Aces Abroad wc-4

by George R. R. Martin

  "Then she is here?"

  "Oh, mais oui. She is on the third floor-"

  "Will you get her for me?" Tachyon gave the girl his best come-hither smile.

  "Monsieur, she is working," protested the desk clerk. " I only require a moment of her time."

  "Monsieur, I cannot have a cleaning woman in the lobby of the Intercontinental." It was almost a wail.

  "Blood's end! Then I'll go to her."

  Danelle was bundling sheets into a hamper. Gasped when she saw him, tried to bull past him using her cleaning cart as a battering ram. He danced aside and caught her by the wrist.

  "We must talk." He was grinning like a fool. "I'm working."

  "Take the day off."

  "I'll lose my job."

  "You're not going to need this job any longer."

  "Oh, why not?"

  A man and his wife stepped out of their room and stared curiously at the couple.

  "This won't do."

  She eyed him, checked her cheap wristwatch. "It's almost my break. I'll meet you at the Cafe Morens just down from the hotel on the Rue du Juillet. Buy me some cigarettes and my usual."

  "Which is?"

  "They'll know. I always take my break there."

  He took her face between his hands and kissed her. Smiled at her confused expression.

  "What has happened with you?"

  "I'll tell you at the cafe."

  As he hurried back through the lobby he saw the desk clerk just hanging up the phone in one of the public booths. The young blond woman waved and called, "Did you find her?"

  "Oh, yes. Thank you very much."

  Tachyon fidgeted at one of the tiny tables that had been squeezed out front of the cafe. The street was so narrow that the parked cars had two wheels cocked up on the sidewalks.

  Dani arrived and lit a Gauloise. "So what is this all about?"

  "You lied to me." He shook a finger coyly under her nose. "Our daughter is not dead. At Versailles… that was not a wild card, it was my blood kin. I don't blame you for wanting to hurt me, but let me make it up to you. I'll get you both back to America."

  A small car was gunning down the street. As it swept past, the chatter of automatic weapon fire echoed off the gray stone buildings. Danelle jerked in the chair. Tachyon caught her, flung them both down behind one of the parked cars. A white-hot poker burned through his thigh, and his elbow hit the sidewalk with a jarring crack. He lay frozen, cheek pressed to the pavement, something warm running over his hand. His leg had gone numb.

  Danelle's breath was rattling in her throat. Tachyon took her mind. Gisele appeared. Reflected a million times over in a million different memories. Gisele. A brilliant firefly presence.

  Desperately he reached after her, but she was receding, a lost and elusive magic among the darkening pathways of her dying mother's mind.

  Danelle died. Gisele died.

  But had left a part of herself. A son. Tach clung to her, violating every rule of advanced mentatics by holding to a dying mind. Panic seized him, and he fled back from that terrifying boundary.

  In the physical world the air was filled with the undulating wail of sirens. Oh, ancestors, what to do? Be found here with a murdered hotel maid? Ludicrous. There would be questions to be answered. They would learn of his grandchild. And if wild cards were a national treasure, how much more a treasure was a part-blood Takisian?

  The pain was beginning. Tachyon experimentally moved the leg and found that the bullet had missed the bone. The effort had popped sweat and filled the back of his throat with bile. How could he possibly reach the Ritz? He tightened his jaw. Because he was a prince of the house Ilkazam. It's only two blocks, he thought encouragingly.

  He laid Danelle gently aside, folded her hands on her bosom, kissed her forehead. Mother of my child. Later he would mourn her properly. But first came vengeance.

  The bullet had passed cleanly through the fleshy part of his thigh. There wasn't much blood. Yet. As he walked it began to pump. Camouflage, something to hide the wound just long enough to get past the desk and up to his room. He checked in parked cars. A folded newspaper. And the window was open. Not perfect, but good enough. Now he just had to find enough control not to limp those few steps from the front door to the elevator.

  Piece of cake, as Mark would say. Training was everything. And blood. Blood would always tell.

  He had taken a stab at sleeping, but it had been useless. Finally at six Jack Braun kicked aside the entangling bed clothes, stripped off sweat-soaked pajamas, dressed, and went in search of food.

  Five months of hunched shoulders and nervous backward glances. Five months in which he had never spoken. Refused to grant him even eye contact. Had the hope of rehabilitation really been worth this amount of hell?

  The Swarm invasion was to blame. It had pulled him back, out of the womb of real estate and California evenings and poolside sex. Here was a real crisis. No ace, no matter how tainted, would be unwelcome. And he'd done good, stomping all over monsters in Kentucky and Texas. And he'd discovered something interesting. Most of the new young aces didn't know who the hell he was. A few, Hiram Worchester, the Turtle, had known and it had mattered. But it was bearable. So maybe there was a way to come back. To be a hero again.

  Hartmann had announced the world tour.

  Jack had always admired Hartmann. Admired the way he'd led the fight to repeal certain parts of the Exotic Powers Control Act. He'd called the senator and offered to foot part of the bill. Money was always welcome to a politician, even if it wasn't being used to finance a campaign. Jack found himself on the plane.

  And most of it hadn't been bad. There'd been plenty of action with women-most notably with Fantasy. They had lain in bed one night in Italy, and she'd told him with vicious wit about Tachyon's impotency. And he'd laughed, too loud and too long. Trying to diminish Tachyon. Trying to make him less of a threat.

  Over the years he'd absorbed a bit about Takisian culture from the interviews he'd read. Vengeance was definitely part of the code. So he'd watched his back and waited for Tachyon to act. And nothing had happened.

  The strain was killing him. And then had come last night.

  He smeared butter on the last roll in the bread basket, washed down the hard crusted bite with a sip of the unbelievably strong French coffee. He sure wished these Frenchies had a concept of a real breakfast. He could order an American breakfast of course, but the cost was as unbelievable as the coffee. This basket of dry bread and coffee was costing him ten dollars. Add in some eggs and bacon, and the cost soared to near thirty dollars. For breakfast!

  Suddenly the absurdity of the thought struck him. He was a rich man, not a Depression farm boy from North Dakota. His contribution to this tour had been big enough to buy him a piece of the big 747, or at least the jet fuel to fly it-

  Tachyon was entering the hotel, and the hair on the nape of Jack's neck prickled. The door of the small restaurant gave him only a limited view, and soon the alien was out of sight. Jack felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax, and with a sigh he lifted a finger and ordered a full American breakfast.

  Tachyon had looked funny. Fork moved mechanically from plate to mouth. Holding himself real stiff. Folded newspaper along his thigh like a soldier on dress parade. None of his business what the bastard was getting up to.

  But last night was his business.

  Anger ate through his belly like a physical pain. Sure the bomb couldn't have hurt him, but he took my mind. Casually, like a man tasting a mint. Reducing him in an instant from man to object.

  Jack mopped up the last of the yolk while anger and outrage grew. God damn it! It was stupid to be scared of a pint-size fairy in fancy dress.

  Not scared, Jack's mind quickly amended. He'd stayed away from the alien out of politeness, an acknowledgment of how much Tachyon hated him. But now Tachyon had changed the rules. He'd taken his mind. That he wasn't going to allow to pass.

  They looked like two little red mouths. Bullet in, bullet
out. Tach, seated in his undershorts, jabbed in a hypodermic, depressed the plunger, waited for the painkiller to take effect. Just for good measure he'd given himself a tetanus shot and an injection of penicillin. Spent hypos littered the table, a gauze pad lay ready, a roll of cotton.. But for the moment he would let it seep. And do some hard thinking.

  So Danelle had not lied. She had just not told all. Gisele was dead. The question was, how? Or did that matter? Probably not. What mattered was that she had married and borne a son. My grandson. And he had to be found.

  And the father? Well, what of him? Assuming he was still alive, he was no fit guardian for the boy. The father-or unknown others-were manipulating this Takisian gift to spread terror.

  So where to start? Undoubtedly at Danelle's apartment. Then to the hall of records to search for the marriage license and birth certificate.

  But that attack on Danelle and himself had been no accident. They, whoever they were, were watching. So, however distasteful, he was going to have to make an effort to blend in.

  Braun spent a few moments dithering in the hall. But outrage won over prudence. He tested the door, found it locked, gave a hard twist, and broke the knob. Stepped over the threshold and froze in astonishment at the sight of Tachyon, scissors at the ready, seated in the midst of a circle of snipped red locks.

  The Takisian gaped back, a final hank of that improbable hair clutched in a hand.

  "How dare you!"

  "What in the hell are you doing?"

  As their first exchange in almost forty years, it seemed to lack something.

  In quick flicks like the shuttering of a camera, the rest of the scene came into focus. Jack's forefinger shot out. "That's a bullet wound."

  "Nonsense." The gauze was laid quickly over the white thigh with its peppering of red-gold hairs. "Now get out of my room."

  "Not until I have some answers out of you. Who the hell has been shooting at you?" He snapped his fingers. "The bomb at Versailles. You've got a line into the people-"

  "NO!" Far too quick and far too strong. "Have you told the authorities?"

  "There is no need. This is not a bullet wound. I know nothing of the terrorists." The scissors sawed viciously through the last piece of hair. It fluttered to the floor, ironically forming a shape very reminiscent of a question mark.

  "Why are you cutting your hair?"

  "Because I feel like it! Now get out before I take your mind and make you go."

  "You do, and I'll come back and break your damn neck. You've never forgiven me-"

  "You have that right!"

  "You threw a goddamm bomb at me!"

  "Unfortunately I knew it wouldn't hurt you."

  The long slender fingers played about his cropped head, fluttering among the curls until they clustered about his face. It had the effect of making him appear suddenly very young.

  Braun stepped in on him, rested his hands on either arm of the chair, effectively trapping Tachyon. "This tour is important. If you get up to some crazy stunt, it could damage everybody's reputation. You I don't give a damn about, but Gregg Hartmann is important."

  The alien looked away and gazed woodenly out the window. Despite being clad only in shirt and shorts he managed to make it seem regal.

  "I'll go to Hartmann."

  There was a flicker of alarm deep in the lilac eyes, quickly suppressed. "Fine, go. Anything to be rid of you." Silence stretched between them. Suddenly Braun asked, "Are you in trouble?" No reply. "If you are, tell me. Maybe I can help."

  The long lashes lifted, and Tachyon looked him fully in the eyes. There was nothing young about the narrow face now. It looked as cold and old and as implacable as death. "I've had enough of your help for one lifetime, thank you."

  Jack almost ran from the room.

  Tachyon pulled off the soft brown fedora and crumpled it agitatedly in his hands. The tiny two-room flat looked as if it had been struck by a cyclone. Drawers stood open, a cheap picture frame stood forlornly empty on a scarred table. What had it held that was so significant it had to be removed? The police? he wondered. No, they would have been more careful. So Dani's killers had been here, and the police were yet to come, which meant Tach had to hurry. The newly purchased jeans felt stiff against his skin, and he tugged fretfully at the crotch while he riffled through the paperbacks that littered the front room.

  A faint rasp sounded from the bedroom. Tachyon froze, crept cat-footed to the hot plate, and lifted the knife lying next to it. In a quick rush he crossed the room and pressed himself against the wall, ready to stab whatever came through the connecting door.

  Careful, quiet footsteps, but enough vibration for Tach to tell that his opponent was big. Two sets of soft breaths from either side of the wall. Tach held his, waited. The man came through the door in a rush; Tachyon lunged in low, ready to drive the blade up beneath the ribs. The blade snapped, and gold light flashed across the dingy apartment walls. Jack Braun, forming his hand into a gun, placed his forefinger firmly between Tachyon's eyes, "Bang, bang, you're dead."

  "GOD DAMN YOU!" In a blaze of temper he flung the broken knife against the wall. "What are you doing here?"

  "I followed you."

  "I never saw you!"

  " I know. I'm pretty good at this." The implication was clear.

  "Why can't you just leave… me… alone?"

  "Because you're getting in way over your head."

  "I can take care of myself"

  A derisive snort.

  "If it hadn't been you, I'd have taken you out," Tach cried.

  "Yeah? And what if there'd been more than one? Or if they'd had guns?"

  " I don't have time to discuss this with you. The police may be here any minute," the alien threw over his shoulder as he stormed into the bedroom and continued his search.

  "Police! HOLD IT! What is going on? Why the police?"

  "Because the woman who lived in this flat was murdered this morning."

  "Oh, great. And why does this involve you?" Tachyon's mouth tightened mulishly. Braun gathered up the front of the alien's shirt, hefted him off the ground, and held him at eye level, noses almost touching. "Tachyon." It was a warning rumble.

  "It's a private matter."

  "Not if the police are involved it isn't."

  "I can handle it myself."

  " I don't think so. You couldn't even spot me." Tachyon sulked. "Tell me what's going on. I just might help you."

  "Oh, very well," he snapped pettishly. "I'm searching for any clue as to the whereabouts of my grandson."

  That took some explaining. Tachyon fired out the tale in quick staccato sentences while they finished pawing through the jumble, turning up absolutely nothing.

  "So you see, I have to find him first and get him out of the country before the French authorities realize what they possess," he concluded, laying his hand on the doorknob. And heard a key rasp in the lock.

  "Oh, shit," whispered Tach. "Police?" mouthed Jack. "Undoubtedly," the Takisian mouthed back.

  "Fire escape." Jack pointed back over his shoulder. They fled.

  "Let's see what we've got." Braun paused to light a cigarette. Tachyon stopped wolfing down his enormous and very belated lunch and fished the paper from his jeans. Tossed it, only to have it land fluttering in the mustard jar. "God damn it, be careful," said Jack, aggrieved, and mopped at the paper with his napkin.

  Tachyon continued to shovel it in. With an annoyed grunt the ace pulled out a pair of reading glasses and peered at the Takisians florid hand:

  Gisele Bacourt wed Frangois Andrieux in a civil ceremony on December 5th, 1971.

  One child, Blaise Jeannot Andrieux, born May 7, 1975. Gisele Andrieux killed in a shoot-out with industrialist Simon de Montfort's personal bodyguard, November 28, 1984. Both husband and wife were members of the French Communist Party.

  Franrcois Andrieux had been pulled in for questioning, but was released when nothing conclusive could be found. They had tried the simple expedient of checking the phone b
ook, and-not surprisingly-Andrieux had not been listed. Jack sighed, rocked back in his chair, and returned his glasses to his shirt pocket. The Eiffel Tower cast an elongated shadow across the outdoor cafe.

  "It's getting late, and we've got that dinner at the Tour Eiffel."

  "I'm not going."

  "Oh?"

  "No, I'm going to go talk to Claude Bonnell."

  "Who?"

  "Bonnell, Bonnell! Le Miroir, you know?".. Why?

  "Because he's a major figure in the Communist Party. He may be able to obtain Andrieux's address for me."

  "And if that fails?" The smoke from the cigarette formed a loop in the air between them.

  " I don't want to think about that."

  "Well, you better, if you really want to find this guy."

  "So what's your suggestion?"

  "Try tracing the materials used in the bomb. They had to buy the stuff somewhere."

  Tach made a face. "Sounds slow and tedious."

  "It is."

  "Then I'll pin my hope on Bonnell."

  "Fine, you hope, and I'll pursue my bomb idea. Of course, how we're going to get that information I'm not certain. I suppose you could always go to see Rochambeau and pick his brains…"

  Tachyon steepled his fingers before his face and peered speculatively over the top at Jack. "I have a better idea."

  "What?"

  "Don't sound so suspicious. You and Billy Ray could talk to Rochambeau about the bomb. Say that you think it was meant for the senator-it might have been for all we knowsuggest that you pool information."

  "Might work." Jack ground out the cigarette. "Billy Ray is a justice Department ace, and Hartmann's bodyguard. 'Course he's bound to ask why I'm involved."

  "Just tell him it's because you're Golden Boy." And the tone was undiluted acid.

  Bonnell's dressing room backstage at the Lido was typical. The strong odor of cold cream, greasepaint, and hair spray overlaying the fainter scents of old sweat and stale perfume.

  Tachyon straddled a chair, arms resting along the back, and watched the joker put the final touches on his makeup. "Could you hand, me my ruff?"

  Bonnell clasped it about his neck, rose, took one final critical look at the black and white harlequin costume, and settled back into the battered wooden chair.