“To you, Shelly,” he said when the waiter had gone and they raised their glasses. “For what you have done to help me.”
“It’s little enough, Brian. I would rather drink to you — and freedom.”
His smile reflected hers as they touched glasses, drank.
“I could really get used to this kind of thing,” he said. “How did the call go?”
“It didn’t. Even the operator couldn’t get through. Said to try later.”
“I can’t understand that — telephone calls go through every time.”
She laughed. “Apparently not in Ireland.”
“Are you sure you have the right number?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Better check directory inquiries before you call again.”
“Good idea. Let’s finish these and I’ll do it right now, from the phone booth in the lobby.”
The booth was occupied and after a moment Shelly shook her head.
“No point in waiting, we’ll go to my room.”
It was easier to climb the stairs than wait for the ancient elevator. Shelly unlocked the door, opened it and turned on the lights.
“Bigger than mine,” Brian said, “more like a suite.”
“Maybe the manager is partial to women. Do you want a drop of duty-free while I put the call through?”
“Yes, please — some of that buffalo vodka you bought on the Aeroflot flight to kill the pain.”
She punched up international inquiries and spoke her cousin’s name and address, but had to repeat the name twice slowly before the voice recognition program was satisfied. She wrote the number down, then laughed.
“You were right about phone calls always going through — I apologize to Ireland. I got one digit wrong when I copied it down.”
“I’ll drink to that. To technology.”
He emptied his glass, filled it again, sipped in a warm haze as she made the call. He was probably getting drunk — but the hell with it. This was for pleasure, not escape, a very big difference. The call went through and he half listened to Shelly’s voice. She sounded relieved so the news was good. There was some more chat about the family, then she hung up.
“Sounded okay from where I sit.”
“It was. No problems at all and the prognosis is fine. So good in fact they are scheduling the operation.”
“Good news indeed.” He struggled to his feet with an effort. “I better be going. It’s been a great evening.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “Good night, Brian.”
It was natural to kiss him on the cheek, a simple kiss of parting.
Then it wasn’t that simple. She found him returning her kiss with a sudden warmth that she responded to. Neither of them had expected this — neither could say no.
It was closeness, an easy pleasure, a natural joining. It was emotion, sensation for Brian, something to be done without thinking, without logic. A flicker of memory, Kim, stirred at the edge of his attention but he rejected the thought. Not Kim, not that. This was different, better, very different.
But Kim would not be put aside. Not Kim herself but the memory of his feelings. His anger — anger at himself for that one loss of control.
Then it all drained away. Brian became aware that something was very wrong. In the darkness, Shelly’s naked body was against his; but it was not right. He felt drained, distant, soft where he should be hard, aware of an immense distaste at everything that was happening. He rolled on his. side facing away from her, pulled further away when she stroked his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” Shelly said. “These things happen. Life hasn’t been that easy for you.”
“Nothing happened — I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Brian, honey, after what you have gone through, you can’t expect everything physical to work—”
“Physical? I don’t expect anything to work. I have been shot, operated on, recovered, attacked, locked away. How am I supposed to feel? Not very human if you want to know. Not very interested in this, what you are trying to do—”
“We, Brian, not just me. This is something that takes two to play.”
“Then find a game you can play by yourself.”
He heard her gasp of shock in the darkness, could almost see her tears. Nor did he care.
“I thought that I made it quite clear when I said that I didn’t want to talk about it.”
Shelly began to speak again, changed her mind. Instead she went in silence into the bathroom and closed the door. Brian groped about until he found the light, turned it on. Dressed and left. Back in his own room he went unseeing into the bath, threw water on his face and rubbed it dry with the towel, would not look at himself in the mirror.
The bedroom was still dark; he hadn’t turned the light on when he had come in. He did it now and saw that the curtain had been pulled open and that Sven was standing beside the window. He started to speak but the MI raised a suddenly formed hand in a very human gesture to stop. Brian shut the door and saw that Sven was now pointing to a sheet of paper on the bed. It was a note printed with precisely formed letters:
I have determined that there is a device inside the telephone in this room that is acting as a tap. In addition to this there is radiation directed against the window of the proper wavelength that is used to listen to conversations by monitoring the vibrations of the glass. We are under surveillance.
Who could it possibly be? The Irish security service? Possibly — and he certainly hoped so. What had happened with Shelly was forgotten for the moment. Investigation by the locals would be a lot better than thinking the unthinkable. The legions of General Schorcht could not have found him here, not this quickly. He fervently hoped. But what could they do to him? He went to the window and stared out into the darkness. Nothing. As he closed the curtain a motion caught his attention and he saw that Sven was signaling to him. The MI had printed out another note. He went over to look at it. The message contained just one word:
Communication.
As he read it Sven held up the end of a fiber-optic cable. Of course — a connection between both their brains would be completely secure and untappable.
But they had never communicated before in this manner, had always been assisted by Dr. Snaresbrook and her connection machine. But Sven was just as skillful, could find the metal stud under his skin, could insert the cable.
Not for an instant did Brian consider that there was any danger or difficulty in the process. He simply nodded agreement and pulled the chair over so it was out of sight of the window, sat in it with his back to the MI. Felt the familiar tracery of spider fingers on his skin.
Felt completely secure in the embrace of his own creation.
They spoke in silent communication, brain to brain.
That’s surprising. This is no faster than if we were speaking aloud.
Of course, Brian. Unlike thought, which is networked, speech is linear and must be transmitted one unit at a time.
Who are they? Do you have any idea?
They have not revealed themselves in any way, nor have I heard communication in any form from those who are organizing the surveillance. Despite this I am very sure that I know who they are.
Irish police?
Unlikely.
You are not suggesting, are you, that they’re General Schorcht’s troops?
That is the possibility that I would like you to strongly consider.
Why? I mean on what evidence do you base the supposition?