Aces Abroad

Tach made a face and refrained from a rejoinder commending the joker's firm grasp of the obvious. Des was a friend, after all.

He shifted his grip on the umbrella he shared with Desmond and tried to console himself that the squall would soon pass. The Berliners strolling the paths that veined the grassy Tiergarten park and hurrying along the sidewalks of the nearby Bundes Allee clearly thought so, and they should know. Old men in homburgs, young women with prams, intense young men in dark wool sweaters, a sausage vendor with cheeks like ripe peaches; the usual crowd of Germans taking advantage of anything resembling decent weather after the lengthy Prussian winter.

He glanced at Hiram. The big round restaurateur was resplendent in his pin-striped three-piece suit, hat at a jaunty angle, and black beard curled. He had an umbrella in one hand, a gleaming black satchel in the other, and Sara Morgenstern standing primly next to him, not quite making contact.

Rain was dripping off the brim of Tach's plumed hat, which swept beyond the coverage of the cheap plastic umbrella. A rivulet ran down one side of Des's trunk. Tach sighed.

How did I let myself get talked into this? he wondered for the fourth or fifth time. It was idle; when Hiram had called to say a West German industrialist who wished to remain nameless had offered to front them the ransom money, he'd known he was in.

Sara stood stiff. He sensed she was shivering, almost subliminally. Her face was the color of her raincoat. Her eyes were a paleness that somehow contrasted. He wished she hadn't insisted on coming along. But she was the leading journalist on this junket; they'd have had to lock her up to keep her from covering this meeting with Hartma

Hiram cleared his throat. "Here they come." His voice was pitched higher than usual.

Tachyon glanced right without turning his head. No mistake; there weren't enough jokers in West Germany that it was likely to have two just happen along at this moment, even if there could be any doubt about the identity of the small bearded man who walked with the Toulouse-Lautrec roll beside a being who looked like a beige anteater on its hind legs.

"Tom," Hiram said, voice husky now.

"Gimli," the dwarf replied. He said it without heat. His eyes glittered at the satchel hanging from Hiram's hand. "You brought it."

Of course… Gimli." He handed the umbrella to Sara and cracked the satchel. Gimli stood on tiptoe and peered in. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle. "Two million American dollars. Two more after you hand Senator Hartma

A snaggletoothed grin. "That's a bargaining figure." Hiram colored. "You agreed on the phone-"

"We agreed to consider your offer once you demonstrated your good faith," said one of the two nats who accompanied Gimli and his partner. He was a tall man made bulkier by his raincoat. Dark blond hair was slicked back and down from a balding promontory of forehead by the intermittent rain. " I am Comrade Wolf. Let me remind you, there is the matter of the freedom of our comrade, al-Muezzin."

"Just what is it that makes German socialists risk their lives and freedom on behalf of a fundamentalist Muslim terrorist?" Tachyon asked.

"We're all comrades in the struggle against Western imperialism. What brings a Takisian to risk his health in our beastly climate on behalf of a senator from a country that once whipped him from its shores like a rabid dog?"

Tach drew his head back in surprise. Then he smiled. "Touch amp;" He and Wolf shared a look of perfect understanding. "But we can only give you money," Hiram said. "We can't arrange for Mr. Hassani to be released. We told you that."

"Then it's no sale," said Wolfs nat companion, a redheaded woman Tach could have found attractive but for a sullen, puffy jut to her lower lip and a bluish cast to her complexion. "What use is your toilet-paper money to us? We merely demand it to make you pigs sweat."

"Now, wait a minute," Gimli said. "That money can buy a lot for jokers."

"Are you so obsessed with buying into consumption fascism?" sneered the redhead.

Gimli went purple. "The money's here. Hassani's in Rikers, and that's a long way away."

Wolf was frowning at Gimli in a speculative sort of way. Somewhere an engine backfired.

The woman spat like a cat and jumped back, face pale, eyes feral.

Motion tugged at the corner of Tach's eye.

The chubby sausage seller had flipped open the lid of his cart. His hand was coming out with a black Heckler amp; Koch mini-machine pistol in it.

Ever suspicious, Gimli traced his gaze. "It's a trap!" he shrieked. He whipped open his coat. He'd been holding one of those compact little Krinkov assault rifles beneath.

Tachyon kicked the foreshortened Kalashnikov from Gimli's hand with the toe of an elegant boot. The nat woman pulled out an AKM from inside her coat and stuttered a burst onehanded. The sound threatened to implode Tach's eardrums. Sara screamed. Tach threw himself onto her, bore her down to wet, fragrant grass as the female terrorist tracked her weapon from left to right, face a rictus of something like ecstasy.

There was motion all around. Old men in homburgs and young women with prams and intense young men in sweaters were whipping out machine pistols and rushing toward the party clumped around the two umbrellas.

"Wait," Hiram shouted, "hold on! It's all a misunderstanding."

The other terrorists had guns out now, firing in all directions. Bystanders screamed and scattered. The slicksoled shoes of a man waving a machine pistol with one hand lost traction on the grass and shot out from under him. A man with an MP5K and a business suit tripped over a baby carriage whose operator had frozen on the handle and fell on his face.

Sara lay beneath Tachyon, rigid as a statue. The clenched rump pressed against his crotch was firmer than he would have expected. This is the only way I'm ever going to get on top of her, he thought ruefully. It was almost physical pain to realize it was contact with him and not fear of the bullets crackling like static overhead that made her go stiff.

Gregg, you are a lucky man. Should you somehow survive this imbroglio.

Scrambling after his rifle, Gimli ran into a big, nat who snatched at him. He picked him up by one leg with that disproportionate strength of his and pitched him into the faces of a trio of his comrades like a Scot tossing the caber. Des was making love to the grass. Smart man, Tachyon thought. His head was full of burned powder and the green and brown aromas of wet turf. Hiram was wandering dazed through a horizontal firestorm, waving his arms and crying, "Wait, wait-oh, it wasn't supposed to happen like this."

The terrorists bolted. Gimli ducked between the legs of one nat who flailed his arms at him in a grab, came up and punched a second in the nuts and followed them.

Tach heard a squeal of pain. The snouted joker fell down with black ropy strands of blood unraveling from his belly. Gimli caught him up on the run and slung him over his shoulder like a rolled carpet.

A gaggle of Catholic schoolgirls scattered like blue quail, pigtails flying, as the fugitives stampeded through them.

Tachyon saw a man go to one knee, raise his machine pistol for a burst at the terrorists.

He reached out with his mind. The man toppled, asleep. A van coughed into life and roared from the curb with Gimli thrashing for the handles of the open doors with his stubby arms.

Hiram sat on the wet grass, weeping into his hands. The black satchel wept bundled money beside him.

"The political police," Neuma

"Herr Neuma