HHarrington SS Let's Go To Prague Read online

"Nice off-the-cuff excuse, there," she said. "I forgive you for leaving; it was the promise of marrying that ticked me off. I thought you were serious there for a while."

  "I was," Johnny said, looking her in the eye. They were, as he remembered, a deep purple, also natural. For some reason the phrase "the wine-dark seas" came to mind. After a moment he shook himself. "I was. I . . . also promised to get you out of the Republic."

  She carefully looked around, then at Charles. "I take it you didn't hear that?"

  "What? My partner speaking treason?" Charles said. "Not yet. Get a grip, Johnny."

  "I will," Mullins said. "I . . . It's good to see you, Rachel."

  She paused for a moment then stroked his cheek. "It's good to see you, too, Johnny."

  Mullins shook his head and then smiled. "I don't suppose you're free tonight?"

  Even her laughter was perfect, a delighted peal like bells in a carillon. "You don't give up, do you?"

  "Not where you're concerned," Mullins said.

  "Well, no, I'm not free tonight," she said maliciously. "I've got a hot date."

  "Oh . . ." Mullins sighed. "Okay."

  "But maybe later," she continued, stroking his cheek again. "Come back tomorrow night, okay?"

  "Okay," Johnny said.

  "I have to go," she said, standing up and arranging her robe. "Take care."

  "I will," Mullins said watching her walk away. Then: "Shit."

  "Bit of a spark there, still, old boy," Charles said, patting him on the back.

  "I nearly shot myself when I got back from that mission," Mullins replied carefully, taking a deep pull off of his beer.

  "Well, I have to admit she is spectacular, but is that really an appropriate response?"

  "I don't know," Mullins said. He upended the liter glass then raised the empty and waved it back and forth. "It was my response."

  "I say," Charles replied with a shake of his head. "I have to ask, though: Is she . . . available for hire?"

  "Only to the highest bidder," Johnny said with a laugh, picking up the new glass that the bartender set down. "When I was dating her she was a mistress to the second assistant minister of information."

  "Bloody good conduit," Charles said with raised eyebrows.

  "I wouldn't know; I never tried to recruit her," Johnny said. "And then the mission went bust and we barely got out alive. If I'd had the ability to blackmail Q back then, I'd have gone back to Nouveau Paris to find her. But I didn't; I just tried to forget. For a while, the only thing that helped was drinking myself into a stupor. And I think that's what I'm going to do tonight." He put the freshly refilled glass of heavy brown ale to his lips and sucked until it was empty. "Bartender!"

  * * *

  "CORDELIA RANSOM SHE HAS NO BALLS!" Mullins sang as the two of them staggered down the deserted street. As with most Peep planets, Prague City tended to roll up the sidewalks after dark.

  "Why . . . extac . . . exac . . . why are we going homeward without female accom . . . without some women?"

  "SAINT JUST'S ARE VERY SMALL!"

  "Really, we should be accomp . . . sup . . . there ought to be women."

  "ROB PIERRE . . . oh, never mind I can' think of a rh . . . rhyme for Pierre. We're returning to our domi . . . domic . . . rooms without women because wine giveth the desire and taketh away the ability."

  "Okay, Shakespeare," Charles said. "If you're so smart, where's a bathroom?"

  "Vo ist eine toiletten!" Johnny yelled to the empty streets.

  "We're returning to our domic . . . to our rooms unaccompanied because of your girlfriend aren't we?"

  "Ah, an alleyway," Johnny said. "I haff found our toiletten."

  "Aren't we?" Charles asked again as they both stumbled into the darkness of the alley and leaned against the wall.

  "Aaaah," Mullins said in relief. "You could have taken anyone home you wanted. I was . . . un . . . disin . . . I didn't want to."

  "So it was because of your girlfriend," Charles said, clearing the tubes.

  "If you shake it more than twice, you're playing with it," Mullins declared.

  "Halt!"

  "Christ, I'm just peeing on a wall," he complained as a body rounded the corner and plowed into him.

  Mullins might have been three sheets to the wind but his survival instincts were highly trained. The body, it appeared to be a male in uniform, was spun in place and slammed into the wall as he wrapped the head into a snap-grip. In another moment the struggling figure would be lying on the ground with a broken neck.

  "Don't," Gonzalvez said in Allemaigne. "He's being chased by StateSec."

  "Good point." Johnny shifted his forearms and applied pressure, clamping on the nerve juncture. The "sleeper" hold was almost considered a myth; it required training, precision and strength to apply it properly. But John Mullins had all three in abundance; in less than two seconds the figure slumped.

  "Grab his legs," Mullins muttered, dragging the body behind a dumpster and coming back out. He resumed his position as a flashlight-toting figure rounded the corner.

  "Get that damned light out of my eyes!" Mullins shouted. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Sorry, Sir," the StateSec private said diffidently, lowering the light. "But I'll need to see some ID. We're after a fugitive."

  "Bloody local buffoons," Charles muttered in Nouveau Paris–accented French. He waggled his member and put it away, pulling out his ID tag. "Here," he continued in Allemaigne.

  The private ducked his head and scanned the badge and the "captain's" retina, returning it and doing the same with Mullins'. "Thank you, Sirs. Did you see anyone pass this way?"

  "Negative. Who are you looking for and what is the local contact point?" Mullins asked as clearly as he could enunciate.

  "We were told that Admiral Mládek is attempting to defect," the private gushed.

  "What?" Gonzo gasped, right on cue. "The head of Fleet Communications?"

  "Yes, Sir. We've closed down three Manty spy operations tonight and the captain says we're closing in on two more! General Garson is in charge; he was sent here by StateSec command in New Paris."

  "Damn, I suppose this is important," Charles said. "You're doing a fine job, Private. If you have any questions for us, or need any help, we're in the New Prague Hotel, room 313."

  "Yes, Sir," the private said, making a notation on his pad. "I have to go continue the search, Sirs."

  "Carry on, Private," Johnny said. "You're in the best traditions of StateSec there."

  "Thank you, Sir," the private said, trotting back out of the alley.

  "Oh, bloody hell," Charles muttered. "I'm sober old boy, how 'bout you?"

  CHAPTER 3

  A HATCH IS PLANNED

  No operative has just one bolt hole and whereas their digs had been in the New Prague Hotel, room 313, they had also rented a seedy flat on the bad side of town.

  Prague City was bisected into north and south sections by the Aryan River. The north section was the business district with the better homes and flats on the north edge. Also on the north side was the Peep Building, pardon, the "People's Building," and the StateSec headquarters.

  On the south side was the industrial region and the local police headquarters. Prague City, like all Peep cities, had no crime problem. Just ask Cordelia Ransom. Everyone was happy and industrious, focused on the important mission of destroying Manticore, the aristocratic enemy of the People.

  Strangely, South Prague City never made it into any of Cordelia Ransom's tridee broadcasts. In South Prague City, carrying a body into a building was only notable in that it was being carried in.

  Not that anyone in South Prague City was going to notice anything at any time.

  Johnny turned away from the window as the figure in the chair stirred. "Headache?"

  The admiral, which was what they had by his uniform, was a heavy-set man, probably in his sixties by his looks. He didn't have the appearance of one of the jumped up proles that made up much of the modern Peep senior officer corp
s. From his look he was probably a holdover from the Legislaturalists.

  The officer felt the bonds restraining him to the chair, moved his lips under the tape on his mouth, looked at the two men in prole clothing and nodded.

  "Three things," Charles said, standing up with a cup in one hand and a knife in the other. "Listening?"

  The admiral nodded again, looking at the knife.

  "First thing. We're not StateSec, we're Manty Intelligence. Second thing, you were trying to defect and nearly got nabbed by StateSec. Third thing, we're not your pickup group but we're going to try to get you out. However, if you mess about, we'll kill you just as happily. Still want me to cut you loose?"

  The officer nodded then grimaced as Mullins first ripped off the tape then cut his bonds.

  "I have no knowledge of what you are talking about," the admiral said, looking around the dingy room. "I am a citizen admiral of the Fleet; there will be absolutely effective repercussions if State Security thinks they can simply 'disappear' me."

  "Uh, huh," Mullins said. "That wouldn't even fly with the Peeps and it doesn't get far with us."

  "And, let me guess, old boy," Charles said cocking his head. " 'Absolutely effective' would be your code word to determine if we're really ONI. Sorry, chap, we're not actually part of your pickup team so we can't give you the counter-code."

  "Again, I have no idea what you are talking about," the admiral said firmly. "I am a loyal citizen officer of the People's Republic."

  "Ah, okay," Johnny said. "In that case, there's a StateSec private we got you away from who is probably angling for sergeant." He grabbed the admiral by the arm and yanked the larger officer to his feet. "He'd probably get an instant promotion if he caught you."

  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-t
he 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.

  The officer put the tag in a slot, then waved the pad in front of Mullins' face and over his outstretched hand.

  What the system thought it was doing was reading personal information of one Gunther Orafson, assistant boom operator at the Krupp Metal Works factory. It took a retina scan, surveyed fourteen points on his fingers and palm, compared his facial infrared topography to its database and took a DNA scan, all in under two seconds.

  What it was actually looking at was some very advanced Manticoran technology.

  Gunther Orafson had been stopped years before by someone very like John Mullins, except at the time the Mullins counterpart had been dressed like a local police officer.

  Using a device that looked identical to the one this officer was using, he had taken all of Gunther Orafson's vital statistics and put them into a database. One checkpoint, fifteen minutes on a busy day, could garner dozens of identities, and the CIT teams had access to all of them.