The admiral looked from one to the other as Charles cut the bonds. "I am not attempting to defect," he said desperately. "I am a loyal officer!"
"General Garson is here," Mullins said. " 'All the way from Nouveau Paris!' I'm sure he'll be happy to listen to your protests."
"If..." the admiral paused and gulped. "If you're Manty Intelligence, shouldn't you be trying to kidnap me? I could be carrying important information."
"Nope," Mullins explained. "You're not worth our lives if you're not willing to talk; Manticore doesn't use harsh information extraction methods. And, besides, we have another mission here. We only picked you up because it looked like an op had gone bad. If you're really a 'loyal officer of the People's Republic' we'll turn you loose, finish our mission and depart."
"We'd prefer to kill you," Charles said, putting away the knife and taking the admiral by the arm. "But it's against our basic rules of engagement. Pity. So, let's go meet that private, shall we?"
"Wait," the admiral said, holding up a hand. "Just... wait. Okay. Yes, I was attempting to defect."
"Good, now that we have your confession..." Charles said in a harsh Nouveau Paris accent.
"Oh, shut up, Charlie," Mullins said with a laugh at the frozen expression on the admiral's face. "He's joking. Not a good one. Major John Mullins, Admiral and this is idiot is Major Charles Gonzalvez. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
"A pleasure to meet you," the admiral said with a sigh. "What went wrong?"
"I have no idea; we really aren't part of your pickup team. What happened?"
The admiral shrugged and looked out the window where dawn was just beginning to break. "I was supposed to go to a dry cleaners and drop off a pair of uniform pants. The code was that I wanted triple pressing, no starch."
"I know the laundry," Mullins said. "Lee's Cleaners on Fur De Lis Avenue?"
"That one," the admiral nodded. "I was half way down the block on my way to it when I was knocked off my feet by an explosion. When I got back up... boom... no more Chinese laundry."
"Somehow I doubt it was a gas leak," Charles said dryly.
"My doubt as well. I started to walk away and then saw State Security officers coming from every direction. I... I admit I panicked. I dropped the pants and ran."
"Best thing you could have done," Johnny said. "StateSec would have hung you on suspicion."
"I had been running and hiding for nearly two hours when I ran into you two. And that's all I remember. Now, how are you going to get me out of here?"
"What?" Mullins said. "Why should we do that?"
"But... but ONI set up my defection! You have to get me out!"
"Not really, old boy," Charles replied. "It's not our mission. Just because someone else blew it, doesn't mean we have to fix their abortion. I think you're on your own."
"You can't do this!" Mládek said. "Admiral Givens herself is involved in the planning for this!"
"Sure she is," Mullins said disparagingly. "She gets involved in every two-bit admiral that jumps ship."
"I'm not just a 'two-bit' admiral," Mládek snarled. "I was in charge of Fleet communications operation and design. Although StateSec is fine at finding thugs to beat people in the head, they don't have a clue when it comes to Fleet communications and they had to use my personnel to design and maintain their systems. I saw all their traffic. And I know things... let's just say that I know a few things that Admiral Givens really wants details on. I'm serious. If you leave me here you might as well defect yourself or Givens will gut you alive."
Mullins looked over at Gonzalvez who nodded slightly.
"Well... crap," Mullins said. "Getting us out was going to be interesting enough. Getting you out, too, will be ugly."
"You have means," the admiral said with a wave. "Make contact with your chain; activate an emergency escape plan. Whatever it is you do when a mission goes bad."
"Well, as to that," Mullins replied with a chagrined look.
The admiral listened intently, occasionally shaking his head.
"You've been drinking," he said when Mullins finished. "But even though it smells like a distillery in here, I can't believe you've been drinking enough to make up that story. And I doubt you're joking..."
"He's not," Gonzalvez said. "But before you decide to launch into a lecture, consider the fact that if we had not chosen to take our holiday on your sunny little planet, you would now be at the tender mercy of StateSec."
"That's a good point," the admiral said, subsiding. "But it still doesn't help us get off the planet."
"The laundry's gone," Mullins said. "There's a butcher shop and Aunt Meda's in addition. You know any others, Charlie?"
"Aunt Sadie's?" Gonzalvez said. "There's a flower shop on Holeckova, but this is the first I've heard of Aunt Meda's."
"Aunt Meda's House of Pain," Mullins replied. "It's a whorehouse with a sadomasochistic workout center called 'The House of Pain' as cover. And I know two safehouses. But if much of the network has been burned, who knows if any of them are clear?"
"How come you get the topless dancers and Aunt Meda's and I always get the flower shops and laundries?" Charles asked.
"God loves me and He hates you," Mullins replied. He jerked his head toward the admiral. "We need to get him out so we need to make contact. There's also Tommy Two-Time, but if I've got my druthers I won't bother with a double agent."
"You go," Gonzalvez said. "The Admiral and I will stay here and play gin rummy or something."
"I'll need a contact term for the flower shop," Mullins said. "Just my luck it'll be 'I need some pansies for the prom.' "
"Flowers or friends, Johnny?"
CHAPTER 4
SOMETIMES YOU GET THE BEAR
John walked past The House of Pain on the far side of the street, his head down, feet moving in the approved prole shuffle.
Aunt Meda's had been the last contact on his list and it was open. Contact, however, was problematic. The gym was on a generally unfrequented side street but today, for some unknown reason, there were several people wandering around.
In this corner, wearing an old shabby overcoat and fingerless gloves, nursing a bottle of cheap red wine, was a common street person. Such could be found in the more out-of-the way areas of Prague City but Aunt Meda's was on the better side of the tracks and street people should have been swept up by security. Ergo, it probably wasn't a street person at all.
Coming in the opposite direction from John was another prole. This one was a female and fairly good-looking. In fact, too good-looking. She didn't have the sallow skin from low-quality food that proles generally sported and her prole walk wasn't quite right. There was just a bit too much of the bounce to it.
Ergo, not a prole. Maybe a hooker or dancer dressing up as a prole, but unlikely.
Confirmation that the prole wasn't came when the woman, probably a StateSec officer, brushed against him and subjected him to a fairly professional patting down.
He apparently passed since she continued on her way but as he turned the corner to head back to the safehouse his heart sank; there was a group of local police waiting around the corner, their air car grounded on the sidewalk.
"You!" One of the patrolmen, faceless in heavy body armor and helmet, waved him over as two more took up positions on either side.
"Name," the officer said. It wasn't a question, it was a demand.
"Gunther Orafson," Mullins replied in badly accented French. He proffered his ID tag then spread his legs, placed his right hand behind his head and held the left out, palm up; it was a position that proles learned early.