One-Eyed Jack by Bear Elizabeth

Author:Bear, Elizabeth [Bear, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Novel
ISBN: 9781607014225
Publisher: Prime Books
Published: 2014-07-14T06:00:00+00:00

The Russian Goes Undercover.

Somewhere in Las Vegas. Summer, 2002.

The Russian and the American spent the day holed up in their hotel room, watching television and playing chess on the American’s traveling game board. In the evening, by previous arrangement, they did not reunite with the other spies. Instead, they showered and dressed in silence, locked the door behind them, descended the stairs, and stepped out onto the street thirty-eight years later, under a red sun slanting through the mask-faced buildings dotting the Strip.

After some discussion, the Russian decided it was worth the gamble to walk the short distance to the Venetian rather than taking a taxicab.

“I will trust to dramatic necessity,” he said to his partner as they followed the curved sidewalk down to the street. “I do not believe a sniper can kill me. Actually, I begin to suspect the assassin can’t kill me at all, which raises the interesting question of how we can kill him.”

“If only we could find a story where he was killed. We’d know how to do it, then.” The American’s voice was almost flirtatious—the playful tone he got when he was on the trail of something, the master strategist concealed under his ever-so-slightly swishy, cuff-fussing exterior turning some puzzle-bit from the great game over and over again, looking for the place where it fit.

“Besides, he can, no doubt, capture us—and I’m certain the genius of Los Angeles could kill us. She cannot be bound by the same rules, can she?”

“And we’ve run into one too many taxicabs that aren’t really taxicabs. Right, tovarishch?”

The Russian smiled slyly. “I shall kidnap you,” he announced, “and bring you back to Moscow for testing in their ESP program.”

“You and the Red Army,” the American replied, craning his neck back to take in the facade of the Venetian as they strolled past reproduction wrought-iron lampposts. “It’s a lot cleaner than Venice.”

“No soot,” the Russian said.

“No stink.”

“There are pigeons.”

“They’re probably imported specially.” The American pointed, shamelessly as a tourist. “Look at the windows on the ‘Doge’s palace.’ They’re the right color. That’s . . . ”

“Care to wager on whether the canals are chlorinated?” the Russian asked. They threaded through tourists and costumed resort employees and ducked inside the cool, indirectly lit hotel. Despite his theories on the efficacy of snipers where he and his partner were concerned, it eased the itch between his shoulder blades to be out from under all those sight-lines and all that sky. Their shoes clicked on marble floors; they strode beneath gilt baroque fripperies and geegaws, through arched chambers lit indirectly and frescoed with reproduction art. “Is that the Triumph of Venice?”

“Keep walking. No.”

For once, the Russian didn’t look at his partner, because he knew if he did he would dissolve into giggles. Which was what the American wanted, of course.

Jackie met them in the elevator. None of them spoke, but the Russian’s lips thinned arched when the door that Jackie’s key-card opened led to a luxuriously appointed split-level suite. Red daylight still glowed at the edges of the tightly drawn curtains, but the floor and desk lamps had been lit.

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