by Ryk E. Spoor
“Maybe not quite as bad as it seems,” I said. Verne had looked like death warmed over when he came in, but that might have been the yellow street lights. He looked a little better, here in the office, than he had yesterday. I hoped that meant he was taking it easy. “With that kind of high profile, yeah, it’s certain that your enemies know where the kids are. But the good thing is that the high profile also makes it virtually impossible to kidnap them. Doing a snatch-and-grab on some random runaway is one thing; kidnapping the children of a United States senator—especially one like Paula MacLain, who’s one of the most outspoken and uncompromising people I’ve ever heard—is very, very different.”
“True,” Verne said. “But it will be difficult to convince the lady to return her children to their father when that father is wanted across the globe. Giving him a new identity would work for ordinary situations, but you can be sure that if we ask her to hand over her children to us, she will have us investigated to the full extent of her powers, which are quite considerable. She would most certainly discover your internationally known identity, Kafan, and might find out some rather unwelcome facts about myself as well.”
Syl nodded. “And . . . didn’t she have a son before? One about Tai’s age? He was killed somehow. She’s going to hold on to those kids like grim death.”
I winced. I’d forgotten about that—it had happened about ten years ago, before I started reading about politics, since in high school things like that seem pretty unimportant. But now that Syl mentioned it, I remembered: her husband and son were killed in a plane crash, and it had something to do with her job so she might have blamed herself somehow. “We’ll have to think about this.”
“What is there to think about?” Kafan demanded. “I am their father. They belong with me.”
“I’d tend to agree,” I said, “but the rest of the world knows you as a psycho killer, wanted by an international task force. Not exactly the kind of parent people want for children, you know.”
“Then we’ll tell her the truth.”
“Which truth? The one about genetic experiments? Kafan, that’d be a quick way to end up in yet another lab. The one about ancient civilizations for which there are no signs of existence? That would be a good way to get us all locked up. No, I’m sure there’s an angle here, but I’m going to have to work on it. At least relax some; we know where they are, and they’re being treated very well. They’re not suffering, and it’s for damn sure this organization won’t dare touch them as long as they’re in the senator’s custody.”
Kafan’s lips tightened, showing faint hints of the fangs underneath, until he got his temper under control. Then he shrank back, depressed even though the news was at least partly good. “You are correct. I cannot fight this whole world if I wish to live here.” He brooded for a moment, then asked, “What about Kay and Kei?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. Nothing yet. If they were captured again as you said, I’m not going to find anything quickly, even if they did move them. Most likely, they’re still in the lab compound you mentioned, if they managed to keep it hidden this long. You can’t tell us where it is?”
“No.” The short, blunt monosyllable carried a world of frustration. “Showing me where I was on a map was never something they did. And I merely ran when I escaped. I had no time to mark bearings. Oh, put me physically back in the general area and I’ll find it, that I promise you, but I can’t show you where it is.”
“Too bad. But if we’re even going to think about finding a way to go back and get them, we absolutely have to find out where the compound is, and, to be honest, a whole lot more.” This was getting more and more difficult. I wasn’t James Bond, and I didn’t know anyone who qualified for the part, either. Jeri Winthrope was about as close as I got, and I sure didn’t like the idea of involving her in this—both because of the problems it could cause for us and the problems it would cause for her. There was a serious threat hanging over anyone who got too close to this mess. “Guess I’ll have to work on that too.”
Verne, still pale but looking definitely better than he had yesterday, sat up. “Jason, at this point I insist on paying you. This may require a great deal of your time and resources, and perhaps more than you can easily afford.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it. It grated on me to charge a friend for something so important to him, but Verne was right. If I followed this thing to its logical conclusion, I might have to do everything from paying out bribes to masterminding and equipping a commando raid! I shook my head at that; I didn’t know anyone who even knew anyone who could do that. Oh well, one thing at a time. “Thanks, Verne. You’re right. This is going to get expensive no matter how I slice it.”
Taking out his checkbook, Verne wrote quickly and tore out the paper. I boggled at the amount. “Verne—”
“Don’t protest, Jason. Better to be overpaid than underpaid. You have no idea how little such a sum means to me, nor how highly I value your services.”
I nodded. “Okay.” I gestured at the pile of newspaper copies. “Take those if you want. I’d better get back to work. Besides this snafu, I’ve got three other regular jobs on the burner.”
Sylvie remained behind after Verne, Kafan, and Gen left. “Verne isn’t well, Jason.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said. “He looks better than he did yesterday, though.”
She frowned, a distant and, unfortunately, familiar look on her face. “Maybe . . . but I have a bad feeling about that.”
I sighed. “Syl, sweetheart, maybe you can do something. It’s for sure that I’ve got enough to do here. I’m no vampire medic. He regards you very highly and talks about your being a ‘Mistress of Crystal,’ whatever that means. Maybe you can do something to help him.”
Her expression lightened. “Why, thank you, Jason! For calling me ‘sweetheart,’ that is.”
I blushed; I could feel the heat on my cheeks. “So maybe it wasn’t ever a secret. Syl, you’re the only woman that makes me feel like I’m still fourteen, clumsy, and tongue-tied. Maybe that’s a good thing.” She started to say something—I could tell it would be something that embarrassed me more—but then stopped. “Thanks. I don’t need to blush more than once a day.”
She smiled, a very gentle smile. “It doesn’t hurt your looks at all, you know. And that clumsy approach of yours makes me feel like I’m still in my teens, too, so I’d say it’s a good thing.”
I smiled back. “I guess you make me nervous because you’re the only woman I’m serious about.”
“Are you?”
I swallowed. “I’ve been in love with you for years, Syl. I just wasn’t ready to admit it.”
You can insert your own experience of a happy first kiss here; I’m pretty sure they’re similar for the lucky people involved: time stops, or passes, but it certainly doesn’t behave the same, and the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I’d kissed Syl before, quick pecks here and there, and I’d kissed a girl or two once I was out of my geek stage, but there just wasn’t any comparison. I’d been waiting to do this since I met her, and from her response, I guessed she’d been waiting just as long.
When lack of air finally signaled the end of eternity, I pulled back from her for a moment, looking into those deep blue eyes. “Whew.”
“So what was it you were so afraid of, Jason?”
“This. I like having control over my own life, and there’s no control over this.”
That smile again. “Do you want to change your mind?”
“Don’t you even think about it. After all the courage I had to work up to say that four-letter word ‘love,’ you’re not getting a chance to get away.” I wanted to spend the rest of the night—maybe the rest of the week—continuing what we’d started, but I couldn’t ignore business, either.
Especially when business also involved a friend. “Syl, can we make a date for tomorrow night? Right now, I’d better keep working—I’ve already lost a couple of days. And do you think you can do an
ything for Verne?”
She grinned. “Not jealous of him anymore?”
“What?!”
“I can sense things, you know that. And I could see your little pout every time Verne put on the charm and I smiled back at him.”
I gave a sour look. “Well, he does have a kind of overwhelming presence, not to mention that perfect sense of style.”
“Jealous, like I said. Don’t worry, Jason. I knew you were the one for me as soon as I saw you. I had a feeling about it.”
Now that really made me wince. “I don’t believe in destiny.”
“Then call it a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’ll head over to Verne’s. Maybe I can’t do anything, but then again maybe I can.”
“Thanks, Syl.”
Even after she left, it took a while to start concentrating on the work at hand.
Perfume stays with you.
CHAPTER 42
Reaching Limits
TO:{Jason Wood}[email protected]
FROM:{The Jammer}
SUBJECT:EXCUSE ME????
Do you have ANY idea what kind of mess you were trying to get me into? No, let me revise that. Do you have ANY idea what THAT kind of mess can do to me?
Dammit, Wood. This guy’s an international fugitive and you want me to give him a bulletproof ID? What are you mixed up in THIS time?
So there were limits to what the Jammer would take casually. Nice to know, but I wished he’d have stayed in his omnipotent mode for a while longer.
Look, I know enough about you to know that you know perfectly well who this guy is, at least on the public-international level. So, since I also know you’re not into helping criminals, I’ll assume you know something I don’t, hard as that is to believe, which makes this guy worth helping. But for this little bit of work, I’m charging. Not money, naturally. You’ll make available a writable CD-ROM on a dial-in line at 2:15 Tuesday evening. When it’s finished, you’ll take the disk—without reading it, and believe you me I’ll know—to a secure locale of your choosing. In a separate letter, you tell me the location. Once that’s done, I’ll deliver your IDs.
Oh, man. What was I getting myself into? He could be downloading anything from recipes to top secret documents into the drive, and I had no doubt that if I made a single attempt to read the contents, he would find out; he was that good.
But then again, what was I asking him to do? Create an ID for a known international criminal. And if my guess was right, he was working for an organization that was tasked with finding Kafan. No, the Jammer had the right to ask for something like this; I was asking him to put his ass on the line for me, so I would stick my neck out for him.
I typed a very short reply—“Terms accepted”—and sent it off.
A week into my work and I wasn’t any closer to figuring out how to approach Senator MacLain without opening about a dozen cans of worms that were better left closed. On the other hand, I was starting, I thought, to close in on the location of this mysterious Project. The break had come a few days ago, when a search program had highlighted the Organization for Scientific Research. A check showed that not only had the OSR always been heavily involved in biological research, but it previously had a couple of branches in the far East—one in or very near Vietnam. During the ’70s, those labs were closed. A bit of digging on my part, however, showed that the discontinuance had actually been a transfer of ownership to interested parties, probably in the Viet government. Details on the site were vague; the OSR files from the ’70s were hard to access, since it had begun as a UN venture but had separated from the UN and become a private corporation, so it was possible all the old records not directly relevant to operation had been purged. And stuff that old often wasn’t online anywhere in any case.
It might be possible, however, to take the vague info I had gathered and combine it with a careful modeling of the layout as Kafan remembered it to see if a pattern-recognition program could come up with anything using satellite photos of the area. There were probably records of the installation on one of the intelligence computers—NSA, CIA—but I wasn’t about to try hacking one of those. This had to be an independent operation. With Verne’s backing, at least we didn’t need to worry about whether we could afford it.
That brought up the next problem: Verne. Syl had tried a number of things with him regarding his health, and though it appeared to have helped some, within a few days, he had deteriorated again. He was visibly older.
I closed my eyes. Genetically engineered people, ancient civilizations, vampires, priests. . . . damn, it was a wonder my head didn’t explode. All that stuff combined was enough to . . .
All that stuff combined?
I straightened. Reaching out, I grabbed the phone. “Verne? Sorry to disturb you, but I just thought of something.”
Verne’s weariness was now evident in his voice. It was still as rich as ever, but the underlying tone lacked the measured certainty that was usually there. “And what is that, Jason?”
“Verne, you talked about how certain forces might have returned, right? Isn’t it possible that what’s happening to you is an attack? Maybe even carried out—unconsciously—by Kafan?”
The silence on the other end was very long. Then:
“Not merely possible . . .” Verne said slowly, “. . . but even probable. In all these thousands of years, nothing like this has ever happened to me. Can it be coincidence that it happens now, of all times? Most unlikely. My brain has been affected as well, if I did not think of this myself.”
“Is there a way to find out?”
“There is,” Verne said. “With Sylvie’s help, Morgan and I should be able to determine if any outside mystical forces are operating here.”
“What about biological? You did say that living things could affect you.”
Verne hesitated a moment, considering. His voice, given hope, was stronger now. “I do not believe any disease, howsoever virulent, could affect me without some small mystical component. This was one of the Lady’s blessings, and it is not within the power of ordinary science to gainsay that, even in this era. My metabolism differs so greatly from that of anything else on this world that I doubt it would be recognized by most tests. No, if this is an attack, it must be a magical one. Thank you, Jason.”
“No problem. Will you need me for anything?”
“No, my friend. You have given all that was necessary. We will endeavor to make this as short as possible, that your lady be not unduly inconvenienced.”
“Is it that obvious to everyone?”
Verne’s laugh was the first genuinely cheerful response I had heard from him in a week. “Jason, such things are always obvious. And welcome, I assure you. You have finally accepted that which was always in your heart.”
“Don’t you start. I may have been slow and dumb, but I don’t have to be reminded every day.”
He chuckled. “Good night, Jason.”
CHAPTER 43
Beware of Spooks Leaving Gifts
I stared down at the disk in my hand. The fact that it contained potentially treasonous information made it feel as heavy as lead. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the worst thing I had to deal with. My date with Sylvie last night, our third “real” date, had been bittersweet at best. We were happy to be together finally, but our enjoyment was overshadowed. Despite three days of careful work, Syl, Verne, Morgan, and their few other trusted contacts had turned up precisely nothing. My “brilliant idea” was a washout, and Verne was worse than ever. He would improve slightly for a few hours, but the mysterious illness always came back. No mystical influences alien to the house. No mental controls on Kafan that they could find. Nothing.
I sighed. Syl wasn’t coming over today—the Silver Stake had three shipments that needed to be classified, and she didn’t want to be faced with Verne right now anyway.
I glanced at an envelope on my desk—one which, under any other circumstances, would have me calling Syl for champagne and a very, very expensive dinner out. But it barely gave me a
momentary smile. I sighed; putting the CD into a protective case, I put the case into my backpack. Time to send it off for delivery.
As I opened the front door, I saw a package lying on the doorstep. I picked it up, noting that it had no mailing stamps, return address, or postal marks of any kind.
Belatedly, it occurred to me that I might expect to start getting mail bombs soon. Well, if it was a bomb, it wasn’t motion-activated. I hefted it a couple of times. It was light; not much more than paper in here, I thought. There could be enough plastique in it to do serious damage, though. It didn’t take much high explosive to do a number on you.
I shrugged. Not likely to be a bomb, what the hell. I ripped it open.
No explosions. Looking inside, I saw an envelope and a sheet of paper. It was a note:
Jason, you have the goddamned devil’s luck. Here are the IDs. Destroy the disk. Since I know you’re too damn curious for your own good, I’ll let you in on this latest development: somehow, whatever you’re up to got the attention of one of my bosses and he caught me. Instead of shutting us down, he told me to make the IDs. Must be personal—he told me not to mention this to the other members of our group. So this one’s free. But I’d worry, if I were you. If HE thinks you’re involved in something important enough to let you off a felony charge without so much as a warning, you’re playing with nukes, not fire.
The Jammer
I stared at the package, then opened the envelope. Birth certificate . . . passport . . . driver’s license . . . Jesus, even documents showing he was proficient in woodworking and construction, as well as a Black Belt certification from Budoukai Tai Kwan Do in California. I looked closer. The passport was genuine—seal and all.
Who were these people? And what the hell had I gotten myself into now?