Aces Abroad

"Then why are you packed?" Yurchenko interrupted, sounding genuinely anguished.

"You've been watching me?" He looked from Yurchenko to Dolgov. My God, they actually thought he was going to defect!

Polyakov turned slightly, his hand brushing Yurchenko, who recoiled as if slapped. But Polyakov didn't let go. The cab sideswiped a parked car and skidded back into traffic just as Polyakov saw Yurchenko's eyes roll up… the heat had already boiled his brain.

Dolgov threw himself into the front seat, grabbing for the wheel, and managed to steer right into another parked car, where they stopped. Polyakov had braced for the impact, which threw Yurchenko's smoking body off him… freeing him to reach out for Dolgov, who made the mistake of grabbing back.

For an instant Dolgov's face was the face of the Great Leader… the Benevolent Father of the Soviet People… himself turned into a murderous joker. Polyakov was just a young courier who carried messages between the Kremlin and Stalin's dacha-sufficiently trusted that he was allowed to know the secret of Great Stalin's curse-not an assassin. He had never intended to be an assassin. But Stalin had already ordered the execution of all wild cards…

If it was his destiny to carry this power, it must also be his destiny to use it. As he had eliminated Stalin, so he eliminated Dolgov. He didn't allow the man to say a word, not even the final gesture of defiance, as he burned the life out of him.

The impact had jammed the two front doors, so Polyakov would have to crawl out the back. Before he did, he removed the silencer and the heavy service revolver Dolgov carried… the weapon he was to have pressed to the back of Polyakov's neck. Polyakov fired a round into the air, then put the revolver back where Dolgov carried it. Scotland Yard and the GRU could think what they liked… another unsolved murder with the murderers themselves the victims of an unlucky accident.

The fire from the two bodies reached the tiny trickle of gasoline spilled in the crash… The crematorium would not get Dolgov.

The explosion and flames would attract attention. Polyakov knew he should go… yet there was something attractive in the flames. As if an aged, dutiful KGB colonel were dying, too, to be reborn as a superhero, the one true Soviet ace… This would be a legend of his own creation.

IV.

There were many signs in Russian at the British Airways terminal at Robert Tomlin International Airport, placed there by members of Jewish Relief, headquartered in nearby Brighton Beach. For Jews who managed to emigrate from the Eastern bloc, even those who dreamed of eventually settling in Palestine, this was their Ellis Island.

Among those debarking this day in May was a stocky man in his early sixties, dressed like a typical middle-class emigre, in brown shirt buttoned to the neck and well-worn gray jacket. A woman from Relief stepped forward to help him. "Strasvitye s Soyuzom Statom," she said in Russian, "Welcome to the United States."

"Thank you," the man replied in English.

The woman was pleased. "If you already speak the language, you will find things very easy here. May I help you?"

"No, I know what I'm doing."

Out there, in the city, waited Dr. Tachyon, living in fear of their next encounter, wondering what it would mean to his very special grandson. To the south, Washington, and Senator Hartma

As he waited for customs to clear his meager luggage, Polyakov could see through the windows that it was a beautiful American summer day.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND

April 27/ SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC:

The interior lights were turned out several hours ago, and most of my fellow travelers are long asleep, but the pain has kept me awake. I've taken some pills, and they are helping, but still I ca

We still have one more stop-a brief sojourn in Canada, whirlwind visits to Montreal and Toronto, a government reception in Ottawa. And then home. Tomlin International,

Manhattan, Jokertown. It will be good to see the Funhouse again.

I wish I could say that the tour had accomplished everything we set out to do, but that's scarcely the case. We began well, perhaps, but the violence in Syria, West Germany, and France undid our unspoken dream of making the public forget the carnage of Wild Card Day. I can only hope that the majority will realize that terrorism is a bleak and ugly part of the world we live in, that it would exist with or without the wild card. The bloodbath in Berlin was instigated by a group that included jokers, aces, and nats, and we would do well to remember that and remind the world of it forcefully. To lay that carnage at the door of Gimli and his pathetic followers, or the two fugitive aces still being sought by the German police, is to play into the hands of men like Leo Barnett and the Nur al- Allah. Even if the Takisians had never brought their curse to us, the world would have no shortage of desperate, insane, and evil men.

For me, there is a grim irony in the fact that it was Gregg's courage and compassion that put his life at risk, and hatred that saved him, by turning his captors against each other in that fratricidal holocaust.

Truly, this is a strange world.

I pray that we have seen the last of Gimli, but meanwhile I can rejoice. After Syria it seems unlikely that anyone could still doubt Gregg Hartma

I said as much to Digger back in Dublin, over a Gui

If my health permits, I will do everything I can to rally Jokertown behind a Hartma

Terrorism and bloodshed notwithstanding, I do believe we accomplished some good on this journey. Our report will open some official eyes, I can only hope, and the press spotlight that has shone on us everywhere has greatly increased public awareness of the plight of jokers in the Third World.

On a more personal level, Jack Braun did much to redeem himself and even buried his thirty-year emnity with Tachyon; Peri seems positively radiant in her pregnancy; and we did manage, however belatedly, to free poor Jeremiah Strauss from twenty years of simian bondage. I remember Strauss from the old days, when Angela owned the Funhouse and I was only the maitre d', and I offered him a booking if and when he resumes his theatrical career as the Projectionist. He was appreciative, but noncommittal. I don't envy him his period of adjustment. For all practical purposes, he is a time traveler.