Tachyon opened the door, sniffed loudly, and closed it with silent dignity behind him.

He awoke to the sound of the door opening. Spector was lying under his bed. He'd spent the night there, afraid to sleep in the open. He peered out through the inch-tall gap between the carpeted floor and the edge of the bedspread. A pair of brown buckle-down shoes walked past and clopped onto the tiled bathroom floor.

"Nobody in here again last night." It was a black woman's voice. "Wasting our goddamn time on this junk. Guess I'd better call the man and tell him."

"That's what they said to do," said a voice from the hall. "So, I'd do it if I were you."

The feet moved over next to the bed. Spector held his breath.

The woman lifted the receiver and punched in four numbers. Waited. "He's never at his desk. Always wanting to be with the delegates, or Secret Service." She cleared her throat. "Yes, sir, this is Charlene up in 1031. There was nobody here last night. Course, I'm sure. You know we smelled whiskey the first night he was in, but not since." A long pause. "Yes, sir. We'll keep an eye on the room." She hung up the phone. "Asshole."

There was laughter from the hallway.

The woman walked back toward the door. "You know, if we're going to do this spy shit, I think we should get paid extra for it. Don't see why we should bust our asses to make Mr. Hot-Shot Hastings shine." She closed the door.

Spector could hear the woman carrying on outside the room. Even a New Yorker would have trouble getting a word in edgewise with her.

He was dead tired. His jaw felt like it had been stuck back on with ten-penny nails. Moving would take more effort than he was willing to make right now. He closed his eyes and listened to the maids' cart squeak its way down the hall.

Breakfast of steak and coffee hadn't quite done the job of making Jack ready to face the Reverend Barnett and a stable of killer aces, but a couple last-minute shots of vodka had. They'd steadied his hands for shaving-not that he could have cut himself if he tried, since even the wicked cutthroat he used couldn't match his protective wild card-but he hated to do a sloppy job.

While he dressed, he watched the news. The day's first ballot had Hartmann down by two hundred. About thirty of Jack's own delegates had defected, some to Dukakis, some to Jackson. Barnett was up about forty votes total.

A new sense of urgency poured through Jack.

He dressed in his summer power suit of navy blue cotton, handmade by an old man in New Jersey he'd been going to for forty years, a light-blue Arrow shirt, black Italian wingtips, red tie-he never understood why power ties were supposed to be yellow now, since yellow ties always made him think of someone who'd been careless with his breakfast eggs. He put on heavy Hollywood shades, partly to hide his hangover, partly in case Demise was waiting for him somewhere, and took another welcome shot of vodka before he left. He'd buy some cigarettes in the lobby.

Barnett's limousine met him at the door. The traffic was impossible, complicated by marching jokers and Catholics for Barnett and Mutants for Zippy the Pinhead and shuttle buses disgorging journalists from the outlying hotels where they'd been quartered.

Fleur met him at the door to the Omni Hotel. His nerves did a little dance at the sight of her, but he managed to repress his urge to flee, and instead smiled and shook her hand. " I have an elevator waiting," she said.

"Fine." They stepped across the polished lobby floor.

"I apologize for any difficulty Consuela gave you. She's used to fielding calls from cranks."

"No problem."

"She's a refugee from the anti-Ladino persecutions in Guatemala, a poor young widow with three children. The reverend made it possible for her to stay in this country."

Jack turned to Fleur and smiled. "That's remarkable, that a man as busy as the Reverend Barnett would take the time to help someone like that."

Fleur looked into his deep black shades. "The reverend's like that. He cares."

"Not just the reverend, I'm sure. You've been possessed by the spirit of charity yourself, I'm sure."

Fleur tried to look modest. "Well, I-"

"I mean, sacrificing your chastity just to cure old Tach of his problem."

She stared at him, goggle-eyed.

"By the way, just between us," Jack grinned, "did he ever manage to get it up?"

Jack, smiling, followed a white-lipped Fleur out of an elevator whose temperature seemed to have dropped about fifty degrees. Secret Service people, Lady Black among them, prowled the long corridor leading to Barnett's suite. Jack hoped she didn't recognize him.

He passed by a busy suite filled with tables and campaign workers. Most of them seemed to be women, many of them young and attractive.

They came to a door, and Fleur knocked. Leo Barnett, looking younger than his thirty-eight years, opened the door and stuck out his hand.

"Welcome, Mr. Braun," he said.

Jack stared at the hand, wondering if Barnett could take his mind by touching him; and then, summoning nerve from somewhere, he reached out and took the hand.

He was shaking again. Tachyon paused, the glass almost to his lips, and considered. How many drinks did this make for the morning? Two? Three? He set the glass aside with overly broad gestures. Patted it firmly as if to keep it in place, to keep it from flying back to his hand, crossed to the ravaged room service breakfast tray, and took a bite of cold toast.

His stomach revolted. Gasping, cold sweat breaking at his hairline, the alien staggered into the bathroom, and sluiced water over his face. From the bedroom he could hear Blaise and Ackroyd talking, laughing.

Crossing to the bedroom Tachyon opened the door. The conversation broke off. Jay looking up inquiringly, Blaise with a brooding light in those strange purple/black eyes.

"Mr. Ackroyd, come in here, please. I need to talk to you."

Jay shrugged, tried to pull down the pants that hiked up above his ankles. Followed Tachyon into the sitting room. "What did Hartmann want?" he asked as he poked at the room service tray.

"Mr. Ackroyd, I require a favor of you."

"Sure, name it."

Tachyon lifted a hand. "Do not be so quick to commit yourself. Having me in your debt may not be enough to outweigh what I will ask of you."

"Jesus Christ, get to the point, Tachyon. All this flowery Takisian bullshit." Jay sank his teeth into an orange slice, and tore away the meat.

"Hartmann is blackmailing me. I have refused to meet his demands, but I require time. A day, two at the most, and it will be over. Hartmann will have lost the nomination." Tach's voice ran down, and he stared blankly into an eternity of blasted hopes. Gave himself a shake and resumed. "You can give me that time."

"The point? The point?"

"You must remove a man from Atlanta. The more conventional means are closed to us."

Suspicion bloomed in the detective's eyes. "Why? Who is this guy?"

The abandoned drink came easily to his hand, the beaded glass cool against his palm. Tach drained the brandy in a long swallow. "Long ago I was saved from death by a man who has alternately been a devil and an angel to me."

Ackroyd threw his hands into the air. "Shit."

"This is difficult for me," Tachyon flared. He rolled the glass between his hands; then burst out, "In 1957 I was recruited by the KGB." He smiled sadly at Ackroyd's expression. "It wasn't all that difficult. I would have done anything for a drink. At any rate, years passed. I proved to be less useful than originally hoped. They cut me loose, and I thought I was free. Then last year the man who ran me those many long years ago re-entered my life and called the debt. He's here. In Atlanta."

"Why?"

"Hartmann. He suspected the existence of the monster. Now Hartmann has found out about him, and our connection."