Alternities (44 page)

“Sir—”

“Now, you bastard!”

The Army Chief blanched. “Yes, sir.”

Kondratyev turned slowly from the command display, from the bright green line extending from northern Scotland to the mid-Atlantic north of the Azores, from the track of the American missile. His cold eyes fixed on the director of the GRU.

“Explain this!” he bellowed. “How can this be!”

“Premier, I will not deny the facts,” the harried man said. “But they could not have introduced these weapons in squadron strength without our knowledge.”

“Why not? If one, why not a hundred?” Kondratyev roared. “Now what am I to do?”

The Chief of Naval Operations stepped forward. “Even if they number a hundred it is only a fraction of what we have at sea. Robinson will not dare to use them. We must answer what they have done.”

“He dares anything.” Kondratyev said “He is unpredictable, uncontrolled.”

“He will not risk the destruction of his country over the destruction of one city, one air base,” the Minister of Strategic Rocket Forces importuned.

“And how do you evaluate what we risk, Vladimir? What is the accuracy of these new missiles, their power? How many will fall to our defenses, and how many will die where the defenses fail? Geidar, tell me what we risk.”

“That will take time,” Voenushkin said in a small voice.

“Yes,” Kondratyev said. “But you ask me to risk those uncounted lives for a hundred men and one submarine, for pride. You ask me to trust the restraint of a man who has shown no restraint. You, whose failure has placed on our very doorstep a threat you cannot even gauge for me.”

“What are you going to do?”

The Premier threw his hands in the air in disgust and frustration. “What have you left for me to do?”

The bell chimed the printer clattered and talking ceased. The officer standing by the machine tore the sheet from the guides and read it aloud.

“The alert has been canceled,” he said. “The Russian fleet is standing down.” He looked up from the paper and grinned. “They blinked.”

As the gallery burst into applause, a triumphant smile came onto Robinson’s lips. He stood and clapped O’Neill firmly on one shoulder. “That, Gregory, is how you beard a bear.”

O’Neill said nothing.

“Mr. President? Do you want to talk to Somerset now?” the Chairman asked. “He’s hotter than a hornet.”

Robinson laughed. “I do
not
want,” he said. “I want lunch. General Rauche, can a civilized plate be had anywhere in this monstrosity?”

The General’s face was still touched by a mixture of awe, respect, and relief. “You’ve heard of the Chief’s chef, I see. I’ll show you the way.”

No doubt Wallace believed he had been discreet, Donald Arens thought as he rounded the corner of the alley.

True, Wallace had left no addresses on scraps of paper, had paid cash wherever possible. But the signs he did leave were nearly as easy to follow. A theater ticket stub recovered from Wallace’s apartment, a first name provided by his roommate, and a telephone number gleaned from the station’s massive billing had been enough to bring Arens to Morton Street and the back stairs of Five Friends.

The neighborhood was agreeably deserted. Counting Shan’s, there were less than a half-dozen second-story apartments scattered along the block. It was nearly midnight, and curtains were drawn against drafts and streetlamps. The sidewalks were empty, and the streets nearly so.

But no amount of stealth could make Arens’ approach up the sagging wooden stairs a silent one. He almost wished Wallace would hear him coming and run, and thus restore a little challenge to the chase.

Arens knew that was too much to hope for. Wallace had already demonstrated his weakness by allowing himself to be controlled by his cupidity. Instead of running or fighting, he would whine and wheedle and whimper that what he did wasn’t so terribly wrong. You understand, he would plead, you especially have to understand.

Arens understood, and his contempt for Wallace flowed from the understanding. Putting a woman above the Guard, particularly a woman from this world, was unforgivable stupidity. Nothing a woman can give a man is worth his loyalty. And only a fool would allow a woman to control him with love or sex.

A short, plain-faced woman wearing flower-print flannel pajamas answered his knock.
You sold yourself cheaply, to boot
, Arens thought as he looked at her. “Hi,” he said, flashing a smile. “I’m looking for Ray Wallach. Is he here?”

The woman stiffened and peered at him closely. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid you have the wrong address.”

“You’re Shan, aren’t you? I’m sure this is the address he gave me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said and started to close the door.

Turning sideways, he drove the door open with his shoulder, knocking the woman backward into the little utility room. She retreated before him, her face showing fear, but not panic. “Ray?” he called. “You’d better come talk to me.”

“I told you there’s no one here.”

“Then tell me where he is.”

“I’m just housesitting. I don’t know who Shan sees or where they might be.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said simply.

Whether because she sensed the far wall uncomfortably close behind her or merely in defiance, she stopped retreating and stood her ground. “It’s the truth.”

“Then call her,” he said. “You know where she is, call her.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know where she is.”

“I do,” he said “Right here. Right in front of me.”

A skittering sound behind him spun Arens around and brought the pistol out of his right coat pocket. It was a cat, a gray blur diving for a hiding place beneath the bed. Arens made no effort to halt the reflex that the noise had begun. The silenced pistol hiccoughed and the cat squalled and skidded into a heaving, jerking lump of bloody fur.

He had thought to intimidate her, to push her past fear into a submissive panic. Instead, the woman bolted while his back was turned lunging toward a closed door on the opposite side of the room. Surprise rooted him long enough for her to take three, four, five steps and actually touch the doorknob.

But before she could open the door, he launched himself at her, tackling her with enough force to carry them both hard to the wall and then to the floor. When she continued to fight him, clawing at his face and struggling beneath his weight, he brought the pistol whipping across her face, opening a long scarlet gouge in her cheek.

That had the desired effect. Her body went stiff, and she stared up at him wide-eyed and white-skinned.

“Don’t try that again,” he said. “I’ve got no reason not to kill you, too.”

She shook her head jerkily.

“Let’s drop the nonsense. You know who I’m here for.”

She nodded, tentatively.

“He’s not here. That much is clear. Do you know where he is?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. Please don’t hit me again.”

“Is he coming back?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“When?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.”

He sat back, straddling her hips.

“How long has he been gone?”

“Uh—two days?”

“What’s the last time he called?”

“He hasn’t called—”

Cold trail
, Arens thought.
Good for you, Rayne. You’re already running. Maybe this will be entertaining after all.
With a casual motion, he returned the pistol to his pocket. “While we’re waiting, maybe you can show me what Ray got so excited over,” he said, seizing a handful of fabric.

“No—”

With a powerful jerk, he tore her pajama top open to the waist. Her breasts were full, soft, and pale, with a fine tracery of blue veins. He looked up from them too late to see her glance sideways past him into the room. But he did not miss the hopeful look in her eyes, or the shadow of the man standing two steps from them and holding a blue-steel revolver trained on Arens’ head.

“John Krill, NIA,” the man said. “Hands in the air, stand up very slowly, and face the wall. You’re under arrest.”

Sweet fuckin’ redbait
, Arens thought disgustedly as he complied.
Only a fool
—

With a grunt, Albert Tackett dropped the paper on his desk and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “So what do you think?”

The two senior aides exchanged glances. Barbara Adams spoke first. “I don’t think there’s any question that there’s more to Wallace’s disappearance than a fling with this Shan Scott.”

“Couldn’t he be responsible for this?”

“Arens was one of the best icemen working Blue,” Bret Monaghan said gruffly. “A special projects type. No way does a scruff like Wallace take him.”

Dropping into his seat, Tackett raised an eyebrow and asked, “What are we looking at, then, Bret?”

Monaghan considered his answer carefully before speaking. “Wallace and Arens were both plucked clean. The woman has disappeared. The police throw their hands up on the cars and the people both. I’m thinking we’ve gotten ourselves crossthreaded with the gray men—domestic security.”

“How?” Tackett demanded. “How’d it happen?”

“We’ve had to raise our profile for Rathole,” Adams said. “And it just takes that one dumb move that attracts official attention, and then they’re into us.”

“Like the O’Neill business,” Tackett said glumly, slumping back in his chair.

“That wasn’t your call,” Adams said.

“It should have been,” Monaghan said. “That should have gotten a harder look, President or no.”

Adams said, “It doesn’t have to have been O’Neill. We sent a lot of raw meat over there to get the work done. Like Wallace. Brains aren’t at the top of the list when we recruit runners, after all.”

“Or directors, it seems,” the Director said acidly. “So, who do you think’s got him? Local blueshirts? Or feds?”

“It looks now like Wallace’s girlfriend was a Volunteer Watch cell leader,” Adams said.

Monaghan nodded. “NIA or FBI, would be my guess.”

“Which means federal detention, a safe house who knows where. It’s not going to be easy to get at them,” said Tackett. “But we have to, don’t we.”

“We have to do more than that,” Monaghan said. “We’re wide open. I’m concerned that we could lose the gate house.”

“Yes,” Tackett acknowledged. “So what’s the answer?”

“Cut back. Get those kids out of there and send everybody else to ground. Keep it very simple, very clean, and very quiet until we can recover Wallace and Arens and assess the damage. Maybe in six months, nine months we can start to ramp up again.”

“Barbara?”

“I’m afraid I agree,” Adams said quietly.

“That kills Rathole,” Tackett pointed out.

“Every cloud has a silver lining,” was Monaghan’s acerbic reply. “Rathole’s not what we’re here for, Albert. I won’t miss it.”

“We’re here to do what the President asks us to do,” Tackett said. “Not to dictate to him.”

“We can’t do magic,” Monaghan said. “If we’re not careful with this, we’ll lose a lot more than Rathole.”

Adams offered, “If we’re successful in getting control of the gate in Orange, we can use some of the excess manpower there. The early indications are that Orange would make an even better hideaway than Blue. Things are wide open there.”

“But it’d be a year before operations in Orange could support anything this size,” Tackett mused.

“At least,” Adams agreed.

“All right,” Tackett said. “Leave me.”

When they were gone, he escaped from behind his desk and walked to the inner windows to look down at the Cambridge. Too much to control, he thought. Too much to understand. It’s not the hole in Alice’s hedge, beyond which anything can happen. There are limits, Peter. Please understand that there are limits—

Reluctantly, he turned away and walked back to his desk. There are times when direct access to the President is no advantage, he thought as he waited for the White House operator to route the call.

He was kept waiting barely a minute. “Good morning, Albert,” said a cheerful Robinson.