Identifying each other had been the easiest thing in the world: in Frankie’s Franchise, no one else fitted the prescribed picture at all. But personal appearance wasn’t the only yardstick; for of course, even in the hubbub, the three sensitives were able to detect each other’s psychic auras. They had made their acknowledgement with nods of their heads, picked their way with their drinks from the bar to an empty alcove. Certain of the club’s regulars had given them curious glances: the hard men a little wary, narrow-eyed, the prostitutes speculative. They had not returned them.
Seated for a few moments, finally Krakovitch had opened the discussion. ‘I don’t suppose you speaking my language,’ he said, his voice heavily but not unpleasantly accented, ‘but I speaking yours. But badly. This my friend Sergei.’ He tipped his head sideways a little to indicate his companion. ‘He know a little, very little, English. He not have ESP.’
Kyle and Quint glanced obediently at Gulharov. What they saw was a moderately handsome young man with close-cropped blond hair, grey eyes, hard-looking hands where they lay loosely crossed on the table, enclosing his drink. He seemed uneasy in his modern Western clothes, which weren’t quite the right fit.
‘That’s true enough.’ Quint narrowed his eyes, turning back to Krakovitch. ‘He’s not skilled that way, but I’m sure he has many other worthwhile talents.’ Krakovitch smiled thinly and nodded. He seemed a little sour.
Kyle had been studying Krakovitch, committing him to memory. The Russian head of ESPionage was in his late thirties. He had thinning black hair, piercing green eyes and an almost gaunt, hollow face. He was of medium height, slimly built. A skinned rabbit, thought Kyle. But his thin, pale lips were firm, and the high dome of his head spoke of a rare intelligence.
Krakovitch’s impression of Kyle was much the same: a man just a few years younger than himself, intelligent, talented. It was only the physical side of Kyle that was different, which hardly mattered. Kyle’s hair was brown and plentiful, naturally wavy. He was well fleshed, even a little overweight, but with his height that scarcely showed. His eyes were brown as his hair, his teeth even and white in a too-wide mouth that sloped a little from left to right. In another face that look might well be mistaken for cynicism, but not in Kyle, Krakovitch thought.
Quint, on the other hand, was more aggressive, but he probably had superb self-control. He would reach conclusions quickly, right or wrong. And he would probably act on them. He would act, and hope he’d done the right thing. But he wouldn’t feel guilty if it turned out wrong. Also, there wasn’t much emotion in Quint. All of this showed in his face, his figure, and Krakovitch prided himself on reading character. Quint was lithe, built like a cat. In no way massive, but he had that coiled spring look about him. Not nervous tension, just a natural ability to think and act fast. He had eyes of disarming blue that took in everything, a thin, even nose, and a forehead creased from frowning. He too was in his mid-thirties, thin on top, dark featured. And he had a talent. Krakovitch could tell that Quint was extremely ESP-sensitive. He was a spotter.
‘Oh, Sergei Gulharov has been trained —, Krakovitch finally answered, ‘ — as my bodyguard. But not in your arts, or mine. He has not got that kind of mind. Indeed, of the four of us, I could argue that he is the only “normal” man present. Which is unfortunate,’ — now he stared accusingly at Kyle — ‘for you and I were supposed to meet as equals, without, er, backup?’
At that moment the music went quiet, the rock’n’roll replaced by an Italian ballad.
‘Krakovitch,’ said Kyle, hard-eyed now and keeping his voice low, ‘we’d better be straight on this. You’re right, our deal was that the two of us should meet. We could each bring along a second. But no telepaths. What we have to say to each other we’ll just say, without someone picking our thoughts. Quint isn’t a telepath, he’s a spotter, that’s all. So we weren’t cheating. And as far as your man here — er, Gulharov? — is concerned: Quint says he’s clean, so you aren’t cheating either. Or you wouldn’t appear to be — but your third man is something else!’