Wild Cards: Aces Abroad

by George R. R. Martin

  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 Takisian’s florid hand:

  Gisele Bacourt wed François 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.

  François 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 book, 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 café.

  “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 know—suggest 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.

  “All right, Doctor. I’m ready. Now tell me what I can do for you.”

  “I need a favor.” They spoke in French.

  “Which is?”

  “Do you have membership lists—addresses—for your members?”

  “I assume we’re speaking of the Party.”

  “Oh, forgive me. Yes.”

  “And to answer you, yes, we do.”

  Bonnell was not helping him any. Tach plowed awkwardly on. “Could you obtain an address for me?”

  “That would depend on what you want it for.”

  “Nothing nefarious, I assure you. A personal matter.”

  “Hmmm.” Bonnell straightened the already meticulously arranged pots and tubes on his dressing table. “Doctor, you presume a great deal. We have met only once, yet you come to me asking for private information. And if I were to ask you why?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “I rather thought that would be your answer. So I’m afraid I really must refuse.”

  Exhaustion, tension, and the throbbing ache from his leg slammed down like a curling storm wave. Tach laid his head on his arms. Fought tears. Considered just giving up. A gentle but firm hand caught his chin and forced his head up.

  “This really means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?”

  “More than you can know.”

  “So tell me so I will know. Can’t you trust me? Just a little?”

  “I lived in Paris long ago. Have you been a communist for long?” he asked abruptly

  “Ever since I was able to comprehend politics.”

  “Then I’m surprised I didn’t meet you all those long years ago. I knew them all. Thorenz, Lena Goldoni . . . Danelle.”

  “I wasn’t in Paris then. I was still in Marseilles getting the crap beat out of me by my supposedly normal neighbors.” His smile was bitter. “France has not always been so kind to her wild cards.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why should you be?”

  “Because it’s my fault.”

  “That’s an exceedingly silly and self-indulgent attitude.”

  “Thank you so very much.”

  “The past is dead, buried, and gone forever past recall. Only the present and the future matter, Doctor.”

  “And I think that’s a silly and simplistic attitude. The actions of the past have consequences for the present and the future. Thirty-six years ago I came to this country broken and bitter. I slept with a young girl. Now I return to find that I left a more permanent mark on this place than I had thought. I sired a child who was born, lived, and died without my ever knowing of her existence. I could curse her mother for that, and yet perhaps she was wise. For the first thirteen years of Gisele’s life her father was a drunken derelict. What could I have given her?” He paced away and stood rigidly regarding a wall. Then whirled and rested his shoulders against the cool plaster.

  “I lost my chance with her, but the Ideal has granted me another. She had a son, my grandchild. And I want him.”

  “And the father?”

  “Is a member of your party.”

  “You say you want him. What? You would steal hi
m from his father?”

  Tach rubbed wearily at his eyes. Forty-eight hours without sleep was taking its toll. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. All I want is to see him, to hold him, to look into the face of my future.”

  Bonnell slapped his hands onto his thighs and pushed up from the chair. “C’est bien, Doctor. A man deserves a chance to look upon the intersection of his past, present, and future. I will find you this man.”

  “Just give his address, there’s no reason for you to be involved.”

  “He might take fright. I can reassure him, set up a meeting. His name—?”

  “François Andrieux.”

  Bonnell noted it. “Very good. So, I will speak to this man, and then I will ring you at the Ritz—”

  “I’m no longer staying there. You can reach me at the Lys on the Left Bank.”

  “I see. Any particular reason?”

  “No.”

  “I must work on that innocent expression. It is very charming, if not terribly convincing.” Tachyon flushed, and Bonnell laughed. “There, there, don’t take offense. You’ve told me enough of your secrets tonight. I won’t press you for any more.”

  The junket was dining at the expensive Tour Eiffel.

  Tachyon, leaning on the rail of the observation deck, fidgeted and waited for Braun to emerge. Through the windows of the restaurant he could see that the party had reached the brandy-coffee-cigars-speeches stage. The door opened, and Mistral, gig­gling, darted out. She was followed by Captain Donatien Racine, one of France’s more prominent aces. His sole power was flight, but that coupled with the fact he was career military had ensured that the press dubbed him Tricolor. It was a name he hated.

  Gripping the American about her slender waist, Racine carried them over the protective railing. Mistral gave him a quick kiss, pushed free of his encircling arm, and floated away on the gentle breezes that sighed about the tower. Her great blue-and-silver cape spread around her until she resembled an exotic moth drawn by the glittering lights webbing the tower. Watching the couple darting and swooping in an intricate game of tag, Tachyon suddenly felt very weary and very old and very earth-bound.