Wild Cards IV: Aces Abroad

by Stephen Leigh

  Was Tachyon in trouble?

  Despite his promise, had he gone off with Bonnell? And did that necessarily mean trouble? Was it possible he was merely playing hooky with his grandkid?

  If he was out visiting the zoo or whatever and Jack alerted the Sûreté, and they found out about Blaise, Tachyon would never forgive him. It would be another betrayal. Maybe his last one. The Takisian would find a way to get even this time.

  But if he’s really in trouble?

  A knock pulled him from his distracted thoughts. One of Hartmann’s interchangeable aides stood in the hall.

  “Mr. Braun, the senator would like to invite you to join him at the debate tomorrow.”

  “Debate? What debate?”

  “All one thousand and eleven”—a condescending little laugh—“or however many candidates there are in this crazy race, will be taking part in a round-robin debate in the Luxembourg Gardens. The senator would like as many of the tour as possible to be there. To show support for this great European democracy—such as it is. Mr. Braun . . . are you all right?”

  “Fine, yeah, I’m fine. You tell the senator I’ll be there.”

  “And Doctor Tachyon? The senator’s very concerned by his continued absence.”

  “I think I can safely promise the senator that the doctor will be there too.”

  Closing the door, Jack quickly crossed to the phone and put in a call for Rochambeau. A probable terrorist attack on the candidates. No need to mention the child. Just an urgent need to call out the troops.

  And a long night of praying he had guessed correctly. That he had made the right choice.

  He should be sleeping, preparing mind and body for the morrow. His life and the future of his line depended upon his skill and speed and cunning.

  And on Jack Braun. Ironic that.

  If Jack had drawn the correct conclusion. If he had alerted the Sûreté. If there were sufficient officers. If Tachyon could stretch his talent beyond all limits and hold an unheard of number of minds.

  He sat up on the rickety cot and hugged his stomach. Sank back and tried to relax. But it was a night for memories. Faces out of the past. Blythe, David, Earl, Dani.

  I’m gambling my life and the life of my grandchild on the man who destroyed Blythe. Lovely.

  But the possibility of dying can act as a spur for self-examination. Force a person to strip away the comforting, insulating little lies that buffer one from their most private guilts and regrets.

  “Then give me those names!”

  “All right . . . all right.”

  The power—lancing out—fragmenting her mind . . . her mind . . . her mind.

  But they wouldn’t have known but for Jack. And she wouldn’t have absorbed their minds but for Holmes, and she wouldn’t have been there but for the paranoia of a nation. And no one would suffer had they not been born, thought Tach, quoting a favorite adage of his father’s. Sometime one must stop excusing, accept responsibility for actions taken.

  Tisianne brant Ts’ara, Jack Braun didn’t destroy Blythe, you did.

  He flinched, prepared for it to hurt. Instead he felt better. Lighter, freer, at peace for the first time in so many, many years. He began to laugh, was not surprised when it turned to quiet tears.

  They lasted for some time. When the storm ended, he lay back, exhausted but calm. Ready for tomorrow. After which he would return home and make a home and raise his child. Calmly and a little regretfully he turned his back on the past.

  He was Tisianne brant Ts’ara sek Halima sek Ragnar sek Omian, a prince of the House Ilkazam, and tomorrow his enemies would learn to their pain and regret what it meant to stand against him.

  Claude, Blaise, and a driver remained in a car almost a block from the gardens. Tachyon, linked through the barrel of a Beretta with a stone-faced Andrieux, hovered at the out-skirts of an enormous crowd. Parisians were nothing if not enthusiastic about their politics. But spotted throughout this sea of humanity like an insidious infection were the other fifteen members of Bonnell’s cell. Waiting. For blood to flow and nurture their violent dreams.

  On the stand, the candidates—all seven of them. About half the delegation seated in chairs directly in front of the bunting-hung platform. There was no way they would escape without injury if Tach should fail and the shooting begin. Jack came into view. Hands thrust deep into pants pockets, he paced and frowned out over the throng.

  Blaise was a rider in Tachyon’s mind. Ready to sense the tiniest use of telepathy. His power might be slight, but he was sensitive enough to detect the shift in focus such mind communication required. His presence suited his grandsire just fine. It would make what was to come all the easier.

  Carefully Tachyon constructed a mind-scrim of the scene. A false picture to lull his grandchild. He hedged it around with shields, presented it to Blaise. Then from beneath its protective cover he reached out, touched Jack’s mind.

  Don’t jump, keep frowning.

  Where are you?

  Near gate, edge of trees.

  Got it.

  Sûreté?

  Everywhere. Terrorists?

  Likewise everywhere.

  How . . . !?

  They’ll come to you.

  Wha . . . ???

  Trust.

  He withdrew and carefully constructed a trap. It was similar to the link he enjoyed with Baby when the ship boosted and amplified his own natural powers to allow for transspace communication, but much, much stronger. Its teeth were very deep. What might it do to Blaise? No. There was no time for doubts.

  The mind snare snapped down. A mental scream of alarm from the boy. Desperate struggle, panting resignation. The rider had become the ridden.

  Tachyon joined Blaise’s power to his. It was like a bar of white-hot light. Carefully he split it into strands. Each tendril snapped out like a burning whip. Settled on his captors. They became frozen statues.

  He was gasping with effort, sweat bursting from his forehead, running in rivulets into his eyes. He set them marching, a regiment of zombies. As Andrieux stepped from his side, Tachyon forced his hand to move, to close about the Beretta, to pull it from his slave’s limp grasp.

  Braun was leaping about, gesticulating, summoning help with great arm sweeps.

  Hurry! Hurry!

  He had to hold them. All of them. If he failed . . .

  Blaise was struggling again. It was like being kicked over and over again in the gut. One thread snapped. To Claude Bonnell. With a cry Tachyon dropped the control, ran for the gate. Behind him there was the vicious snarl of an Uzi. Apparently one of his captives had tried to run and been cut down by the French security forces. Perhaps it had been Andrieux. More gunfire, punctuating screams. A torrent of people swept past, almost knocking him from his feet. He tightened his grip on the Beretta, pumped harder. Slid around the corner just as the dazed driver reached for the key. A blow from Tachyon’s mind, and he collapsed onto the steering wheel, and the blare of the horn was added to the pandemonium.

  Bonnell struggled from the car, gripping Blaise by the wrist. He went lurching and stumbling for a narrow, deserted side street.

  Tach flew after them, caught Blaise by his free hand, and wrenched him free.

  “LET ME GO! LET ME GO!”

  Sharp teeth bit deep into his wrist. Tachyon silenced the boy with a crushing imperative. Supported the sleeping child with one arm. He and Bonnell regarded one another over the limp figure.

  “Bravo, Doctor. You outfoxed me. But what a media event my trial will be.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Eh?”

  “I require a body. One infected with the wild card. Then the Sûreté will have their mysterious mentat ace and will look no further.”

  “You can’t be serious! You can’t mean to kill me in cold blood.” He read the answer in Tachyon’s implacable lilac gaze. Bonnell tottered back, came up short against a wall, moistened his lips. “I treated you fairly, kindly. You took no hurt from me.”

 
“But others have not fared so well. You shouldn’t have sent Blaise to me. He was quick to tell me of your other triumphs. An innocent banker, controlled by Blaise, sent into his bank carrying his own death. That bomb blast killed seventeen. Clearly a triumph.”

  Bonnell’s face shifted, took on the aspect of Thomas Tudbury, the Great and Powerful Turtle. “Please, I beg you. At least grant me the opportunity for a trial.”

  “No,” The features shifted again—Mark Meadows, Captain Trips blinked confusedly at the gun. “I think the outcome is fairly predictable.” Danelle, but as she had been all those long years ago. “I merely hasten your execution.”

  A final transformation. Shoulder-length sable hair cascading over the shoulders, long sooty lashes brushing at her cheeks, lifting to reveal eyes of a profound midnight blue. Blythe.

  “Tachy, please.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re dead.”

  And Tach shot him.

  “Ah, Doctor Tachyon.” Franchot de Valmy rose from his desk, hand outstretched. “France owes you a great debt of gratitude. How can we ever repay you?”

  “By issuing me a passport and visa.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand. You of course—”

  “Not for me. For Blaise Jeannot Andrieux.”

  De Valmy fiddled with a pen. “Why not merely apply?”

  “Because François Andrieux is currently in custody. Checks will be run, and I can’t allow that.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit forthright with me?”

  “Not at all. I know what an expert you are on falsified documents.” The Frenchman froze, then shifted slowly to the back of his chair. “I know you’re not an ace, Monsieur de Valmy. I wonder, how would the French public react to news of such a cheat? It would cost you the election.”

  De Valmy forced past stiff lips, “I am a very capable public servant. I can make a difference for France.”

  “Yes, but none of that is half so alluring as a wild card.”

  “What you’re asking is impossible. What if it’s traced to me? What if—” Tachyon reached for the phone. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling the press. I too can arrange press conferences at a moment’s notice. One of the privileges of fame.”

  “You’ll get your documents.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll find out why you’re doing this.”

  Tachyon paused at the door, glanced back. “Then we’ll each have a secret on the other, won’t we?”

  The big plane was darkened for the late-night hop to London. The first-class section was deserted save for Tach, Jack, and Blaise, sleeping soundly in his grandfather’s arms. There was something about the little tableau that warned everyone to stay well away.

  “How long are you gonna keep him under?” The single reading light pulled fire from the twin red heads.

  “Until we reach London.”

  “Will he ever forgive you?”

  “He won’t know.”

  “About Bonnell maybe, but the rest he’ll remember. You betrayed him.”

  “Yes.” It was scarcely audible over the rumble of the engines. “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I forgive you.”

  Their eyes met.

  The human reached down, softly pushed back a lock of silky hair from the child’s forehead. “Then I guess maybe there’s hope for you too.”

  LEGENDS

  Michael Cassutt

  The month of April brought little in the way of relief to Muscovites staggered by an unusually cold winter. Following a brief flurry of southern breezes, which sent boys into the newly green football fields and encouraged pretty girls to discard their overcoats, the skies had darkened again, and a dreary, uninspired rain had begun to fall. To Polyakov the scene was autumnal and therefore entirely appropriate. His masters, bending in the new breeze from the Kremlin, had decreed that this would be Polyakov’s last Moscow spring. The younger, less-tainted Yurchenko would move up, and Polyakov would retire to a dacha far from Moscow.

  Just as well, Polyakov thought, since scientists were saying that weather patterns had changed because of the Siberian airbursts. There might never be a decent Moscow spring again.

  Nevertheless, even in its autumn clothes Moscow had the ability to inspire him. From this window he could see the cluster of trees where the Moscow River skirted Gorky Park, and beyond that, looking appropriately medieval in the mist, were the domes of St. Basil’s and the Kremlin. In Polyakov’s mind age equalled power, but then he was old.

  “You wanted to see me?” The voice interrupted his musings. A young major in the uniform of the Chief Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff—uncommonly known as the GRU—had entered. He was perhaps thirty-five, a bit old to still hold the rank of major, Polyakov thought, especially with the Hero of the Soviet Union medal. With his classic White Russian features and sandy hair, the man looked like one of those unlikely officers whose pictures appeared on the cover of Red Star every day.

  “Mólniya.” Polyakov elected to use the young officer’s code name rather than Christian name and patronymic. Initial formality was one of the interrogator’s tricks. He held out his hand. The major hesitated, then shook it. Polyakov was pleased to note that Mólniya wore black rubber gloves. So far his information was correct. “Let’s sit down.”

  They faced each other across the polished wood of the conference table. Someone had thoughtfully provided water, which Polyakov indicated. “You have a very pleasant conference room here.”

  “I’m sure it hardly compares with those at Dzerzhinsky Square,” Mólniya shot back with just the proper amount of insolence. Dzerzhinsky Square was the location of KGB headquarters.

  Polyakov laughed. “As a matter of fact it’s identical, thanks to central planning. Gorbachev is doing away with that, I understand.”

  “We’ve been known to read the Politburo’s mail too.”

  “Good. Then you know exactly why I’m here and who sent me.”

  Mólniya and the GRU had been ordered to cooperate with the KGB, and the orders came from the very highest places. That was the slim advantage Polyakov brought to this meeting . . . an advantage that, as the saying went, had all the weight of words written on water . . . since he was an old man and Mólniya was the great Soviet ace.

  “Do you know the name Huntington Sheldon?”

  Mólniya knew he was being tested and said tiredly, “He was CIA director from 1966 to 1972.”

  “Yes, a thoroughly dangerous man . . . and last week’s issue of Time magazine has a picture of him standing right in front of the Lubiyanka—pointing up at the statue of Dzerzhinsky!”

  “Maybe there’s a lesson in that . . . cousin.” Worry about your own security and leave our operations alone!

  “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t had such a spectacular failure.”

  “Unlike the KGB’s perfect record.” Mólniya didn’t try to hide his contempt.

  “Oh, we’ve had our failures, cousin. What’s different about our operations is that they’ve been approved by the Intelligence Council. Now, you’re a Party member. You couldn’t have graduated from the Kharkov Higher Engineering School without being at least slightly familiar with the principles of collective thought. Successes are shared. So are failures. This operation you and Dolgov cooked up—what were you doing, taking lessons from Oliver North?”

  Mólniya flinched at the mention of Dolgov’s name, a state secret and, more importantly, a GRU secret. Polyakov continued, “Are you worried about what we say, Major? Don’t be. This is the cleanest room in the Soviet Union.” He smiled. “My housekeepers swept it. What we say here is between us.

  “So, now, tell me,” Polyakov said, “what the hell went wrong in Berlin?”

  The aftermath of the Hartmann kidnapping had been horrible. Though only a few right-wing German and American newspapers mentioned possible Soviet involvement, the CIA and other Western agencies made the connections. Finding the bodies, even mutilated as
they were, of those Red Army Faction punks had allowed the CIA to backtrack through their residences, cover names, bank accounts, and contacts, destroying in a matter of days a network that had been in place for twenty years. Two military attachés, in Vienna and Berlin, had been expelled, and more were to follow.

  The involvement of the lawyer Prahler in such a brutal and inept affair would make it impossible for other deep-cover agents of his stature to act . . . and make it difficult to recruit new ones.

  And who knew what else the American senator was telling.

  “You know, Mólniya, for years my service ran moles at the very heart of the British intelligence service . . . we even had one who acted as liaison with the CIA.”

  “Philby, Burgess, Maclean, and Blount. And old man Churchill, too, if you believe the Western spy novels. Is there a point to this anecdote?”

  “I’m just trying to give you some idea of the damage you’ve done. Those moles paralyzed the British for over twenty years. That’s what could happen to us . . . to both of us. Your GRU bosses will never admit it; if they do, they certainly won’t discuss it with you. But that’s the mess I’ve got to clean up.

  “Now . . . if you know anything at all about me”—Polyakov was certain that Mólniya knew as much about him as the KGB, which meant that Mólniya did not know one very important thing—“you know that I’m fair. I’m old, I’m fat, I’m faceless . . . but I’m objective. I’m retiring in four months. I have nothing to gain from causing a new war between our two services.”

  Mólniya merely returned his gaze. Well, Polyakov expected as much. The rivalry between the GRU and KGB had been bloody. At various times in the past each service had managed to have the leaders of its rival shot. There is nothing longer than institutional memory.

  “I see.” Polyakov stood up. “Sorry to have troubled you, Major. Obviously the General Secretary was mistaken . . . you have nothing to say to me—”