MJ-12: Inception

18

The Topkapi Palace had been home to the Ottoman sultans for more than four centuries and looked every inch the palace of pashas and moguls to Frank’s eyes.

“Sultans. Sultans ruled the Ottoman Empire until 1922, when Turkey became a republic under Ataturk. Pashas and moguls are from India,” corrected the voice of Ibrahim Irkan, a Turkish historian and antiquarian who’d died two nights earlier, Frank at his bedside. Ibrahim knew much of the history of the Middle East, given the Ottomans’ involvement in it, and it was determined that Frank knowing Turkish — and Arabic as well — might come in handy.

Ibrahim was also the twelfth person Frank watched over and took memories from. Mostly he felt fine, but every now and then, there was a feeling in his head — like the tiny, dull background headache you’d get from being a bit dehydrated — that told him it just might be getting crowded in there.

Retention wasn’t the problem, he mused as he idly watched the assembled dignitaries in the gold-glittering, blue-tiled Imperial Hall of the palace’s harem. Frank had gotten to the point where he could definitely retain what he wanted and, to put it bluntly, toss out the leftovers. Doing so felt almost sacrilegious, but he was starting to feel as though he had no choice. The memory games were running their course — he was increasingly feeling like he needed more space to file away new incoming information.

Oh, and he’d still have to deal with the voices anyway. They only chimed in when appropriate — as Frank needed their expertise — but occasionally he felt like they were… hoping… to be called upon. Lined up, waiting.

Frank took a sip of club soda and sighed. That champagne looked good. It was a ’34 Dom Perignon, and there was an idle whisper in his head — Frank didn’t even know who it was from at this point — which sounded excited about that. Waiters wearing turbans and other presumably Turkish dress rotated among the guests under the vaulted dome of the room. Along the sides, separated into alcoves and hallways by columns, small groups gathered to talk away from the string quartet playing. Opposite them, the heads of the US and Israeli delegations sat on a tufted bench once reserved for the sultan himself. The Soviet delegation was off to the right, chatting animatedly with robed diplomats from some Arab nation or another.

“That one is Jordanian. The other is Palestinian,” Ibrahim whispered.

“Fine,” Frank muttered between sips.

In the middle of the room, General Vandenberg was talking and laughing with his opposite number from the Soviet Union, a fellow flyboy from the looks of his elaborate uniform. Two steps behind and to the right of Vandenberg was Cal, dressed as an Air Force NCO and scanning the room idly, a Handie-Talkie attached to his belt. Cal was probably more adept at subtlety than Ellis, but there was one thing about Cal that stuck out like a sore thumb — the color of his skin. And the Turks were barely more enlightened toward Negroes than Americans, so Cal had little choice but to accept the role of valet/guard.

Shame that, because Cal had the makings of a fine operative, at least to Frank, whereas Ellis…

“And that’s when I told him the whiskey was in the cabinet!” Ellis finished, leaving the circle around him in stitches.

He took another healthy sip of champagne, orders be damned. If he was going to be the assigned distraction, he might as well have a little fun with it. Shit, one of Danny’s backup plans was having Ellis make a drunken scene, so he might as well get a little into character, right?

“You are most charming!” exclaimed one of the Russians, a bald, fat man in an ill-fitting suit with a large tumbler of vodka in his hand. “You Americans, you can be so dull sometimes at these events!”

Ellis lifted his glass, and the two men toasted. “Well, the war’s over, my friend. Figure if we don’t loosen up now, we’ll be back at it before long. Hell, I think we gotta get Stalin and Truman over to my house in Alabama and have some drinks on the porch. We’ll get things ironed out in no time!” More laughter, more toasting, and Ellis could see a few otherwise bored delegates wander over curiously. “Maybe the Jews and Arabs can join us, too! Everybody come on down to my place and let’s get things squared, all right?”

Ellis thrust his glass up to address the building crowd around him, only to realize he wasn’t holding anything anymore except wet liquid, which immediately splashed to the floor. Aw, hell. Not now!

Surreptitiously — using a maneuver Mulholland had taught him — Ellis withdrew a small sherry glass from his pocket and let it fall. The loud shatter prompted those in his circle of partygoers to step back almost as one. Moreover, it hid the fact that his own drinking glass had spontaneously transmuted to water while he was holding it.

“Oh, no! Oh, I’m so sorry!” Ellis cried, looking around for help even as three turbaned waiters came rushing forward, one with a broom and dustpan at the ready. Another immediately replaced his disappeared champagne glass with a full one. “Oh, thank you! My, these boys here are thorough. So sorry, everyone. Perhaps that whiskey was so good, the memory of it got me a little tipsy.”

That defused the tension quite nicely, and Ellis’s large circle laughed once more. The more senior fellows — the ones in the uniforms or with nicer suits — were still talking with one another, but he could see more eyes his way. Sure, some of them looked annoyed at his American boorishness, but they were looking, which meant he was doing his job. It also meant they weren’t looking at Maggie.

Which was a surprise, since that girl cleaned up mighty fine for the evening.

I hate this dress. I’m gonna burn it when this is over.

Maggie looked down at her outfit for the umpteenth time that evening and marveled how it could stay on or how she could even walk. It was a shiny green number, shoulderless and sleeveless, that hugged her breasts, stomach, and hips like a vise. At least it allowed a range of movement for her to walk, given that the slit up the side exposed her leg a quarter of the way up her thigh. She’d wondered, the first time she’d put it on, how she was ever going to strap a gun to her leg in that getup, but a careful application of Mulholland’s misdirection, along with a quick emotional tug or two, got her past the bag search without incident — the pistol was safely sequestered in her clutch, tucked under her arm.

“Anything?” whispered Frank from behind her.

She turned and gave him a practiced, winning smile. “No, and it’s pissing me off,” she said quietly.

She could feel the waves of amusement off Frank, along with a sense of… was that pride? Camaraderie? It was positive, whatever it was. Why was it harder for her to identify the positive emotions? “Keep looking,” he said out the corner of his mouth, wandering off to introduce himself to another circle of delegates.

Thankfully, the women dragged out to this party — and let’s face it, they were only there for the men’s amusement — either stuck close to whoever they came with or huddled in small groups by nationality. Maggie only had to bust out her cover story once — “I’m married to that charming gentleman over there, the Deputy Undersecretary of State for Planning” — and that was that. The other American women smiled politely and nodded at her but quickly resumed their conversation as though she wasn’t there. She wasn’t part of their circle, and they weren’t chomping at the bit to make the new girl feel welcome. And the Russians, Zionists, Arabs, and Turks all left her alone. She did have to shoot down a drunk British envoy and a young Russian officer, the latter’s painfully earnest attempt leaving her with a twinge of regret. But it was working out.

Except that Yushchenko hadn’t bothered to show up.

I hate this dress. I’m gonna take a pair of scissors to this thing like nobody’s business. She looked at Cal’s uniform as he stood at Vandenberg’s right hand, thinking how much more comfortable it looked. And, for that matter, how comfortable Cal was becoming in his new role.

“Master Sergeant, would you be so kind as to inquire if these fine people have some proper Scotch lying around? I developed a taste for it during the war. Scotland, you know.”

Cal stood ramrod straight and nearly saluted — but he remembered that, no, the Air Force boys didn’t salute at every little thing. “Yes, General,” he replied, and turned on his heel to head for the bar, next to the violin players.

Except he never made it there — that was Vandenberg’s cue releasing him from duty so he could actually get to work. It was just another of Mr. Mulholland’s tricks, blending into the background until nobody even remembered you were there. Cal had stood there at Vandenberg’s beck and call long enough for folks to think he was part of the furniture, an accessory to the fancy couch or the chandelier. He’d gotten a few looks when he first walked in, of course — not hatred, but certainly not acceptance. Curiosity, like he was a sideshow at the carnival. But it seemed most folks had accepted that he belonged in the room, or at least that there were more interesting things to keep occupied with, like an obnoxiously tipsy Ellis, and he’d quickly faded into the background again. Which was the point.

Cal took a meandering route through the room, sticking to the walls and, where possible, the hallways and alcoves. He made to look a little lost, which worked well when he stumbled onto one of the delegates — a Frenchman, if he remembered the introductions right — lingering a bit too long in a secluded corner with a very tall Russian girl. “Excuse me,” the man muttered, bowing and turning quickly before anything more could be said.

So, he could find a couple making out like schoolkids, but he couldn’t find the Russian soldier with a face matching the grainy photo they’d been given, nor the composite sketch the CIA folks had done up. Cal reached down and gave his Handie-Talkie key a couple taps. Nothing yet. The Variants had discovered that the vibrations caused by opening and closing a channel could be just as useful as actual conversation and much more discreet, and so had devised for themselves a little code system.

Having done a circuit of the room, Cal sighed and shrugged. He swung back by the bar and asked about the Scotch — the bartender just shrugged — so Cal grabbed another glass of champagne and headed back in Vandenberg’s direction, waiting patiently until his presence was noticed.

“Apologies, General. No Scotch here.”

Vandenberg took the champagne off Cal’s hands. “Well, Sergeant, do me a favor and head on out to the cars. I think the Deputy Undersecretary over there might have a bottle or two of whiskey tucked away, and I do believe I outrank him sufficiently to warrant some.”

The crowd around the handsome Air Force general tittered at this, but only Cal caught his true instructions: expand the search.

Cal took his leave and left the room. If he walked fast enough, like he was on an errand, he could not only get away with leaving the party without being stopped but also cover a lot of ground. And these days, Cal had young, strong legs.

Frank had a couple European ladies on the ropes with one of his few funny war stories — where exactly in Europe he couldn’t remember and really didn’t care — when he felt his wallet vibrate against his chest. Twice… three times… four… five!

Drawing himself back up, Frank managed to bring his story to a truncated but amusing conclusion in under a minute and then excused himself to attend to his boss. Once out of sight in an alcove, he pulled out his wallet and opened it, turning his back to the crowd. “Yeah?”

“Outer courtyard, the one with all them fountains. Just sitting there on a bench, looking all tired. Couple others with him,” Cal replied. “You better get Maggie and get out here.”

Frank folded up his wallet and turned just in time to see Maggie sauntering off down one of the other hallways. Either she’d listened in or she’d figured something else out on her own. Either way, Frank did what he could to follow her lead without attracting attention, until he got to the hallway and broke out into a jog to catch up.

“Stop looking at my ass,” Maggie whispered when he fell in beside her.

“I wasn’t!” Frank hissed.

“Look. I see Cal up ahead.”

Cal nodded subtly as he walked toward them, then split off into a side corridor so he could circle around and emerge on the other side of the courtyard; his job was to keep watch and use the radio if he spotted trouble.

Maggie and Frank walked into the courtyard separately. There were a number of smokers who had congregated there, clusters of men and a handful of women scattered around the vast expanse, some alone, some in small groups sharing the international camaraderie of cigarettes. The setup made talking to a stranger plausible, and unlikely that they’d be overheard. Frank and Maggie split off — and after a few minutes of aimless wandering and smoking, Frank saw her sit down on a bench across from a man in a Russian uniform.

Yushchenko. INSIGHT.

Frank took out his wallet and tapped the channel key three times. Contact.

Maggie rifled through her clutch until she found her pack of Lucky Strikes. Looking carefully, she chose a real one and put it to her lips, then made as though she was looking through her clutch once more.

She looked up at the man across from her and smiled. It felt like she was acting out the lines from a movie. “I’m sorry. Do you have a light?”

Maggie started to make the now-universal gesture of flicking a lighter, though she wasn’t quite sure why, but the Soviet simply nodded, reaching into his pocket. “Of course,” he said in accented English.

She got up and walked the three steps over to his bench, because that seemed like the right thing to do, sitting down next to him. She drew in closer to light her cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling out the side of her mouth like she imagined Jane Greer might. “Thank you,” she added, because he hadn’t said anything else and she wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. “I can’t imagine where I misplaced mine.”

The officer closed the lighter with a snap. “Of course, miss.” He then turned back toward the courtyard, watching the other people smoke or mill about randomly.

The last thing he’s expecting is a contact who’s a woman, Maggie realized. To anyone else, he might have looked cool and calm, but this close, she could sense that he was nervous inside. Not intensely frightened, but definitely on edge. He was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, black hair graying at the temples, lean and strong. She knew Yushchenko had been at Stalingrad in ’43, so there was no doubt he was a tough customer.

“You remind me of someone,” Maggie said as firmly as she could manage. “Have we met?”

A flicker of annoyance pushed through the soft blanket of tension in his mind. “I would remember, I think,” he said with a charming smile. “But I don’t think so, miss.”

Maggie fumbled for her next words, ashing her cigarette awkwardly.

“I think it might have been in Poland,” she finally said. “I attended a diplomatic soiree there a few months ago. With Mr. Parrish.”

There you go, Maggie thought as tension and fear suddenly gripped the man’s heart. Parrish was one of the Warsaw station chief’s cover names.

“I might, yes,” the man replied slowly. “I was there as well, though I do not remember a, how you say, ‘soiree’ of any kind. But I seem to remember your Mr. Parrish.”

“He sends his regards, Comrade Colonel,” Maggie said quietly, reaching out ever so slightly with her Enhancement to smooth over any anxious nerves. “He recommended that you and I meet.”

Maggie didn’t need her ability to note the surprise on Yushchenko’s face. “Well… that is very kind of him, and you are a beautiful woman,” he said. “I am surprised he had the time to meet someone like you. He works very hard.”

I’m your goddamn contact, Maggie thought. What the hell are you talking about?

Yushchenko nodded, as if he had just made up his mind, and stood up. “Please give him my regards, miss,” he said as Maggie scrambled to her feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. It has been a pleasure.”

Maggie was about to protest when the Soviet officer turned around again, his hand outstretched. “Here. I have another. Don’t lose this one.”

Smiling, Maggie took his lighter, feeling the small piece of paper pressed up against the side of it. Not a bad bit of tradecraft, that. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” she smiled. “Have a wonderful evening, Colonel.”

She sat back down and opened her clutch, her cigarette dangling from her lips as she deposited the lighter and glimpsed at the note. It was in Russian. Dammit. She took a long drag, then placed it at the edge of the bench next to her, balancing it so it wouldn’t fall. After that, she opened her compact, subtly keying the side of it as she grabbed the powder puff inside and gazed into the small mirror.

“Got a note. I need Frank to translate,” she said quietly. “And somebody else should follow our guy.”

A moment later, she heard a faint static pop as the line opened up; thankfully, she had the volume turned far down and there wasn’t anyone in earshot. “I got him. On his tail,” Cal replied. “I’ll send Frank along.”

Maggie snapped her case shut, just in time to see Yushchenko leave through a corridor at the far western side of the courtyard, Cal in his Air Force uniform following shortly after. So, that was taken care of. She picked up her cigarette again and took a long drag — she’d grown a little too attached to smoking over the past several months of living at military bases. Frank arrived a minute later.

“Got a light?” he said with a little gleam in his eye.

Maggie passed it over along with the note, just as Yushchenko had. “For you, darling, anything.”

Frank lit his own cigarette and handed the lighter back, keeping the note. He unfolded it with one hand — it was about an inch around, all told — and began reading. His smile faded quickly.

“Key the talkie. Bail out.”

Maggie immediately reached back into her purse and began keying a single long buzz, over and over. “What is it?”

Frank read from the note. “‘One of Them here. Many eyes on us. Dangerous. Get out now. Prague, soon.’”

“Shit,” Maggie said, dropping her cigarette to the ground and grinding it into the stones of the courtyard with her shoe. “One of them? Who?”

“The ‘T’ in ‘Them’ is capitalized,” Frank said. “Intentionally. You don’t suppose…”

Maggie’s heart sank as she watched Ellis enter the courtyard and saunter toward them as they sat there. He was an excellent actor, and she knew this because underneath his laid-back exterior, he was a nervous wreck. If the Russians had their own Variants…

“Either of you got a cigarette?” Ellis asked quietly. “I’m plumb out. The general went and smoked all mine.” Vandenberg wants a report.

Frank offered one of his. “Gonna have to chase down a new pack. Hate to be one short.” Cal followed the target. He’s out of contact.

Ellis grimaced as he lit up. “Just the one? Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you back later, friend.” Fuck Cal. Let’s go.

Frank smiled and stood. “You know, I think I’m gonna look for another pack. I think it’s gonna be a long night. Lots of people smoking the place up here. And I hear our hosts may have a surprise or two later.” Fuck you, Ellis. We’re looking for Cal. And we may have company. Variants.

As Ellis’s eyes widened, Maggie nodded toward where she’d seen Cal follow Yushchenko out of the courtyard. “I thought I saw them selling some by one of the coat checks over there,” Maggie said sweetly. “I can show you.”

Frank gestured toward the exit. “Lead the way, miss.”

Maggie quickly walked off toward the corridor with Frank close behind. She could feel Ellis’s anger as they left.

“Wait up,” he finally called out, barely concealing his concern. “I might as well get a pack too.”

Frank turned and smiled. “Why don’t you go see if the general wants some?” Report to Vandenberg. “I’ll get you some smokes, and you can pay me back later.”

“Mighty kind of you. All right, then,” Ellis said curtly, veering off back toward the party. Neither Frank nor Maggie needed code words or Enhancements to get that he was pissed and scared.