I moved over to Darius. "What is your problem?"
He spat in the gravel near my feet. I let it go by. "When I was recruited by your government, I was told I could become an ace. It's why I agreed. I want it." He flicked his eyes toward Damsel. "I want her."
"I don't know anything about that. I wasn't party to any such agreement. If you have a grievance, take it up with the person you cut the deal with. Meanwhile, keep your hands off my people."
He laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "She'd have come around quickly enough, if I had met her when I was with Sazman-e Amniyat Va Ettelaat-e Keshvar," he said. "She would have had no choice, you know? But I think she would have come to like it." He shrugged. "Or not. She's just a woman. Who cares what she enjoys?"
Since shooting him through the head would reflect poorly both on my wit and my command abilities, not to mention giving our position away, I moved away. I made sure not to hurry.
Ackroyd caught my eye, flipped his head off to one side, obviously signaling for a private chat. I nodded and walked to meet him beside the elevator housing.
"Just what the hell is going on here?" he demanded in a fierce whisper.
"Isn't it a little late in the day to be asking that question? There are fifty Americans held hostage in the Embassy, we're here on a commando raid to rescue them -"
"Get serious," he hissed. I forbore from pointing out the irony to him. "Don't you think there's something a little funny here?"
"Eight of us versus four and a half million heavily armed fanatics? My sides are splitting as we speak."
He made an irritated wave of his hands. "No, look. I mean, look at us. What do you see? A handful of deuces. Second-string aces."
"There are some pretty potent powers here," I said.
"Give me a fucking break. Where's Howler? Where's Golden Boy? Where's Cyclone, for Christ's sake? You'd think he'd eat this up with a spoon, he's such a headline hound."
- I should set the record straight here for the first time. I've heard a lot about how Cyclone was involved in the Embassy raid. Matter of fact, I read it in the Xavier Desmond book about the WHO world tour - the UN, not the rock band - that came out after his death.
The late Vernon Henry Carlysle took no part in the mission, at any level. I was surprised to discover he was not involved. This was just the kind of high-profile stunt that usually drew him like a fly to honey.
It may have been a command decision by old Vernon, as in, "if I'm not in command, my decision is no." Or maybe he was just smarter than I am. Or maybe the people who set the thing up had reason not to want to use him. But he wasn't in it. -
"Maybe they were busy," I said in as neutral a voice as I could manage. If a commander has his doubts, he's an irresponsible fool to share them with those under his command.
"That's crap," Ackroyd said. "I know 'military intelligence' is a contradiction in terms, but not even you buy that. We've been set up like bowling pins."
"No." My head seemed to be shaking of its own volition. "The mission has some problems. It may turn into a total SNAFU. But that's the nature of events, not conspiracy." I showed him teeth underneath my moustache. "What you said about oxymorons isn't exactly untrue."
I saw no conviction in his eyes. "We're talking about our country, here," I reminded him. "Our own people. Americans. They're not going to set us up for a fall."
"What about Watergate?" Ackroyd demanded, volume rising. "What about the McCarthy hearings?"
But then Billy Ray was waving to me and holding up the radio's handset. It might be that I wasn't ungrateful for the interruption.
"Got 'em," Ray said. If he resented the means I'd used to break up the fight, he didn't show it. I can say this for the kid, he did not seem the grudge-holding type. If you made him mad, he either busted your head right off, or he put it behind him.
I nodded thanks, walked over to take the mike. "Angel Station, this is Stud Six, over." Stud - as in seven-card - was our unit codename. Six is military-speak for the man in charge.
"Jack of Hearts, we have a problem, over."
"Knave of Hearts," I corrected. "What's your problem, over?"
"Angel Two is down. Repeat, Angel Two down."
That meant one of the Sikorskies at Angel Station - the chopper hide-site, a few miles north of the vacation spot where we'd spent the day - was sick and not expected to get better. It was no big deal. That's why we brought three; in a pinch, we and the hostages could all cram into one and take off again. Conceivably.
I rang off. Joann Jefferson was looking at me again. I went and sat down beside her.
She was flushed and breathing rapidly. She had not shown nerves before; I hoped she wasn't getting near any major fracture points.
"Knave of Hearts," she said. "I still can't get over that. Not ace or king."
"Using aces for codenames would be giving a little too much away. Besides - I know what I am."
She laughed. She had a good laugh - hearty, though she had presence of mind to keep it way down. "And I'm the Queen of Spades."
I shrugged. "You picked it."
"I know what I am, too." She nodded to Damsel, who was talking in a low voice to Chung. "So why aren't you chasing after little girl lost, there? I'm pretty sure you're the type who likes girls."
"K'ung-fu Tzu tells us that gentlemen never compete. She has ample suitors anyway, I think."
She gave me an arched eyebrow. I grinned. I do that too, when I am, shall we say, extremely skeptical.
"You don't like blondes?"
"I have very catholic tastes, which isn't altogether surprising in a High Church boy like myself. But I'm also a professional. I have this iron-bound rule about sex with subordinates: I don't do it. Not, I hasten to add, that I'm often tempted by those under my command. I like girls, and prefer women, but that's the extent of it."
I tugged the end of my moustache. "Maybe my tastes aren't quite so catholic after all. Still, I find Woman infinitely variable, and infinitely diverting."
She laughed again - giggled, more. "You are more full of bullshit than any white person I ever met," she said. "I like you. You're funny. And you treat me like a person. You don't expect me to make the coffee, and you don't go - bending over backwards or anything."
"Ms. Jefferson, I am a male chauvinist pig in good standing. I don't let that interfere with my job, either. What you are to me now is precisely what the others are: an operator, to use the jargon of this milieu. One, I'll add, who's given me considerably less trouble than certain others."
She bit her lip. "After this is over - I mean, if we survive -" She looked away then. "Never mind. I'm sorry I opened my mouth. I don't have much experience at this."
"Practice never hurt anybody." I undid the Velcro cover and checked my watch. "We still have a few minutes before H-Hour."
She shook her head. "It's stupid anyway," she said, and it was her turn to be little girl lost. "I can't touch anybody, you understand? If I do, I kill them. I can't help it. I can have friends, if anybody wants to be friends with a black freak like me. I can't -"
I reached a fingertip and touched her briefly on the cheek. She jumped. My whole finger went numb.
"When you have the luxury to think about anything but the mission," I said, "consider the ramifications of my special gift. One can do wonders with prosthetics."
She frowned, slightly, which made her look almost intolerably cute. I decided I wasn't missing anything in passing Damsel by. "Right now, it's time to go back to playing soldier. Listen up, everybody."
They clustered round, Darius hanging slightly back. "It's almost time to move, people. So bring it on home: tell me what you're going to do."
Ackroyd pointed a finger. "The guy in the watchtower goes bye-bye the second we hit the street."