George Martin - Ace In The Hole

"How are things down in your neck of the woods?"

"Confusing. I don't even know the current delegate count." He checked his watch. "Look, I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

Snatching up a hat, Tachyon paused at the bathroom door, and yelled over the thunder of running water. "I'm off to breakfast with Jack. Meet me at ten-thirty, and we'll go over to the Omni. And be there."

There was no answer. Blaise was either plotting or sulking. Neither was an encouraging prospect.

"Ms. Morgenstern." Braden Dulles was younger than she was, but he had this State Voice he put on, an authoritative Ben Bradlee rumble like driving over a gravel road on a New England winter day, complete with frost crackling and the occasional squeak. "You have put this newspaper in a very difficult position."

She shifted in her bed, pulled a wad of pillow closer to her breasts. She had on a heavy blue-flannel nightgown. It was how she always did hotels: in winter leave the heat down, in summer crank up the air-conditioning and bundle up. She liked the insulation a lot of bedding gave her.

She worked her eyelids ponderously up and down. She was normally a morning person. But last night after Tachyon had brushed her off-the bastard!-she'd been completely out of resources, had no idea what to do but take her chances returning to her room, where she slept the sleep of the clinically depressed. She turned an eye toward the clock radio on the nightstand. 8:00 A. m. If Dulles's call hadn't roused her she might have gone on until afternoon.

When she didn't respond, Braden went on, "It has been of concern to us here that you have of late been conducting what appears to be a personal vendetta against a major candidate for the presidential nomination."

Bitterness popped like a blister. "Your fair-haired boy, you mean."

"The Post has a tradition of awareness of its responsibilities as the newspaper of record in the nation's capital. Senator Hartmann is obviously the best qualified candidate at this point in time."

"You think this point in time's a good one to put a psychopathic ace in the White House? Christ, all Ronnie Reagan's done is invade some new country where we didn't belong every two years. This man-this creature-feeds on human misery, Braden."

Anguished silence. She could just see the expression on- his Young Patrician face, the constriction around the nostrils, the deepening of the network of grooves beyond his age that surrounded his mouth and radiated from the corners of his eyes, which he cultivated because they lent him gravitas. As if he'd just detected an aroma of dog turd within the sterile hallowed sanctum of the Post.

"We feel your… obsession… does credit neither to you as a journalist nor to us as a paper. Your latest report, if I may call it that, was simply incredible. Even were we inclined to accept such a farrago of wild accusation and innuendo, our legal department would never let us print it."

"And this attempt by Leo Barnett to smear Senator Hartmann-really, Sara, how could you have lent your name to such a, well, frankly sleazy undertaking?"

"Barnett's people didn't ask me, Braden. I didn't know anything about it, I swear to God." She clung to the receiver as if it was the only thing holding her up. It was cool talisman hardness on her cheek.

"You told me the allegations were true. Yet within hours Senator Hartmann had issued a denial, which we feel to have been quite convincing."

Because you wanted it to be. She tried to envision the Post accepting such an offhand denial of dubious dealing from a politician they didn't shine their golden light upon. A Nixon, a Robertson, even a Bush; they'd hunt him to the end of the earth.

But she could not speak. She had a good reporter's patter when she needed to draw people out. Somehow, though, the spoken word always managed to betray her when she tried to express something that really mattered to her.

"Finally, Ms. Morgenstern, we are very concerned that you have evinced no intention of returning to New York. You are the acknowledged journalistic authority on Jokertown. We find it most unsettling that you refuse to take an interest in the murder-which involved the use of ace powers, I might add-of one of that community's most prominent citizens. One I was given to understand was a personal friend of yours. It would seem your story lay there."

"The story's here, Braden. This is bigger than a killing in Jokertown. This concerns everybody-you, me, aces, jokers, people in Uganda, the whole world. The president has so much power, so many-" She stopped herself before she stumbled and fell headlong. That was a reason she'd always preferred the written word; the ones you spoke tended to get away from you. She drew a breath.

"Besides, Braden, he's here. Chrysalis's murderer is here. Didn't you read my article?"

"Are you suggesting Senator Hartmann personally beat Ms. Jory to death?"

"No. Damn you, Braden, don't be so obtuse. He had it done he used his ace, he used his position, what the hell difference does it make? He's still guilty, just like a mafia don who orders a hit."

Dulles sighed. "I truly regret that it has come to this. Your personality disintegration has seriously degraded your professionalism. We therefore feel it is in neither your best interests nor ours for your association with this newspaper to continue."

"You're firing me?" Her voice rose toward the ceiling. "Say it, Braden. Just have the balls to say it."

"I've said everything that needs to be said, Ms. Morgenstern. I will add my personal hope that you will soon seek therapy. You have too much ability to throw it away over addiction."

"Addiction?" She could barely produce the word. "Addiction to fear. Addiction to excitement, to the thrill of being a central figure in a vast and shadowy and menacing mystery. Addiction is the disease of the eighties, Sara. Goodbye."

She heard a click and the white-noise line. In her mind she could see Braden Dulles's hands, already scrubbed to a pink-white luster, washing each other in air.

She threw the phone across the room and rose from the bed to dress. She felt like a cracked porcelain doll. As if any movement, any random breath of air, might splinter her all over the carpet.

Tach noticed with a flare of almost guilty pleasure that even among the greats of the nation he was still newsworthy.

The discrete hints that he and Jack had dropped yesterday had borne fruit. Reporters milled and jostled, ran microphone tests, camera checks. Jack had done a nice job of stagemanaging the entire affair, selecting a table flush against the low divider separating the atrium coffee shop from the walkway. A tech snapped on a floor light, bleaching the big blond ace. Jack squinted, and shaded his eyes.

"Bad night?" inquired Tach, sliding into a seat opposite Jack. He kept his voice very low to avoid the foam phalluses that were already thrusting in their direction.

"Late night. We had that challenge to Rule 9(c) governing the apportioning of delegates formerly committed-"

"Jack, spare me the tedious details. Did we win or not?"

"Yes, thanks to me, which set us up to win the California challenge." Jack took a sip of coffee, and lit a cigarette. "Do you have any idea how we're going to play this scene?"

"No."

"Great," came the sour reply.

The edges of Tachyon's mouth quirked. "I suppose I could just come around the table, and give you a great big kiss."

"I'd kill you."

Tach shaded his eyes with a hand, and scanned the crowd, noting the presence of Brokaw and Donaldson. Peregrine, who always knew how to time an entrance, came flying down from the tenth floor. The beating of her great wings fluttered menus and ruined blow-dried hairdos. Cameras swiveled up to document her landing.