And you will take his side, Bugsy thought. He didn’t say anything, only nodded. Ellen turned away, putting the tiny airline pillow onto her shoulder, her back toward Jonathan.
“You know,” he said, “space is really tight. If you put the earring in, we could stretch out together, and-”
“In your dreams,” Ellen said.
Congo River
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
The brakes hissed as the bus slowed to a stop at the end of a long pier leading to a murky green-brown expanse of water. There were vendors set up along the edge of the pier with jewelry, baskets, T-shirts, and hand- carved doodads. Filing off the bus with the rest of the tourists, Michelle and Joey were immediately hit with the earthy smell of the Congo.
The guide started talking, but Michelle tuned him out. She was feeling an incredible urge to get on the river and head north. It itched across her mind. She turned around to talk to Joey, but Joey had vanished.
Michelle skirted several piers, looking for Joey as she went. Plenty of people stared at her, but no one stopped her, so she kept going. She’d tried to dress nondescriptly in khakis, a white button-down shirt, and tennis shoes. But being a six-foot-tall platinum blonde made her stand out no matter what.
“Joey,” she hissed. “You miserable brat!”
“Bubbles.” A hand landed on her shoulder. She swung around-hands up-ready to bubble.
“Jesus! Joey, you little shit.”
“It’s time to rock and roll. I found a way upriver. Boat’s close by.”
Michelle considered for a moment. “Joey, the Committee really screwed the pooch when they passed on you.”
“Yeah,” Joey said bitterly. “I’m fucking handy.”
Impulsively, Michelle hugged her. “You’re extremely handy.” But then she remembered the night she and Joey had spent together, and pulled away. “So where’s this boat?”
“Follow me.”
The man appeared out of nowhere. Michelle would have bubbled him if Joey had not caught her arm. He smiled at Joey in a way that creeped Michelle out, and motioned for them to follow.
Tied to a short pier was a beat-up twenty-five-foot boat. It had a large motor on the back. Two men with guns emerged from the small cabin. They eyed Michelle and Joey.
“Which one is her?” asked one in French.
Michelle understood him. But doing runway in Paris had given her more of an ability to understand French than to speak it.
Their guide pointed to Michelle.
“Let’s see it then,” the shorter of the two said.
The guide repeated what the man on the boat had said.
“She’s not your fucking dog,” Joey snarled. “She don’t perform on command.”
Their guide translated. The man in the boat shrugged and turned to go back into the cabin.
“I’ll show them,” Michelle said.
“Fuck that, Bubbles,” Joey replied. “We’re paying them an assload of money. They don’t need a show.”
“Christ.” Michelle opened her hand and created a bubble. It was soft and rubbery. His partner stared gape- mouthed as the bubble formed, and he hit the deck when she let it fly. Then she sent it flying into the back of the man who wanted to see her power. There was a loud “oof” as the bubble hit. The man pitched forward, and his gun flew out of his hand and clattered to the deck.
Michelle started another bubble. This one was for show. When the man she’d hit turned around and saw her, he held up his hands. In her very rough French she said, “I would rather be friends. This is business, yes? We want to go upriver.” She closed her hand, popping the bubble, and felt a rush as she absorbed its energy. “I’m Michelle.”
“Gaetan,” he said, jabbing a thumb into his own chest. Then he pointed to his partner. “Kengo.”
“Can we come aboard now?”
Gaetan nodded. Michelle turned to Joey. “Are we good to go?” Joey brushed past her and climbed into the boat.
Ministry of Joy
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
“Tom,” Alicia Nshombo said, settling her bulk in its stressed white-and-blue floral-print dress in her chair behind her tiny white desk with its ormolu trim after an embrace of greeting. “We need you.”
He dropped into a chair across from her and rubbed his jaw. Stubble rasped. The insides of his eyeballs felt just like that. He hadn’t been sleeping well. “What?” he asked. He bobbed back and forth in the chair.
Alicia’s office was in an old colonial-era building downtown on the Kinshasa side, Belgian-built in the time when King Leopold was treating the natives in a way that’d get an antebellum southern plantation owner prosecuted for treating his slaves. Doc Prez wanted her to have her digs in the new compound but she wanted to assert independence. And what Sis wanted, Sis got. The decor was frou frou to the max: all white and flowers and swirly gold. The walls teemed with pictures. One stuck out: a photo of Alicia in polo outfit, straddling a clearly dubious horse that looked as if it would be more at home pulling a beer wagon. The thought of Alicia playing polo blew Tom’s mind, but he’d bet she never lost.
“Enemies have violated the People’s Paradise,” Alicia was saying. “Near Nyunzu. Terrorists attacked one of our special facilities. They’ve murdered my babies.”
“Shit,” Tom said. That Alicia didn’t chide Tom for his language showed how freaked-out she was. “Who?”
“That is one of the things we need to find out. Tom, it would be very bad if these terrorists were to escape with any of my babies. Such lies they would tell. The world would never understand.”
You’d have a shitstorm on your hands, you mean, Tom thought. “I can take care of it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could,” Alicia said, “but this is such a wonderful opportunity to see what our young volunteers can do. I want you to take a few of them to Nyunzu, Tom. This will be another test for them, a chance for them to show us how brave they are, and loyal. Let them avenge their murdered brothers and sisters!”
Sofiensaal Concert Hall
Vienna, Austria
“You were wonderful,” Niobe said as Noel emptied the hidden pockets in his coat. There was still some applause from the audience that remained in the Sofiensaal concert hall.
Noel kissed her. “Thank you, my dear, but you are biased.”
“The critics will agree. You’ll see when you read the reviews tomorrow.” She sat down to wait while he changed.
Unlike more old-fashioned magicians, Noel didn’t perform in the tailcoat. He wore a black leather jacket, black silk shirt, black slacks, and black boots. It was actually his usual mode of dress, but tonight he opted for a hand- knitted Nordic sweater and an overcoat. Vienna was gripped in the icy claws of a wind raging out of the Russian steppes, across the Hungarian plain, and screaming, bansheelike, through the city.
Despite the cold there was a knot of woman gathered at the stage door. Niobe hung back while Noel signed program books and kept up his flirtatious, practiced banter. Finally they were gone. The limo driver held open the back door of the car.
“Darling, I’m restless, I’d like to walk back to the hotel. It’s not that far,” Noel said.
Niobe tucked her gloved hand beneath his arms. “Then I’ll walk with you.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“Exercise is good for me. Dr. Finn says so.” She poked him in the ribs. “And he told you not to coddle me.”
“My prerogative.” But he gave in and waved away the driver.
Their route took them past the twisting columns of the Karlskirche, modeled on Trajan’s column in the
