“It’s probably nothing. But assuming that the guards’ perceptions were accurate, then their testimony suggests that Chandler’s power is less mental than neuronal.”
“In English.”
“CIA theorized that the Gate of Orpheus would activate some specifically mental ability. But Leary felt the Gate was a processing station that would affect
“Once again, Doctor: in English.”
“Chandler’s ability to pull images from people’s minds might simply be one aspect of an augmented ability to perceive sensory impulses. If that’s the case, he can also see better, hear better, react faster than normal human beings. Who knows, he might be able to slow or increase metabolic processes to give himself extra energy when he needs it, or speed up his healing time in response to an injury. Certainly that would explain the hibernation effect that seems to happen when he’s sleeping.”
“Jesus. Are we talking Superman stuff, or what?”
“Well, given the fact that he wasn’t able to break his restraints, I don’t think we’re facing a serious increase in strength. But he knocked two armed men unconscious in about forty-five seconds.”
Melchior whistled, then stopped himself halfway through. A shadow had ducked behind the trunk of an elm halfway up the street. It could have been nothing. But if he’d been followed, the Company would dump the pay phone’s call log and find the lab in San Francisco before Keller could clean it out—and thus discover that Chandler was alive, in which case Melchior would not only have to chase Chandler, but beat CIA to him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Melchior said. “Listen carefully: I want you to go to checkpoint four. You’ll find a phone number written on the bottom of the coin bank. Add seven to the odd numbers and nine to the even numbers. In the case of double digits, use the figure in the ones column. Do you have that?”
“Checkpoint four, seven odds, nine evens.” One thing you could say about Nazis: they were good at taking direction.
“Good. Call that number. Say that you’re a friend of the senator’s and that you won’t be able to come in on Friday. Is that clear?”
An excited tremor fluttered the doctor’s voice. “It’s the girl, isn’t it? Miss Haverman? You didn’t kill her after all.”
“I’ll call you at checkpoint five in twelve hours. If I don’t call, assume the worst.”
“What should I do about”—a little tremor of eagerness vibrated Keller’s voice—“the guards?”
“Do your worst,” Melchior said, and hung up.
He’d glimpsed the shadow twice while he gave Keller his instructions. Definitely a tail. Even worse, he was practically on top of Melchior’s car. If Melchior walked back to the vehicle, he was as good as caught. But if he walked away, the tail would know he’d been made and would take off. And Melchior needed to find out what this was about—Cuba, or Orpheus, or if the Company was just watching him for the sake of watching him.
There was nothing else to do. He exited the booth and started for his car. He kept his hands out of his pockets to allay any suspicion he was reaching for a weapon, kept moving his head slightly, as though he were still looking out for anyone watching.
He’d picked a residential street to discourage gunfire. He guessed that the tail would circle the tree as he passed, come out behind him with his weapon drawn. If the tail just stepped out in front of him, he was caught. But …
He passed within a foot of the tree. He didn’t see any movement. The tail was good. He’d kept the tree perfectly between him and his target. As soon as Melchior was abreast of the tree, he reached for his gun. It was out as he stepped off the sidewalk and began to loop around the tree.
A blur shot from the shadows. Melchior felt a sharp pain in his hand as his gun was kicked from his fingers, bounced off the hood of a parked car, and skittered into the street.
He didn’t wait to see his assailant. He brought his hand down in a wide arc as fast as he could, let his attacker’s momentum carry him into harm’s way. His hand connected with the man’s wrist before the rest of his body was visible. The man held on to his gun, though, and Melchior grabbed the wrist and smashed it into his kneecap. The man grunted in pain but still kept hold of his gun, and now his left fist was smashing into the side of Melchior’s face. Melchior continued to pound the man’s right wrist into his knee. After nearly a dozen blows the gun fell from the man’s spasming fingers and Melchior kicked it under the nearest car. He jumped back, panting heavily, blood leaking down his cheek from a cut beside his right eye. Only then did he see his attacker’s face.
“Hey, Melchior,” Rip Robertson said in a voice that still carried a faint reek of Cuban rum. “Long time no see.”
San Francisco, CA
November 9, 1963
San Francisco didn’t live up to the hype. For one thing, the famous hills, so pretty in postcards and movies, were a pain in the ass to trek up and down, particularly in a pair of sockless loafers two sizes too big (Chandler’s clothes were long gone, so he was wearing Sidewalk Steve’s; the homeless man had turned out to have freakishly large feet). For another, despite the city’s reputation for friendliness, not a single citizen had been kind enough to leave the keys in his or her car. Quite a few were unlocked—once, when Chandler saw a shadowed figure approach, he hid inside a Packard that must’ve dated to the forties—but even though he’d seen thieves and spies and adventurous teens hotwire cars in any number of movies, he himself had no idea how to do it. You were supposed to reach under the steering column and produce a fistful of wires, but all he managed to do was bang his knuckles on the underpanel.
But one way or another, he had to get out of the city. Had to go east. To DC. A few scattered images he’d seen in Melchior’s mind had told him Naz’s fate was somehow connected to the nation’s capital. A beautiful Asian woman in a long black car. A song—wordless, toneless, but somehow central to Naz’s location. If only he’d been able to
