Jack Womack, page 6
“You won’t find him,” she said.
“Dream Team finds living and dead,” he said, stepping to his left as if to come behind us; we turned as he moved. “Is possible, perhaps, that he is neither? Whether you tell now or later is unimportant. In course of history all becomes clear. But to speak without time-consuming and unpleasant prodding always improves mood of situation.”
“Not in long run,” she said.
“We take moment to moment,” he sighed, stopping short of the intruder’s drying husk in his rotation round the room, his back now to the apartment door. Jake, I hoped, I wished; there was no Jake.
“But these are doubtful surroundings in which to have pleasant conversation. We will pick up after our comfortable flight.”
“We’re still flying?” she asked.
He nodded. “You are ready to go?”
“Ready,” she said as the door banged open. When Skuratov began to turn she stamped her foot floorways; the board below him lifted as if motor driven, striking him with terrific force between the legs. He dropped like an ox in the butchery, his eyes vanishing beneath their lids, the cassette box and his Shrogin tumbling as he collapsed. I leapt for the gun; Jake leapt over me, onto Skuratov, wrapping paws round his head as if to test for ripeness, readying to do the twist. Gathering full, if aging, strength I shoved Jake off, interposing myself between them, unthinking of consequence in thwarting Jake’s rage. Clutching me underarm he dug iron fingers into my muscles, set to rip them free of the bones.
“Let me take him!” he shouted.
“No,” I said, hoping to repress. “If you do his lights’ll fade—”
“Desired!”
“Tracker’s lights!” I shouted back. “If they see his lights go dead they’ll move and quick. Sustain viability and—”
“He tried to ex me, Luther,” Jake said, returning my feet to earth, flashing the mudstains on his jacket. Still, his hair was in place, his features showed clear even of shaving scars. “My suit!”
“Reason’s needed to kill—”
“No kill but reasoned kill,” he said, lowtoned, heart’s truth spoken. Somehow I continued blocking his lunge. “With him there’s reason twenty times full.”
“No!!” I screamed, mindlost myself; it startled all, and Jake loosened from his coil. “Under circumstance he’s our exitcard. If his signal steadies true his friends won’t come out to play. Keep him whole and we’ll pass as wished until we breathe free air.”
“Once we bordercross,” Jake said, “let him drop and fly.”
“He’s prime target, Jake, Dream Team. We’ve never had a quick one before. We’ll take him all the way. Bind him tight. Once home we give him to Alice. She has her own techniques. Feeling’s appreciated, Jake, but logic it out.”
Skuratov lay wailing on the floor, rubbing his injuries as if for joy. Oktobriana stood unbudged, hands yet fastened. She eyed Jake updown, her lips parted, her face flushed with new-transfused blood.
“Understood,” he whispered, recovering. “If I’d snapped him I’d be better now. Excuse.”
“I began to worry you’d been blasted after all,” I said. “How’d you foresee?”
He unpocketed a tool recognizable from mine patrol; when blasts were expected, one used the giz by tuning the proper frequency, detonating from beyond harm’s path.
“His look and stance alerted me from moment one,” said Jake, “no matter your fancies of trust. This is my business, Luther, remember. That tunnel of love last night awared me full. Then when he stripped the car in town’s safeness but not among these ruins I knew all was up. So when I took the bags out I stood back, ran my spark’s channels till the proper tone blew it. The whoosh sent me mudways—”
“Why the delay coming in?” I asked. “Were you knocked loose for a mo—”
“I had to straighten,” he said, adjusting his necktie’s knot as if for the hangman. “Essential.”
“How’s the car?”
“Trunklid sailed off like a great blue bird,” he said. “Driveable otherwise.” Jake’s anger kept underlid only until time boiled it over again. Following the automotive condition report, he spun round unexpectedly, booting Skuratov in the back full-force; not to crack the spine, simply to raise the pain anew
“Nobody takes me out,” Jake shouted at Skuratov, fetuscurled floorways, issuing the soft cries of one aborted too late. “Hear?”
“He heard. Strip him clean before we buzz. Roll over, Mal.”
“Why take off my clothes?” he asked, scraping words past teeth.
“Time and place for all,” said Jake, speaking low, as if in a library. “Let’s see how prison love is liked—”
“Jake! Keep clothed, Mal. Property’s desired. Let’s have.”
“Please,” Oktobriana said, wriggling, jerking her arms. “Remove these from me. I will not run.”
“I’ve only the pair,” Jake said. “Better him than her.”
“Agreed. Cuff him,” I said. “Roll this way, Mal.”
When Jake uncuffed Oktobriana we both spotted the fire red welts ringing her wrists. Hers shortly faded; Jake intended Skuratov’s to last, and he drew them on till he squeaked. As promised, Oktobriana kept to where we left her as we rifled Skuratov’s goods, her look held fast on Jake’s slippery form. Skuratov carried five passports of four nations; a thousand rubles and numerous credit cards, along with his personal ID, all of suitable innocence.
“Two trackers,” said Jake. “Take?”
“Take one. He’ll not need.” I pocketed his stress analyzer, hoping later to apply it to him.
“It’s candyland, Luther,” said Jake, diddling the ordnance, loading my coatpockets with most, selecting some for his own future use. “Christmas in March.” The Dream Team awashed with postmodern flash. Jake, who followed such developments more closely than I, demonstrated the safer toys found, told of the more hazardous. Skuratov’s keys shot poisoned needles; his cigarette lighter carried X75, enough to bring down the neighborhood around us if a crystal was hooked on. In his belt buckle were biologics that Jake refused even to touch; by their color, I estimated them—being more familiar with items of this sort—to contain microampules of recombinantized anthrax. We pulled his cyanide tabs, cracking them between our fingers like fleas.
“We’ve lost time, Jake. Drive as capabled and we’ll get there in eight.”
“Get where?” Jake asked. “His airstrip? What if no plane awaits?”
“When he felt assured, he let slip we’d still be airing it,” I said. “We’ll call up the map on the car monitor.”
“His airstrip’s secluded?”
“His estate’s road is Krasnaya owned. They know we’re coming, though they won’t know of the new arrangements. We won’t see trouble. Come on.” I retrieved the cassette box from where it fell; wondered if it could possibly prove so useful as our larger confiscations. In any event the trip would now prove cost-effective, so I lost fears of having to deal with the accounts later on. Jake heaved Skuratov across his shoulder headdown; as his pain lessened, his complaints grew.
“Carry me properly,” Skuratov shouted, kicking so much as his position allowed. “I hurt.”
“Not enough,” said Jake, swinging so as to slam Skuratov’s head against the doorframe, calming him once more; a scalp cut drizzled blood groundways. Jake, a puritan in heart, never allowed true personal pleasure to enter the work that fed him, though passion for perfection of the work performed was another matter; even when he actioned irredeemably it was always to purpose and never with glee. But vengeance, not one of his specialities, perhaps a feeling least favored, too had time and need.
Locals rounded as we appeared, curious as to visit-motive; we moved so unobtrusively as possible to the Mercedes.
“Where’re her cases?”
“Backseated,” said Jake. “As he’ll keep. Keep him locked.”
Whether the haze fuzzing the air remained from the blast, or from whatever the residents burned for fuel, its smell struck metal-harsh, as what lingers after chemical attack. We would have hauled Skuratov trunkways during transport but under circumstance he would have shown plain; Jake backseated him headfirst. Our outside viewers remained to watch our unexpected, unexplainable performance. Gripping the cassette box tight I rested myself between the cases and Skuratov’s carcass, finding no comfort. Jake wheeled himself; Oktobriana drew herself close to him so that he might more easily prevent her escape.
“Drive at slow pace within neighborhood,” she said.
“Known,” he said. “Can’t hurry without drawing wonder—”
She shook her head. “Many children at play here, Jake. Do you understand the controls? I realize you seem unfamiliar with Russian language—”
“The fucker starts how?” At times Jake seemed as unfamiliar with his own.
“Check the programmed destination,” I said. Oktobriana pressed two dash buttons; a map rose on the monitor’s eye. I recognized. “His place, undoubted. Aim there without change. Drive, Jake.”
“Engine,” said Oktobriana, “drive us to next destination.”
“Done,” said the car; we rolled upstreet. Oktobriana pressed next to Jake as if to meld with his flesh; he edged her away.
“Worktime,” he said.
“Closeness necessary for effective rapport.”
“We’re kidnapping you,” Jake said, not looking her way, astonishment plain in his voice. “You enjoy?”
“Is not unpleasant now that initial surprise is done with. And you did assist me in preventing my assault. I am very grateful.”
More than grateful. I’d been affection’s object for those falling into the Swedish syndrome several times myself, but that affliction never showed symptoms this soon. Firstsight lust was common enough, yet what unwound before me seemed a more complex phenomenon, one of rarest sort; like star’s visible birth, or seeing a picture fall, unaided, from a wall. That she chose to shed suspicion so easily—if she had choice—I accepted as good fortune. Jake, as ever, seemed dubious. She stroked her hand over his hair as if to test his existence; he jerked back.
“Touch isn’t essentialled,” he said.
“You are cold observer of life, Jake.”
“Taker,” he corrected. No further messages of import passed our lips until we’d cleared the soldier line safeguarding the neighborhood from the bitter world without; even then we spoke little and said less, as if by wording overmuch the world might shake down upon us. Jake centerlaned upon hitting the main road, floored and sped free. Traffic’s quick colors smeared our roadsides as we shot along.
“We’re tracked?” Jake asked, eyeing a light flashing at middash. “Should we evade?”
Oktobriana judged the readout. “Refrigerator needs defrosting. Let me examine all systems,” she said, fiddling with dials, peering at screens. “None follow. Safe thus far.”
We passed apartment crops rising forty floors from concrete pastures; unlike American cities Moscow rose highest at the borderwall, shielding the low center from ground assault. True land showed but briefly amidst the blight, pale gray mat poking from a long-worn carpet. The expressway narrowed to fifteen lanes at the outskirts; on our roadsides now were nothing but brown evergreens.
“We take trip to America after all?” Skuratov asked, coming to full consciousness. “You are apt at impromptu response.”
“We try,” I said.
“Many try,” he said. “Few succeed. Is sad thing.”
“That fellow in the tunnel,” I said. “In your employ?”
“Indirectly, perhaps,” he said, shifting to take his back’s weight from his bound wrists. “It was needed to see if Jake, ah, truly required devitalization. Jake was as heard. Stories passed mouth to mouth tend to exaggerate. In this case, no—”
“Wire his jaws, Luther,” said Jake, keeping eyes roadward, flicking looks into the rearview. “Use his tongue for sandwiches.”
“Had truth proved rumor, Luther, there was no need to fear. We had no wish to harm you too soon.”
“Here at right, Jake,” said Oktobriana. The car guided us downramp onto a service artery curling away from the mainline. Several hundred meters more and we righted again, onto a rutted dirt road, its winter’s mud permafrosted. Entwined treelimbs overhead sheltered us from airview.
“This road’s not fit for horsetrade,” said Jake as we bounced along.
“Servants’ entrance, I suspect,” said Oktobriana, staring at Skuratov as if she might sear the skin off his bones. He took all with disconcerting peace, now that most pain had retreated.
“Neighborhood’s not soldiered?” Jake asked. “No army boys required?” Oktobriana had again slid closer towards him.
“To guard people of best type?” asked Skuratov. His was an attractive neighborhood; the houses and grounds, where visibled, dripped with the subtle taste expected of Krasnayaviki. Amidst wooded hills so fully treed that the forest seemed, impossibly, of original growth, homes’ fragments appeared briefly before vanishing, passing like dream’s vague-remembered shards. High stone walls lent further peace to the fearful minds secluded within the shadows. Neither person nor vehicle evidenced. Our car swung onto a graveled drive, and coasted down a gentle-graded hill running half the length of Skuratov’s estate. His house evidenced by its near-absence; squinting between branches, I saw a dome, a chimney pot, a window lit from within.
“If I hunch true,” I said, “the plane’ll need reprogramming.”
“If a plane is readied at all,” said Jake.
“Soon enough seen. Oktobriana, you’ve experience. You can adjust for flightpath override?”
“Depends on plane,” she said. “I should think so.”
“Once we unground,” said Jake, “won’t we be trailed on high?”
I wasn’t prime for catechism, and chose nonresponse. Trouble would trail us oceanover, I feared; surely Jake held like mindset, and his vocalized uncertainties only disturbed me more. We entered a clearing, bare as if it was defoliated weekly.
“Presto,” said Jake as we bumped onto a concrete thread centeraimed. The field, as stripped, covered several hundred square meters. At meadow’s core a blasted circle sheltered the earth from the sun; thereupon, a plane was provided, an eight-passenger sweepwing GBL97, its glossy black skin free of number, mark or flag of originating nation. Jake cut the engine at landing pad’s edge.
“Let’s plan,” I said, forwarding so that I might sound clear, gripping the cassette box, keeping close eye on Skuratov. The plane sat thirty meters distant; the car might blow on takeoff if we pulled closer. In the surrounding forest, undoubted, badger and rabbit and boar were supplanted by cameras and monitors and every species of ear. “Either of you flown this type previous?”
“A playtoy,” said Jake, looking towards the plane; towards Oktobriana. “Translation’s needed. Wouldn’t wish to confuse rudder with aileron.”
“I fly well myself,” she said. “Will be no problem there.”
“Let’s shift all in one trip doubletime. Oktobriana, case yourself if you’re so assisting,” I said, handing her one of her grips across the seat. “I’ll lug the other as well as our little gift here—”
“Treat that with great care,” she said, opening her door.
“Jake, stroll Mal across. Secure him but don’t expend force while we’re outside, AO?”
“What if he so demands?” Jake asked, rubbing knuckles as if to sharpen them. “If he keens to suffer I’d hate not to oblige—”
“Once planed, abuse as wished,” I nearly said; realized in time I’d only freerein him. “Keep him close till we’re onboard,” I said. “Just that. We owe more time than we can afford. Let’s.”
Frost glazed wings and fuselage; as the deicer activated, discerning our approach, all melted off. While crossing the tarmac I suspected Skuratov might breakaway, no matter his chance, but as ever he unpredictabled, striding happily beneath Jake’s wing to the plane. The gangplank lowered as we neared.
“Certify our passage,” Jake said, shoving him ahead, nearly tumbling him upstairs. We planed; flipping the closure I listened to the comforting hiss of pressurization as the door sealed. Jake and Oktobriana cockpitted as I tied Skuratov onto one of the seats, having retrieved a plastic line from the galley.
“Not so tight,” he complained. “You cut off my blood.”
“It’ll flow soon enough, Mal.” The cabin lit up; the plane, adjudging the interior, could have belonged to any megacorp. No portraits of the Big Boy evidenced here.
“No trouble locating override,” Skuratov noted. “No trouble with controls, I would think.”
“Good.”
“Trouble, perhaps, keeping plane in air,” he said, smiling. Once he was immobilized I headed upaisle. Jake gestured towards the surrounding one-way glass when I entered.
“We’re seen under fine lens,” he said. “Check there at woodsedge.”
Where forest greeted field several observers clad in Dream Team’s basic black stood so obvious as ravens against a summer sky, eyeing our plane in resigned silence, as if waiting in the terminal lounge to watch their lovers’ planes crash on takeoff. They carried no evident armor.
“Judging stance and position assault isn’t intended,” I said, sizing the range; interpersonal assault, at least. “Front’s cleared?”
“Bug-ran proper,” he said. “Safe as mother’s bed. We’re armed?”
“Whether with working arms is question,” she said. “Their controls should be near.” She examined the big board’s uncountable dials, gauges, screens and knobs. “Start switch here, Jake. Throttle before you. Altimeter here, powerfeed here, rudder here. Radarscope to right. Here is control for ailerons and here for landing gear. Here, now. Security systems.”
“What’s the firepower?” Jake pressed the ignition and the motor’s whine came up.
“I will tell you when I know, please,” she said; he quieted. “These two switches, the blue and yellow. Blue shoots flame. Yellow directs machine guns, twelve housed in two phalanxes under wingtips. Five hundred rounds per second.”
