A doctor showed up uninvited to check her over again, and she allowed him to do it while she talked to the colonel. “Dopey’s all right,” he reassured her, pulling a sheaf of papers out of his bag. “When that message from space came in I didn’t know if you’d want Dopey to know about it. So I told the people at Smolley to keep it under their hats until they got further orders from you.”
Well. She hadn’t lost her touch at picking good staff. She didn’t comment, only asked, “What have you got there?”
“More of the Doc’s drawings. According to Dopey, he’s now given us pictures of everything on Starlab.”
She nodded. “Give them to Tepp, tell her to make one copy for me and pass the others on to the deputy director. I’ll look them over on the plane.”
And she rose to shake his hand as he got up to leave. Priam Makalanos had a nice, firm grip, and a nice male aroma. What’s more, he was damn good at his job. As she turned to collect her messages she reflected what a pity it was that he wasn’t eligible for anything more personal.
A Father’s Rights
Everyone is familiar with the high-handed actions of the Americans in the case of Commander J. P. Lin of the People’s Republic of China and his solicitude for the welfare of his unborn child or children. The Delegate of the Mongolian People’s Republic should support the demand of the People’s Republic for the custody of this infant or infants, as well as the PRC’s rights, and our own, to share in whatever benefits these space persons may bring.
Steppes Times, Ulaanbaatar, MPR.
But the first message on her screen was a note from the Maryland police, and it took her mind off Makalanos.
They had interrogated the survivor of the two who had attacked her. Apparently they had been told that she had been carrying big bucks, in cash, of all things. Why? Because she was planning to run off with somebody. Who had told them this crock of crap? The vindictive wife of the man she was supposed to be planning to run off with. But the only description they had of this woman was that she was kind of elderly and pleasant-faced, and how many thousand women like that were there in the District?
Hilda scowled at the screen. Was it remotely possible, she wondered, that maybe Wilbur’s ex-wife had suddenly taken an interest in who her former husband was seeing, and decided to do something about it?
No. Not possible at all. The whole thing was nonsense. There was no ex-wife, only somebody who had wanted to get Hilda herself attacked or maimed. Very possibly somebody she had put away, sometime in the long course of her work for the Bureau.
So who was this individual who had gone to so much trouble to get her attacked? Hilda didn’t know. She didn’t care, either. She only cared that, regretfully, she would have to be somewhat more cautious next time she went to a singles bar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
All the way from Vienna across the Atlantic, Pat Adcock was glued to the plane’s passenger screen, trying to understand just what the message from space meant. She didn’t get much satisfaction. From wherever on Earth the broadcasts came they were all the same: hysteria, everyone startled and frightened, everyone demanding reassurance and action. But there wasn’t much of either to be had. News of any kind from the Scarecrows could not be good news. She was glad when the aircraft was settling down toward the airport in New York City and she could get back to the complications of her own personal life.
Which wasn’t all that much better. The last thing Pat wanted was to be back in the clutches of the National Bureau of Investigation, but she wasn’t given the choice. There they were, three of them. Two of the men had stunsticks in their hands; the other, standing by their waiting van, was an officer with a carbine slung over his shoulder. And that was not counting the two agents who had accompanied them across the Atlantic, now hustling them toward the exit.
Their jet hadn’t gone to one of the passenger terminals. It had rolled to a stop on a bypass, far from the public parts of the airport, and there weren’t even any steps for them to get down to the ground on. Instead someone had brought up one of the extensible gadgets ground crews used to lift the racks of packaged meals to the stewards’ galley, accordion struts raising a wobbly platform up to the aircraft door. “Go,” said one of the guards behind them, and Pat, Dannerman and Rosaleen Artzybachova stepped cautiously out onto the shuddery flat.
It was cold and wet outside, though nothing like the chill of Ukraine, and the interior of the van that was waiting for them was overheated. “Sit down, please,” the officer said, the “please” contrasting with the hostile tone of his voice.
That was all he said. When Pat asked where he was taking them he didn’t reply. She looked at Dannerman for support, but he was tugging absently at his false beard, his expression weary but resigned. Rosaleen Artzybachova, who had slept placidly through most of the flight, patted her arm.
“They’re policemen,” she explained. “It is their nature. Pay no attention. You did nothing wrong.”
That was true enough, in Pat’s own opinion, but whether the police were seeing it that way was an unresolved question. The van stopped in front of a doorway marked AIRPORT SECURITY, which did not seem like a good sign. As they were getting out another car raced up and parked a few meters away. Pat recognized the woman who got out of it: Hilda Morrisey, the Bureau agent who was Dannerman’s boss. She was looking almost as tired as Pat herself was, and the dress she was wearing seemed to have been borrowed, for the way it failed to fit her.
Morrisey took charge. She shepherded the three of them into a conference room, vacated for her by the airport security people, and sat them down. “The Ukrainian government,” she said, looking at Rosaleen Artzybachova, “is raising hell about all this, so I have to ask you a formal question. Do you want to go back to Kiev, Dr. Artzybachova?”
Rosaleen shrugged. “Not particularly, but I’d like to get out of this room. Am I under arrest?”
Hilda shook her head. “Of course not. Once you are debriefed you’re free to go anywhere you like. You too, Dr. Adcock.”
Dannerman spoke up. “And me?”
Hilda gave him a chilly look. “You know better than that, Dannerman. The deputy director wants to talk to you himself.”
“Well,” Dannerman said in a placating tone, “I kind of thought he would. But there’s someone I’d like to see here in New York, so how about if I come down tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow. You’ll go to Arlington with me on the return flight.”
“Why?” Dannerman asked reasonably. “I did my mission; here’s Dr. Artzybachova, where the Ukrainian terrorists can’t get at her. I think I’m entitled-“
“No. Today. That’s an order.”
“But Hilda-“ Dannerman began, his tone no longer reasonable; but Rosaleen interrupted him. She was smiling.
“Speaking of orders, I have a question. Do you know what I think? I think that the reporters will be after Pat and me to ask questions. Would you like to give me an idea of what we ought to tell them?”
Hilda transferred her chill gaze to Rosaleen. “Tell them nothing at all.”
“But I don’t think that would be possible,” Rosaleen said reasonably. “They already know I was, ah, rescued-I do not use the word ‘kidnapped,’ as I believe my government does. So tell me what I should say about Dan’s orders. Should I say that you instructed him to save my life? Or should I mention-as my friends told me-that that was only a secondary option, and in fact you authorized him to kill me to keep me from giving information to those foolish children?”
“Artzybachova,” Hilda said harshly, “you’re screwing around in places where you can get punished.”
“Punished? But why do you speak of punishment, when we are all friends here? Friends do not say things that can cause their friends embarrassment. Just,” she added, “as friends would not deny a friend a harmless few hours on his own. Would they?”
Hilda eyed her for a long, cold moment. Then she spoke to Dannerman. “First thing tomorrow morning, in my office, or your ass is chopped meat. Now. Let’s start talking about just what happened in Ukraine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Pat didn’t mind the joyous clamor with which Pat Five and Patrice welcomed Rosaleen. Well, didn’t really mind it. After all, the three of them had shared a whole harrowing existence as captives of the Scarecrows that she herself had missed. She didn’t even mind that Patrice hospitably insisted that Rosaleen come and live with them -“There’s plenty of room, now that Pat One isn’t here, and I’m afraid the place where you used to live must be long gone by now.” That was the first Pat heard that Pat One had been drafted to Camp Smolley to keep Dopey company, along with her own personal Dannerman. There wasn’t really what you would call plenty of room, either. In fact, Pat gave up her own little bedroom to Rosaleen; old bones needed a real bed, and so Pat found that she would be sharing a bed with Patrice.