by Glen Cook
“Excuse me.” The patrolman was back again. “They’ve lost the pickle guy.”
“Already?” Cash demanded. “How the hell did they manage that?”
“He had a chopper there. He took off in it.”
“A planner. It must be Smiley.”
“Who?” Malone asked.
“A man who calls himself Augsberg but who, looks like Smiley. Maybe he’s their Neulist.”
Miss Groloch jerked as if slapped every time she heard that name. She was now spookier than Cash had ever seen. Something apocalyptic was going on inside her head.
“Interesting,” Malone observed. “You. Fial, is it? Tell me about it.”
The old man ignored him.
“Well, we’ll find out later.”
The officer outside shouted, “Hey, you guys. There was a body in that trunk.”
Cash closed his eyes, silently counted while the earth dropped away. There it was. The death of his last hope.
The whickering sound of helicopter rotors grew in the distance.
“Officer! Get in here!” Malone yelled. To the others, “Let’s make it a trap. Any reason he should be expecting one?”
“He had people here,” Segasture replied. “Probably the ones who followed her. They might have noticed we were watching, too.”
“He knows we’re interested,” Cash added. “He had somebody watching her back home. I’d say he’s trying to beat us here. If we hadn’t gotten the break with the newspaper subscription, he would have.”
Malone parted a curtain. “That damned gumball parked out there. And your car and mine. The crowd will scare him off.”
The whickering passed overhead, began a slow revolution around the house.
“Guess it isn’t the real pickle king,” said Segasture, ending with a nervous little laugh.
They waited in silence. The helicopter circled twice.
“He’s landing in the garden,” Tran called from the kitchen.
“Okay. Everybody out of sight,” Malone ordered.
Cash rebelled. This was his show. Neither Malone nor Smiley were going to steal it from him. “I’m staying here. So are these two.”
“Suit yourself.”
Fiala sobbed. Fial held her, defying Cash. Norm let it go. “Got to meet nightmares toe to toe,” he told Fial. His voice betrayed his own fear.
The helicopter’s engines died.
Tran called, “They’re armed. AK47s. They look professional.”
“How many?” Malone asked.
“Five, plus the pilot and old man. The pilot isn’t armed. He looks like a conscript.”
“Okay. Everybody hang easy. Don’t start anything. They’ve got a firepower advantage.” Satisfied with everyone’s hiding places, Malone slithered into the tight shadow behind a massive Victorian-style couch.
Cash was scared shitless. His pistol grip was slick. His face was pale. His stomach had become a tiny, aching knot. He ground his teeth to prevent chattering. He adjusted his chair so he could watch both the front door and the Grolochs.
It was his show, damn it! Fear wasn’t going to rip it from his control.
For an instant he saw snowy brush where rosebushes stood. He heard the squeal of tank tracks, the footsteps and breathing of shadowless panzergrenadiers....
A real shadow splashed across the porch. Norm slipped his revolver beneath his leg, prayed he wouldn’t do something stupid again.
Fial still held Fiala. She babbled continuously in Czech. Fial patted her head and murmured in the same tongue.
His eyes, on Norm, remained hate-filled, angry.
You would think, Cash reflected, that he was the wronged party.
He glanced toward the door. The shadow was gone.
Why were they taking so long?
Miss Groloch shuddered, groaned. Fial spoke to her in a hard, urgent tone, shifting to German when she did. Cash couldn’t pick out one word in twenty. Most were nein or nicht something. Comprehension grew. Fial was telling herr over and over, to shut up.
Cash wished he could record them.
He glanced at the door. The shadow had returned.
They were playing a game of nerves out there.
Glass shattered in the kitchen. A door slammed. There was a shout, sounds of a scuffle.
Cash sweated, fearing he would have to carry bad news to Le Quyen, too.
Within a minute Tran steered a groggy, linebacker-sized gentleman into the room. He hit the man again, smiled Cash’s way, started back.
And stopped, stared down the bore of an assault rifle.
Cash was tempted. Hitting the interloper wouldn’t be difficult.
A cat yowled upstairs. A pair of the beasts hurtled downstairs, disappeared.
And Norm spotted a second man beyond the head of the stairs.
No point in gunplay, now. Too many automatic weapons around.
The shadow still stretched across the porch.
Where were the others? What were they up to?
Miss Groloch’s shakes and moans took on the violence of a seizure. Fial’s efforts calmed her not at all.
The man’s emotional agony was so obvious, so deep, that Cash couldn’t help feeling compassion. Compassion tainted by anger. The old witch was going to get off on an insanity plea.
There would be another feint before the real move, Cash decided. Something to distract them for one critical instant.
Neighbors who had known the man better than he had described Dr. Smiley as an excellent, unorthodox chess player.
He did the unexpected now.
He walked in the front door. Unarmed. With just one bodyguard.
Cash was beyond surprise. “Good morning, Doctor. I’ve been waiting.”
If having been beaten to his prey had disappointed Smiley, he hid it welt.
“Norman. You’re more efficient than I anticipated.” He was no longer the quiet, retiring, bookish neighbor. He had gained a commanding, frightening presence. His clothing, too, had changed. No longer was he the little old man in secondhand. His suit must have set him back four hundred dollars. He turned slightly. “Stefan. And little Marda. It’s been an interesting chase. Let me savor the moment. There was no chance with Otho and Dunajcik.”
Fial nodded slightly. “Colonel. You, too, are more efficient than anticipated.” His hatred was palpable.
“Norman, we could get to butting heads here,” Smiley observed. “But you should know that I’m invoking a prior claim. If you accept it we can work this out.” He glanced at his watch. “Our goals are nearly the same anyway.”
“Afraid not.”
“Excuse me?”
“I could never want somebody so bad that I’d get a couple thousand people killed just to nail them. Like you did when you were Josef Gabiek. So I don’t recognize your claim. Not here. You should have caught them over there.”
Smiley’s face flashed several successive reactions.
“Yeah, we know, Dr. Hodzâ. You just caught us with our pants down.” Cash was stalling, hoping reinforcements would arrive. That paddy wagon showing now would be like the cavalry charging over the hill. “Now I have to arrest you, too. Suspicion of arson and murder. You have the right to remain silent....”
Smiley glanced at his watch, shook his head. “You do amaze me, Norman. I never would have thought it. You seemed such an unimaginative fellow. But we’re wasting time. These people are enemies of the State.”
Cash caught the odd intensity of the remark. “So are you. Of my state. By the way, what did they do? I’ve read about some of the off-the-wall crimes you clowns nail people for over there. Conspiracy to defame the State. Jesus!”
“Who speaks for the State?” Fiala demanded suddenly, strangely calm. “Agency Colonel Neulist? The man who destroyed his State’s future out of wounded vanity? The man who is poisoning its past? The man who will, without doubt, be remembered as its greatest villain? Colonel, do you know who you ‘re talking to? “
Smiley raised an eyebrow. Cash stared.
“He is Michael Cash’s father.”
Norm’s heart leaped into his throat.
“Yes. I know. Does that make him a saint? I’m no simple-minded peasant....”
“Michael is still in China, Colonel. Certain key events can still be aborted.”
Cash’s mind was collapsing into utter chaos.
“You wouldn’t.”
“You destroyed my future. What use to me, then, your past?”
“That great a treason... you wouldn’t dare... would you?”
Fial muttered something, apparently agreeing. Fiala glared at him. Something wild and primitive animated her. She seemed much younger, much harder. And her English, Cash noted, had improved markedly.
Fiala snapped, “You, Colonel, are the traitor. The kind Marda’s grandfather called the worst. The kind who abuses position, who betrays a trust, to satisfy his ego.”
“What the hell is all this?” Cash asked. “You people know something about my son?”
“Too much talk. Norman, I want these people.” Smiley gestured. The movement became a slap. Fial backed away, rubbing a stinging cheek. “Or do I have to take them? Bitch.” He moved again. Fiala evaded his swing. One foot tried for his groin.
“Doc, I wouldn’t try anything if I was you. Too many guns around here. All we can do is cut each other up. Prize goes to the last man standing up. That wouldn’t be you.” He revealed his weapon. “You might say I’ve taken a dislike to you lately.”
Believing Malone’s allegations about the man’s past had become easy.
A ghost of a smile teased Smiley’s lips. But he was less calm than he pretended. He kept glancing at his watch. With his left thumb he kept fidgeting with his wedding band.
“All right. Your point. A draw.” To Fial and Fiala, “But we still have eighty years. We’ll meet again.” Smiling wickedly now, he backed toward the door.
How do I stop him? Cash wondered. Hank wants him, too.
There was no way. Not without a Shootout.
Too late, Norm noticed the absence of the stairway and kitchen gunmen. Tran now lay in a heap beside the man he had subdued. Cash had missed whatever had happened there.
The helicopter chugged to life.
Cash whirled.
Smiley was gone, too.
“The sonofabitch is going to get away!”
Fial collapsed. Moaning, he clawed at a bright purple mark on his cheek.
“What the...?”
“The bastard foxed us,” Malone spat as he crawled from behind the couch. “He was wearing a poison ring....”
“Norm, look out!” Beth shrieked.
Guns boomed.
Bullets parted Cash’s hair as he plunged to the floor. Polish firing squad, he thought.
He saw slugs tear at Miss Groloch’s clothing, saw Smiley vanish again before anyone could hit him. The old woman silently sat down beside her brother. Feebly, she reached for his hand.
Cash scrambled toward the doorway. He looked out, got back an instant before fragments of brick, wood, and metal started flying.
The helicopter sounded ready for takeoff.
He joined a rush to the kitchen.
Through a window he watched Smiley’s behind vanish into the chopper. Malone grabbed the downed gunman’s abandoned AK47 and broke the pane.
The Rochester policeman started out the backdoor, but threw himself back as a fusillade raked the house.
Something bit Norm in the side.
Malone fired on a man running for the aircraft, missed, ducked return fire. The man made it as the ship lifted off.
“Shit!” Cash thundered. “Goddamned! They’re going to getaway.”
Malone emptied his weapon. Cash and Segasture followed suit. Theirs was a gesture of frustration. The range was too great for handguns.
Staying low, the helicopter vanished over a line of trees, racing north.
“They’ll be in Canada before we can do anything,” Malone said. He slammed the assault rifle against a wall. “Damn. He was ahead of us every step of the way.”
Cash tossed his weapon into the sink. He felt emptied, defeated, unable to care even about the stinging in his side.
He went to check on Tran.
The major was breathing evenly. Cash could find no sign of injury.
An auto roared. Tires squealed.
“The other one!” Cash shouted. “He’s getting away, too!”
Segasture and the Rochester cop rushed the front door. A siren began wailing out on the road.
“You bastard!” the patrolman yelled. “Did you see that? He took my car. How the hell am I going to explain that?”
The man had been playing possum, Cash decided. For long enough to plan his escape.
Malone came from the Grolochs, knelt beside Norm. “Now we can’t get the news out. What a screw-up. Your friend okay?”
“Just unconscious.”
“Check the woman. The old man’s gone. She’s going. Wants to talk to you before she does.”
The agent sounded baffled.
Cash went over. Despite her injuries, Miss Groloch remained sitting upright. She had somehow managed to get Fial’s head into her lap. Norm felt the man’s wrist.
“He’s gone,” she said in a voice like a sigh. “It’s God’s will. May the one who possessed him... No. He should burn in hell, but not for that. The one who slew him was responsible....” Not only had her English improved, there was an indefinable something about the way she spoke that made Cash suspect some radical changes in her thinking.
“You’d better lie down. Let me see how bad you’re hurt.” Three patches of crimson stained her chest.
“No. I am dying. At last. The demon woman... she is almost gone, too.”
“Demon woman?”
“The creature within... that stole my body.... The one who was your great-granddaughter.”
“Huh?”
“Be still. Listen. My torments end, and so little time remains.”
Brokenly, ever more weakly, sometimes in words whose meanings she could only guess, the nineteenth-century peasant girl told the twentieth-century policeman of his son and twenty-first-century grandsons and great-granddaughter.
Somewhere in Prague, today, a woman named Ilse Zumsteg had a belly swelling with a son she would name Otho....
Cash didn’t believe a word. He didn’t dare. This was as crazy as the things John had dreamed up back in the beginning. It had to be the death raving of an insane person.
“Michael,” he whispered.
What sweet vengeances — for the violated peasant girl — must come to be now that she had spoken.
The whole history of a future would be rewritten....
If he could but believe.
Beth knelt beside him, held him, rested her cheek against his arm a moment. Major Tran, barely able to navigate, gently squeezed his other shoulder in a soldier’s gesture of reassurance.
“Me and Malone are going to see if we can borrow a phone,” Frank said from the doorway. “You going to be okay, Norm?”
Norm touched the area where the stray bullet had kissed him. “Yeah. But ask them to send a priest anyway.”
But he had to do the rites himself, from poor memory.
Miss Groloch died, and left Cash to reflect on the futility of the lives of both her personas — and on the fact that Franz Kafka, too, had come from Prague.
• • •
The lines begin and run off around the ever-curving face of the Klein bottle, seeking their beginnings in any of a thousand directions.
XXX
On the Z Axis;
12 September 1977;
Final Program
Total darkness. Near silence broken only by whispering and restless audience movements.
Suddenly, all-surrounding sound. A crossbreed, falsetto yodel/scream backed by one reverberating chord of the bass guitar. A pillar of red light waxes and wanes with the sound.
Erik Danzer is on.
Nude to the wais
t, in hip-deep vapor, he rakes his cheeks with his fingernails. He looks like an agonized demon rising from some smoldering lava pit of hell.
Light and sound depart for several seconds.
Sudden light reveals Danzer glaring audience right. Light and sound fade. Repeat, Danzer glaring left.
Harsh electric guitar chords, with the bass throbbing up chills for the spine. Mirror tricks, flashing, put Danzer all over the stage, screaming, “You! You! You!” while pointing into the audience. “You, girl!”
The lights remain on, though dimly, throbbing with the master chords. Danzer sometimes seems to be several places at once. The pillar-spot jumps from band member to band member.
The man whose forged German Federal Republic passport bears the joke-name Spuk neither understands nor enjoys. His last encounter with British rock was the Beatles’ “Penny Lane.” He does not know that Harrison, Lennon, McCartney, and Starr have gone their separate ways. He has never heard of “Crackerbox Palace,” Yoko, Wings, “No, No, No.”...
Nor does he care.
The pillar moves from man to man. The spook lifts the silenced Weatherby. 227. Through the starscope the once familiar face looks like a stranger’s.
The curtain masking the door to the box stirs. A shoe whispers on carpeting. A hand reaches from the darkness. The rifle barrel goes down.
The spook turns pale as he stares into another face from the past.
“Dad.”
“Michael.”