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stopper at close range, but that's about all'
And Vladimir Androsov said, 'Why spending money on sidearms when ICBMs
are making them obsolete?'
'Your philosophy, comrade?' said Angel.
'Cold War philosophy,' Androsov answered. 'They the hawks and militarists
considered the space race more important. But the American SDI was a myth, and
myths are elusive. Pursuing it weakened us. Anyway, that was then and things are
swiftly changing. For the better, I thinking. In current situation, you and I are no longer at
war.'
'These people are what they say they are,' said Bernie Fletcher. 'It's like back at
HQ in London: I can feel a certain kinship with them. I'm in the presence of espers,
locators. You can give him back his gun.'
'Sure,' said Angel, and handed it over after removing the clip. Androsov had
seen him do it and nodded.
'Trust is coming slowly,' he said.
'Fuck it!' said Angel, pacing the floor. 'I'm out of cigarettes. Nicotine deficiency.
I'm on edge, that's all.'
And standing up, Venyamin Androsov took out a pack of Marlboros, offered it to
Angel, and shrugged. 'Why you no saying? I smoking plenty. American blend. Black
market. Very expensive.'
Angel looked at him, and a slow grin spread over his craggy face. 'You mightn't
speak English too well,' he said, 'but you certainly pick the right things to say!'
Following which, relations rapidly improved...
_
_
In a little while, Fletcher and the Androsovs got down to it.
In front of the Special Branch men, Fletcher didn't use the term 'vampire'; and
fortunately, the Russian espers didn't know what they were tracking, only what little
Turchin had told them that these mutual enemies were exceptionally dangerous. Like
Fletcher himself, they'd been advised only to locate the source of the alien aura, then to
stand off and contact or wait for E-Branch to arrive, which Turchin had known must
happen sooner or later. Sooner, as it had turned out.
Now, at 2:30 in the morning local time, the three parapsychologists sat at a small
table and concentrated on a map of Sirpsindigi and the outlying district. The map's
legend was in Turkish, but Venyamin compensated for any deficiency in his English with
an excellent grasp of the Turkish language.
'At first,' Vladimir Androsov explained, 'from Bulgaria, we are locating these
strange how do you say it? Like your London when the vapour is coming off the river
and all the peoples are doing the coughing these mental "fumes", yes?'
'Mindsmog,' said Fletcher at once. 'I know exactly what you mean.
Vladimir nodded. 'The smog in the mind, yes. But then, when we are coming
here, the mindsmog? it quickly goes away. We feel it fading until it has gone.' He
stabbed at the map with a finger. 'It was there.'
Fletcher looked at the map, at a district already ringed in biro, but couldn't make
head or tail of it. 'It's about what? Half a mile south of here?'
'One kilometre,' Vladimir nodded. 'South and a little west. Then, because the
mindsmog is gone, we are thinking is not dangerous to going there. It is the better part
of the town. More better than here.'
'We passed through when we drove in,' said Fletcher. 'But I wanted to stay at a
place that was less prominent.'
'Understanding,' Vladimir answered. 'We are the same.'
And Joe Sparrow, standing close to the table, came in with, 'So, what did you find
there?'
Vladimir looked up at him. 'Nothings,' he said. And then he frowned. 'But there
was... I don't know... somethings. Like a bad taste in the mouth, but in the mind. It soon
went away.'
Cliff Angel pulled a face and said, 'You psychoids are very weird people! You get
results, I know, but I've never been able to figure you out.'
'Believe me,' said Fletcher, looking up at him, 'you really wouldn't want to figure
this out.' And then, to Vladimir. 'What about physically? I mean, was there anything
about that part of town that especially impressed you or depressed you? Did you take
note of where you got this bad taste, its exact location?'
And now Venyamin Androsov nodded, turned to his brother and said something
to him in Russian. Fletcher caught just one word, 'Kino', which he knew meant 'cinema'
in German. So maybe it was the same in Russian. And:
'Kino?' Fletcher repeated him. 'The cinema? What about it?'
'No,' Vladimir shook his head. 'This place is not quite the cinema. Films are
showing there, but is also the cabaret like the opera but not the opera ah, the
burlesque? The political satire? Also, the belly dancing, yes! Especially the girls when
they are dancing.'
Joe Sparrow said, 'I thought the Turks were just as fond of little boys?' Fletcher's
minders were far less than politically correct.
And Cliff Angel added, 'Like they'll fuck anything, right?'
Vladimir nodded his head this way and that an impatient, 'be-that-as-it-may'
motion and said, 'Possibly, but better the naked ladies, I thinking. My brother speaks
true: this place is the belly-dancing, er schauplatz?' He paused to seek confirmation
from Fletcher.
And recognising the German word again: 'Theatre.' Fletcher nodded.
'Good!' said Vladimir. 'This "theatre" was source of mindstink, yes.'
'Mindsmog,' Fletcher reminded him, and the Russian shrugged his acquiescence.
'So, what's on?' said Angel.
'Eh?' Vladimir looked questioningly at the two minders.
'What's showing at the theatre?' said Sparrow.
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