“You gave us a list of the submarines in the South Pacific last month, yes?”
Morgan nodded. “Very hard to get:’ This was not a complete lie. It was very hard to get, but it was simply an info dump. The army felt like risking it to gain more later.
jjf^Handsomely paid for, as well.” Klaus looked at him and smiled. A couple of young lovers passed them before he continued. “Everything there. Very helpful. Serial numbers, identification procedures, nuclear signatures.” “Mhm.”
Ganz stopped under a street light. He fished out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, lit it, and offered one to F ;rgan. Morgan declined politely. V'Very cold,” said Ganz, looking around. “People think because I am Russian and we have cold winters that Lwon't mind. Nonsense! We all feel the cold.”
Morgan nodded. “That's right.” Okay to be nervous here. Even if you were legitimately illegitimate, this is gonna make you nervous.
Klaus blew out a steady stream of smoke, which mixed with the steam coming from his mouth. ‘ ‘What if I told you that one of those nuclear signatures were ^Tong?”
Morgan half-smiled and scratched the back of his neck. He wasn’t afraid of this. “Well, I’d say that’s entirely possible^gp “Why?”
“A lot of things. Could be an error in the file when I pulled it. Could be a seed, even. Something the U.S. puts in so if they see it crop up again they know info is moving around If there were an error, I’d tell you not to worry, TU get the right info. But I’d tell myself to start watching my back at home.”
Klaus chewed his lip and considered this. He threw down his. cigarette. ‘ ‘So what if the seed were not planted by the U.S.?”
Morgan blinked. “I’m sorry?S Kids to the left, going around the comer, out of sight again. Streets deserted.
“What if I told you that sometimes we plant seeds ourselves?^’-' Klaus’? hand was in his coat. Morgan tried to keep his eyes off it.
“In U.S. information? In files, why would you do that?” Not good. Not good. Danger, Will Robinson. ■'“Not in files the way you mean, friend Morgan. Not in the kind you steal. In the kind of files you give to a double agent/’ a
Morgan watched time slow to a crawl, felt the stinging cold Berlin air and knew that the moment had come. Klaus’s hand emerged, liquid and slow, and Morgan twisted and thrust the palm of his hand out and swept Klaus’s arm to the side as the silenced handgun blazed, a puff of smoke and flame shooting out the end. Morgan felt the bullet tear through his calf as his stiletto dropped from his forearm to his hand. Klaus’s gun hadn’t even hit the ground before he had hammered the stiletto up under Klaus’s ribs, putting his other arm around the agent. He held the man close, as if hugging a grieving uncle, and thrust the knife home again, and once more.
An elderly couple came around the comer and smiled at him, and he stood there, patting the dead Klaus Ganz on the back, muttering in German, “There, there.'’
And now Ganz was lying in an alley and Morgan was late for his meeting with the other two.
He considered not going. Chances were, Blonsky and Josef would not be there, now. The biggest mistake an agent can make is to wait too long for a contact. But if they were there, he had to show. He had to complete the mission or the whole thing was over. Who are you kidding? It’s over anyway.
Morgan walked and thought the pain away, feeling in his coat at the microfiche to be passed. This was the big one. If the KGB took this bait, these coordinates, their whole intel would be skewered for years. The info wasn’t useless or false—it was better than either of those. It was so intricately seeded that it would be impossible to notice. Like aiming a long-range gun—the slightest error could send the projectile a hundred miles off. Gotta pull this off. Baby needs a new pair of shoes.
Baby. Back home, David was learning to walk, he was given to understand.
Did Blonsky and Josef know the score? Had Ganz already told his suspicions to them? More than suspicions—Klaus was going to kill him. If they knew, this would be a short meeting. But they might not know. Blonsky and Josef had worked together foi years, since school, apparently. Klaus was from a different section, he might have been keeping his surprise for his own reasons. Too many questions. Too many guesses. Keep moving.
He reached the bridge at eleven-thirty, fifteen minutes late. The Gabrielskirk Bridge was small and wooden, spanning some twenty feet at most, crossing a stream behind a church. It was surrounded by an orchard that, even in winter, looked lovely. It was a place for star-eyed couples to meet in the evenings. Star-eyed couples and cynical guys with guns.
Morgan paused by a tree about twenty yards from the bridge. By the lamppost light he could see two men, one smoking, both talking in low tones. Blonsky and Josef were waiting. Morgan began to walk again, not wanting to be seen waiting and staring. Now he was playing it by ear, no idea if he should go on or not, his legs gliding over the icy streets, pain throbbing in the back of his mind. Blonsky heard his footsteps at the foot of the bridge and tapped Josef on the shoulder, turning around.
Morgan watched their eyes as he moved up to the center of the bridge.
Blonsky was a tall man, with slick, dark hair and a strong, hawk-like nose. His black coat made him. look like an undertaker. “Where is Ganz?”
Morgan felt him,self shrug. “Didn’t show.”
, “Did you wait?”
“I waited a bit. Not too long.” Morgan looked at the two men. Blonsky looked at Karl Josef briefly and shrugged. Ah, those wacky other sections, ha ha.
^-“Wby are you so late?” Josef took a drag on a cigarette, a Winston, Morgan noted. No one smoked Russian cigarcttes.
“Recruiting,” Morgan smiled. “Here I actually thought I hired a double for the U.S.!”
Blonsky chuckled. “Didn’t take, then?”
“No.” Morgan shook his head. “Second strike tonight. Maybe I’m not cut out for it.”
“Mm,’: said Blonsky. “Perhaps we should arrange to have someone take your bait. Otherwise you may be replaced with someone more successful.” That was good. He had Blonsky thinking about his cover and not about Klaus Ganz,.
Morgan nodded again. “If it could be arranged.” “Well,” Karl Josef said, clasping his hands before him. “I take it you have something for us.”
Morgan stepped forward. “I do.” He felt awkward reaching into his coat for anything around these guys, but he did, found the sheet of liche, and brought it out. “Right here.”
“Excellent,” said Blonsky. “You will find your payment in the usual account on Tuesday morning.”
Morgan blanched. I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a microfiche today. “Tuesday? This is Friday. Why Tuesday?” ‘
Blonsky was turning the spool over in his hand. “Monday is a holiday. It could still be arranged, but what’s an extra day?”
•^Right. Of course.”
“There will be a parade,” said Josef. “Should be something to see.”
“I just might do that,” Morgan lied. With any luck he’d be on the escape line by tomorrow. With Ganz dead, there was not much point in sticking around. Then again, perhaps he should extend his stay, lest he look like he was running from the kill. Anybody could have knifed Klaus Ganz.
A tough game. Morgan recalled the bullet wound and felt a fresh rush of pain and stifled it.
Blonsky sniffed. Blonsky did not smoke, and his nose was legendary. He sniffed again. He said, “Someone is making bratwurst.”
“Excellent,” said Morgan. “Perhaps I shall go and
find it.” They all laughed. Someone please just end this.
Blonsky deposited the fiche in his pocket. “Thank you, Comrade Morgan.”
“Any time,” the Green Beret responded. “Good evening.”
“Good luck in finding the bratwurst.” Blonsky s/'ffed again, and his eyes narrowed for a tiny moment.
The two men turned to walk in one direction and Morgan turned in the direction whence he’d come, and he felt his breath normalize. He had been holding
some of it in. Stuff like that can get you killed. Settle down.
A wind picked up and swiped across Morgan’s face. Blonsky spoke up from the bridge. “Morgan?’-’came the voice.
Morgan turned around. The two men stood near to his end of the bridge, dangerously casual booking. “Hm?”
“Are you bleedingli
Morgan stared. “Bleeding?”'
Blonsky looked down at the snow on the bridge where Morgan had been standing a few minutes earlier. The man bent down for a moment and curled a finger into the snow, and came back up. He held up his hand. In the lamplight, Morgan saw the distinct red of blood on Blonsky’s fingers. Blonsky rubbed his fingers with his thumb, but his eyes were on Morgan, a drill bit grinding into Morgan's skull, and he felt the blood in his face rush out and to his extremities. He became aware of the dampness of his trouser leg; aware now that in ignoring his pain he had failed to make sure when he reached the bridge that his bandage still held.
Morgan dived for a tree as, for the second time in one night, someone pulled a gun. Two someones. Shots rang out from the bridge and he heard Josef and Blonsky moving towards the foot of the bridge. Morgan had his gun out and pressed himself against the tree, listening. He dove away from the tree, away from the walk, and rolled in the snow, firing at the two men. Puffs of snow erupted with bullets as the two agents shot at him, and he kept moving. How lucky do you think you’re going to get? He scurried towards tne bridge, saw Emil Blonsky on the bridge, looking over the side, just a few feet higher than Morgan. Where was Josef?
Morgan jumped behind another tree and prepared mentally to jump out again. Pick out your target. Take him out. Fluid.
The snow crunched and Morgan looked to his left and saw Josef creeping up, spun and fired twice. One caught Josef in the neck, the other in the chest, and the man crumpled into the snow. Morgan jumped out from the tree and looked for Blonsky.
Blonsky was in midair, howling. The large man landed on Morgan like a load of bricks and Morgan fell backward under him, and found himself sliding down the bank. “For that,” he heard Blonsky hiss, “you will pay.”
Morgan brought the butt of his gun to Blonsky’s head once, but Blonsky was in a reverie, hands at Morgan’s throat, beginning to press. Morgan tried to fire when he felt his head smack into a stone on the way down the bank. He instinctively threw back his hand, and felt the gun come away and land in the snow. Morgan twisted under Blonsky and used the slick snow to his advantage, and the men turned sideways and began to roll.
They splashed into the stream after punching through three inches of ice. Blonsky was the first to find his feet and immediately pressed Morgan down, and Morgan felt cold air filling his throat.
David was just beginning to walk, he was,given to understand.
His hands were beginning to go numb. Find the knife. He forced his fingers to work and the stiletto came into his hand and he tore at Blonsky with it, plunging it into the agent’s side. Blonsky howled in pain and Morgan stood, felt the cold water and ice flow off of him. He jammed the palm of his hand into Blonsky’s nose and saw blood erupt, and Blonsky staggered back. Morgan began to scramble for the bank.
Morgan felt the blade of a knife go into his calf where his wound was. He heard himself scream and dug his fingers into the bank, and kicked with his good leg, slamming Blcnsky in the nose again. Morgan scrambled up the bank and fell in the snow, looked back, and saw Blonsky emerging from the water, blood running down his fetce, a deadly cold look in his eyes.
Morgan saw Karl Josef’s crumpled body and looked for the gun he had dropped. He dug in the snow and finally felt the icy steel, brought it up, and fired. The bullet caught Blonsky in the shoulder and Blonsky spun around with it, slipping on the ice. The agent fell back into the water.
Morgan did not wait for a second emergence. He howled in pain as he got to his feet, crawling for the sidewalk.
He crawled until he could walk. He walked for hours until he found a barn just outside of town, where he was supposed to wait if this should happen.
That is, if everything went wrong.
Present day ...
“It’s not a bomb,” Smitty said.
Wulf Christopher stood in his office with his hands in the pockets of his double-breasted coat. Smitty had just brought him a package, a plain brown cardboard box addressed to Christopher at the Gaslight Club.
The Gaslight was yet another of the latest crop of “theme” restaurants opening around Manhattan. The decor was stricdy Victorian, offering the patrons a chance to wander in and feel as if they had been transported to the world of Sherlock Holmes. By opting to avoid the cheesy jokes and floor show of many of his competitors, Christopher had crafted a much quieter clientele of tourists. The line stretched around the block regularly, not that Christopher cared a great deal.
The Gaslight was a front, a laundering facility that made a lot of legitimate cash in order to mask the illegitimate funds that passed through. At the top of the building that housed the Gaslight sat Wulf Christopher’s office, and from there he directed his massive organization. It was no secret that he controlled multibillion dollar traffic in assorted illicit substances and items, no secret that he had a sizeable number of the police in his back pocket. Nothing stuck, if you bought the right people.
Christopher stood behind a gargantuan mahogany desk, regarding the package. The office was done up in scarlet and burgundy, tassels on the loveseat by the door, mirrors on the walls. Behind the desk and Christopher’s nigh-backed chair sat an old-fashioned wardrobe, full of fresh clothing and shoes (Christopher liked to change often). The whole office was just garish enough that only the most cultivated might question his taste. Most of the people that worked for Christopher thought it stylish.
Christopher opened a cigar box and clipped the end, and spoke while he busied himself lighting it with a carved ivory lighter that sat by the telephone. He clicked the lighter off and puffed. “You ran it through the metal detector?”
“No metal. ’
“Hm.” Christopher folded his arms and puffed his cigar some more. A wisp of his ash blond hair fell forward. Women often told him he resembled Julian Sands. They would have told him he looked like Oliver Hardy if he appreciated it enough. “What's in it?” A gangster has every reason in the world to regard unmarked packages with suspicion.
“I can’t tell,” said Smitty. The security guard wore a tan suit like the one Robert Red ford wore as Gats by, a mistake then and now. He wore a pair of Ray-Bans and had his long, blond hair, slightly darker than Christopher’s ashen blond mane, pulled back in a ponytail. “Ran it through the x-ray and came up with just a blob, but no
netal. There’s a note on top, but I couldn’ ■ read it. There’s symbol on the envelope in there, though.”
“A symbol?”
Smitty handed Christopher a printout of the x-ray machine's findings. “Recognize that?”
The x-ray showed a bundle, perhaps something in a sheet or blanket. Atop the bundle sat an ordinary letter envelope. In the fuzzy gray picture Christopher could just make, out a stylized M with a line through the middle. He did recognize it. It was the symbol he used on any correspondence passed regarding the use of the tunnels under the city to move contraband. It was a contact.
“All right,” said Christopher. “Leave it. Thank you, Smitty.”
“If you’re looking for a way to get killed, there could be any number of chemicals that might react when vou open this up. You don’t need metal to--”:
“Thank you, Smitty.” Christopher smirked, laying his cigar on a silver ash tray. When he was younger, he would have killed someone for giving him that kind of lip. “I’ll take care of it.” Smitty nodded and took his leave.
When Smitty was gone, Christopher picked up a letter opener and slit the box along the taped side. Christopher sniffed, aware of a strange odor he could not quite place, and lifted the top flaps back. Inside the box was a blue bundle, tied with a string at the top, and atop that, the envelope.
He picked up the envelope and opened it, extracted the piece of paper inside. It was a note, scrawled in crude, block letters:
THERE IS SOMETHING MISSING.
Christopher frowned. What the hell? He clasped the string at the top of the bundle and chewed his cigar as he untied the knot. Finally the blue blanket fell away, Te-vealing a sheet of plastic lying across the top. Christopher sighed and pulled the plastic away and gasped.
(There is something missing.}
The box was full of hands. Human hands, stacked atop one another, bathed in blood and cradled in the blue blanket. Christopher looked around him, feeling nauseous, and he thought about naked mole rats.
When Wulf Christopher was a child he had gone to a natural sciences museum in Des Moines. One of the exhibits was a gianf network of clear plastic tubes, a small city for creatures known as hairless, or naked, mole rats. The point of the exhibit was to show how the mole rats tunneled through the hard earth and carried food to their queen. Christopher was struck as a child by the creatures moving up and down the tiny tunnels, crawling over one another squirming hairless and pink in the comers, pushing one another out of the way, blending together, a hundred pieces of flesh biting and clawing and swimming, swimming in one another. His father walked up and said, “Life is like that.”
The hands in the box reminded him of mole rats. They gestured and seemed to swim in one another, and Christopher coughed and gasped and felt the bile begin to rise in his throat. (There is...) He looked at himself in the mirror across the office and saw that he was white as a sheet. Someone would pay for this. (... something missing.)
There was a creak, a hinge moving, and Christopher watched his white face in the mirror and saw something rising behind him, behind the high-backed chair, stepping out of the great wardrobe. Now, in the light from the lamp on his desk, Christopher could see it more clearly. The creature was seven feet tall, with fins on the side of its head, and red, glowing eyes. The Abomination. Christopher reached for the red button on the underside of his desk when he heard a soft, rasping laugh and felt something grip him by the neck.
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