Ace in the Hole Page 2

  “Oh, Ideal, you’re a goddamn Russian spy in a hotel that’s crawling with Secret Service agents. And you’re in my suite!” Tachyon suddenly pressed a hand to his heart, quieted his breathing, became aware of Blaise listening interestedly. “Go downstairs, and … and…” He dug out his wallet. “And buy a magazine.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “For once in your life don’t argue with me!”

  “Why can’t I stay?” The whine was in place.

  “You’re only a boy. You shouldn’t be involved in this.”

  “A minute ago I was old enough to take an adult interest in adult matters.”

  “Ancestors!” Tachyon dropped onto the sofa, held his head in his hands.

  Polyakov allowed himself a small smile. “Perhaps your grandpapa is right … and this will be boring, Blaise, my child.” He dropped a companionable arm over the boy’s shoulders and urged him to the door. “Go and amuse yourself while your grandpapa and I discuss darker matters.”

  “And stay out of trouble!” Tach yelled as the door closed on Blaise’s heels.

  The alien smeared jam on a croissant. Stared at it. Dropped it back onto the plate. “Why can you handle him better than I can?”

  “You try to love him. I don’t think Blaise responds well to love.”

  “I don’t want to believe that. But what are these dark matters we must discuss?”

  Polyakov dropped into a chair, worried his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. “This convention is critical—”

  “No joke? No pun intended.”

  “Shut up and listen!” And suddenly the voice held all the old steel and command it had possessed those long years ago when Victor Demyenov had picked a drunken and shattered Takisian out of the gutters of Hamburg and trained him in the delicate tradecraft of the modern spy. “I need you to do a job for me.”

  Tachyon backed away, palms out. “No. No more jobs. I’ve already given you more than I should. Let you back into my life, close to my grandson. What more do you want?”

  “Plenty, and I deserve it. You owe me, Dancer. Your omission in London cost me my life, my country. You made me an exile—”

  “Just another something we have in common,” said Tachyon bitterly.

  “Yes. And that boy.” Polyakov gestured toward the door. “And a past that cannot be erased.”

  There was again that nervous worrying of lips between fingers. Tachyon cocked his head curiously, and firmly suppressed a desire to slip beneath the layers of that secretive mind. Takisian protocol dictated that one did not invade the privacy of a friend’s mind. And there was enough friendship left from those years in East and West Berlin to dictate that courtesy. But Tach had never in all the years seen Polyakov so rattled, so jumpy. The alien found himself remembering incidents from the past year: late nights of drinking after Blaise had gone to bed; Polyakov providing an exuberant and uncritical audience as Tach and Blaise had charged through a Brahms Hungarian dance for piano and violin; the times that the Russian had kept Blaise from exercising his terrible power on the helpless humans who surrounded him.

  Tachyon crossed the room, squatted before the old man, rested his arm on Polyakov’s knee for balance. “For once in your life don’t play the enigmatic Russian. Tell me plainly what you want. What you fear.”

  Polyakov suddenly gripped Tachyon’s right hand. PAIN! The bite of fire from within, rushing up his arm, through his body, boiling the blood. Sweat burst from his pores, tears from his eyes. Tach sprawled on his elbows on the floor.

  “BURNING SKY!”

  “An appropriate exclamation,” said Polyakov with a humorless smile. “You Takisians, always so apt.”

  Tachyon scrubbed a handkerchief across his streaming face, but the tears continued to flow. He gulped down a sob.

  The Russian frowned down at him. “What the devil is wrong with you?”

  “You couldn’t just tell me you are an ace?” cried Tach bitterly.

  Polyakov shrugged. Rose and pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. Tachyon’s fingers were closed frenziedly about the sodden mass of his own.

  “What the hell is the matter? I gave you only the merest lick of my fire.”

  “And I am carrying the wild card so your little lick could have triggered the virus.”

  Tachyon found himself crushed into a burly embrace. He fought free, gave his nose a hard blow. “So today is a day for secrets, is it not?”

  “How long?”

  “A year.”

  “If I had known—”

  “I know. I know, you would never have scared me out of a thousand years of life with that little demonstration.” His clothes smelled rankly of sweat and fear. Tachyon began to strip. “So now I know why you are so interested in this convention.”

  “It goes beyond the fact that I am a wild card,” grunted Polyakov. “I am a Russian.”

  “Yes,” Tach threw over his shoulder as he walked into the bathroom. “I know.” The thunder of the water drowned out Polyakov’s words. “WHAT?”

  Grumbling, Polyakov followed him into the bathroom, lowered the toilet cover, and sat. From behind the shrouding curtain Tach heard the clink of metal on glass.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ll take one, too.”

  “It’s eight in the morning.”

  “So we’ll go to hell drunk and together.” Tach accepted the glass, allowed the water to beat on his shoulders while he sipped at the vodka. “You drink too much.”

  “We both drink too much.”

  “True.”

  “There’s an ace at this convention.”

  “There are a shitload of aces at this convention.”

  “A secret ace.”

  “Yes, he’s sitting on my toilet.” Tachyon stuck his head around the curtain. “How long is this going to take? Can’t you be a little less cautious and trust me just a little?”

  Polyakov sighed heavily, stared down at his hands as if counting the hairs on the back of fingers. “Hartmann is an ace.”

  Tach stuck his head back through the shower curtain. “Nonsense.”

  “I tell you it is true.”

  “Proof?”

  “Suspicions.”

  “Not good enough.” Tach shut off the water, and thrust a hand through the curtain. “Towel.” Polyakov dropped one over his arm.

  Stepping from the shower, the alien studied his image in the mirror as he towel dried his shoulder-length red hair. Noted the scars on his left arm and hand where the doctors had repaired the bones crushed in an eleventh-hour rescue of Angelface. The puckered scar on his thigh—legacy of a terrorist’s bullet in Paris. The long scar on the right bicep—memory of a duel with his cousin. “Living takes a hell of a toll, doesn’t it?”

  “Just how old are you?” the Russian asked curiously.

  “Adjusting for Earth’s rotational period; eighty-nine, ninety. Somewhere in there.”

  “I was young when I met you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I am old and fat and in the grip of a terrible fear. You can so easily establish if my fears are real or mere delusions. Probe Hartmann, read him, then act.”

  “Gregg Hartmann is my friend. I don’t probe my friends. I don’t even probe you.”

  “I give you permission to do so. If it will help to convince you.”

  “Ideal, you must be in terror.”

  “I am. Hartmann is … evil.”

  “Odd word from an old material dialectician like yourself.”

  “Nevertheless, it applies.”

  Tachyon shook his head, walked into the bedroom, rummaged in a drawer for fresh underwear. He could sense George behind him, a portly irritating presence. “I don’t believe you.”

  “No, you don’t want to believe me. A fundamental difference. How much do you know of Hartmann’s early life? His passage through this world has left a trail of mysterious deaths and shattered lives. His high school football coa
ch, his college roommate—”

  “So he’s had the misfortune to be on the periphery of violent events. That does not make him an ace. Or would you have him damned by association?”

  “And what of a politician who is kidnapped twice, and escapes both times under mysterious circumstances?”

  “What’s so mysterious? In Syria, Kahina turned upon her brother and stabbed him. In the resulting chaos we escaped. In Germany—”

  “I was working with Kahina.”

  “What!”

  “When I first came to America. Gimli too, that poor fool. Now Gimli is dead, and Kahina has vanished, and I fear she too is dead. She came to America to expose Gregg Hartmann.”

  “So you say.”

  “Tachyon, I don’t lie to you.”

  “No, you merely tell me only as much as suits you.”

  “Gimli suspected, and now he’s dead.”

  “Oh, so now Gregg is responsible for Typhoid Croyd? Gimli died from that virus, not from Gregg Hartmann.”

  “And Kahina?”

  “Show me a body. Show me the proof.”

  “What about Germany?”

  “What about it?”

  “One of the GRU’s top operatives was in charge of that operation, and he ran like a raw recruit. He was manipulated, I tell you!”

  “You tell me! You tell me? You tell me nothing! Just slurs and innuendos. Nothing to back up this fantastic allegation.”

  “What does it cost you to probe him? Read him and prove me wrong.”

  Tachyon’s mouth tightened mulishly.

  “You’re afraid. You’re afraid that what I’m telling you is true. This is not Takisian honor and reticence. This is cowardice.”

  “There are very few men who would be permitted to say that to me, and live.” Tachyon shrugged on his shirt, and resumed in a dry, almost lecturing, tone, “Being an ace you must have considered the political climate. Supposing for the moment that you are correct and Gregg Hartmann is a secret ace—so what? There is nothing very suspicious in a man with political aspirations hiding his wild card. This is not France, where it is the height of chic to be an ace. You damn him for keeping a secret that you have kept all your life?”

  “He’s a killer, Tachyon, I know it. That’s why he is hiding.”

  “The hounds are gathering, George. They’re snapping at our heels. Soon they will want to taste blood. Gregg Hartmann is our only hope to keep the hate at bay. If we smear Hartmann, we open the way for Barnett and the crazies. You’ll be all right. You can hide behind that bland, ordinary face. But what of the others? What of my bastard stepchildren waiting in the park, their deformities obvious for all the world to see? What do I tell them? That the man who has protected and defended them for twenty years is evil and must be destroyed because he might be an ace, and because he kept it secret?”

  Tachyon’s eyes widened as he considered a new possibility. “My god, this might be why you were sent here. To bring down the candidate that the Kremlin fears. A Hartmann presidency—”

  “What is this nonsense? Have you taken to reading sensational spy fiction? I fled for my life. Even the Kremlin thinks I’m dead.”

  “How can I believe you? Why should I trust you?”

  “Only you can answer those questions. Nothing I say or do will convince you. I’ll say only one thing—I would hope that this past year would have at least demonstrated that I am not your enemy.”

  Polyakov walked to the door.

  “That’s it?”

  “It seems pointless to continue a circular argument.”

  “You waltz in here, and calmly announce that Gregg Hartmann is a killer ace, and then waltz back out again?”

  “I’ve given you all that I have. Now it’s up to you, Dancer.” He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, then added, “But if you don’t act, be warned—I shall.”

  After Jack crossed the street, he realized he didn’t have to deal with the July heat any longer: he could get back to the Marriott by way of Peachtree Mall. The conditioned air was a relief. He rode the escalator to the top level and came face-to-face with a group of Charismatic Catholics for Barnett, all walking circles, counting their rosaries, and chanting the Hail Mary while wearing posterboards with their candidate’s picture. STOP WILD CARD VIOLENCE, some signs said. This week’s cover slogan for Put wild cards in concentration camps.

  Weird, Jack thought. Barnett professed the Roman Church a tool of Satan, and here they were praying for him.

  He passed by. Sweat cooled on his forehead. Two black kids loaded with Jesse Jackson buttons were throwing large foam-plastic gliders back and forth. Delegates in silly hats mobbed the restaurants, looking for breakfast.

  One of the gliders fluttered toward Jack, heading for the pavement. Jack grinned and snatched it from the air before it hit the floor. He cocked his arm to throw it back to its owner, and then stopped and stared at the glider in surprise.

  The foam glider had been created in the image of Peregrine, her wings outspread to almost two feet. The famous bosom, which Jack had gazed at on many memorable occasions aboard the Stacked Deck, was rendered in loving detail. Only the tail structure, presumably required for proper aerodynamics, was nonanatomical. Small letters were printed on the tail: Flying Ace Gliders (R), they said, collect them all.

  Jack wondered if Peregrine was getting any royalties.

  The two kids stood about fifteen yards away, waiting for their glider. Jack cocked his hand back and threw, the same motion he’d used playing football years ago, and added just a touch of his power. A mild golden aura flickered from his body. The glider fired in a fast, straight line, the length of the mall, buzzing like an insect in flight.

  The kids stared, first at the glider, then at Jack, then at the glider again. Then they took off, running after their Peregrine.

  People were staring. Jack felt a delirious rise of optimism. Maybe returning to public life wasn’t going to be so bad. He laughed and loped up the mall again.

  On the way he met the glider-seller, his samples assembled on a folding table in front of him. Jack recognized J.J. Flash and Jetboy’s JB-1. There was one Frisbee-like object obviously intended as the Turtle.

  Jack showed his ID and room key to the police cordoning off the Marriott and walked into the cavernous venturi shape of the atrium. The Marriott was Hartmann headquarters, and almost all the people in sight were wearing Hartmann regalia. Flying Ace gliders, thrown from the balconies above, swooped in daring loops above their heads. Off out of sight, someone was playing charge on a portable organ.

  Jack stepped to the desk to see if anyone had left any messages. Charles Devaughn wanted him to call; so did one of the Georgia starlets. Which one, Jack tried to recall, was Bobbie? The stacked redhead? Or was it the blond chain-gang woman who spent half the party talking about her expensive dental implants and demonstrating her anticellulite exercises?

  There wasn’t likely to be any time at this convention for a personal life anyway.

  Jack put the messages in his pocket and turned away from the desk. A Flying Ace glider spun into the ground before his feet. He automatically reached down to pick it up, saw the molded white scarf, flyer’s helmet, leather jacket.

  Jack stared for a long moment, the glider hanging from his hand. Hello, Earl, he thought.

  For a while he’d thought it would really be okay. He’d reached a truce with Tachyon; maybe Gregg Hartmann could talk old diehards like Hiram Worchester around. Maybe everyone else had forgotten the Four Aces, and HUAC, and Jack’s betrayal; maybe he could step out in public and do something worthwhile without messing up, without being haunted by reminders of the past.

  Better straighten up, farm boy. Funny how after all these years he still knew exactly what Earl Sanderson would say.

  Jack rose to his full height and looked over the heads of the crowd, wondering if someone out there had meant the glider to fall where it did, wanted to remind him that everything hadn’t been forgotten. Jack must have looked ri
diculous enough, heaven knows, hunched over the glider with his guilty conscience welling out of his face, and the effigy of his friend and victim dangling from his paw.

  Bye, Earl, he thought. Take care, now.

  He cocked his arm back and fired. The glider whirred as it rose into the atrium, rising forever until it was lost to sight.

  Gregg could feel the hunger.

  It had nothing to do with politics or the expectation that by the end of this week he could well be the Democratic nominee.

  Coming down in the Marriott elevator for his breakfast meeting with Jack Braun and Hiram Worchester, the hunger burned in his gut like glowing phosphorus—a pulsing violence that a few croissants and coffee would never touch.

  The hunger was Puppetman’s, and it demanded pain.

  His face must have reflected some of the inner struggle. His aide, Amy Sorenson, leaned toward him and touched his shoulder hesitantly. “Sir…?”

  Billy Ray, assigned to Hartmann’s personal security for the convention, glanced over the shoulder of his spotless white Carnifex uniform from the front of the elevator. Gregg forced a yawn and a professional smile. “Just tired, Amy. That’s all. It’s been a long campaign and, by god, it’ll be a longer week. Give me a few cups of coffee and I’ll be fine. Ready to face the hordes.” Amy grinned; Billy Ray returned his solemn attention to the door, ignoring the view of the Marriott Marquis’s immense and surreal lobby.

  “Ellen wasn’t having trouble, was she?”

  “No, no.” Gregg watched the lobby floor rise toward them. A large foam glider spiraled lazily past them toward the crowded restaurant below. As the elevator passed it in mid-flight, Gregg could see that the body was that of a woman with bird-shaped wings. The features looked suspiciously like Peregrine’s. Now that he’d noticed the first one, Gregg saw that there were several more of the gliders performing acrobatics above the lobby. “She hasn’t had morning sickness since the first trimester. We’re both fine. Just tired.”

  “You’ve never told me—do you want a boy or a girl?”

  “It doesn’t matter. As long as it’s healthy.”

  The floor indicators flickered down. Gregg’s ears popped with the pressure change. Inside, Puppetman snarled. You’re not fine. Give me a few cups of coffee … The presence radiated disgust. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? Do you know how long it’s been?