“We buried Rosaleen months ago,” she said.
“Christ, Pat, pay attention. I’m talking about the other Rosaleen.”
“I know who you’re talking about. But when you tell me her life is in danger it’s just kind of funny.”
He looked at her with disapproval. “I thought you and Artzybachova were friends.”
“We were. Are. What about it?”
“She needs help. There are terrorists who are trying to kidnap her, for what she knows about that alien technology you were so hot for. Do you want to help her or not?”
“Help her how?”
He looked uneasy, but said, “I’ve been ordered to go to Kiev to take care of things there. It’d make it a lot easier if you came along.”
Medical report
Gross morphology of extraterrestrial: “Dopey.”
Classified.
The physical measurements of “Dopey” are: Height, 54 cm, weight (including clothing and metallic pouch, which he refused to remove), 17.6 kg, pulse ranging from 33 to 70, respiration ranging from 22 to 40. The cause of the variations in pulse and respiration are not known, and do not seem to relate to changes in stress or emotional state.
The subject, which speaks English, is extremely recalcitrant and states that it will not cooperate in further studies unless demands are met, which, it says, it has already communicated to relevant authorities.
Stool samples have been obtained and are currently under analysis. Preliminary reports have not yet been received.
“Why?”
“She’s scared, Pat. She knows the terrorists want her, and she’s not letting anybody near her that she doesn’t know.”
“She knows you,” Pat said, stalling for time.
“Actually,” Dannerman said, “she doesn’t, or at least not very well. It’s the other Dannerman she really knows, not me. But she and you have been friends for years. What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”
And she naturally had to assure him that she certainly wasn’t afraid, and in the process didn’t notice that he hadn’t said what “things” he was going to take care of.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Hilda Morrisey met with the woman from the FZB, as the Russians had taken to calling their current successor to the Cheka, it wasn’t in the gloomy Old Russian embassy, and it certainly wasn’t at Bureau headquarters. They met on neutral ground, a Steak ‘n’ Shake a few blocks from the embassy. When Hilda protested that they shouldn’t be talking about secret matters in a public place the woman laughed at her. Her name, she said, was Grace. She was a lot younger than Hilda, and a lot prettier and better dressed, too: iridescent tank-top that made the most of her brassiereless breasts, and as mini a miniskirt as Hilda had ever seen-the latest thing from the ateliers on Nevsky Prospekt, no doubt. “Don’t worry, dear colleague Hilda,” she said. “It is quite safe here. All the busboys are friends. We call this place our commissary, since the food in the embassy is not great.” And indeed there was never a moment in the whole time they sat there when a busboy or two wasn’t nearby, rattling dishes at the tables of any other diners who might have overhead anything, dawdling over clearing the nearest tables so that no one could be seated too close.
In the old Soviet days the country of Ukraine did not get the respect it deserved. Most of the world called it “the” Ukraine, as though it were some mere backwater province, while the country’s Russian masters did worse. They made it a province. To patriotic Ukrainians this was an infamy. Wasn’t Ukraine, as early as the tenth century, the first Christian kingdom in the area? Wasn’t it, under the princes of the Rurik dynasty, an empire of its own, with the Russian hinterlands no more than a province itself? And wasn’t it about time that glorious epoch was restored?
The two of them confirmed their recognition signals with no problems. Only when they came to the specifics of the pickup Grace demurred. “You would prefer to use an American aircraft? Out of the question, dear colleague. It would certainly attract attention. No, we will supply a brand-new Russian MIG-90 VTOL; it is the same model we sell to the Ukrainians themselves, and it will have appropriate markings. I have already chosen the pilot, a very good man. He will whisk your people to Moscow-“
“Not Moscow. Vienna.”
Grace put down her chiliburger. “But why Vienna? We can supply perfect security for you in Moscow. Your plane can be waiting at the airport to take them home, a quick transfer, no problem-“
“Vienna,” Hilda said firmly.
Grace sulked for a moment, then gave in, and they spent the rest of the meal discussing why Moscow’s Dynamo team could beat any Western footballers. And then, back in the Bureau headquarters, Hilda changed back into her uniform while talking on the secure lines to Frankfurt, going over the arrangements Solly had made with the assets in Ukraine. Everything was set for the mission.
But it was wrong. It was the first time one of Hilda’s chicks had gone off on a mission without Hilda herself lurking somewhere near. Was there any chance that, even now, the deputy director could be persuaded to dump Solly and let Hilda go where she properly should go, near to the scene of action.
There wasn’t. When she reported to the deputy director he scoffed at her. “Take field command? You? Not a chance, Hilda. I’ve got a job for you here; you’re going to take over from Daisy Fennell.”
Alarm bells went off in Hilda’s head. “Running the damn team meetings?”
“Among other things, yes,” Pell said, his tone suddenly frosty. “Things are heating up. I’m locked into all the negotiations with the UN, and that’s turning into a full-time job. So I’m turning all the operational stuff over to Daisy for the time being, and you’re the best choice to take over her assignments. I don’t mean just the team meetings. I mean handling the freaks and keeping an eye on the Starlab bunch. You’re the one who knows them best- What? Well, certainly you’ll still be in charge of the Ukraine thing, too. If you need help, requisition it. Now, go talk to Daisy; she’s got her hands full.”
Daisy had her hands full, all right; she was in the middle of some problem with the Catalans and the Basques, and a field manager from Bangladesh was waiting to talk to her about Asian drug gangs. She waved Hilda to a seat while she finished dictating a note to the Spanish police, then leaned back and regarded her. “Congratulations, Hilda,” she said. “Let’s see, where do we start? You’ll need to go out to Camp Smolley today, the freaks are bitching about their food and-well, everything; anyway, the one that looks like a parrot is. But the other two are having troubles, too.”
“What kinds of troubles?”
Daisy waved a hand. “They’ll tell you all about it when you get there. Then there’s the team. Marcus doesn’t want to lose momentum with the experts, so he wants a meeting every day-“
“All those people? Every day?”
“You can choose the participants yourself. You probably don’t need the astronomer anymore-or do you? It’s your call. And probably you can skip today if you have to; there won’t be much time before you get back from Smolley. Then-wait a minute.”
She frowned as her screen buzzed at her, listened for a moment, then said, “Apologize to him; I’ll be with him in five minutes. Ten at the most.”
She turned back to Hilda. “Sorry, where was I? Oh. The Starlab people in New York. Guards and surveillance are being handled by your old office; I’ve instructed them to report to you, but there haven’t been any problems. The Chinese are still trying to get their hands on the pregnant one, and the damn Floridians are pissing and moaning about letting their General Delasquez get killed. Or abandoned. Or whatever happened to him up there.”
She thought for a moment, then leaned back and smiled. “So what about it, Hilda? How do you like life in the fast track?”
The answer was “very little”; but all Hilda said was, “I’d rather be out in the field.”
Daisy said sympathetically, “I felt that way, too, at first, but you get used to it. And there’s a time to settle down, isn’t there? Listen, while I think of it, my husband and I were wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner-“
Hilda goggled at her. Husband? When had that happened? And what did Daisy want one of those things for?
“-maybe tonight? You’ve never seen our house, have you? So, about eight? And there’s somebody Frank and I would like you to meet.”
All the way out to Camp Smolley Hilda was fuming to herself. Time to settle down? Time to turn into another Daisy Fennell? The worst part of it was that she hadn’t ducked fast enough. Now she was committed to dinner with Daisy and Frank and Frank’s really nice partner in the real-estate business, Richard, who had lost his wife to a mugger two years before and was just the kind of man Hilda ought to get to know.