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mess he made of it, too. You've never seen such an ugly color. Kind of purple,
like the stuff that tart across the street plasters all round her eyes when
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she goes out, wobbling along on those heels with her skirt up the top of her
legs -- you can tell she's up to no good. And do you know what time she comes
prancing back, brassy as you please? And then her mother told me one day --
Hello? The general manager?... Well, that's not my fault, is it?... Yes, wait
a minute. I'll try it.... No patience, some people. They're the kind who make
the world what it is -- never a good word to say for anyone. I can't
understand them at all."
"He sounded as if he'd caught a cold," Eugenia said absently.
Neither of them noticed the door inching inward until it opened all the way
suddenly. A tall, heftily built man in a gray sweater, followed instantly by
another one, scrawnier, with bulging eyes, came through so swiftly that the
two women found hands clamped over their mouths before they'd had a chance to
react or make a sound. Another man, younger than the other two, and
swarthy-skinned, with wavy black hair -- definitely a killer, from the intense
look in his eyes -- moved in between them and the switchboard, while a fourth
closed the door softly and bolted it.
Mariana quivered with terror. The four intruders looked mean and desperate,
with blotchy, unshaven faces, disheveled hair, and scruffy, grease-stained
clothes -- escaped convicts if she'd ever seen one. The face of the man
staring down at her was grotesque: wild eyes staring from a mask of bloated
purple. Psychotic murderers were often physically deformed or mutilated, and
they killed compulsively to get revenge on the society they felt rejected by
-- she'd read it in a magazine somewhere. Eugenia had slumped over in her
chair and seemed to be in a swoon. The man at the door turned, revealing
cruel, slant-eyed, Oriental features. That meant for a certainty they'd be
raped. Mariana's chest pounded, and every reflex drove her to struggle and
scream in mindless panic. But the two killers were holding her so tightly that
she couldn't move, and the hand over her mouth stifled her shouting.
"We don't want to hurt you," the big man said slowly. His voice had a foreign
accent. "There's no need to be afraid. All we need is your cooperation. Nod
your head if you understand me." They held her until her strength was
exhausted, "There is no danger. Do you understand?" At last the meaning sank
in. She nodded her head twice. "I'm going to let go so that you can breathe.
Please do not make any noise."
The hand on her mouth loosened, and she gasped in air gratefully. The hand
drew away "Who are you?" she asked fearfully. "What do you want?"
The Oriental wrote something on her notepad and pushed it across the console.
"Merely your help, if you would be so kind, madam," he said. "Please call that
number in Moscow for us. It is extremely urgent."
"That's all?"
"Please. It is urgent."
Mariana nodded. She indicated a handset on the console, and the Oriental
picked it up. Then she looked at the notebook and keyed in the number with
trembling fingers. It rang for four or five seconds. Then a voice answered,
"Willow Garden restaurant."
"I -- I have a call for you," Mariana said in a shaking voice. The
Oriental began chattering excitedly in a strange tongue. It sounded to Mariana
like an obscure dialect of Chinese.
General Snell listened while the two Defense Department scientists explained
the figures being displayed on one of the War Room consoles. Snell nodded, and
turned back to the President and his group. "The next thirty minutes will be
the crucial period. Three of our biggest space lasers will come out from
eclipse behind Earth during that time. If Mermaid is going to take out our
system with a surprise strike, it will be in that time frame."
Austin nodded somberly.
"We have to go for the Soviet shield, now," Uhl implored. "Okay, so it's an
act of war. But if that colony really is clean, they should have been open
about it from the beginning. If it isn't clean, we've got a good reason. The
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world will understand that."
"If it leads to an all-out exchange, the world will remember that it was us
who struck first. Will it understand that?" Austin asked.
"They haven't left us with a choice," Uhl said. "It wouldn't be striking
first. It would simply be getting us back toward more of a balance. We hold
right there. The next step would be up to them."
"God, I don't know..." Austin stared up at the situation displays again.
On one side of the room, an aide approached Foleda, who was standing with
Borden. "You have an urgent call from your office," he said in a low voice.
"Where do I take it?" Foleda asked.
"Follow me." The aide led Foleda into a side room, packed with consoles and
operators, off the central floor near the main door. Barbara's face was
waiting on one of the screens.
"What is it?" Foleda asked.
"A call's come in for you from the Moscow embassy. It--"
"At a time like this?" For an instant Foleda had trouble keeping his voice
down. "What do they want, for chris-sakes?"
"Apparently somebody who runs a Japanese restaurant there walked in off the
street and said he got a phone call from Siberia..." Barbara's voice faltered
at the look on Foleda's face.
"Are you serious? We've got a war about to--"
"The call was to 'Tycoon/Shot/Line/Rise/Glove' from Sexton."
Foleda blinked, frowned, and shook his head bemusedly. "Those codes check?"
"All of them. 'Glove' is Sexton's exceptional-status verifier"
"From Siberia? How the hell can he be calling from Siberia?"
"You'd better hear the text...."
Footsteps pounded in the corridor outside Lt. General Fedorov's office in the
administrative sector of Zamork. Moments later, a major strode in, followed by
several guards who between them were hustling the three prisoners
Mungabo, Borowski, and the unpronounceable Asiatic. "Block Supervisor Supeyev
and Foreman Luchenko are here also," the major reported.
Fedorov gave a curt nod. "Have them wait outside." He licked his lips
nervously and surveyed the three prisoners as they were lined up before his
desk. They stared back at him impassively. "This is urgent, and I have no time
for politeness," he said. "You understand? The Turk, Istamel, who was taken to
the infirmary." There was no response, "You know who I'm talking about?" he
demanded in a louder voice.
The major punched Mungabo in the stomach. "Yes, sir," Mungabo wheezed.
"Then say so when I ask you," Fedorov shouted at him. "The doctor says he has
no broken bones, no bruises, and shows no signs of having fallen. He does show
symptoms of having been drugged. What do you know about this?"
"Nothing... sir," Mungabo replied. The major drew back his fist. Mungabo
braced himself.
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