Careful, quiet footsteps, but enough vibration for Tach to tell that his opponent was big. Two sets of soft breaths from either side of the wall. Tach held his, waited. The man came through the door in a rush; Tachyon lunged in low, ready to drive the blade up beneath the ribs. The blade snapped, and gold light flashed across the dingy apartment walls. Jack Braun, forming his hand into a gun, placed his forefinger firmly between Tachyon’s eyes, “Bang, bang, you’re dead.”
“GOD DAMN YOU!” In a blaze of temper he flung the broken knife against the wall. “What are you doing here?”
“I followed you.”
“I never saw you!”
“I know. I’m pretty good at this.” The implication was clear.
“Why can’t you just leave … me … alone?”
“Because you’re getting in way over your head.”
“I can take care of myself.”
A derisive snort.
“If it hadn’t been you, I’d have taken you out,” Tach cried.
“Yeah? And what if there’d been more than one? Or if they’d had guns?”
“I don’t have time to discuss this with you. The police may be here any minute,” the alien threw over his shoulder as he stormed into the bedroom and continued his search.
“Police! HOLD IT! What is going on? Why the police?”
“Because the woman who lived in this flat was murdered this morning.”
“Oh, great. And why does this involve you?” Tachyon’s mouth tightened mulishly. Braun gathered up the front of the alien’s shirt, hefted him off the ground, and held him at eye level, noses almost touching. “Tachyon.” It was a warning rumble.
“It’s a private matter.”
“Not if the police are involved it isn’t.”
“I can handle it myself.”
“I don’t think so. You couldn’t even spot me.” Tachyon sulked. “Tell me what’s going on. I just might help you.”
“Oh, very well,” he snapped pettishly. “I’m searching for any clue as to the whereabouts of my grandson.”
That took some explaining. Tachyon fired out the tale in quick staccato sentences while they finished pawing through the jumble, turning up absolutely nothing.
“So you see, I have to find him first and get him out of the country before the French authorities realize what they possess,” he concluded, laying his hand on the doorknob. And heard a key rasp in the lock.
“Oh, shit,” whispered Tach.
“Police?” mouthed Jack.
“Undoubtedly,” the Takisian mouthed back.
“Fire escape.” Jack pointed back over his shoulder.
They fled.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Braun paused to light a cigarette. Tachyon stopped wolfing down his enormous and very belated lunch and fished the paper from his jeans. Tossed it, only to have it land fluttering in the mustard jar. “God damn it, be careful,” said Jack, aggrieved, and mopped at the paper with his napkin.
Tachyon continued to shovel it in. With an annoyed grunt the ace pulled out a pair of reading glasses and peered at the Takisian’s florid hand:
Gisele Bacourt wed François Andrieux in a civil ceremony on December 5th, 1971.
One child, Blaise Jeannot Andrieux, born May 7, 1975.
Gisele Andrieux killed in a shoot-out with industrialist Simon de Montfort’s personal bodyguard, November 28, 1984.
Both husband and wife were members of the French Communist Party.
François Andrieux had been pulled in for questioning, but was released when nothing conclusive could be found.
They had tried the simple expedient of checking the phone book, and—not surprisingly—Andrieux had not been listed. Jack sighed, rocked back in his chair, and returned his glasses to his shirt pocket. The Eiffel Tower cast an elongated shadow across the outdoor café.
“It’s getting late, and we’ve got that dinner at the Tour Eiffel.”
“I’m not going.”
“Oh?”
“No, I’m going to go talk to Claude Bonnell.”
“Who?”
“Bonnell, Bonnell! Le Miroir, you know?”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a major figure in the Communist Party. He may be able to obtain Andrieux’s address for me.”
“And if that fails?” The smoke from the cigarette formed a loop in the air between them.
“I don’t want to think about that.”
“Well, you better, if you really want to find this guy.”
“So what’s your suggestion?”
“Try tracing the materials used in the bomb. They had to buy the stuff somewhere.”
Tach made a face. “Sounds slow and tedious.”
“It is.”
“Then I’ll pin my hope on Bonnell.”
“Fine, you hope, and I’ll pursue my bomb idea. Of course, how we’re going to get that information I’m not certain. I suppose you could always go to see Rochambeau and pick his brains.…”
Tachyon steepled his fingers before his face and peered speculatively over the top at Jack. “I have a better idea.”
“What?”
“Don’t sound so suspicious. You and Billy Ray could talk to Rochambeau about the bomb. Say that you think it was meant for the senator—it might have been for all we know—suggest that you pool information.”
“Might work.” Jack ground out the cigarette. “Billy Ray is a Justice Department ace, and Hartmann’s bodyguard. ’Course he’s bound to ask why I’m involved.”
“Just tell him it’s because you’re Golden Boy.” And the tone was undiluted acid.
Bonnell’s dressing room backstage at the Lido was typical. The strong odors of cold cream, greasepaint, and hair spray overlaying the fainter scents of old sweat and stale perfume.
Tachyon straddled a chair, arms resting along the back, and watched the joker put the final touches on his makeup.
“Could you hand me my ruff?”
Bonnell clasped it about his neck, rose, took one final critical look at the black and white harlequin costume, and settled back into the battered wooden chair.
“All right, Doctor. I’m ready. Now tell me what I can do for you.”
“I need a favor.” They spoke in French.
“Which is?”
“Do you have membership lists—addresses—for your members?”
“I assume we’re speaking of the Party.”
“Oh, forgive me. Yes.”
“And to answer you, yes, we do.”
Bonnell was not helping him any. Tach plowed awkwardly on. “Could you obtain an address for me?”
“That would depend on what you want it for.”
“Nothing nefarious, I assure you. A personal matter.”
“Hmmm.” Bonnell straightened the already meticulously arranged pots and tubes on his dressing table. “Doctor, you presume a great deal. We have met only once, yet you come to me asking for private information. And if I were to ask you why?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I rather thought that would be your answer. So I’m afraid I really must refuse.”
Exhaustion, tension, and the throbbing ache from his leg slammed down like a curling storm wave. Tach laid his head on his arms. Fought tears. Considered just giving up. A gentle but firm hand caught his chin and forced his head up.
“This really means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?”
“More than you can know.”
“So tell me so I will know. Can’t you trust me? Just a little?”
“I lived in Paris long ago. Have you been a communist for long?” he asked abruptly
“Ever since I was able to comprehend politics.”
“Then I’m surprised I didn’t meet you all those long years ago. I knew them all. Thorenz, Lena Goldoni … Danelle.”
“I wasn’t in Paris then. I was still in Marseilles getting the crap beat out of me by my supposedly normal neighbors.” His smile was bitter. “France has not always been so ki
nd to her wild cards.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why should you be?”
“Because it’s my fault.”
“That’s an exceedingly silly and self-indulgent attitude.”
“Thank you so very much.”
“The past is dead, buried, and gone forever past recall. Only the present and the future matter, Doctor.”
“And I think that’s a silly and simplistic attitude. The actions of the past have consequences for the present and the future. Thirty-six years ago I came to this country broken and bitter. I slept with a young girl. Now I return to find that I left a more permanent mark on this place than I had thought. I sired a child who was born, lived, and died without my ever knowing of her existence. I could curse her mother for that, and yet perhaps she was wise. For the first thirteen years of Gisele’s life her father was a drunken derelict. What could I have given her?” He paced away and stood rigidly regarding a wall. Then whirled and rested his shoulders against the cool plaster.
“I lost my chance with her, but the Ideal has granted me another. She had a son, my grandchild. And I want him.”
“And the father?”
“Is a member of your party.”
“You say you want him. What? You would steal him from his father?”
Tach rubbed wearily at his eyes. Forty-eight hours without sleep was taking its toll. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. All I want is to see him, to hold him, to look into the face of my future.”
Bonnell slapped his hands onto his thighs and pushed up from the chair. “C’est bien, Doctor. A man deserves a chance to back upon the intersection of his past, present, and future. I will find you this man.”
“Just give his address, there’s no reason for you to be involved.”
“He might take fright. I can reassure him, set up a meeting. His name—?”
“François Andrieux.”
Bonnell noted it. “Very good. So, I will speak to this man, and then I will ring you at the Ritz—”
“I’m no longer staying there. You can reach me at the Lys on the Left Bank.”
“I see. Any particular reason?”
“No.”
“You must work on that innocent expression. It is very charming, if not terribly convincing.” Tachyon flushed, and Bonnell laughed. “There, there, don’t take offense. You’ve told me enough of your secrets tonight. I won’t press you for any more.”
The junket was dining at the expensive Tour Eiffel.
Tachyon, leaning on the rail of the observation deck, fidgeted and waited for Braun to emerge. Through the windows of the restaurant he could see that the party had reached the brandy-coffee-cigars-speeches stage. The door opened, and Mistral, giggling, darted out. She was followed by Captain Donatien Racine, one of France’s more prominent aces. His sole power was flight, but that coupled with the fact he was career military had ensured that the press dubbed him Tricolor. It was a name he hated.
Gripping the American about her slender waist, Racine carried them over the protective railing. Mistral gave him a quick kiss, pushed free of his encircling arm, and floated away on the gentle breezes that sighed about the tower. Her great blue-and-silver cape spread around her until she resembled an exotic moth drawn by the glittering lights webbing the tower. Watching the couple darting and swooping in an intricate game of tag, Tachyon suddenly felt very weary and very old and very earthbound.
The restaurant doors flew open, and the delegation flowed out like water through a broken dam. After five months of formal dinners and endless speeches, it was no wonder they fled.
Braun, elegant in his white tie and tails, paused to light a cigarette. Tachyon touched him with a thread of telepathy.
Jack.
He stiffened, but gave no other outward sign.
Gregg Hartmann glanced back. “Jack, are you coming?”
“I’ll catch up with you. Think I’ll enjoy the air and the view and watch those crazy kids skydive.” He pointed to Mistral and Racine.
A few moments later he joined Tachyon at the rail.
“Bonnell’s going to set up a meeting.”
Braun grunted, flicked ash. “The Sûreté were at the hotel when I got back. They tried to be subtle about questioning the delegation as to your whereabouts, but the news hounds are snuffling. They sense a story.”
The Takisian shrugged it aside with a hunch of the shoulder. “Will you come with me? To the meeting?”
Ancestors, how it stuck in the throat to ask him for help!
“Sure.”
“I may need help with the father.”
“So you’re going to do…”
“Whatever it takes. I want him.”
Montmartre. Where artists, legitimate and otherwise, swarmed like locusts ready to fall upon the unwary tourist. A portrait of your beautiful wife, monsieur. The cost politely never mentioned, then when it was completed a charge sufficient to purchase an old master.
Tour buses groaned up the hill and disgorged their eager passengers. The Gypsy children, circling like vultures, moved in. The European travelers, wise to the ways of these innocent-faced thieves, drove them away with loud threats. The Japanese and Americans, lulled by sparkling black eyes in dark faces, allowed them to approach. Later they would rue it when they discovered the loss of wallets, watches, jewelry.
So many people, and one small boy.
Braun, hands on hips, gazed out across the plaza before Sacré-Coeur. It was awash with people. Easels thrust up like masts from a colorful surging sea. He sighed, checked his watch.
“They’re late.”
“Patience.”
Braun stared pointedly at his watch again. The Gypsy children attracted by the slim gold band of the Longines crept forward.
“Beat it!” Jack roared. “Jesus, where do they all come from? Is there a Gypsy factory the same way there’s a hooker factory?”
“They’re usually sold by their mothers to ‘talent scouts’ from France and Italy. They’re then trained to steal and work like slaves for their owners.”
“Jesus, sounds like something out of Dickens.”
Tachyon shaded his eyes with one slim hand and searched for Bonnell.
“You know you were supposed to address a conference of researchers today.”
“Yes.”
“Well, did you call to cancel?”
“No, I forgot. I have more important things on my mind right now than genetic research.”
“I’d say that’s exactly what you have on your mind,” came Braun’s dry reply.
A taxi pulled up, and Bonnell struggled painfully out. He was followed by a man and a small boy. Tachyon’s fingers dug deep into Jack’s bicep.
“Look. Dear God!”
“What?”
“That man. He’s the clerk from the hotel.”
“Huh?”
“He was at the Intercontinental.”
The trio were walking toward them. Suddenly the father froze, pointed at Jack, gestured emphatically, grabbed the child by the wrist, and hustled for the taxi.
“No, dear God, no.” Tachyon ran forward a few steps. Reached out, his power closing about their minds like a vise. They froze. He walked slowly toward them. Felt his breath go short as he devoured the small, stubborn face beneath its cap of red hair. The boy was fighting with not insignificant power, and only a quarter Takisian. Pride surged through Tach.
Suddenly he was flung to the ground, fists and rocks raining down upon him. He clung desperately to the control while the Gypsy children plucked at him, removing wallet, watch, and all the time continuing the hysterical beating. Jack waded in and began plucking urchins off him.
“No no, catch them. Don’t worry about me!” screamed Tach. With a leg sweep he brought two to the ground, lurched to one knee, stiffened his fingers, and jabbed them hard into one gangling teenager’s throat. The boy fell back, choking.
Jack hesitated, turned toward Andrieux and the boy, broke into a run. Tachyon, d
istracted, watched his progress. Never even saw the boot come swinging in. Pain exploded in his temple. Distantly he heard someone shouting, then bitter darkness.
Bonnell was wiping his face with a damp handkerchief when he finally came around. Desperately Tachyon levered up onto his elbows, then fell back as the motion sent waves of pain through his head and filled the back of his throat with nausea.
“Did you get them?”
“No.” Jack was holding a bumper like a man displaying a prize catch. “When you went under they ran for it and made it into the cab. I tried to grab the car, but could only get the bumper. It came off,” he added unnecessarily. Jack eyed the interested crowd that had surrounded them and shooed them away.
“Then we’ve lost them.”
“What did you expect? You turn up with the Judas Ace,” said Bonnell angrily.
Jack flinched, murmured through stiff lips, “That was a long time ago.”
“Some of us don’t forget. And others of us shouldn’t.” He glared at Tachyon. “I thought I could trust you.”
“Jack, go away.”
“Well, fuck you too.” Long, jerky strides carried him into the crowd and out of sight.
“It’s funny, but I feel very badly about that.” He gave himself a shake. “So what do we do now?”
“First I extract a promise from you that there will be no more stunts like today.”
“All right.”
“I’ll reset the meeting for tonight. And this time come alone.”
Jack wasn’t sure why he did it. After the insult Tachyon had given him, he should have just washed his hands of the whole thing or told the Sûreté everything he knew. Instead he turned up at the Lys with an ice pack and aspirin.
“Thank you, but I do have a medical kit.”
Jack tossed the bottle several times. “Oh, yeah? Well, then I’ll take them. This whole thing is giving me a headache.”
Tach lifted the pack from his eye. “Why you?”
“Lie down and leave that thing on your eye.” He scratched at his chin. “Look, let me throw something out to you. Doesn’t this whole thing strike you as just a little too convenient?”
Wild Cards IV Page 57