Ace In The Hole

7:00 P.M.

Spector hid behind the bed and hoped what Colin had said about being a creature of habit was true. Hastings' body was still in the shower. You couldn't really smell it until you were in the bathroom. Obvicusly, the maids had only peeked in while making their rounds, or they would have found it. Spector checked his watch. It was right at 7:00 P. M. If the joker was late, or didn't show at all, he'd have to hustle to get over to the convention hall. He'd bought a mask of his own, but was afraid it might not match the others.

He heard soft footfalls stop in front of the door. Spector crouched down behind the bed. The door opened. Shut. He heard someone sniffing the air. Spector stuck his head up. The joker was reaching for his gun. Spector made eye contact and pushed hard. Colin's legs folded up underneath him and he made a strangled little noise, then he fell over dead.

Spector had tried to make it quick. The brief conversation he'd had with the joker didn't give him any cause to dislike the guy. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. As Spector kneeled next to the body, he noticed something that he'd missed before. Colin's hair had a pronounced oily sheen. It definitely wasn't hair dressing, and more likely was just a by-product of his being a joker. Spector had washed his own hair earlier in the day and it was dry as a bone. He rubbed his hands over the corpse's head, then through his own hair. After repeating the procedure a few times Spector's hair had the same look as Colin's. Also, unfortunately, the same litter-box smell.

Spector rifled the body. Colin was carrying ID, a gun, an earpiece, and even a mask. Spector thought back to the beginning of the week in the dusty mask factory. It seemed more like a month.

He pulled off the joker's clothes and then his own. A few minutes later he was ready. The suit was a little loose and the gun strap tugged uncomfortably at his shoulder, but he'd live with it. He went into the bathroom and put on the mask, then stepped back from the mirror and looked at himself. It was close to perfect. The oily hair really made the difference.

He carefully dragged the joker's body to the shower stall and dumped it on top of Hastings. He wouldn't want to be the maid who finally got to clean the place up.

The vacant hall behind the podium reverberated to a low-Richter earthquake. Outside in the basketball court the crowd was working itself into a final frenzy, with a lot of help from Hartmann's little gnomes.

The fools, Sara thought. Her breath ricocheted off the inside of the egret-feather mask and rattled in her ears. It's like some kind of fairy tale: they're about to proclaim their new king, and never suspect that behind that smiling mask he's a demon from Hell.

The stocky man in the blue coveralls with the NBC logo on the right breast and ROBO TEAM block-lettered across the back held up her VIP pass for her approval. It bore a fictitious name and a photograph. In the feeble light drizzling from far away, overhead, she could make out a face framed by whiteblonde hair. The face wasn't hers. It was a joker face, the kind calculated to keep even the hardest-core ex-Special Forces jock in a Secret Service monkey suit from peeking beneath the mask to make sure the real thing matched the photo.

She had read enough le Carre not to be surprised. "George Steele" was a high-ranking KGB agent, after all; he would have his resources, and it was obvious this attempt to derail Hartmann was no spur-of-the-moment affair. She nodded. He pinned the pass to the front of her white dress. "Now," he said, stooping to where an NBC minicam lay tipped to its side, "are you certain you want to go through with this?"

The minicam opened. Its printed-circuit guts had been partially scooped out to make room for a compact Heckler amp; Koch P7 pistol. Dim highlights perched uncertainly on black steel.

He picked it up, pinched the slide back to examine the chamber, then jacked a round in. "You remember what I showed you? The three dots line up with the target sitting on them as if they were a table. The weapon will not fire unless you make sure to switch off the safety here at the side and squeeze the other safety at the back of the grip."

She nodded, impatient. " I remember. I used to shoot a. 22 as a kid. Colt Woodsman. It belonged to my cousin."

"Nine millimeter does a fair amount of damage but has little shocking power. I suggest you keep firing until the target goes down."

Or until the Secret Service boys nail me. She held her hand out. He passed the pistol to her. She slipped it into her white patent-leather purse and carefully fastened the clasp.

"World peace depends upon your going through with this," he said.

Her eyes found his and held them. "Avenging Andi depends on my going through with this. And Sondra Fallin, and Kahina, and Chrvsalis. And me."

He stood facing her as if feeling he should say something and unsure of what. She stood on tiptoe, gently kissed his cheek. He turned and quickly walked away.

She watched him go. The poor thing. He thinks he's using me.

Funny how naive a spy master can be.

The feeder hall was virtually deserted. Anyone who could possibly cram into the deep bowl of the Omni was inside cheering the conclusion of Jackson's vice-presidential speech. Tachyon heard the sound of the crowd as a vast deep-throated roaring. A surging beast, and I'm walking in its maw, he thought.

David had gently dressed him, but sliding that mangled arm through the sleeves of shirt and coat had drenched him in cold sweat. While David had talked them past the nurse, Tach had palmed pain killers from the evening medication tray. He had dry swallowed them in the taxi, but they hadn't taken effect yet, and he found he could hardly stand.

The agent on the door was eyeing the pair skeptically. The slender,. dark older man, his arm tightly about the Takisian's waist. Tach presented his press pass.

"There's no room in there, Doctor." He eyed Harstein suspiciously. "Where's your pass?"

"I don't have one. He's the one who needs to get in."

"There are no seats available."

"That's all right. I'll stand."

"I can't let you, it's a fire hazard. Go over to the Congress Center. You can watch on the big-screen TV."

Tachyon fought down a wave of dizziness and nausea. Ran a hand across his clammy face, and felt the scratch of stubble against his palm.

"Please," he whispered, and cuddled his mutilated arm to his chest.

" I think it would be a very good idea if you let him in," said David softly. "How much harm can it do? He's one small man."

"Yeah," said the guard hesitantly.

"He left the hospital just to be here for this moment. I know you'd like to help him."

"Oh, all right. What the hell. Go on in."

Tachyon squeezed Harstein's shoulder hard with his left hand. "David, don't disappear again."

"I'll be waiting."