Dead Man s Hand Page 0,109

time," he concluded finally.

"The point?" Jay prodded. "The point?"

"You must remove a man from Atlanta. The more conventional means are closed to us."

This all got weirder every day, Jay thought. "Why?" he asked. "Who is this guy?"

Tachyon turned away from him. There was a snifter on the side table, half-full of brandy. He groped for it like a drowning man groping for a lifesaver, and drained it in a gulp.

"Long ago," he said slowly, his back still turned, "I was saved from death by a man who has alternately been a devil and an angel to me."

Devils and angels, just what he needed, as if assassins and aces weren't enough. "Shit," Jay said, throwing up his hands.

"This is difficult for me," Tach whined. He stared down at the empty snifter, rolling it between his palms. Then it all came out in a rush. "In 1957 I was recruited by the KGB. It wasn't all that difficult. I would have done anything for a drink. At any rate, years passed. I proved to be less useful than originally hoped. They cut me loose and I thought I was free. Then last year the man who ran me those many long years ago reentered my life and called in the debt. He's here. In Atlanta."

Jay gaped at him. The notion of the prissy little alien prince working for the Soviets was the craziest thing he'd ever heard. He would have been less surprised if Tachyon had confessed that he was really an elf. "Why?" was all he could manage.

"Hartmann," Tach replied. "He suspected the existence of the monster. Now Hartmann has found out about him, and our connection."

"Connection?" Jay said. "He is Blaise's tutor."

"Oh hell." Jay sat down. He didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. Laugh, probably; he could always count on Tach to take care of the weeping.

"This is the bludgeon with which Hartmann seeks to cow me," Tachyon declared. "I'm probably going to jail, Mr. Ackroyd. But I'll see him stopped before I go."

"You want me to pop this guy away."

"Yes. Already the FBI and the Secret Service have been alerted. They are combing Atlanta for George."

"Are you still a commie?" Jay asked, straight-faced.

Dr. Tachyon clutched at the little doily he wore at his throat, and drew himself up to his full height. "I? Consider, Mr. Ackroyd."

"Yeah," Jay said, "I get your drift." He stood up. "Well, hey, it's all ancient history to me. Let's go pop this commie somewhere."

Tachyon gave him a grave little nod and went to the bedroom. "Blaise," he called.

"You're taking him?" Jay was surprised. "I mean, he knows?"

"Of course. Come, child," he said to Blaise. The teenager shot him a venomous glance, but Tachyon missed it. " I want you to have a chance to say farewell to George."

11:00 A.M.

Captain Angela Ellis stamped out a cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and immediately lit another. She strode up and down before the chair in which Brennan sat, her frustration evident in her staccato pacing.

"How long do you think you can remain silent?" she asked Brennan.

Brennan looked directly at her for the first time in twenty minutes. "Forever," he said softly.

"Christ! Why were you sitting in a car before the Crystal Palace at ten-oh-five this morning? What had been your relationship with Chrysalis? Did you kill her?"

Brennan turned away, his face utterly blank, apparently totally devoid of feeling and emotion.

Maseryk, sitting in the rear of the room, cleared his voice. "Begging your pardon, Captain, but I don't think he'll say anything."

Ellis whirled on him. "Somebody's got to say something! Some idiot let it leak that we've collared Yeoman, the bowand-arrow killer, and there's gotta be a hundred reporters yammering at the sergeant on the front desk, and about half a dozen federal agencies are sending agents over to `look into the affair,' as they put it."

"As far as I know," Brennan said softly, "there's nothing illegal in sitting in a car. There's nothing illegal in carrying a bow and arrow."

"Are you saying you're innocent? Are you saying you're not this Yeoman?"

Brennan said nothing as Ellis whirled on him. "You have no identification and your description matches that of a man wanted for desertion from the United States Army."

"Superficially," Brennan said.

"Close enough," Ellis ground out, "so that we can hold you until the feds arrive with this deserter's dossier. Which includes his fingerprints."

"As you will," Brennan said, returning his gaze to infinity. Ellis ground out her cigarette, then crumpled the empty pack. "All right," she said.