Wild Cards 15 - Black Trump Page 8

  "... Agent April Harvest," he heard Barnett's words again as he took her hand in his. Her handshake was cool and firm. Much, he imagined, as the feel of her body would be, knees to breasts, pressed against his. "She'll be in charge of the operation."

  Cool to begin with, but -

  "What?" Ray's sudden fantasy was interrupted by harsh reality. He turned to face Barnett. "What?"

  "I said that Agent Harvest will be in charge of the operation to find Senator Hartmann."

  "Are you serious?" He looked back at her with a frown. "Is she out of high school yet?"

  Harvest pulled her hand from Ray's grasp. "I'm twenty-four years old, Mr. Ray, and I've been in government service since I graduated from college. Princeton."

  "Well, let's give you a kiss on the cheek and a medal! Twenty-four!"

  "Agent Ray," Barnett said, allowing more than a hint of severity to creep into his voice. "Sit down." Ray did, reluctantly. Harvest took the chair next to his. Ray was so disgruntled that he didn't even glance at her legs as she settled down. "If you'd been successful in your last mission the urgency of this one wouldn't be so great."

  "It wasn't my fault," Ray muttered.

  "Hmmmm," Harvest said.

  Barnett waved his hand. "Whatever. We're not interested in apportioning blame here."

  No, Ray thought. You've already pinned it all on me.

  "We're concerned about the future." Barnett leaned forward, a concerned look on his face. "We must move quickly to capture those who know about the Black Trump. We can't let knowledge of the virus leak to the populace. Think of the riots that would happen if the unfortunate citizens of Jokertown should learn of the existence of the Black Trump. Think of the damage to property and life alike." Barnett turned his attention to Harvest. "Agent Harvest has already led an operation to that end. In fact, I'm eager to hear her report.

  "The dragnet was generally successful," she said crisply. "Most of the targets have been placed in protective custody on Governor's Island."

  "Including Hartmann?" Callendar asked.

  "Well, no." A hint of annoyance crept into Harvest's voice. "He escaped, along with his companion, Hannah Davis. I've just received word that we picked up Davis, but Hartmann remains at large. The joker known as Quasiman also escaped, but he's not too much of a threat to reveal information about the Trump." She hesitated. "We also lost the carder once known as Snotman, now the Reflector. We're not quite sure what happened to him."

  Barnett waved his hand. "He's a minor player. The one that concerns me is Hartmann." He turned his full attention to Ray. "So you see, your mission becomes even more valuable. You must bring in Hartmann and all others he might have told about the Trump. We can't have them running around, spreading wild rumors."

  "Certainty not, sir," Harvest said.

  "But they're not rumors," Ray interjected.

  "We know that," Barnett said. "But the effect would be the same, whether this Trump exists or not - "

  "It exists," Ray said flatly. "I've seen the results."

  "Whatever. The existence of the Trump is to be kept top secret. It is not to be discussed, hinted at, or supposed about. Officially, it does not exist. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir," Harvest said.

  "Agent Ray?"

  Ray looked at the President for a long moment, then he nodded. You bastard, he thought. I'm glad I never bothered to vote.

  "Good." Barnett nodded decisively. He picked up the dossier on the presidential desk, stood and handed it to Harvest. "You'll need this. It's all the information we've been able to gather about Hartmann and his movements in the past few weeks."

  Harvest took the file. "Thank you, sir."

  Barnett came around the desk. "One last thing, before you go."

  Ray watched in horror as Barnett got down on his knees on the rug in front of his desk. "Pray with me. Pray with me for the success of your mission and the fate of this great country that's been given to my keeping."

  Callendar got down on his knees next to the President and Harvest joined him. Barnett looked expectantly at Ray.

  "Well - "

  Barnett gripped Ray's wrist. He was surprisingly strong, but Ray could have easily pulled free. Somehow, though, that didn't seem like the thing to do. "Pray with me, son, for your success and the soul of this great nation."

  Ray got down on his knees, surreptitiously scanning the rug to make sure it was clean. The last thing he wanted was stains on his trousers.

  "All right," he said. He bowed his head but still kept an eye on his commander-in-chief. If he starts talking in tongues, Ray said to himself, I'm out of here.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Fridays for mosques, Saturday schul, Sunday church. Subtle Scents ran twelve hours a day, Monday through Thursday, with optional shifts on the three weekend days. Mondays, everybody worked. Zoe finished a Monday shift and marched home, thinking of a hot shower and an early bedtime. The smell of sizzling butter met her halfway up the stairs.

  "Blintzes for dinner, mama?" she asked and stopped short with the door half open.

  A thin Robert Bedford type, blond, mustached, and at ease, sat at the tiny table. He was grinning hugely, and scarfing down a stack of blintzes between smiles. The table held a half-gallon of orange juice, a pot of coffee, and a nearly empty quart jar of Anne's hoarded Hungarian cherry preserves.

  "When you wake up, it's breakfast," Anne said.

  "Hello, Zoe," Croyd said.

  Zoe dropped her purse on the floor and sat down at the table. She looked him over, unable to stop herself, looked for horns or a tail or feelers, whatever. Needles had told her stories about Croyd that she wasn't sure sure she wanted to believe. He was thin, yes, and he had a prodigious appetite, but the parts of him she could see looked nat.

  "Hi."

  "Another batch, Mr. Crenson?" Anne asked.

  "No, thank you. This last dozen should be enough to take the edge off."

  "Dozen?" Zoe asked.

  "He has a good appetite," Anne said.

  "Where are the kids?"

  "Busy," Anne said. "Busy and fed. They ate early."

  If Anne didn't like where they were, Zoe would have heard it in her voice. They were somewhere, they were okay.

  "Some for you, Zoe?" Anne asked.

  "Two."

  Anne handed over a plate with three blintzes. Zoe scraped the last of the sour cream from a depleted carton on them and tucked in. They were very, very good.

  Croyd attacked his plate, and while he ate he went through some funny facial stuff. A sort of tic, Zoe thought, but it might have been facial exercises. She couldn't tell. Anne made suds in the tiny sink and washed the mixing bowl.

  Anne looked good. The docs were calling it remission. Her hair was growing back, the thick lovely hair that she had lost with the chemo. And she looked oifferent with a nat-style torso, two breasts, fake but shapely. She wasn't even unhappy about the line of scars where her other five pairs of breasts had been.

  Humming a tune. Zoe hadn't seen her this happy - since she cooked for Bjorn. Zoe swallowed coffee and tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.

  Croyd polished off the late plate of blintzes, drank down the juice, chased it with coffee, and got up. He brought his empty, make that gleaming, plate to Anne.

  "Excellent blintzes. Wonderful blintzes. The best blintzes I have ever had." He bent and kissed Anne's cheek, as if he were a son, a long-lost member of the family. Anne just glowed.

  "I like a little exercise when I wake up," Croyd said. "Is it spring?"

  "It's May," Anne said.

  "Good. I need to walk. Come with me, Zoe." He twisted his hands in odd circles, stared at his palms, lifted up on his toes as if he were trying to fly. Weird.

  "Uh ..."

  "Please?"

  Well. She might just be inclined to follow that grin almost anywhere, and she didn't want his twitchy behavior to disturb Anne.

  "Sure."

  Zoe gave her plate to Anne and hugged her.


  Croyd hurried toward the souk at a fast pace, his hands in his pockets, alert, watchful. He sniffed at the air as if to catch every scent.

  "So those were blintzes," Croyd said. "I've never had blintzes before."

  "Did you like them?" Zoe asked.

  "Yeah."

  She was glad she had her sneakers on. They were moving at almost a trot.

  "What's the hurry?" Zoe asked.

  "I'm hungry," Croyd said. He looked up at the rooftops along the narrow street and suddenly swerved to get close to the wall. "We're being watched."

  "Yeah. Fist guards." She couldn't see anything, just purple twilight and a clear sky. "They watch everything."

  "I don't like it."

  "They're on our side, Croyd."

  She followed him under a vendor's awning. On our side? Well, yes, maybe. The bastards. She'd been unable to figure out a safe way to contact them again. They weren't exactly in the phone book, and she didn't think another trip to the Gate was a good idea.

  Needles hadn't said a word to her since her visit to the Gate. He was trying to be subtle about it, but he just wasn't around when Zoe was awake. Angelfish had found things to say to her, had been very nice the last few days, had been available to chat, which wasn't like him at all. Guarding Needles from her, her from Needles. But Needles looked okay. Sort of.

  Croyd bought three skewers of shaslik, lamb and peppers and tomatoes, richly spiced, dripping and grilled almost black. He dipped the sticks in a paper cup of yogurt sauce and munched them down. "Want one?" he asked.

  "No, thanks. Why were you wiggling around at home?"

  "Checking to see what powers I've got this time."

  "Did you find out?"

  "Nope." He turned to the vendor and thanked him effusively in a language Zoe had never heard. The old man bowed, slapped Croyd on the back, and replied at length, smiling a gap-toothed smile.

  Croyd did a little bow, one of those maneuvers with gestures toward his forehead, heart, and middle. He handed over the skewers and grabbed Zoe's hand, pulling her toward the back of the stall and through a gloomy doorway.

  "Well," Croyd said. "I never spoke Basque before."

  "Basque?" Zoe asked, but they were in a dim space filled with brass and carpets, and Croyd was chatting with a very large man dressed in a caftan of a most violent shade of purple. Something went from Croyd's hand to his, and something went in Croyd's pocket.

  Out the back door, into an alley, through another door, and then another, Zoe had never known the Joker Quarter to have so many passageways, or so many places to eat.

  Croyd tried a piece of baklava and then bought a pan of it. He ate cucumbers, tomatoes, scallions dressed with oil and coriander at another stall.

  "Do you always eat like this?" Zoe asked.

  "When I wake up, yeah." He stopped to buy something wrapped in soft, puffy flatbread, something that reeked of garlic and fenugreek. He seemed to like it.

  They turned another corner, into a section of the Quarter that Zoe didn't know at all. She felt like a tourist. Croyd's sunny enthusiasm put a different light on the sights and smells. He was having fun. So was she, come to think of it, chatting and walking his hand reaching for hers when she flagged behind him. Croyd wasn't coming on to her; the interaction felt more like teenage buddies touring Disneyland. Nice.

  The next doorway opened into a restaurant. Croyd stuck his head in, sniffed, and grinned. The waiter motioned them toward a nest of pillows and a low table, and left them. He returned carrying a pitcher in one hand, an atomizer in the other, and a basin, which he held in the curl of his prehensile tail. The arrangement made the process of hand-washing and rosewater spritzing a one-step operation.

  Zoe nibbled while Croyd demolished platter after platter of wonderful things.

  "Bastilla," Croyd said. "Pigeon pie. I love Morocco."

  "We're in Jerusalem," Zoe said.

  "Yeah. Right."

  He talked. He talked a lot. He was full of questions about all of the Escorts, about Anne, about news since he'd gone to sleep. Orient me, that was the gist of what he asked. Tell me about the world. In a corner, three musicians played some sort of drum, a flute, something flat with strings. They finished a song and said a few words, the order of the next set or something. Croyd stopped talking and listened to them.

  "Dumbek, but it once was called a naqqua. The naq is the flute, and that thing on the woman's lap is a qanan, sort of a zither. The city is called Al Q'uds, except by the Jews and the Christians.... I think I know every language on Earth. Now that's strange." Croyd's brown eyes were bright. He popped another square of sweet pastry in his mouth. "It's time to powder my nose. See if that guy will bring us another tray of these while I'm gone."

  He unfolded his legs from the pillow and darted away. Zoe sipped sweet mint tea and listened to the players, the sinuous melodies of the desert, ancient, resonant. This land could be a place to love, if it were at peace. If.

  She felt full, and amused, and almost happy. A little spaced but maybe that was the relief of a few hours away from - don't think about the past, she told herself.

  She saw Croyd threading his way through the tables, circling back toward her. Something was wrong, she sensed it. Croyd crouched beside her pillow and whispered in her ear, danger all too apparent in the relaxed way he moved "There's some nasty muscle asking for you. Three of them. Here's what we do. You leave. Left, right, left, left, count three doors and you're back to the moneychanger's place, the dude in the purple. Act like you're mad at me and get. I'll follow you and try to pick them off."

  "Who are they? Why me?"

  "Something about a guy who's cut up pretty bad."

  "Oh, shit. Can't we stay here?"

  "The waiter's in on it."

  She could see him watching, his tail whipping back and forth like a restless cat after a mouse.

  "Why are you helping me?" Zoe whispered.

  "Because you're cute. Do it," Croyd said.

  Believe him? She had to. But Croyd could have turned her in to the guards friends; he'd talked to so many people while they wandered. Get away.

  She slapped him, a good solid whack, and ran from the restaurant. Behind her, Croyd shrugged and poured money on the table.

  Left, down the alley. Old stone, garbage smells, the shadows so black. Croyd had spent most of the night eating; it was later than she had thought. Running, her sneakers made meeping sounds against the pavement. She concentrated on making no noise. Turn right, then left. This little jog, was that the next left? Damn, she hadn't really been watching it had seemed that they had walked farther than this coming in, and she couldn't remember this totally incongruous storefront filled with shiny kitchen appliances. Surely she would have noticed.

  Croyd had said left. She turned. The alley jogged toward freedom, a block away, there were lights beyond the corner, people, some safety.

  Nightmarish, impossible, a man's face and torso appeared beside her. He was a hunchback, pathetic, armless. She flinched away from him, away from his pleading gaze, the silent words his mouth formed. The apparition vanished.

  Had the monkey-tailed waiter drugged her tea?

  A joker in black swirled into motion dead ahead of her, his cloak darker than the shadows. Not this way. Zoe spun around the corner and ran, trying to dodge the other shadow, the huge hands that reached for her. She fought him, and the next one, but they were big, and things moved too fast, and she didn't know how to streetfight.

  Croyd was right about the numbers, she thought as a six-fingered joker tied a black gag around her nose and mouth. There are three of them.

  "You'll follow us." Six-fingers held her hand, and someone dropped a black veil over her eyes. The gag cutting into her lip smelled of stale sweat.

  They led her. She could see the black shoulders of the joker in front of her, the steps when they told her to go up, go down. The night was too dark to see anything else. They entered a building, or a cave, some space of corridors and hallways, all sq
uare and closed in.

  She felt drugged, dazed. It seemed inevitable, it seemed right, that she would be pushed through a door, locked inside, still gagged. This was what she had expected, even hoped for, since that day in Manhattan when the mannequin had killed for her.

  Their footsteps echoed down the hall outside. She could hear nothing at all.

  Her hands were free. She pulled off the veil and the gag.

  Yell? If she did, the men in black might come back in, and hit her, hurt her. That thought was too scary to deal with. She tried the lock. Animate it? But they hadn't hurt her yet, and this must be the Fists' stronghold. If the plan was to kill her, they could have done it by now.

  "You're safe here," a voice whispered.

  The vague outline of a hunchbacked man seemed to hover near the ceiling. Zoe screamed and clung to the door, pounding her fists against it. No one came.

  "Don't be afraid. Stay here. Don't run away."

  What was it she had heard about hearing voices? Don't talk back to them, that was it. As long as you don't talk back to them, you aren't really crazy.

  "You're - important." The voice was so kind, so wistful. And it wasn't there, anyway, there was nothing in the room at all.

  The minutes crawled by.

  What had the waiter given her? Acid? PCP? She hadn't tasted anything in the tea but mint and sugar, and her sense of taste was superb, a part of the ace she'd been dealt. But still, she felt dissociated, distant.

  This was the Fists' stronghold. She was in the center of it, as close to the Black Dog as she was ever going to get. Wait, take the opportunity, talk to him or hurt him, make him stop messing with the kids.

  They might let her starve, or die of thirst.

  As soon as she felt less spaced out, she would animate the lock. If they didn't come for her. Soon.

  There was a single wall outlet, no switches anywhere. The room was lighted by a nursery night-light, a plastic model of Turtle's Great and Powerful Shell. It must be a promo toy, a tie-in. Maybe the movie was in production. Zoe hoped so.