Turn of the Cards Read Online Free PDF Page A

spare tire in a man of his obvious age.
    He might have been former military, one of those eternal boys who can’t let go of the sense of belonging the Green Machine had given him. Mark’s gut sense was he was still serving. In one capacity or another.
    “Are you with the government, Mr. Bullock?” Mark asked, trying hard to sound casual.
    Blue-gray eyes held his for a beat. “Let’s just say I’m here in a private capacity, shall we?”
    Right. With his thumb Mark popped the plastic cap of the vial he held loosely in his left fist and tossed the contents down his throat with a fluid motion. Blue powder, with sparkles of silver and black.
    “Great Caesar’s ghost!” Randall Bullock exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He took a step forward.
    It wasn’t Mark he took a step toward. It was a man not much taller than Bullock was, with pale blue skin and a cowled black cloak.
    “Really, can’t you let a man have any peace?” the blue man asked in a stranger’s peevish voice. He hopped lightly to the sill, then stepped through the window, which was still closed.
    Randall Bullock’s reactions were good. He only stood rooted for a second and a half. Then he strode forward and threw open the window.
    “ Doctor Meadows!” he yelled into the rain. “Doctor Meadows, come back! You’re making a terrible mistake!”
    At the end of the block he caught a swirl of black, in which stars seemed to glitter, disappearing around the corner. The only reply was a defiant laugh.
    Actually, it was more of a nasty snicker.
     
    “Let me suggest the Northern Lights,” the waiter said in excellent English. “It is the spécialité de la maison. It provides a most mellow experience, and one that you can fully enjoy here in our establishment. The Red Lebanon is also excellent, but I must warn you, it is best sampled in the privacy of your hotel or living quarters. And, of course, you will please remember not to operate a motor vehicle while under the influence of any of our fine smokables.”
    Lynn Saxon sat back with his arms folded and a cool little smile under his military mustache. Helen Carlysle had her neck at full extension, holding her head over the box the waiter proffered on a silver tray but as far away as she could and still examine its contents, as if they were live but exotic bugs. Gary Hamilton peered carefully inside.
    “I think I’ll try the Northern Lights,” he said.
    “Very good choice, sir. I will bring a selection of pipes.”
    The waiter went away. Hamilton sat back, flushing on his prominent Slav cheekbones. He had on a cream-colored sport jacket over a blue polo shirt with the collar loose around his thick neck. In the smoke-filtered light from the discreet cut-crystal light fixtures, his blond hair appeared to be thinning in front, just a shade. In general he looked like a failed college jock who was just waiting to develop enough of a beer gut to be credible as a football coach. Helen Carlysle stared at him in disbelief.
    Saxon leaned his elbows on the table and peered into the candle in its amber-glass vessel in the center of the table. With his dark eyes and hair he looked like an apprentice Gypsy fortuneteller practicing to look mystical for the gadjo. He wore a black-and-red soccer jersey and one of those long duster coats, black with white flecks, that had been popular with the hip-hop crowd a couple of seasons ago.
    “So when does Meadows show up?” he asked the flame. Then he spoiled the effect by glancing quickly at Helen in her blue-and-silver yuppie skirt-suit to see if she was buying it.
    “Mind if I sit down, Ms. Mistral?” a voice asked.
    She started, as if the name had stung her, turned in her chair. “Major Belew,” she said. “Ah … please. Do sit down. And it’s, ah, it’s Helen Carlysle. Or Ms. Carlysle.”
    The newcomer nodded and sat. In his dark-blue three-piece with the conservative pinstripe, he looked far more one with the scene than the other three Americans. The Café