Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  Harstein just kept walking for the elevator.

  “Hey. We won.”

  “‘Things without all remedy should be without regard,’” said Harstein. “‘What’s done is done.’” He looked at Jack. “And so, too, are we done. Never speak to me again, Jack, never come near me or my family. I’m warning you.”

  Jack’s blood turned chill. “Whatever you say,” he said.

  He let Harstein take the first elevator by himself.

  Sara had the proper plastic smile molded into her face when he stepped off the People Mover with his shiny new travel bag slung over the shoulder of his leisure suit. She looped her arms around his neck and hugged him with a fervor that surprised her.

  “Uncle George!” she squealed. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

  Polyakov hugged her and patted her shoulder. “Not so shrill, child. Eardrums are brittle things at my age. Why didn’t you meet me at the gate?” He took her arm and steered her into the traffic streaming toward the escalators that led to the baggage carousels.

  “They’re not letting anybody but passengers with tickets into the boarding area. Are you sure it’s safe to just come in openly like this?”

  Smiling, to all appearance chattering happily to the elderly relative she’d just been reunited with, she nodded toward the security checkpoint where the passengers were filing through the metal detectors like cows through the chute for their appointment with the hammer. A pair of young men stood to one side, eyeing the crowd as discreetly as anybody that beefy could. Their suits were dark, and tight under the left armpits. A little fleshtone wire trailed from each man’s ear.

  He smiled. “They’re looking for dangerous Russian spies trying to get out of Atlanta, not back in.”

  “But the airport—”

  “I could have taken a bus, I grant, especially since the good doctor’s friend happened to transport me to the Port Authority in New York City.” At the mention of Tachyon, Sara’s face twisted briefly, as if she’d stepped on a tack. “But that would have been too slow, and anyway they’re doubtless watching the bus terminals as well. Also, I detest buses.”

  They were on the moving stair now. “You heard what happened?” Sara asked.

  “It was all over the televisions that infest the passenger waiting areas in LaGuardia—how lonely your capitalist lives must be, that you use your enormous production to surround yourselves so completely with synthetic company. An ace assassin making an attempt on the life of a potential presidential nominee, especially one as controversial and ethnic as Jackson—it’s all raised quite the sensation.”

  That was how the police and media saw it, of course: the hunchbacked kid in leather had been trying to hit Jackson, and Dr. Tachyon had gotten in the way.

  “How is it with Tachyon?” the Soviet asked.

  She stumbled a little coming off the escalator. The hand that had caressed her, touched her last night as so few men had, was cooked meat and splintered bone now. The way that made her feel—

  —The way it made her feel was something she would not confront now. Nothing matters, she told herself, but staying alive long enough to see Andi avenged.

  “The doctor,” he prodded gently, “how is he?”

  “He’s in what they call stable condition. They had to amputate, but he’s recovering well. They have him in some hospital, the media aren’t saying which one. The police have tied his assailant to Ricky’s murder, and the fight with Jack Braun Thursday night. They know he can walk through walls. Lieutenant Herlihy has finally had to bite the bullet and admit he’s got an ace killer on the loose. Not just a killer but a political assassin, and he’s stalking the convention.”

  She didn’t try to keep the bitter satisfaction from her voice. If only the police had listened to me, she thought, though what they could have done even if they had was none too clear. At least it would have meant somebody thought she was more than a hysterical woman who’d been spurned by her love object.

  Somebody other than the man who called himself George Steele.

  They walked toward the sliding robot doors to the humid outside. Sara had a car in the lot that she’d rented under an assumed name—now, of course, Atlanta’s finest were falling all over themselves with eagerness to talk to her. Even if she’d had anything more to say to them, she had no illusions about their ability to protect her from that pale-eyed youth who hummed as he killed.

  Polyakov shook his head. “The bad times are coming for wild cards in this country. Whatever we do here, that is true, I’m afraid. But it makes it that much more imperative we stop the madman Hartmann. You might have to take a more active role.”

  She stopped dead in the middle of the doors, which spasmed open and shut in mechanical frenzy. “No! I’ve already told you. I can’t do that.”

  He took her by the arm and urged her out to the sidewalk. Diesel fumes and cabbies assailed them. They ignored both.

  “Someone has to. Tachyon may not be able.”

  “Why not you? You’re a killer ace, too. Why not use your power?”

  He glanced around without moving his head. No one was nearby. “My. Our goal is to prevent World War III. How well would that end be served if an American presidential candidate was killed by a KGB ace?”

  That was his goal. She turned and darted across the street, avoiding being run down more by luck than by design. He followed more cautiously.

  He was puffing slightly when he caught up in the short-term parking. “It was clever of you to check your answering machine.”

  He was trying to gentle her like he would a frightened animal. She didn’t care. “Clever of you to leave a message saying where you were coming in and when.” She opened the driver’s door of the rose-gray rental Corolla and slid in.

  “That’s my business,” he said as she leaned across to unlock his door. He opened the rear door and put his bag in back. “I’m a professional spy. I’m paid to think of such things.”

  “Being a spy is not so much different from being a journalist,” she said. “Just ask General Westmoreland.” She turned the key with a savage twist and started the car.

  “My right and my privilege to stand here,” said Jesse Jackson, “has been won—won in my lifetime—by the blood and the sweat of the innocent.”

  From Jack’s point of view, the candidate’s figure was tiny, dwarfed by the massive white podium, but his ringing orator’s voice filled the air. Jack heard the restless delegates grow hushed, expectant. Everyone, whether they liked Jackson or not, knew this was going to be important.

  “I stand as a testament to the struggles of those who have gone before; as a legacy for those who will come after; as a tribute to the endurance, the patience, the courage of our forefathers and mothers; as an assurance that their prayers are being answered, their work has not been in vain, and hope is eternal…”

  Those who have gone before. Jack thought about Earl, standing in his aviator’s jacket on that platform, his baritone voice rolling out of the speakers. It should have been Earl there, he thought, and years ago.

  “America is not one blanket, woven from one thread, one color, one cloth. When I was a child growing up in Greenville, South Carolina, and Grandmama could not afford a blanket, she didn’t complain, and we didn’t freeze. Instead she took pieces of old cloth—patches—wool, silk, gaberdeen, crocker-sack—only patches, barely good enough to wipe off your shoes with. But they didn’t stay that way very long. With sturdy hands and a strong cord, she sewed them together into a quilt, a thing of beauty and power and culture. Now, Democrats, we must build such a quilt.

  “Farmers, you seek fair prices, and you are right—but you cannot stand alone, your patch isn’t big enough. Workers, you fight for fair wages, you are right—but your patch of labor is not big enough. Jokers, you seek fair treatment, civil rights, a medical system sensitive to your needs—but your patch is not big enough…”

  Years ago, in voice and diction lessons courtesy of Louis B. Mayer, Jack had learned the tri
cks of the rhetorician. He knew why preachers like Jackson and Barnett used those long cadences, those rhythmic, crafted emphases … Jack knew that the long sentences, the rhythms, could put the audience into a mild hypnotic trance, could make them more susceptible to the preacher’s message. What if it had been Barnett standing here? Jack wondered. What message would be rolling forth in those glittering images, those seductive rhythms?

  “Don’t despair!” Jackson shouted. “Be as wise as my grandmama. Pull the patches and pieces together, bound by a common thread. When we form a great quilt of unity and common ground, we’ll have the power to bring about health care and housing and jobs and education, and hope …

  “When I look out at this convention, I see the face of America: red, yellow, brown, black, and white. The real patchwork quilt that is our nation. The rainbow coalition. But we have not yet come together; no strong hand has yet bound us together with a strong cord. I address you tonight to tell you the name of the man who will unite our patches into something that will keep America from turning cold in this long, freezing night of Reaganomics…”

  There was a murmur among the delegates. Not all, including Jackson’s own followers, had been told this was a resignation speech. Some of them had just gotten their first clue.

  “His foreparents came to America on immigrant ships,” Jackson said. “A friend of mine, desperately wounded this afternoon as he stood beside me, came to this planet on a spaceship. Mine came to America on slave ships. But whatever the original ships, we are in the same boat tonight.”

  From quilts, then, to boats. There was applause, whistles, a constant murmur. A woman was on her feet in the Illinois delegation: “No, Jesse!”

  “This convention has been threatening to sink the boat,” Jackson continued. “We have been running from one end of the boat to the other, from the progressive end to the conservative end, from the right side of the boat to the left side, and the boat may turn over—and Democrats, we may sink. It is time, therefore, to give the rudder to someone who can steer it safely to harbor. Tonight I salute this man—he has run a well-managed and a dignified campaign.

  “No matter how tired or how tried, he always resisted the temptation to stoop to demagoguery. I have watched a good mind fast at work, with steel nerves, guiding his campaign out of the crowded field without appeal to the worst in us.

  “I have watched his perspective grow as his environment has expanded. I’ve seen his toughness and tenacity, knew his commitment to public service.”

  Jackson paused, his intent eyes searching the convention, his hands grasping the platform. Wondering, maybe, what his new role as Kingmaker Jesse might bring.

  “I urge the convention to unite behind this man, this new captain. I urge everyone here, all the delegates, my own not excepted, to vote for a new captain before our boat turns over and we sink for another four years. The name of the captain—”

  Silence. Jack could hear his own heart beating. “Senator!” Jackson said.

  Jack looked at Rodriguez in the next seat. “Gregg!” he said, in unison with Jackson.

  Rodriguez looked back. There was wild joy in his eyes. “Hartmann!” he roared, along with Jack and Jesse and the crowd; and suddenly everyone went mad.

  Mad for Gregg Hartmann.

  Spector sat on the carpeted floor in front of the television. He had the volume turned way down; nobody was supposed to be in 1019, and he didn’t want people snooping around this room, too. He’d bought a can of cashews and a pint of whiskey downstairs and had put away most of both during the balloting. He’d hoped that Hartmann would lose. A candidate who’d washed out wasn’t likely to have the same kind of tight security as the nominee. As usual, things had gone all wrong.

  The delegates were chanting, “Hartmann, Hartmann, Hartmann,” until the name itself pissed him off. Jesse Jackson had pulled out of the race for some reason. All the commentators were talking about some kind of behind-the-scenes deal. In any case, Hartmann had gone over the top on the next ballot. Signs for each state were waving back and forth. There were balloons, confetti, and endless boring speeches.

  Golden Boy was still alive. That made Spector even more nervous than he’d been before. Braun got a good enough look at him for an ID. The Judas Ace had looked plastered or sick when the TV cameras had shown him. Spector sighed. Usually when he killed them, they stayed dead.

  Tomorrow he’d concentrate on finding a way to get at Hartmann. Right now, he didn’t have the first idea how he’d go about it, but the senator wasn’t leaving Atlanta alive. Of course, Spector might not either. He didn’t bother trying to tell himself that there were some things worse than death. He knew better.

  If he could find someone to help him, someone powerful, he might actually walk away in one piece. And he knew one person who might be inclined to help. It was a big risk, but what the fuck.

  He turned off the TV, curled up into a ball around the almost empty bottle, and tried to get to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday July 24, 1988

  7:00 A.M.

  WITH ONE CHEAP TOWEL wrapped around her dripping body from breasts to thighs and another wound around her hair, Sara emerged from the bathroom in a breath of steam. Motion was effort; she had rigor mortis to the depths of her soul.

  “We can’t rely on Tachyon anymore.” She forced her words out like lumps of plasticine through a window screen. They weren’t a question.

  The man who called himself George Steele sat on the bed in trousers and undershirt, looking down at the backs of his hands. They were hairy, like his shoulders. He raised his head.

  “We cannot.”

  “You know the plan we discussed earlier?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  “I’ll do it.” She turned and went back into the bathroom to dry her hair.

  9:00 A.M.

  Hospitals were tasty and Puppetman was getting hungry.

  Gregg leaned away from the Compaq Portable III and rubbed his eyes. He typed a quick message: Tony, I’m taking a break. The speech looks good, and I’m sending my last edit. I’ll leave the computer on and pick up the draft when I get back. Thanks.

  He sent the file via modem to Calderone’s portable and rubbed his eyes.

  “Tired, love?” Ellen smiled at him from her hospital bed, half-asleep herself. “I think the next president of the United States ought to get some sleep. You had a long night last night, and Jack tells me you and Jesse stayed up till all hours planning the campaign.”

  “It was a glorious night, Ellen. Jesse’s speech was a wonder. I’m sorry you weren’t there. None of it was possible without you.”

  She smiled at that, tinged with sadness. She was still pale, her skin almost translucent, and her eyes were puffy and dark. The death of their child had marked her more permanently than he had thought possible. “I’m coming to hear your speech tonight. Nothing could stop me. Kiss me, next president of the United States.”

  “Picked up on that phrase, have we?”

  “After last night’s roll call? ‘The great state of New York casts all its votes for the next president of the United States: Gregg Hartmann!’ How many states are there?” She held her arms out.

  Gregg leaned over the bed and kissed her softly on the lips. Puppetman nudged at him. Give her to me.

  No. Leave her alone. We’ve put her through enough.

  Getting sentimental, are we? The power mocked him, but didn’t seem inclined to argue. Then let’s go elsewhere. I’m hungry.

  Gregg hugged Ellen. “Listen,” he said. “I’m going to take a short walk. Thought I might see some of the patients, shake a few hands.”

  “Campaigning already,” Ellen gave a mock sigh. “Mr. Next-President-of-the-United-States.”

  “Get used to it, love.”

  “You’ll get tired of handshaking before it’s all over, Gregg.”

  He gave her a strange grin. “I doubt it,” he said.

  Inside, Puppetman echoed him.

 
11:00 A.M.

  Spector woke up groggy. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and he hurt all over. All his stuff was at the motel, so he couldn’t shave or brush his teeth. He’d have to stop by there and clean up before making his visit. He sat on the corner of the bed and rubbed the grit from his eyes.

  He picked up the phone book and thumbed through until he came to hospitals. He found the one Tony was in, hesitated for a moment, then punched in the numbers.

  “Tony Calderone, please,” he said to the switchboard operator. It rang several times before being answered.

  “Calderone.”

  “Uh, yeah. This is Jim. I wanted to explain about the other day.”

  “Right. Colin said you were up in my room. Hope you didn’t get mugged again.” Tony sounded glad to hear from him.

  “Nothing like that. Got sidetracked with business is all.” Spector wanted to tell him everything, but knew Tony wouldn’t believe it. He was too committed. “I just wanted you to know I was all right.”

  “Yeah, I was a little worried. Got the speech done. Best thing I ever wrote. Hope you get a chance to catch it.” Tony paused. “You sure nothing’s wrong?”

  “Nothing getting back to Jersey won’t cure.” Spector twisted the phone cord. “It was really great seeing you again. I mean that.”

  “We’ll do it again sooner than you think. In Washington.” Tony sounded completely confident.

  “Right.” Spector knew that by the end of the day Tony would hate his guts forever. So much for his one friend. But he knew he couldn’t walk away now. “Look, I have to get moving. Still got a thing or two to take care of before I go.”

  “Okay. Well, after things get settled you give me a call. In the meantime, look after yourself.”

  “So long.” Spector set the phone lightly in its cradle. He couldn’t let this sentimental crap take away his edge. He was going to need it.

  Spector put the whiskey bottle in his coat pocket; he gave the room a slow look before leaving. He knew he wouldn’t be coming back.