughts were much harder to control.
As she approached the big red front door, she steeled herself. All nervousness aside, she was going to have to make a good impression, to convince these powerful men that she would be an asset.
Keli smiled to herself. Let's begin.
A man's office should command respect: that was Paolo Almeida's philosophy, and he had done everything in his power to live up to the ideal. The walls were painted red with gold trim on the baseboards. Tall lamps on brass stands in all four corners filled the room with a soft, warm light.
Paolo opened a briefcase to reveal several bags of fine white powder inside. So, it seemed Mr. Rawlins had come through. When you ran a club that catered to men who could throw money around on a whim, they sometimes wanted a little extra service to make their visit memorable.
He looked up.
The hulking giant who stood on the other side of the desk with hands folded over his stomach looked unimpressed. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, Rosco Abramov sneered at him.
The man had a thick face with a dark goatee and not one follicle of hair anywhere else on his smooth head. “You like product?” he asked in broken English delivered with a thick Russian accent.
Paolo had to stop himself from replying with a vexed hiss. If Rawlins wanted to do business, he could at least send a lackey who was willing to speak Portuguese. However, the niceties of civilized men were rarely a concern to mob bosses.
Setting his elbows on the desk, Paolo laced his fingers and smiled up at the brute. “It's more than acceptable,” he replied in a husky voice. “Tell your boss he's done well. My clients will be quite pleased.”
“Boss wants payment.”
“All in good time.”
A vicious scowl twisted Rosco's face into something hideous, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might lash out in anger. “Boss says he tired of waiting. You late all the time.”
Paolo closed his eyes, shaking his head with a heavy sigh. “Mr Rawlins does not understand the situation.” He slid his chair back from the desk and stood. “My clients are used to a certain level of respect. There is an etiquette to every business transaction. If I were to demand payment immediately, it would imply that I do not trust my clients, and that would be an insult.”
Fury painted Rosco's cheeks several shades of crimson, and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. “Boss does not care about etiquette. You take merchandise, you pay for merchandise.”
“In a few days.”
“Now!”
Lifting his chin to stare down his nose at the man, Paolo blinked several times. “My good man,” he said, stepping forward. “This uncivilized behaviour is most unacceptable. If Rawlins wishes to do business-”
Rosco casually slid one hand under the desk. His face contorted as he grunted and lifted the whole thing with only one arm. The desk rose halfway to the ceiling before it came crashing down.
Several framed pictures of Paolo's girlfriend fell off its surface and shattered. The briefcase followed soon after, landing on the floor at Rosco's feet. Any notion of pressing his complaint vanished from Paolo's mind after that display.
Baring his teeth like a wolf, Rosco narrowed his eyes. “You pay,” he said, thrusting a finger out to point at Paolo's chest. “Or I kill you.”
“Very well,” Paolo whispered. “Twenty-four hours.”
“Now.”
“I don't have the money now! Surely even you cannot be stupid enough to believe that I keep that kind of cash in my desk drawer. I will need to make several withdrawals from my bank accounts, and it will almost certainly draw the attention of the tellers if I do it all in one transact-”
“You pay,” Rosco repeated, striding forward with rage on his face. The man stopped short, his eyes widening as if he saw a ghost. The silence that followed lasted just long enough for Paolo to begin to wonder what was going on.
Rosco dropped to his knees, covering his face with both hands. “Nyet! Nyet!” He let out a shrill moan as he trembled in obvious terror. His sobbing was broken by the odd string of Russian curses.
When Paolo looked up, he found a black woman standing in the door to his office, a woman in simple clothes who wore her hair buzzed to little more than stubble. “I don't think he'll be threatening you anymore tonight.”
She strode across the room with her arms folded, smiling down at Paolo like a cat with a field mouse trapped under its paw. “Tell your boss that he will receive his money in twenty-four hours.”
She looked up at Paolo with dark eyes that glittered in the soft light of the lamps. “My new employer will need time to make the arrangements.” A light touch of her hand to the back of Rosco's head brought his suffering to an end.
In the blink of an eye, the Russian man was on his feet and bounding out the door. To say that Paolo was confused was an understatement. Somehow, this slip of a woman had subdued a brute with the strength of three men, and she hadn't even lifted a finger to do it. That should have been impossible.
Unless…
Paolo forced a smile, bowing his head to her. “You've got my attention,” he said, gesturing to the ruined desk. “I'd offer you a seat, but as you can see, my office is in a state of disarray.”
The woman dusted her hands, approaching his desk from the other side. “Perhaps you're wondering how I got rid of him,” she said in perfect Portuguese. “It's a simple thing when you know a man's fears.”
“And you knew his fears?”
“Intimately.”
Three and a half years ago, when the Leyrians made first contact with Earth, they had offered documents on galactic history. The Internet had buzzed with them for months on end. Paolo remembered reading something about mindreaders. Could this woman be one of those fabled creatures?
“The answer is yes,” she said before he could even vocalize the question. When he looked up, she was standing there with a delighted grin on her face, nodding to him. “I am one of those mindreaders.”
“And you know my thoughts?”
It left him with a sick feeling in his stomach. If this woman knew every move he would make before he could make it…His knees gave out at the thought of it. Luckily, his big leather chair was there to catch him.
Paolo closed his eyes, pressing the back of his head to the seat cushion. “This is a dangerous thing.” He doubled over with his elbows on his thighs, lacing fingers over the top of his head. “You wish to be my employee?”
The woman wore a smile that could melt butter, a smile that almost made him think her intentions were more than professional. She nodded once in confirmation. “I'd like a home of my own, a modest place that will not draw too much attention.”
“And in return?”
“You will know the darkest secrets of any man or woman who walks through that door,” she said. “You will know instantly whether the person in front of you is lying. You will have an edge over all your competitors.”
Yes, yes, this could be very useful indeed. He focused on imagining all the ways in which he could profit from this woman's talents. He imagined himself growing wealthier, more respected. Perhaps one day he might run for public office. To know the secrets of his competitors. It was almost too much to resist.
His reverie was broken by the sound of a gasping man stumbling through the door. Tony, the bouncer, was a tall fellow in a black suit with pinstripes, a well-muscled man who wore his black hair gelled into spikes.
He looked up, blinking at Paolo. “I'm sorry, boss,” he said, wiping sweat from
his brow. “We tried to tell her no, but she just pushed right past us. Mike is still downstairs, weeping like a little girl.”
“It's all right, Tony. I'm happy to meet Miss…”
“Armana,” the woman replied. “Keli Armana.”
Keli Armana: the best thing that had ever happened to him. With her talents at his disposal, he could be running half the country in less than a decade. He might even be president one day! “You did a good job, Tony,” he said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. It was best to keep certain things to yourself. Today's allies could easily be tomorrow's enemies. “Would you please bring us some refreshments?”
The man left without another word.
Leaning back in his chair, Paolo set his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers. “So, Miss Armana,” he began. “Why don't you start by telling me exactly what you can do?”
“I can read minds.”
“Can you influence other people?”
The answer came in the form of a withering glare that made him feel stupid for even asking the question. Before he could say one word of protest, however, something shifted. He felt a strange pressure, an urge to surrender to this woman.
Instinct compelled him to resist, but he took control of himself with a little effort. He suspected that she would do more damage if she had to force him to her will. He gave in and let her have her way.
A vase of flowers appeared on his desk, bright pink peonies that filled the air with a delicate fragrance. They vanished before he could think to reach out and touch them. So, this woman could conjure illusions.
He allowed himself to contemplate what he might do with such an ability. Bend his enemies to his will? Subject them to nightmares until they relented and gave him what he wanted. No one would stand against him so long as Keli Armana remained at his side.
He lost himself in the thrill of possibilities. The daydreams he had long ago rejected might yet be within his grasp. Paolo could see it all: the whole future laid out before him like clips in montage.
He saw himself climbing out of a limo with a beautiful woman on his arm, waving to a crowd of cheering supporters who held up campaign posters and shouted his name. He saw himself behind the president's desk, swiveling around in a plush chair to face his cabinet with a smile on his face.
It would be glorious!
After all the years of wheeling and dealing, after all the times he'd humbled himself just to build a network of contacts, things were finally starting to go his way. He would finally have the recognition that he deserved.
Tony returned with two wine glasses, both filled with a dark red. If the man was in anyway competent, he would have opened the '17; that vintage was particularly good. Or failing that, at least the '94. A guest such as Keli Armana deserved nothing less than the best. He had to convince her to work with him! To lose her now would be a setback far worse than any other he had endured in his career.
Keli took one glass without so much as a glance in Tony's direction – as if the man were beneath her notice – then paused to peer into it. Had she never tasted wine before? If so, he might be able to save some face if Tony had indeed selected an inferior vintage.
Keli took a sip.
“Thank you,” Paolo murmured as his bouncer placed a glass on the surface of his cracked desk. “You may go.”
The other man turned quickly and went to the door without even a moment's hesitation. When he was gone, Paolo turned his attention back to the woman who sat in front of him. Back to the most precious gem to ever come into his life.
Keli lifted the glass to her lips and took another long sip. “This is an odd beverage,” she said, setting it down on his desk. “Very sour. Though I admit my palette is less than refined, I can't imagine why-”
She pressed fingertips to her temples and doubled over as she clung desperately to consciousness. “What have you done?” she whispered, stumbling about as she tried to keep her balance. “What did you put in it?”
A ferocious grin blossomed on Paolo's face. “Rohypnol is a powerful tranquilizer,” he said, his eyebrows rising. “I find it's best to keep a small supply on hand in the event that some foolish person decides to threaten me in my own office.”
She looked up at him with tears streaming over her inflamed cheeks, blinking slowly in confusion. “But you never told him…It never even crossed your mind.”
“A well-trained staff learns to anticipate their employer's needs.” He turned in his chair so that she would see him in profile, touching a fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “Almost as if they can read his mind.”
“I could have made you a great man!”
Paolo felt his lips curl into a small smile. “I have no desire to be a great man,” he said, shaking his head. “I am a businessman; I make a respectable profit, and then I go home. Great men often find themselves the targets of their would-be successors.”
She was gasping now, trying to stand and failing miserably. With a soft moan, Keli dropped to all fours before falling flat on her face. “But your dreams…I saw your desires. I saw your…your…”
“You saw the pitiful imaginings of a man who was trying to make you believe that he was playing into your hands. Once I knew that you could read my thoughts, it wasn't hard to lull you into a false sense of security. Simple misdirection, Miss Armana. I kept your attention focused on me so that you wouldn't even imagine that Tony might be the real threat.”
She groaned, flopping onto her side. A moment later, she was passed out, breathing at a slow and steady pace. “Tony, come in here,” Paolo called out. “Call Mr. Rawlins and tell him I have a gift for him. Something that will more than make up for any payment I may owe him.”
Chapter 20
After several rounds of scans and security checks, a door slid open to reveal a cell unlike any other Harry had ever seen. The interior was more like a hotel room – with a bed, a cabinet and a table – than anything you might expect to find in a prison.
Convincing the Brazilian authorities to remain quiet about the presence of one very strong telepath in their city had been fairly simple. Unlike Canada or the United States or even most of Europe, South America still had a strong sense of Leyrian fever. There were still those who thought saviours from the stars would deliver them from the exploitations of richer countries. This second task, however… This would be far more difficult.
Raynar sat at the table.
The boy was hunched over with his hands folded on the wooden surface, refusing to look up. “I suppose you're here to question me,” he said softly. “I can assure you that I know nothing about Keli's plan.”
Harry felt creases form in his brow. “You speak English now,” he said, marching into the room. “You've been on this station less than six days, and you already know how to speak the language.”
Raynar shook his head with teeth bared. “I'm a telepath, Mr. Carlson,” he said. “Something you seemed to know all too well when you found me speaking with your daughter.”
Closing his eyes, Harry took a deep breath through his nose. He wiped a hand over his face. “Look, kid, I need some information, and I'm not in the mood to verbally spar with you. Tell me what you know about Keli.”
“I already did.”
“You're going to have to do better than that.”
The boy slid his chair back from the table and stood. He turned his back on Harry and paced over to the bed. “I realize how this must look to you,” he began. “But ask yourself this: what could I do to convince you I'm telling the truth?”
It was a good question.
For the last three months, Harry had been playing the role of diplomat, but with Jena's request that he “speak with” Raynar, he finally had a chance to be a cop again. He hadn't even realized how much he missed it. The danger to his life was not something he cared to revisit, but…It was nice to employ those old skills.
Still, this was a problem that every cop faced each and every time he stepped into an interroga
tion room. Sometimes the suspect was honestly telling the truth; sometimes the person in front of you really was innocent. When he considered the issue, he realized that Raynar's telepathic abilities wouldn't make this process any easier. Sure, the young man could convey a sense of earnestness, but there was no reason that Harry ought to believe anything Raynar beamed into his head.
“Why don't you start by telling me your story?”
The kid stood with his back turned, lifting his shoulders in what might have been a shrug. “My story?” he asked with genuine incredulity in his voice. “What do you mean by that?”
Harry frowned, then lowered his eyes to the floor. “You were on that station with her for years,” he said, pressing one hand to the top of his head. “You must have known something about what she planned to do when she got out.”
Raynar spun around.
The kid looked him up and down with gray eyes, then blinked in confusion. “We didn't exactly have many opportunities to speak,” he said. “Most of our interactions involved her trying to rip through my defenses and me resisting it.”
“Still…”
“Still what?”
Harry sat on the edge of the table with his arms folded, heaving out a frustrated sigh. “I don't know…” he answered in a breathy whisper. “But you can see why we might not be willing to trust you.”
“Why should the rabbit ever trust a wolf?” Raynar murmured in response. “Except you. For a particularly timid rabbit, you seem to surround yourself with some particularly dangerous wolves.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Raynar looked up with a broad smile, shaking his head ever so slowly. “Your friends,” he said, “the two-souls. They're easily as dangerous as Keli, and yet you seem not to mind.”
The kid has a point. Pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, he let out a groan. “Look, we're not discussing who I choose to spend my time with. What do you know about Keli?”
“Nothing.”
“She wasn't planning to take you with her?”
The young man stood there with his head cocked to one side, slowly arching an eyebrow. “If she had planned to take me with her,” he began. “Do you think I would be talking to you right now?”
