Black Trump

by George R. R. Martin

  "God knows we wouldn't want something to happen to him," Ray said. "What's the fate of a hundred-and-eighty-year-old geezer compared to the rest of the world?"

  There was the sound of grinding stone as Flint swiveled his neck to look down at Ray. "Sir Winston holds the fate of all of Ireland in his hands. That is not an inconsiderable burden. And he's only one hundred and twenty."

  "Yeah, whatever. It'd be tragic for his life to be cut so short."

  Harvest elbowed him. "Who's General Horvath?"

  "The head of the British Expeditionary Force in Northern Ireland," Flint whispered.

  "We don't want to keep him from his duties," Harvest said.

  "Nonsense," Flint replied. "He wants to meet you and get a briefing on this Card Shark business."

  "We'll tell him what we can," Ray said. He suddenly saw certain advantages to the scenario as it was shaping up. Let Horvath spend all his time nurse maiding the ancient politician, guarding him from loonies from both sides of the political spectrum who wanted to blow the old gent back into the middle of the last century. That would leave the way open for Harvest and himself to do a little poking around on their own. After they ditched the walking stiff, of course, who seemingly had been assigned to be their personal watchdog.

  The walking stiff led them to an office zealously guarded by an orderly who looked as though he'd been left over from the Crimean War. He spoke quietly into the intercom on his desk, then rose, eyed the three of them with open suspicion, and opened the door to Horvath's private office.

  Horvath was coming around his desk to greet them with typical British restraint as they entered the room.

  "Foxworthy, good to see you," he mumbled stiffly.

  "And you, Peter," Flint performed the introductions. Horvath was perfunctory with Ray, a little more effusive with Harvest, taking her hand and bowing over it.

  "Good to see you. Nice to come by and chat. 'Fraid I can't offer you too much time."

  "We don't want to take you away from your work," Harvest said.

  "No. No. Don't worry. Sit, Here." Horvath pulled out a chair for Harvest and waved Ray to the other. Flint loomed like a cliff behind them, there being no chair in the room solid enough to take his bulk.

  Ray sat. For all his clipped brusqueness, he noticed that Horvath placed Harvest where he could get a good look at her silk-clad legs. He didn't blame the general. He looked, too, and he remembered them scissored around his back, pulling him in tightly, as they made long, hard love the night before.

  "Now then," Horvath said. He shuffled through some papers on his littered desk top. "Looking for two Americans. Jokers, what?"

  "One joker," Harvest said, "one natural. A woman." She seemed to have caught Horvath's propensity for speaking in clipped sentences.

  "Ah, yes. Here we are." He scanned one of the papers, looked up with a cocked eyebrow. "A caterpillar? Surely you jest."

  Ray shook his head. "No joke." He told them all about Hartmann and Hannah Davis, omitting only the part about the Black Trump. Barnett had said to keep it secret, so he was.

  Horvath listened attentively. "Extraordinary. Yellow, you say?"

  Ray nodded.

  "Well. My men shall be on the lookout."

  "About those parachutes your men found?" Harvest prompted.

  "Ah, yes." Horvath shuffled more papers. "Here we are." He handed Harvest a slim file. "Not much, I'm afraid. We'll check on it, but can't spare too many men, now."

  "Ah, yes," Ray said. "The Churchill situation."

  Ray heard a sound that might have been Flint clearing his throat, but the phone on Horvath's desk rang interrupting them.

  Horvath's phone manner was as brusque as his personal approach. "Yes," he said. "Of course. The devil you say. Well, then. Certainly. They are not to leave." He hung up the phone, looked at Ray and Harvest and uttered the longest sentence they'd yet heard him say. "Your yellow caterpillar is now having a brandy with Winston Churchill. I've ordered him detained."

  Ray and Harvest looked at each other.

  "What're we waiting for?" Ray said.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  The breath exploded out of Churchill in a skeptical huff and a burst of cigar smoke. "That's preposterous. I've known the man for years. I appointed him to his post here.

  "Horvath is definitely one of them," Hannah said. "Gregg and I thought that once Rudo and General MacArthur Johnson escaped with the vials of the Black Trump, they might come here for protection. I've already told you what Rudo looks like now. Johnson - "

  " - is a tall, muscular black man, about forty-five or so, very handsome and striking."

  "Yes," Hannah said. "How do you know him?"

  Churchill shook his head. "I saw him from a distance, talking with Peter a few days ago. I thought the man looked familiar, but I didn't make the connection until just now ..." Churchill puffed on the cigar until he seemed to peer through a cloud. "Worse, most of the security men here have been assigned by Peter." Churchill ground out his cigar, stabbing it into the tray and smashing it. "I am afraid that will mean that General Horvath is aware of our meeting. I ... I need to think about this. There is someone else I want to speak with, and then I'll make my plans. I'll have to move carefully."

  "Why?" Hannah asked. "And who are you going to talk to?"

  Churchill glared at her, not unkindly. "You seem to have a mistaken impression of my abilities, Miss Davis," he told her. "While I have a certain influence, I also hold no official position. I can't guarantee your safety, especially since you tell me that the person who controls the army is a Shark. Northern Ireland, as you know, has a reputation for violent solutions to its problems. As to whom I am going to speak with - it will be someone I trust, as you have trusted me. That should suffice. I'd offer you the safety of my rooms in Belfast, but I'm afraid that I'm no longer sure that's true. The two of you must have somewhere you'll be safe for a few days, I suppose?"

  Gregg looked at Hannah. "I suppose," he said.

  "Good. Then you'll come here again in a week, let's say. By then I should know what I can do. Until then, be careful."

  "What about you?" Hannah asked.

  "I'm 120 years old my next birthday," he told her. "And very visible. I don't plan on dying any time soon. Don't worry." Churchill pulled himself slowly from his chair. As he escorted them from the house, he moved more than ever like an old, old man.

  "A good meeting?" the guard asked them when they were back at the gate.

  "We hope so," Hannah told him. She smiled, and the man smiled back.

  Gregg didn't like the smile. It was a mask, and he had a sudden sense of hidden colors inside the man: tasty colors. Luscious colors. "He's a very impressive man, Mr. Churchill."

  "I think so," Hannah answered.

  "Hannah," Gregg said. "Let's get moving."

  Gregg tugged at the gate. It swung open, and he started through. The guard had moved from the gravel drive as the heavy bars passed, then stepped back. "Mr. Hartmann," he said. "Not yet, I'm afraid."

  Gregg heard a metallic click behind him, a sound that was out of place in the night. With frightening clarity, he realized what it was. He turned to see the guard's weapon pointed directly at him, and he knew, that he was dead. Gregg was frozen, motionless. He could see the muzzle and waited for the flash that meant death. Gregg first, then Hannah.

  Except that Hannah moved. She shoved the gate with a grunt. The heavy iron bars slammed into the guard from the side. He fought for balance, but his feet went out from under him in the loose gravel. He started to turn as he fell, ready to fire anyway.

  Hannah kicked him in the side of the head. The sound of shoe against skull was hollow and loud, and the man's head snapped sideways with the impact. He groaned and went limp, his weapon clattering to the gravel. Gregg looked at Hannah. "College soccer," she said. "I was a great forward. Let's go."

  They could see the van, parked at the corner. They ran for the vehicle. The back doors opened and Scarlet Will poked his head out
. "Get it started!" Gregg yelled to him. He could feel himself just on the edge of uncontrolled adrenaline overdrive from the fright of their close call, and he tried to ignore the growing buzz. Hannah was just in front of him. Scarlet Will held his hand out for Hannah and pulled her into the van as Cara, in the driver's seat, turned over the engine. Scarlet Will leaned down for Gregg, his hand extended. Gregg grasped his hand in his own.

  What happened then would be forever a confused welter of images and feelings for Gregg. There was no sound, but suddenly Will's head jerked back, then came more forcibly forward. Will's hand was still clasping Gregg's as a red volcano erupted from the back of his skull, a fine mist of blood and brains splattering the interior of the van as the body, in motion from pulling Gregg, tumbled onto the floor.

  And Gregg ... He felt the death. The link was faint, a bare shadow of what it had been with Puppetman, but the unexpectedness of it staggered him. For a moment, he was lost, trying to find the gossamer shreds of the death's emotions, already fading. Can it be? Oh, God, can it be?

  No. It was gone now. A ghost.

  "The police!" someone was shouting, and Gregg saw a pair of uniformed men running toward them. "It's a trap!"

  "Hartmann!" someone else was yelling. "Get in, man!"

  Gregg shook himself. Another shot whined, pinging from the metal door a few inches from him. Gregg leaped and Stand-in pulled the doors shut as the van squealed away from the curb.

  In the swaying van, Brian cursed slowly and monotonously as he brushed at the gore that had splattered his clothing. Hannah stared down at Scarlet Will, on his back, his face a ruin of blood and bone.

  Gregg stared too, wondering what he had felt and wondering also whether he wanted it to be true or not.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Horvath, busy as he was, decided to come along. It showed, Ray thought, how seriously he took his responsibility in providing security for Churchill. It made for a crowded vehicle with Ray, Flint, Harvest, Horvath, and the driver, but it was only a short trip out to the village where Churchill was ensconced.

  It was a nice place, ancient and mossy and blazing with light as they drove up. The hullabaloo at the gate immediately told Ray that something had gone wrong.

  "Report," Horvath clipped when they reached the checkpoint.

  "Sir!" Everyone stood like they had wooden poles rammed up their butts. "The, uh, gentleman and his companion escaped, sir."

  "Shots fired?"

  "Yes, sir. As per instructions we returned fire only when fired upon."

  "This is very distressing." Flints whisper only hinted at his distress. He clenched his fists, making the sound of rocks grinding together.

  Horvath nodded. "Casualties?"

  "None on our side, sir. I believe we hit one of the gentleman's party. They were Twisted Fists, sir."

  "Very distressing," Flint added.

  Horvath nodded again. "You know what that means. Keep alert."

  "Yes, sir!" The sentry saluted again, and Horvath signaled the driver to go on.

  Ray and Harvest glanced at each other. "The Twisted Fists are operating in Ireland?"

  "Yes," Horvath answered. "Terrorist scum."

  "If your men killed one, it'll be five for one."

  Flint nodded ponderously. "The violence spirals higher and higher."

  They parked the car and were ushered into the study where Churchill sat behind a desk, wreathed in cigar smoke. He didn't look too bad, Ray thought, not a day over ninety, anyway. He looked chubby even in his expensively-tailored formal wear, topped by a nice maroon smoking jacket. He was mostly bald and totally wrinkled but his eyes burned with energy and, if Ray was any judge of emotions, anger.

  "Come in, come in," he said querulously. "I suppose you heard what happened outside."

  "Yes," Horvath said. "Pity, that."

  "Yes." Churchill pierced him with his ancient, cunning gaze. After a moment he swept his eyes past Horvath, looking at Ray and Harvest. "You must be the Americans. Come in, sit down."

  They did as he bid. Flint introduced Ray and Harvest and remained standing, casting his shadow over the scene and making Ray feel nervous, like someone was reading the paper over his shoulder.

  "That gunplay was terrible business, General. It'll make my job here all the more difficult if you rouse the Fists."

  "It was, Sir Winston. Pity the Fists started it."

  "Yes," Churchill said. "Who knows what goes on in the minds of terrorists?" He seemed to fall into a reverie for a moment, then gathered himself and looked up again. "Pardon an old man's musings," he said, frankly eying Harvest. "I'd like to discuss things with you in more detail, but I'm afraid that's going to have to wait. I'm an old man and I need my rest, but first other things must be done. Foxworthy."

  "Sir."

  "We'll be moving to the Belfast Hilton. Tonight."

  "Sir!" Horvath said with as much emotion as Ray had seen him muster. "Do you think that's wise?"

  "I do," Churchill growled. "We've already had gunplay here. My security has been compromised." He returned his attention to Flint, "Your men of the Silver Helix will take over security. Organize it."

  "Sir," Flint repeated.

  "Why replace my men?" Horvath asked stiffly.

  "Your men tangled with Twisted Fists tonight, General. If I surround myself with wild card security people, the Fists will be less inclined to include me in their plan for revenge."

  "They wouldn't anyway, sir."

  "Perhaps not, General. But we'll do things my way."

  "As you wish, sir."

  Churchill stood, "Indeed, General." He turned his attention back to Ray and Harvest. "Perhaps tomorrow we'll get a chance to chat longer. I'm very interested in your perspective on the Card Shark situation."

  "Thank you, sir," Harvest said. "It will be an honor."

  "Yes, sir," Ray added.

  He knew a dismissal when he heard one. Flint stayed behind to organize things, as Churchill had requested. Horvath returned to Belfast with them and was his usual communicative self. He said nothing; only a brief "Good-bye" when he dropped Ray and Harvest off at the Belfast Hilton, where they were also staying.

  The meeting played itself over in Ray's mind as they were driven back to their hotel room.

  "You find anything strange about our chat with Churchill?" he asked Harvest at her door.

  She shook her head. "He seemed a little preoccupied, but he is a hundred twenty years old and someone may have just tried to kill him."

  Ray shook his head. "It wasn't that. It was his attitude. Suspicious. Questioning. I don't know."

  Harvest looked at him. "Do you know if you're coming in or not?"

  Ray suddenly smiled. "Try to keep me out."

  Harvest put a hand on his cheek. "I could. But I think it'd be so much more fun if you just came on in."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Brian looked down at the body of Scarlet Will, laid out on the bed where Hannah had slept the last few nights, the dead joker's head covered with a bloody sheet. Gregg could feel the volcano heat of Brian's emotions as he stared at the corpse, and when he looked up again, the force of his gaze was nearly enough to cause Gregg to stagger backward.

  "Five for one," Brian whispered, and the words had edges of torn steel, glimmering with fire-pierced red in Gregg's mind, tasting of dark sweetness, "Five for one, it is. Five nat deaths will pay for Scarlet Will."

  "No." That was Hannah, her voice a small, purple welt in the greater darkness of Brian's fury. Her clothes were still stained with Will's blood. "You can't do that. That's no solution - that's just a continuation of this endless violence. More senseless death."

  Brian whirled on Hannah. None of the other Fists dared to interrupt. Gregg could feel them, all reflecting Brian's anger and feeding it back into him. "Shut up, woman," Brian snapped, each word a whiplash. "You have no say in this."

  "I sure as hell do," Hannah insisted. "Churchill gave us his word that he'd help. I'm not going to have you ruin that ch
ance."

  "We've just seen how effective Churchill will be." Brian spat. Gregg reached out mentally, stroking the corona of fire around Brian. I was right when I first met him, he marveled. He's so like Gimli. I remember. I remember....

  It tasted good.

  "There's how much Churchill can help," Brian raged, his fingertip trembling as he pointed at Scarlet Will. "There's your example of how powerful his influence is. The police don't listen to Churchill; they listen to Horvath. We kill the fuckers - that's how you show them."

  "Brian - " Hannah persisted.

  "Shut up, nat," Brian snapped. He glared at her, up and down. "You're a fine attractive woman, you are. But that means that you don't, you can't, understand how it is for us - no matter what you've done."

  "This might ruin our chances of finding the Trump virus."

  "Don't you listen, woman? This isn't about your bloody virus. It's about us!" Brian gestured, tapping his index finger on his chest. He looked at Gregg, and his eyes narrowed. "And it's about you, too," he said. "You want help from the Fists? Then I think it's time you prove your worth, worm. Five for one, and you will help."

  Brian's statement sent an odd, undefinable thrill through Gregg. "No," he said, but inside, someone whispered: Yes!

  As if listening to that voice, Brian hissed the word at the same time. "Yes," he said. "Because if you don't ..." Brian glanced from Gregg to Hannah and back. "If you don't, we may just make an example of your sensitive nat friend here."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Just before docking, Zoe changed into a Carole Little from last year's season, black georgette printed in thirties ecru florals, almost ankle length, and a headscarf, black silk shot with tiny bronze stripes. She would never get the knack of keeping one on her head.