Since Polyakov had made prior "research" trips to Hamburg's red-light district, he knew which brothels were likely to cater to an unusual client such as Tachyon. He found the alien in the third establishment he tried. It was near dawn; the Takisian was drunk, passed out, and out of money. Tachyon should have been gratefuclass="underline" the Germans as a race had little liking for drunken indigents; masters of Hamburg whorehouses had even less. Tachyon would have been lucky to have been dumped in the canal… alive.
Polyakov had him taken to a safe house in East Berlin, where, after a prolonged argument among the rezidenti, he was supplied with controlled amounts of alcohol and women while he slowly regained his health… and while Polyakov and at least a dozen others questioned him. Even Shelepin himself took time out from his plotting back in Moscow to visit.
Within three weeks it was clear that Tachyon had nothing left to give. More likely, Polyakov suspected, the Takisian had -regained sufficient strength to withstand any further interrogation. Nevertheless, he had supplied them with so much data on the American aces, on Takisian history and science, and on the wild card virus itself, that Polyakov halfexpected his superiors to give the alien a medal and a pension.
They did almost as much. Like the German rocket engineers captured after the war, Tachyon's ultimate fate was to be quietly repatriated
… in this case to West Berlin. They transferred Polyakov to the illegals residence there at the same time, hoping for residual contacts, and allowing both men a simultaneous introduction to the city. Because of East Berlin, they would never be friends. Because of their time in the western sector, they could never be total enemies.
"In forty years on this world I've learned to alter my expectations every day," Tachyon told him. " I honestly thought you were dead."
"Soon enough I will be," Polyakov said. "But you look better now that you did in Berlin. The years truly pass slowly for your kind."
"Too slowly at times." They rode in silence for a while, each pretending to enjoy the scenery while each ordered his memories of the other.
"Why are you here?" Tachyon asked. "To collect on a debt."
Tachyon nodded slightly, a gesture that showed how thoroughly assimilated he had become. "That's what I thought."
"You knew it would happen one day."
"Of course! Please don't misunderstand! My people honor their commitments. You saved my life. You have a right to anything I can give you." Then he smiled tightly. "This one time."
"How close are you to Senator Gregg Hartmann?"
"He's a senior member of this tour, so I've had some contact with him. Obviously not much lately, following that terrible business in Berlin."
"What do you think of him… as a man?"
"I don't know him well enough to judge. He's a politician, and as a rule I despise politicians. In that sense he strikes me as the best of a bad lot. He seems to be genuine in his support for jokers, for example. This is probably not an issue in your country, but it's a very emotional one in America, comparable to abortion rights." He paused. "I doubt very much he would be susceptible to any kind of… arrangement, if that's what you're asking."
"I see you've taken up reading spy novels," Polyakov said. "I'm more interested in… let's call it a political analysis. Is it possible that he will become president of the United States?"
"Very possible. Reagan has been crippled by his current crisis and is not, in my judgment, a well man. He has no obvious successor, and the American economy is likely to worsen before the election."
The first piece of the puzzle: There is one American politician who has left in his wake a series of mysterious deaths worthy of Beria or Stalin… The second:, The same politician is kidnapped-twice. And escapes under mysterious circumstances-twice.
"The Democrats have several candidates, none without major weaknesses. Hart is sure to eliminate himself. Biden, Dukakis, any of the others could disappear tomorrow. If Hartmann can put together a strong organization, and if the right opening occurs, he could win."
A recent Moscow Center briefing had predicted that Dole would be the next U.S. president. Strategists at the American Institute were already creating an expert psychological model of the senator from Kansas. But these were the same analysts who predicted Ford over Carter and Carter over Reagan. On the principle that events never turn out the way experts say, Polyakov was inclined to believe Tachyon.
Even the theoretical possibility of a Hartmann presidency was important… if he was an ace! He needed to be watched, stopped if necessary, but Moscow Center would never authorize such a move, especially if it contradicted its expensive little studies.
The driver, by prearrangement, headed back toward Grosvenor House. The rest of the trip was spent in reminiscence of the two Berlins, even of Hamburg. "You aren't satisfied, are you?" Tachyon said finally. "You want more from me than a superficial political analysis, surely."
"You know the answer to that."
"I have no secret documents to give you. I'm hardly inconspicuous enough to work as a spy."
"You have your powers, Tachyon-"
"And my limitations! You know what I will and will not do."
"I'm not your enemy, Tachyon! I'm the only one who even remembers your debt, and in August I'll be retired. At this point I'm just an old man trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle."
"Then tell me about your puzzle-"
"You know better than that."
"Then how can I possibly help you?" Polyakov didn't answer. "You're afraid that by even asking me a direct question, I'll learn too much. Russians!"
For a moment Polyakov wished for a wild card power that would let him read minds. Tachyon had many human characteristics, but he was Takisian… all of Polyakov's years of training did not help him decide whether or not he was lying. Must he depend on Takisian honor?
The cab pulled up to the curb and the driver opened the door. But Tachyon didn't get out. "What's going to happen to you?"
What, indeed? Polyakov thought. "I'm going to become an honored pensioner, like Khrushchev, able to go to the front of a queue, spending my days reading and reliving my exploits over a bottle of vodka for men who will not believe them."
Tachyon hesitated. "For years I hated you… not for exploiting my weakness, but for saving my life. I was in Hamburg because I wanted to die. But now, finally, I have something to live for… it's only been very recent. So I am grateful, you know"
Then he got out of the cab and slammed the door. "I'll see you again," he said, hoping for a denial.
"Yes," Polyakov said, "you will." The driver pulled away. In the rearview mirror Polyakov saw that the Takisian watched them drive off before going into his hotel.
No doubt he wondered where and when Polyakov would turn up again. Polyakov wondered too. He was all alone now… mocked by his colleagues, discarded by the Party, loyal to some ideal that he only barely remembered. Like poor Molniya in a way, sent out on some misguided mission and then abandoned.
The fate of a Soviet ace is to be betrayed.
He was scheduled to remain in London for several weeks yet, but if he could no longer extract useful information from a relatively cooperative source such as the Dancer, there was no point in staying. That night he packed for the return to Moscow and his retirement. After a dinner in which he was joined only by a bottle of Stolichnaya, Polyakov left the hotel and took a walk, down Sloane, past the fashionable boutiques. What did they call the young women who shopped here? Yes, Sloane Rangers. The Rangers, to judge from the stray samples still hurrying home at this hour, or from the bizarre mannequins in the windows, were thin, wraithlike creatures. Too fragile for Polyakov.