It had been Redken who'd put together overnight-the unproved web of conjecture with which Gregg had confronted Tachyon.
Now, he'd make sure the conjecture became fact.
The phone rang twice at the other end, followed by an audible gulp and "Redken."
"Cal, Gregg Hartmann here."
"Senator." Cellophane tore in the background; a new snack being opened. "You get my package all right?"
"Early this morning, Cal. Thanks."
"No sweat, Senator. Interesting stuff you had me looking up," he added reflectively. He took a bite of something, chewing noisily.
"That's what I want to talk with you about. We need to pursue this further. I need to know if we can bring charges against Tachyon."
"Senator"-swallow-"all we have now is circumstantial stuff. A Russian agent assigned to the right city in the right year, another coincidental crossing of paths in London last year, your contact in the JJS and her story, a few other tenuous links here and there. Nothing's solid. Not even close."
"It scared hell out of him, Cal. I saw it. I know something's there."
"That's still far from proving it."
"Then it has to get closer. You know what Video told us last year. Gimli and Kahina had definite Soviet connections. An agent met with them one night last year in New York, and Gimli called him Polyakov."
"Polyakov's dead, Senator. All our sources say the same thing; the KGB and the GRU believe it too. Maybe they're just using his name to confuse us."
"They're all wrong. Video still has the pictures in her mind. He matches Polyakov's description."
"So do a few thousand other people. There's a lot of fat, bald, old men. Plus, you're not going to get any court to accept a joker's wild card talent as evidence. A mental projection isn't a photograph."
"It's a start. Find her, look at what she has. Listen to her. Then keep digging."
Redken sighed. Plastic crackled like dry leaves, and his voice was suddenly muffled by something soft. "Okay, Senator."
"I'll do it. I'll try. How soon do you need this."
"A week ago. Yesterday at the latest."
Another sigh. "I get the idea. I'll call New York as soon as I'm off. Anything else?"
"Soon, Cal. I gotta have this soon."
"You're asking me to miss lunch."
"You do this for me and I'll buy you your own damn restaurant."
"You got a deal, Senator. Talk to you later."
The last word was obscured as Redken placed another bite of something in his mouth. The line clicked and went dead.
"Somebody's on us."
"What?" Tachyon slewed around in the cab, and stared out the back window.
Ackroyd laid a hand on his arm. "Easy. He's good. You'll never spot him that way. Cabby." The detective fished out his wallet. "There's an extra fifty in it for you if you can lose the gray Dodge. Back about three cars."
The man's black face split in a wide grin. "Sure thing, mister."
Tachyon followed Jay's mortified gaze as the detective fanned out a ten and three ones. Grumbling Tachyon pulled out his wallet, and stripped off the bills, tucked them into the driver's shirt pocket. And promptly landed in Ackroyd's lap as the cab accelerated abruptly into a hard left turn. Blaise, grinning delightedly, clung like a young monkey to the front seat.
"Just like Paris, K'ijdad." "Huh?" asked Jay.
"Never mind. You know enough of my secrets," growled Tachyon.
Jay glanced behind. "Still on us. Damn, he's good."
"What are we going to do?" The fluttering in his stomach was back, and Tach could feel a fine shivering running through his hands.
Ackroyd ran a hand across his mouth. "There's probably not going to be time for any long good-byes."
The Motel 6 sign loomed ahead. "Sara's there, too," said Tachyon.
"Jesus Christ. You got the whole New York Philharmonic there? Maybe the Dodgers?"
"This is no laughing matter."
"No shit. Punch it, buddy. Everything she's got."
The cab gunned down the street, turned with a squeal of tires into the parking lot. The threesome were out before the car had stopped rolling. Jay flung his remaining ten over his shoulder as they pelted for the room.
Sara was curled up on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, pillow clutched to her chest, listening to the television. Polyakov, a bemused expression on his round face, stepped back to avoid being trampled. Jay seized the edge of the door, and slammed it shut. Threw the deadbolt. Tachyon ran to Sara, and yanked her up off the bed. Blaise flung himself into the Russian's arms.
"No time to explain. Hartmann knows. There is someone after us." Tachyon seized Sara's dress at the neck, and pulled. It ripped with