He shivered, feeling old beyond his years. He had been so wrong. So very wrong. And not just once but twice now. First with DeVore and then . . .
"Ach. . ." he muttered, then turned, angry with himself for his weakness, pressing the button to summon his aide. He would bathe and dress and go to see his old friend. For a father should know his son. Whatever kind of creature he was.
IT was JUST after three when Jelka woke. The apartment was in darkness, silent. For a while she lay there, trying to settle back into sleep, then abandoned the idea.
She slipped on a robe and went to her father's room, forgetting for a moment. His bed was empty, the room tidy. Of course . . . She moved on, pausing outside her aunt and uncle's room, hearing their soft snoring from within. In the kitchen she found a hand-written note resting against the coffee machine. The sheet was folded in half, her name written on the front in her father's neat, upright hand. She sat at the table and read it through, then smiled, thinking of him. She always felt such fear for him when he was out on business. More so since the latest attempt on his life.
She looked about her at the dark forms of the kitchen, feeling suddenly tense, restless. That sense of restlessness seemed almost her natural state these days. That and an underlying desire to break things. But she told no one of these feelings. She knew they had to do with Hans and the forthcoming marriage, but there was little she could do to salve them.
One thing she could do, however, was exercise. The gym was locked, but unknown to her father, she had memorized the combination. She punched it in, then went through, into darkness, the doors closing behind her automatically.
They had strengthened the walls since the attack on her and put in a special locking system, but otherwise the gym was much as it had been. She went across to the panel on the wall and switched on three of the spotlights over the wall bars, then shrugged off her robe and began to exercise, knowing that no one could hear her once the doors were closed.
There was a wall-length mirror at the far end of the gym. As she went through her routine, she caught glimpses of her naked figure as it moved between the three separate beams of light, her limbs flashing like spears of ice, her body twisting and turning intricately. And as she danced she felt the tension drain from her, deriving a definite pleasure from her body's precise and disciplined movements. Faster she went and faster, like a dervish, crying out in delight as her feet pounded the floor, flicking her over in a somersault, then into a tight, high leap.
And afterward she stood there, breathing deeply, trying not to laugh. If he could only see me now . . . She shook her head, then drew her hair back from her face.
She had begun a second routine when something caught her eye. She slowed, then stopped, facing the door, her whole body tensed.
The panel above the door was pulsing steadily. A feverish, silent pulse that meant one thing only. There were intruders in the apartment.
LEHMANN READ the note quickly, then crumpled it in his hand and threw it aside. Tolonen led a charmed life. Three times they had tried for him now and three times they had failed. Tonight, for instance, Ebert had assured him that he would be at home, but for some reason he had not come. Lehmann cursed softly, then turned, going into the room where they held the two captives.
They lay on the bed, facedown, their plump, naked bodies bound hand and foot. Beside them the two Han waited.
"Anything?" he asked, seeing the huge welts on the prisoners' backs, the burns on their arms where they had been tortured.
"Nothing," one of the Han answered him. "Nothing at all."
Lehmann stood there a moment, wondering if he should try something more persuasive, then shrugged and gave the order, turning away, letting them get on with it.
Outside, in the corridor, he paused and looked about, sniffing the air. Something nagged at him. They had searched the apartment thoroughly and there was no sign of the girl, so maybe she had gone. But then why the note?
He turned and looked down the corridor at the door to the gym. In there? he wondered. It was unlikely, but then so was the possibility that the girl had gone. Her bed had been slept in, even if the covers were cold.
He stood at the control panel, studying it. It was a new doorlock, specially strengthened. Without the code there was no way of opening it. He was about to turn away when he realized that he didn't have to get inside to find out if she was there. There was a security viewscreen. Which meant that there were cameras inside.
It took only a moment to work out how to operate the screen, then he was staring into darkness, the cameras looking for forms among the shadows. He scanned the whole room once, then went back carefully, double-checking. Nothing. There was no one in the room.
He switched off the screen, satisfied now that she had gone. It was a shame. She would have made the perfect hostage. But as it was, the death of Tolonen's brother and sister-in-law would hurt the old man badly.
He went back to where his men were waiting. They had finished now and were ready to go. He looked down at the corpses dispassionately, feeling nothing for them. Directly or indirectly they served a system that was rotten. This, then, was their fate. What they deserved. He leaned forward and spat in the face of the dead man, then looked up, meeting the eyes of the Han.
"All right. We've finished here. Let's go."
They nodded, then filed out past him, their weapons sheathed, their eyes averted. Lehmann looked about him, then drew his knife and followed them out into the corridor.
JELKA waited in the darkness, fearing the worst, her cheeks wet, her stomach tight with anxiety. This was the nightmare come again. And this time it was much worse than before, for this time she could do nothing. Nothing but crouch there by the locked door, waiting.
In the past hour she learned how dreadful a thing inaction was—far worse than the terror of hiding. When she had been balanced on the perch above the camera it had been somehow easier—much easier—than the awiul limbo of not-knowing that came afterward. Then she could think to herself, "In a few moments this will be over, the cameras will stop moving and I can drop to the floor again." But the waiting was different. Horribly different. The very quality of time changed subtly, becoming the implement by which she tortured herself, filling the darkness with her vile imaginings.
In the end her patience broke and she went out, afraid that they would still be there, waiting silently for her, but unable to stay in the gym a moment longer.
Outside it was dark, silent. A strange smell hung in the air. She went slowly down the corridor, feeling her way, crouching warily, prepared to strike out with hand or foot, but there was nothing. Only her fear.
At the first door she stopped, sniffing the air. The smell was stronger here, more sickly than in the corridor. She gritted her teeth and went inside, placing her feet carefully, staring into the darkness, trying to make out forms.
There were vague shapes on the floor close to her. She leaned toward them, then jerked her head back, giving a small cry, unable to stop herself. Even in the darkness she could tell. Could see the wire looped tightly about their throats.
She backed away, horrified, gasping for breath, her whole body shaking violently, uncontrollably. They were dead.
She turned and began to run, but her legs betrayed her. She stumbled, and her outstretched hands met not the hard smoothness of the floor but the awful, yielding softness of dead flesh. She shrieked and scrambled up, then fell again, her horror mounting as she found herself tangled among the bodies that littered the floor.
She closed her eyes and reached out, taking the wall as her guide, small sounds of brute disgust forming at the back of her throat as she forced herself to tread over them.