lead right now; they knew more about Dak than they were telling. Perhaps her initial
hunch was correct, that they were advance men for the conspiracy. But then why had
this tall one been so upset that Dak was no longer at his hotel.
At any rate, there were no other clues to follow. Even if her ambushing trio were not
personally responsible for Dak’s fate (she could not bring herself, even now, to think
“death”), they had been following him around much more closely than she had. They must
have seen something that could help her in her further search.
Besides, she bad a debt to repay them . . . and a d’Alembert debts are always paid.
Gaspard got on a lit driving eastward through one of the tunnels. Yvette was able to flag
down an empty jit whose driver was more than delighted to take Yvette’ s generous tip in
return for following another shuttle. Yvette sat right behind her driver, her sharp eyes
watching for any sign that her quarry was aware he was being followed, but the main
was obviously too engrossed in his own thoughts for that.
The ride was short and straight, only half a kilometer to the next domed intersection.
There Gaspard got off and went into a sidewalk café. He emerged a few seconds later
with a cup of hot liquid and a small tray of food. Finding a table all to himself, he sat and
slowly nibbled at his lunch, with apparent unconcern for the passing of time. Yvette, who
had gotten off her jit and walked across the street from the café, watched his actions
through the mirror of her compact while she pretended to be making up her face. She
decided he must be waiting for someone, probably one or both of his partners.
Her guess was confirmed several minutes later when Murgatroyd joined him. By this
time, Yvette had put away her compact and was observing the action across the street
by watching the reflections in a shop window. The two men across the way did not say
anything at first, and then began talking in low tones. As Gaspard explained his findings,
Murgatroyd became slightly more agitated. By the time the third man-a nondescript
fellow with gray-brown hair and a pencil-thin mustache-joined them, they were both
pretty upset.
The newcomer scowled when he was told the story. Abruptly, all three men stood up and
walked out of the café. To Yvette’s great relief they did not take a jit-it was too damned
awkward trying to follow those infernal things each time-but walked instead down the
street to the entrance of a small, inexpensive hotel called the Vesa Arms. Yvette, across
the street, followed them, then crossed back to their side as they went into the hotel.
She waited outside the door for ten seconds, then followed them inside.
She came through the door just in time to see the three of them disappearing down an
elevator tube, apparently going to one of the hotel’s sleeping rooms. She had no way of
knowing which level they were going to or what their room number was, but she knew
how to find out.
Think slut, she told herself. Unfastening the front of her jumpsuit almost down to the waist
and draping the houppelande casually over her shoulder, she sauntered over to the hotel
desk with a suggestive swing to her hips. She was perhaps a little overdressed to be a
common dyevka, but she doubted the clerk would pay much attention to that detail.
“You see them three guys that just walked through here?” she asked in as slangy an
accent as she could muster, “Yeah,” the clerk responded. “What about ’em?” “I gotta
know their room number.
“Why?” The clerk’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “It’s business.
“What kind of business would you have with them?” “Very personal business,” Yvette
winked. “If you know what I mean.
The clerk knew very well what she meant. “If they wanted you with them, how come they
didn’t take you themselves?.
Yvette winked again. “They, uh, didn’t want to be seen with me in the lobby.” Her voice
took on a more desperate whine. “Look, tovarishch, you gotta help me out. Gospodin
Ivanov and his two friends. . . .
“His name’s not Ivanov,” the clerk said curtly. “They’re all Ivanov to me. Anyway, he and
his two friends asked me down to his room for a little while, only they left and forgot to
tell me the number. It’s dumb, I know, but some guys are like that. They’ll be really mad
if I don’t get down there soon, and if they learn that you wouldn’t give me their room
number. . . .” Her tone of voice implied that dire things might happen. “Twenty rubles,”
the clerk said.
“You’re crazy!” Yvette exclaimed. “I’m only gettin’ a hundred myself. I ain’t givin’ no
drappin’ twenty percent commission to no drappin’ hotel clerk! Ten roobs is it!” Actually,
Yvette could have paid the twenty and considered it a bargain; but she had to stay
believably in character, and the clerk might have been suspicious if she hadn’t argued.
The man behind the desk paused, then nodded. “Smooth, ten. In advance.” His palm
snaked out toward her across the counter.
“Muttering something about “drappin’ blackmail,” Yvette fished deep into her purse and
pulled out a ten-ruble bill. The desk clerk accepted it with an oily grin and said, “Room
412. Have a good time.
“Go bite yourself,” Yvette retorted as she swiveled her hips over to the down elevator
tube. As she dropped on a cushion of air to the fourth level she did allow herself a tight
little smile for an act well done. The professional in her was pleased with her
performance, though the woman part had little to be happy about at the moment.
The hallway on the fourth level was narrow, but deserted. Dim overhead lighting did little
to illuminate the faded red carpet underfoot or the paint that was peeling off the wall in
large chunks. The dead smell of old dopesticks lingered through the corridor, causing
Yvette’s sensitive nostrils to wrinkle in disgust. Somehow, the place just seemed to fit the
characters of the three men she was after.
Room 412 was down the hall to her left as she emerged from the tube. Sneaking silently
up to it, she put her ear to the door and listened. The sound of three male voices in
conversation was plain; though she couldn’t make out too many individual words, the fact
that they were arguing about something was readily apparent.
After placing her houppelande on the floor and backing off from the door as far as the
narrow hallway would allow, Yvette charged the portal at top speed. She hit the door
with the full strength of her seventy-kilogram DesPlainian body and the door, made only
of cheap rikwood, gave way. As it burst inward, Yvette d’Alembert blew like a whirlwind
into the room.
The three men inside never had a chance. Gaspard and Murgatroyd were seated on the
bed, while the third -who appeared to be their boss-sat on a chair facing them. Surprised
as they were by Yvette’s sudden entrance, they had no time to move before she was on
top of them. Murgatroyd was dispatched immediately with a sharp blow at the base of
his neck. Gaspard turned his bead toward her just in time to get a knee jerked savagely
into his face. As he doubled over with the pain, Yvette grabbed the back of his shirt and
used it to fling him against the wall, where he hit his head and slumped to the floor,
unconscious.
The third man had a moment to rise from his chair and reach into his jacket, fishing for a
gun. Yvette was over to him in a flash, grabbed his wrist before he could withdraw his
weapon and smashed it down hard against her knee. The man howled with pain as his
wrist bone cracked, but Yvette’s store of mercy was all used up. Grasping her opponent
tightly by the front of his jacket, she hauled him into the room’s tiny bathroom and shut
the door behind her.
“Things are a little different than the last time we met,” she said harshly, pulling the man’s
stun-gun out of his jacket. “This time I can say a few things, too, although you like talking
so much that I think IT !et you do most of it.
Taking off her left shoe, she pulled the heel off and took a small hyposprayer from a
secret compartment. “I’m going to ask you a few questions now,” Yvette continued
coldly, “and I’m in no mood for funny answers. I presume you know what I’ve got in this
sprayer?.
The man trembled as he eyed the clear fluid. “N-nitrobarb,” he guessed. It had to be.
Nitrobarb was the number-one most effective truth serum known to man. It was