Intervention

by Julian May

  She grinned as she fished her suede boots out from under the cocktail table and began to put them on. "Our great and good buddy, The Fab­ulous Finster, has bagged us a very big fish indeed, and he is arriving tomorrow at Kennedy with this recruit figuratively tucked under his arm. The man's name is Carlos Maria Arana, and he is an unfrocked Dominican, late of Madrid, where the authorities were only too willing to be rid of him. "

  "Arana?" Griffith blinked. "Hey — didn't he start that fanatical antioperant movement in Spain? What was its name — Hijos de Putas?"

  Viola Northcutt guffawed. "Come on! Hijos de la Tierra, Griff. The Sons of Earth. Kier figured it was time for them to open a North Amer­ican branch. " She stood up, stamped her feet the rest of the way into her footgear, and brushed the crumbs from her skirt. "We're going to play off Arana's fanaticism against Baumgartner's reasoned opposition to operant influence. The Spaniard will play dirty and Baumgartner will deplore his intolerance. I mean, we don't really want to burn the con­fessed operants at the stake, do we? Not yet... Where'd you hide our coats, Griff? Kieran and I have to get back to our platonic little nest at the Plaza and get some sleep. Our cucaracha is coming in on Iberia's early flight tomorrow and poor Finster's going to need all the help he can get. "

  Kieran stood up, yawned, and laughed. "Don't you worry about a thing, Vi. Fabby's tamed Señor Araña very thoroughly. It was a tough assignment — perhaps the toughest he's ever had to handle. But he's delivered the goods. "

  "They don't call him Fabulous for nothing, eh?" Warren Griffith helped Viola on with her coat, then assisted Kieran. "I wouldn't mind meeting this Finster, Kier. If it wouldn't compromise your security arrangements, of course. "

  Kieran smiled. His mind touched that of his associate, giving both reassurance and warning. "Maybe another time, Griff. Fabby will be dead beat, and I have other matters to discuss with him before he leaves for Moscow on Friday. "

  Moscow! Kier don't tell me that's the way —

  "I wouldn't dream of telling you, Griff. You're a man who thinks for himself. That's why you're part of my organization. I'll be getting in touch with you soon on the Petro-Pascua acquisition. "

  But Kier the man's a moderate the first reasonable Russian leader we've ever dealt with you can't —

  I can. Make no mistake about it Griff if it suits my purposes and it does I can. "Thanks a lot for playing host. Don't bother to see us out. Vi and I can find our own way. "

  10

  ALMA-ATA, KAZAKH SSR, EARTH

  15 SEPTEMBER 1997

  A CHILL SETTLED quickly over the plaza in front of the Lenin Palace of Culture once the sun dropped behind the parched hills. Yellow leaves, prematurely fallen in the great drought that had plagued Central Asia that year, were swirled by the sharp breeze around the dusty shoes of Colonel Sergei Arkhipov, who sat on a bench near the Abai monument, waiting.

  From time to time as his ulcer gnawed, Sergei would slip an antacid tablet into his mouth. What he really needed was food; but he could not leave his post until the first afternoon session of the Sixth Congress on Metapsychology ended, and Donish furnished a report upon his fellow delegates' state of mind.

  Finally, people began to emerge, hurrying down the palace steps as if eager for their own suppers. Most of the longbrains went off into the park on the left, on their way to the Kazakhstan Hotel where the for­eigners were being lodged. Numbers of locals, heading for the buses, came straight down Abaya Prospekt and passed directly in front of Sergei's bench. One of these was a compact young man in a green windbreaker who carried a canvas briefcase. His hair and complexion were dark and he wore a squarish black skullcap with white embroi­dered designs on the sides.

  Deliberately, Sergei projected a thought as this man approached: Move faster blackarsed longbrain my poor stomach is devouring itself I was sure you would stay in your fucking meeting all night.

  "And good evening to you, Comrade Colonel!" The young KGB agent, Kamil Donish, smiled good-humoredly and sat down on the bench. "An outstanding panel on psychoenergetic projection's more benign aspects went a bit overtime. There was this Italian, Franco Brixen, who reported that his people at the University of Torino have been able to inhibit the growth of malignant neoplasms in rats —"

  "Tishe!" hissed Sergei irritably. "What do I care about such trivia? Tell me the mood of the operant delegates — their feelings on the mat­ter of the Islamic riots, especially — so that I can pass the information on to the General Secretary's aides before his speech tonight. "

  "They regret our use of extreme force. But you can hardly expect them to side with Muslim fanatics who label them allies of Satan. "

  "Don't play your longbrain games with me, Kamil. I'm not feeling well and I want straight answers. Are the foreign operants satisfied that we have acted properly? Do they accept our reassurances that the up­risings were isolated occurrences, and that the situation is now under control?"

  Kamil's black eyes flashed. "Comrade Colonel, you remain obsti­nately a man of your time. Of course they don't! The whole world can see what is going on in Uzbekistan through the mental vision of their EE adepts. The only reason that the global news reports have downplayed the matter is that there is voluntary restraint being exercised by the operants themselves. They give their local journalists the bare details of our troubles, but without sensational embellishment that might in­flame world opinion. The Soviet Union is being given the benefit of the doubt! Oh, yes — there are some bleeding-hearts among the delegates who deplore our killing of the so-called innocent bystanders during the storming of the Bukhara airfield. But most of the Congress attendees are politically sophisticated persons who realize the gravity of the situation — the danger of civil war. Most nations of the world are on our side, Comrade Colonel. They have no wish to see the Central Asian Republics explode like Iran and Pakistan. " "But do they worry about their safety here in Alma-Ata?"

  "Certainly not, " Kamil said. "They know that the nearest fighting is more than a thousand air-kilometers away. They are also aware that this is a modern city, with a minimal number of Shiite fanatics among the populace. Operants who had any doubts about their personal wel­fare stayed at home. The majority accepted the assurances of Academi­cian Tamara Gawrys-Sakhvadze that Alma-Ata welcomes them even more eagerly than it did in 1992. The Comrade General Secretary can make his little speech tonight without fear of any hostile response. "

  "Well, that's a relief. You longbrains are all the Secretary's dar­lings — the showpiece of his much vaunted policy of Otkroveyinost'. If he got a cold reception from the foreign delegates at the Con­gress, certain persons in Moscow would be encouraged in their attempts to discredit him. " Sergei's mind showed an image of a tightrope-walker.

  "Discredit him — and us. " Somberness spread over Kamil's face. "You are not part of the Twentieth Directorate, Comrade Colonel, but you are quite aware of our critical role in the New Soviet Openhearted Society that the Secretary has championed. All loyal citizens have re­joiced in the new freedoms and the acceptance of personal responsibil­ity for progress. But Otkroveyinost' would be impossible without the EE monitoring function of the KGB Twentieth. "

  "Oh, you are all certified heroes, " Sergei agreed archly. "Just do your job efficiently and pinpoint the terrorist reactionaries without at the same time scaring the simple-minded to death! Especially the Muslim simple-minded. "

  "Some of my coreligionists are deficient in social consciousness, " Kamil admitted. "This modern Age of the Mind has come too quickly for them to assimilate. According to the Prophet, magic is one of the Seven Ruinous Sins — and we operant metapsychics are accused of its practice. Furthermore, it is being said that the Last Days are upon the earth, and our appearance is one of the signals thereof. The KGB's reli­ance upon EE monitors inflames the reactionaries and makes even loyal Muslim citizens fearful. "

  "And so the powder keg at the southern belly of the USSR grows hotter each day — and I, for one, do not see any simple solution to the me
ss, " Sergei said. "Thus far, the General Secretary has been lucky. The outbreaks have been small enough to be put down by the militia or by the KGB's own Border Regiments. But if the antioperant paranoia grows, the jihad movement may spread from the Shiites to the vast numbers of Sunni Muslims in Soviet Central Asia. Then nothing less than the Red Army will suffice to control the insurrection — and we will all be in a very deep arsehole. "

  Sergei's imagination drew a portrait of Marshal Yegor Kumylzhensky, the hard-liner Minister of Defense and longtime Politburo opponent of the General Secretary. The figure had horns, wolfish teeth, and bran­dished a tactical missile as an erection.

  Kamil giggled. "You are getting very good at that for a shortbrain, Comrade Colonel. You should take the operancy exam again some­time. "

  Sergei swore and spat on the pavement. A pretty young woman pass­ing by frowned at the uncultured behavior.

  "She labels you a crude old fart, " Kamil whispered slyly.

  "I can read her mind well enough, " Sergei growled. "As for you, you are an insubordinate blackarse who would have been shot for speaking to your superior in such a way back in the old days. "

  "Old days! If those old days still prevailed, you would be waiting for American missiles to blast your family to bits. And the Soviet citizenry would be drinking itself to death instead of reveling in Japanese VCRs and North American movies and British silver-disc music and satellite-transmitted sports programs from half the countries of the globe. Cheer up, Comrade Colonel. It's not such a bad brave new world! Who would ever have thought that the KGB would be applauded as good guys?"

  Sergei shook his head and took another antacid tablet.

  Chuckling, Kamil unsnapped his briefcase and took out a minicorder. "Here are my hushaphone comments on the opening session of the Congress and the afternoon panels. There is really nothing extraordi­nary going on that the General Secretary need be concerned about. We operants are worried about our image worldwide, and about the unreli­ability of our techniques for detecting clever psychopaths among us. We are concerned about the U. S. government's proposal to ban operants from seeking political office. The Congress is not, by and large, worry­ing about the status of operants in the Soviet Union. Our nation is looked upon by most of the delegates as a progressive place, ascending rapidly into high-tech prosperity after shelving an ill-considered polit­ical experiment. Our successful juvenile suboperant screening program is admired, as are the new schools for accelerated EE and telepathic training. The Japanese think that their operant teaching techniques are superior. Perhaps they are. Tomorrow is education day and there should be lively discussion. "

  "Fuck the lot of you and your discussions, " said Sergei wearily. "All I care about is smooth sailing for the General Secretary's speech tonight — and then two weeks' rest cure in Sochi for my poor aching gut. "

  Kamil Donish arose from the bench. "Do svedanya, then, Comrade Colonel. I'll look for you in the audience tonight. Try to calm your tummy with some nice yogurt or rice pudding before you come, though. You don't want to make your sensitive longbrain neighbors uncomfort­able. "

  Sergei threw an obscene mental menu suggestion of his own after the departing young agent. It was blithely ignored. Longbrains! What an arrogant and nonconformist lot they were — more loyal to each other and their global clique of do-gooders than to any motherland! The Gen­eral Secretary was taking a colossal risk, pinning his policy to them. By far the majority of Soviet longbrains were not even Slavs! Look at Kamil —a Tadzhik, one of the fast-breeding Asian groups that now outnumbered the true ethnic Russians. The Twentieth Directorate of the KGB and the academic metapsychic groups swarmed with blackarses, Caucasians, and Mongoloid riffraff... but then, so did every other segment of Soviet society, operant or normal. What a hell of a world...

  Not caring who overheard his dark thoughts, Colonel Sergei Arkhipov walked along Lenin Prospect to the Arman Cafe. He had only forty-five minutes to grab a bite to eat, and then he would have to go out to the Alma-Ata KGB HQ and liaise with the locals prior to the General Secretary's arrival at the air terminal. His opposite number had issued a supper invitation that Sergei had declined. He wanted to coddle his stomach in peace.

  He peered into the café. There was a waiting line, of course, and many of the persons standing there wore the red and green delegate badges of the Sixth Congress on Metapsychology. Sergei pushed past them, ready to flash his KGB card, confident of being shown immediately to an empty table.

  And so he was. But as he settled down with the menu he was as­tounded to see another man approach his table, grinning in a cocksure fashion, and pull out a chair.

  Sergei opened his mouth to put the upstart in his place. It was a dapper little fellow, obviously a foreigner, whose badge read: J. SMITH — SIMON FRASER UNIV. — VANCOUVER CANADA. His two upper incisors were comically large, like those of a squirrel.

  Sergei closed his mouth. He had to. J. Smith's coercion had taken control of him as though he were a wooden marionette.

  "Hey there, Sergei! How you doing, old hoss?" The Fabulous Finster snapped his fingers and a waitress rushed over with another menu be­fore he even drew his chair up to the table. "Been a few years since we pub-crawled in Edinburgh, eh? We've got a whole lotta catching up to do ... By the way, you heard the sad news from Tashkent? The Grand Mufti of Central Asia was assassinated. Terrible thing. The poor old guy's head burst into flame just as he was going into the Barak-Khana Mosque and the whole goddam city's gone ape. They think some per­verted metapsychic operant musta been responsible. I couldn't get out fast enough this afternoon, I'll tell you. I was lucky to get a plane... Well! Enough of that. What d'you say we order, eh?"

  "Yes. Certainly." Sergei heard the voice coming from far away. Surely, he thought, it could not be his own.

  Dr. Pyotr Sakhvadze regarded the enormous silver platter and its con­tents with undisguised consternation.

  "But this is a great honor for you!" the mâitre d' insisted. His Kazakh mustachios bristled and he was slightly miffed. It was obvious that the kitchen staff of the big hotel had gone to considerable trouble to pro­duce the special tribute. "You are the aksakal, the Whitebeard of the Feast! You must carve the dish and distribute it to the other guests, who have ordered this traditional delicacy in celebration of your eighty-third birthday. Bon appétit!"

  He placed the carving tools in front of Pyotr and withdrew, full of dignity. Most of the others at the table — his grandchildren, his daughter Tamara and her colleagues the Kizims, and the three foreign guests — were applauding and laughing. Telepathic jests crackled in the aether so energetically that Pyotr could almost (but not quite) understand them.

  On the platter, the braised whole lamb's head seemed to stare at him with an air of jaunty mockery. One ear was up and the other down. Quail eggs stuffed with ripe olives formed its eyes, and it had a peeled ruby pomegranate in its mouth and a collar of lacy gold paper. The head perched upon a steaming bed of besbarmak, the famous Kazakh lamb and noodle stew. Pyotr, as designated aksakal, was not only expected to serve this outlandish culinary triumph, but he was also obliged to ac­company each portion of head-meat with a suitable witticism.

  "We operants only think we've got troubles, " Pyotr said to the lamb's head. "You, in your position, you know you've got troubles. "

  Everybody laughed and radiated sympathy except for his oldest grand­son Valery, whom Pyotr had teased mercilessly last week for mooning over a young woman who would have nothing to do with him. Now innocence poured from Valya's mind like watered honey, but his close-set Polish blue eyes had a suspicious gleam. So! He was the one respon­sible for this, was he?

  Pyotr cleared his throat and continued. "I am only a decrepit psychiatrist, not a faciocephalic surgeon. If I were to serve this head, I fear I would do it so slowly that we would be here all evening and miss the distinguished speakers who will honor us with their presence later in the Palace of Culture. And so it is with pleasure — to say nothing of relief — tha
t I delegate the carving of this pièce de résistance to the founder of the feast, Valery Yurievich, whose idea it was to honor me in this unusual way. It is the custom, I know, for the aksakal to cut off and present to a favored guest that anatomical portion of meat most appropriate to his nature. But alas, I cannot give my dear grandson the part he deserves. The chef has cooked for us the wrong end of the sheep. "

  He bowed and sat down to uproarious laughter and clapping. Valery had turned red to the tips of his ears.

  Tamara, who sat at the foot of the table, addressed her son. "I left the arrangements to you, and you play undergraduate pranks! Now how are we going to eat this monstrosity?"

  The American, Denis Remillard, sitting on Pyotr's right, had his strange compelling glance fixed on the swinging doors of the restaurant kitchen. He said gently, "Allow me." And then there was a miracle. The two sturdy waitresses who had brought the besbarmak in the first place came out again, pushing a serving cart loaded with side dishes. After distributing these, they transferred the silver platter to the cart and began to carve and fill the plates of the dinner party with the besbarmak, which turned out to be delicious. Besides the meat stew with its diamond-shaped noodles, there were bowls of fragrant broth with floating herbs, feather-light rounds of bread, spicy palov, pickled mush­rooms, melon rind, and a salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, scallions, and exotic green stuff. The wine, which Valery had preselected with a good deal more seriousness, was a Château Latour that brought tears of rapture to Pyotr's eyes. He forgave his grandson, and Valery led the birthday toast; and then Pyotr proposed a toast to Denis, and Denis proposed a toast to the Sixth Congress, and Tamara proposed a toast to the Seventh, which would be held the following year in Boston.