In the center of the warehouse the air shimmered and went dark. For a moment they were all looking at the alleyway outside the warehouse, where a portly man stood in shadow. The darkness coalesced, pulsed, and they were seeing a head-and-shoulders view of the man: Polyakov, grimacing as he looked toward Video. Then the image faded to Gimli's laughter.

"And you never f.u.c.king saw Shroud behind you, did you?" he said.

A slender figure materialized out of the shadow behind Polyakov. He poked a forefinger in Polyakov's back. "Bang," Shroud whispered. "You're dead. Just like a Russian joker." Alongside the door Peanut and File grinned.

Gimli had to admit that Polyakov took it gracefully enough for a nat. The burly man just nodded without looking at Shroud at all. "My apologies. You obviously know your people better than L"

"Yeah. Don't I." Gimli sniffed; his sinuses were dripping like an old faucet. He waved to Shroud. "Make sure n.o.body else gets in-there's no more invitations."

The thin, dark joker nodded. "Dead meat time," Shroud said-another whisper. A grin came from the vaporous form, and then he dissolved into shadow.

"We have aces with us, then," Polyakov said.

Gimli laughed without amus.e.m.e.nt. "Get Video near an electrical device and her nervous system overloads. Put her in front of a d.a.m.n television and her heart will go into arrhythmia. Too close and she'll die. And Shroud loses substance every day, like he's evaporating. Another year and he'll be dead or permanently immaterial. Aces, s.h.i.t, Polyakovthey're jokers, just like the rest. You know, the ones you cull out in the Russian labs."

Polyakov merely grunted at the insult; Gimli felt disappointed. The man brushed his fingers through stubbly gray hair and nodded. "Russia had made her mistakes, as has America. There are many things I wish had never happened, but we're here to change what we can, are we not?" He fixed Gimli with an unblinking stare.

"The Syrian ace has arrived?"

"I'm here." Misha came from the rear of the warehouse. Gimli saw her glance sharply at Peanut and File. Her att.i.tude was sour and condescending. She walked as if she expected to be catered to. Gimli might find her Arabian darkness extremely attractive, but-except in late-night fantasies-he didn't delude himself that anything might come of it. He knew what he looked like: "a warty, noxious little toadstool feeding on the decaying log of ego,-Wilde's phrase."

Gimli was a -joker; that was the bottom line for the b.i.t.c.h. Misha had made certain that Gimli knew he was tolerated only to gain revenge on Hartmann. She didn't see him as a person at all; he was just a tool, something to use because nothing else would do. The realization gigged him every time he looked at her.

Just seeing the woman was enough to make him want to shout at her.

I'll make you a f.u.c.king tool of my own one day.

"I'm ready to begin. The visions,"-she smiled, making Gimli scowl in response "have been optimistic today." Gimli scoffed. "Your G.o.dd.a.m.n dreams ain't gonna worry the senator, are they?"

Misha whirled around, eyes flaring. "You mock Allah's gift. Maybe your scorn is why He made you a squashed mockery of a man."

That was enough to shatter what little restraint he had. A quick, molten rage filled Gimli. "You f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h!" he screeched. The dwarfs stance widened on muscular legs, his barrel chest expanded. A finger stabbed from the fist he c.o.c.ked at her. "I won't take that s.h.i.t, not from you, not from anyone!"

"STOP THIS!" The shout came from Polyakov as Gimli took a step toward Misha. The roar brought Gimli's head around; the movement made his stuffy head throb.

"Amateurs!" Polyakov spat out. "This is the stupidity that Molniya said destroyed you in Berlin, Tom Miller. I believe him now. This petty bickering must end. We have a common purpose; focus your anger on that."

"Pretty speeches don't mean s.h.i.t," Gimli scoffed, but he stopped. The fist lowered, the fingers loosened. "We're a d.a.m.n unlikely conspiracy, ain't we?-a joker, an ace, and a nat. Maybe this was a mistake, huh? I'm not so certain anymore that we share much of a common purpose." He glared at Misha.

Polyakov shrugged. "None of us want Hartmann to gain political power. We have our separate reasons, but on this we agree. I would not care to see an ace with unknown powers as president of the nation that opposes my own. I know the Kahina would like to exact revenge for her brother. You have a long-standing grudge of your own against the senator. And as little as you may care for this woman, she has brought hard evidence against Hartmann."

"So she claims. We ain't seen it yet, have we?" Polyakov grunted. "Everything else is circ.u.mstantial: hearsay and speculations. So let us begin. I, for one, would like to see Misha's 'gift."'

"Let's talk reality first. Then we can indulge in religious fantasies," Gimli argued. He could feel control of the meeting slipping from him; the Russian had presence, charisma. Already the others were watching Polyakov as if he were the head of the group. Forget how lousy you're feeling. You've got to watch him or he'll take over.

"Nevertheless," the Russian insisted.

Gimli c.o.c.ked his head at Polyakov. Polyakov stared back at him blandly. Finally Gimli cleared his throat noisily and sniffed. "All right," he grumbled. "The stage is yours, Kahina."

When Gimli glanced at her, she gave a quick, triumphant smile. That decided Gimli. When this was over, the bill would come due for Misha's arrogance. He'd exact the payment himself if he had to.

Misha went to the rear of the warehouse again and came back with a rolled bundle of cloth. "When the aces attacked us in the mosque, Hartmann was wounded," she said. "His people examined him there, quickly, but they retreated immediately afterward. I"-she stopped, and a look of remembered pain darkened her face "I had already fled. My brother and Sayyid, both horribly wounded, gathered their followers and went deep in the desert. The next day a vision told me to return to the mosque. There, I was given this: It is the jacket Hartmann was wearing when he was shot."

She unrolled her package on the cement floor.

The jacket wasn't all that impressive-a gray-checked sports coat, dusty and bedraggled. The cloth held a faint stench of mildew. At the right shoulder a frayed hole was surrounded by an irregular splotch of brown-red, spreading as it crept down the chest. Packed inside were a sheaf of papers in a manila envelope.

Misha riffled through them.

"I went to four doctors in Damascus with the jacket," she continued. "I had them examine the bloodstains independently, and each gave me a report that said the blood had definitely come from someone infected with the wild card virus. The blood type matches Hartmann-A positive. I have verification from the man who gave it to me that this is Hartmann's jacket-he picked it up after the fighting, thinking to keep it as a relic of the Nur."

"A verification letter from a terrorist, and blood that could have come from f.u.c.king anyone." Gimli snorted. "Look, all of us here might believe it's Hartmann's blood, but alone it's nothing. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's got his blood test on record. You think he can't produce another negative one with the people he knows?"

Polyakov nodded ponderously. "He can. He would."

"Then attack him physically," Misha said, wondering at these people. "If you don't want my gift, kill him. I will help." The look on her face made Gimli laugh and the laughter brought on a hacking, phlegm-filled cough. "Christ, all I need is a cold," he muttered, then: "Awfully f.u.c.king bloodthirsty, ain't we?"

Misha folded her arms beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, defiant. "I'm not afraid. Are you?"

"No, G.o.ddammit. Just realistic. Look, your brother had him surrounded by guards with Uzis and he got away, didn't he? I had the f.u.c.ker tied to a chair, all of us armed, and one by one most of us left, a decision we can't believe we made an hour later. Then Mackie Messer-who was a loaded gun with no safety anyway-goes f.u.c.king berserk and slices up everyone that's left, yet somehow doesn't hurt the good senator at all." Gimli spat. "He can make people do things-that's got to be his power. He's got aces all around him. We ain't gonna get to the man, not that way."

Polyakov nodded. "Unfortunately, I must agree. Misha, you don't know Molniya, the ace who was with Gimli in Berlin," he said. "He could have killed Hartmann with a simple touch. I spoke to him at length. He did things there that were sloppy and senseless for a man of his loyalty and experience. His performance was utterly inconsistent with his past record. He was manipulated: part of the evidence I have is his deposition."

File elbowed Peanut. "'Seventy-six," he said to Gimli. " I remember. You talked to Hartmann when we were all ready to march. Suddenly, you were telling us to turn around and go back into the park."

The memory was as sour now as it had been eleven years ago. Gimli had brooded on it many times. In '76 the JJS had been on the verge of becoming a legitimate joker voice, yet somehow he'd lost it all. The JjS and Gimli's power had fallen apart in the aftermath of the rioting. Since Berlin, since his meeting with Misha, that brooding had taken a different turn.

Now he knew who was to blame for his failure.

"d.a.m.n right. The son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. That's why I want him taken down. With Barnett or any of the other nat politicians we know what we're dealing with. They're all known quant.i.ties. Hartmann's not. And that's why he's more dangerous than any of the rest. You remember Aardvark, Peanut? Aardvark died in Berlin, along with a lot of others-his death and all the f.u.c.king rest are ultimately Hartmann's fault."

Peanut's entire body moved as he tried to shake his head. "That ain't right, Gimli. Really. Hartmann does work for the jokers. He got rid of the Acts, he talks nice to us, he comes to Jokertown. . ."

"Yeah. And I'd do the same d.a.m.n thing if I wanted to lull everyone's suspicions.

I tell you, we know where Barnett stands. We can deal with him anytime. I'm more afraid of Hartmann."

"Then do something about him," Misha interjected. "We have his jacket. We have your story and Polyakov's. Take it to your press and let them remove Hartmann."

"Because we still ain't got s.h.i.t. He'll deny it. He'll produce another blood test. He'll point out that the 'evidence' was produced by a joker who kidnapped him in Berlin, a Russian who has connections with the KGB, and you-who says that her dreams tell her Hartmann's an ace and who's suffering under the lunatic delusion that she was made to attack her terrorist brother. A f.u.c.king cla.s.sic example of guilt transference."

Gimli enjoyed the flush that climbed Misha's neck. Yeah, that one hit home, didn't it, b.i.t.c.h? "We've circ.u.mstantial evidence, sure," Gimli continued, "but if we bring it forward, he'll just laugh it off and so will the press. We have to link with someone else. Let them be the front."

"I take it you have someone in mind?" Polyakov commented. Gimli thought he heard a faint challenge in the man's voice. "Yeah, I do," he told Polyakov. " I say we take what we have to Chrysalis. From what I hear, she's awfully d.a.m.n interested in Hartmann herself, and she doesn't have any grudges. No one knows more about anything in Jokertown than Chrysalis."

"Know one knows more about Hartmann than Sara Morgenstern." Misha waved away Gimli's suggestion. "Allah's dreams have shown me her face. She is the one who will destroy Hartmann, not Chrysalis."

"Right. She's Hartmann's lover. We think Hartmann's got mind powers-so who's he most likely to control?" The headache was slamming at Gimli's temples now, and his head felt packed full of mucus. "We have to go to Chrysalis."

"We don't know that Chrysalis would have any interest in helping us. Maybe Hartmann controls her as well. My visions-"

"Your visions are c.r.a.p, lady, and I'm getting f.u.c.king tired of hearing about them."

"They are Allah's gift."

"They're a gift from the wild card, and every last joker knows what's in that package." Gimli heard the door to the warehouse open. His gaze spun away from Misha to see Polyakov standing there. "Where the h.e.l.l are you going?"

Polyakov exhaled sharply. "I've heard enough. I won't be caught with fools. Go to Chrysalis or go to Morgenstern-I don't care which. I even wish you luck; it may work. But I won't be a.s.sociated with it."

"You're walking?" Gimli said in disbelief.

"We have a common interest, as I've said. That seems to be all. You do as you like; you don't need me for that. I will pursue this my own way. If I uncover anything of interest, I will contact you."

"You try something on your own and you're more likely to get caught. You'll alert Hartmann that people are after him." Polyakov shrugged. "If Hartmann is the threat you think he is, he already knows that." He nodded to Gimli, to Misha, to File and Peanut. He stepped outside and closed the door softly behind himself.

Gimli could feel the gazes of the others on him. He gestured obscenely at the door. "To h.e.l.l with him," he said loudly. "We don't need him."

"Then I go to Sara," Misha insisted. "She will help." You don't have a choice.

Not now.

Gimli nodded reluctantly. "All right," he sighed. "Peanut will get you a plane ticket to Washington. And I'll see Chrysalis." He touched his hand to his forehead; it felt suspiciously warm. "In the meantime, I'm going to bed."

Tuesday, 10:50 P.m.

Gimli had told her that she must be careful that no one was watching Sara's apartment. Misha thought the dwarf paranoid, but she waited several moments before crossing the street, watching. There was never a way to be sure Sayyid, her husband, who had been in charge of all aspects of the Nur sect's security, would have agreed.

"No amateur will ever see a professional unless he wants to be seen," she remembered his saying once. Thoughts of Sayyid brought back painful memories: his scornful voice, his overbearing manner, his monstrous body. She'd felt relief mingled with horror when he'd been struck down in front of her, his bones snapping like dry twigs, a low animal moaning coming from his crumpled body. . .

Misha shuddered and crossed the street.

She pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton at the front door, marveling again at the American obsession with ineffectual securitythe door was beveled gla.s.s. It would hardly stop anyone desperate to enter. The voice that answered sounded tired and cautious. "Yes? Who's there?"

"This is Misha. Kahina. Please, I must talk with you...." There was a long silence. Misha thought that perhaps Sara wasn't going to answer when the intercom's speaker gave a dry click. "You may come up," the voice said. "Second floor. Straight ahead."

The door buzzer shrilled. For a moment Misha hesitated, not certain what to do, then pushed the door open. She entered the air-conditioned foyer and went up the stairs. The door was cracked open; in the s.p.a.ce between the door and jamb, an eye stared at her as she approached. It withdrew, and Misha heard a chain rattling. The door opened wider, but only enough to let her pa.s.s. "Come in,"

Sara said.

Sara was thinner than Misha remembered, almost gaunt. Her face was sallow and drawn; there were pouchy dark bags under the eyes. Her hair looked as if it hadn't been washed in days, lying limp and l.u.s.terless around her shoulders. She locked the door behind Misha, then leaned back against it.

"You look different, Kahina," Sara said. "No chador, no veils, no bodyguards.

But I remembered the voice, and your eyes."

"We've both been changed," Misha said softly, and saw pain flicker in Sara's dark-rimmed pupils.

"I guess we have. Life's a b.i.t.c.h, huh?" Sara pushed away from the door, knuckling at her eyes.

"You wrote about me, after... after the desert. I read it. You understood me.

You have a kind soul, Sara."

"I don't write much lately." She went to the center of the living room. Only one lamp was on; Sara turned in dim shadow. "Listen, why don't you sit down? I'll get something to drink. What would you like?"

"Water."

Sara shrugged. She went into the kitchen, came out a few minutes later with two tumblers. She handed one to Misha; Misha could smell alcohol in the other. Sara sat on the couch across from Misha and took a long swallow. "I've never been more frightened than the day in the desert," she said. " I thought your brother-" She hesitated, glancing at Misha over the rim of the gla.s.s. " I thought he was utterly mad. I knew we were all going to die. And then..." She took a long sip.

"Then I cut his throat," Misha finished. The words hurt; they always did.

Neither one of them looked at the other. Misha put her tumbler on the table beside the couch. The chiming of ice against gla.s.s seemed impossibly loud.

"That must have been a very hard decision."

"Harder than you could believe," Misha answered. "The Nur was-and still is-Allah's prophet. He is my brother. He is the person my husband followed. I love him for Allah, for my family, for my husband. You've never been a woman in my society; you don't know the culture. You can't see the centuries of conditioning. What I did was impossible. I would rather have cut off my hand than allow it to do that."

"Yet you did."

"I don't think so," Misha said softly. "I don't think you believe it, either."

Sara's face was in darkness, haloed by backlit hair. Misha could see only the gleam of her eyes, the shimmer of water on her lips as she raised her gla.s.s again. "Kahina's dreams again?" Sara mocked, but Misha could hear the words tremble. " I came to you in Damascus because of Allah's visions."

"I remember."

"Then you remember that in that vision Allah told me you and the senator were lovers. You remember that I saw a knife, and Sayyid struggling to take it from me. You remember that I saw how Hartmann had taken your distrust and transformed it, and how he would take my feelings and use them against me."

"You said lots of things," Sara protested. She huddled back deeper in the couch, hugging her knees to her chest. "It was all symbols and odd images. It could have meant anything."

"The dwarf was in that vision, too," Misha insisted. "You must remember-I told you. The dwarf was Gimli, in Berlin. Hartmann did the same thing there."

Sara's breath was harsh. "Berlin-" she breathed.' Then: "It's all coincidence.

Gregg's a compa.s.sionate and warm man. I know that, better than you or anyone.

I've seen him. I've been with him."

"Is it coincidence? We both know what he is. He is an ace, a hidden one."

"And I tell you that's impossible. There's a blood test. And even if it were true, how does that change things? He's still working for the rights and dignity of all people unlike Barnett or your brother or terrorists like the JJS. You've given me nothing but innuendo against Gregg."

"Allah's dreams-"

"They're not Allah's dreams," Sara interrupted angrily. "It's just the d.a.m.ned wild card. Flashes of precognition. There are half a dozen aces with the same ability. You see glimpses of the possible futures, that's all: useless little previews that have nothing to do with any G.o.d."

Sara's voice had risen. Misha could see her hand trembling as she took another drink. "What did you think he'd done, Sara?" she asked. "Why did you once hate him?"