Chapter 26
"What happened, Victor? What was the alarm about?" Erik asked me when we met at the agreed time in a wasteland on the outskirts of Paris opposite my house.
"Nick Fury. Remember her?" I replied. Getting here was hard. And the reason was that I didn't feel any surveillance. At all. I twisted myself into knots, using everything I could. I applied everything I had learned from the Russian specialists during the war, but I didn't feel it, and that was that! This made me nervous and forced me to calculate my actions based on the scenario that professionals vastly superior to me in qualification were watching. That my every step was uncovered, captured, and documented. Zen!
But, in principle, there is only one secret that I don't want to reveal to anyone under any circumstances: the teleport. The rest is not critical. But that doesn't mean I won't try to hide that rest.
"I remember," Erik nodded. "She led the riot in Auschwitz."
"She is now the director of an American intelligence agency. And she came to our house," I didn't delve too deeply into the details.
"Recruiting?" he got straight to the point.
"I don't know. Says she's on vacation. I don't smell any tail. Either the specialists watching are way out of our league, or... there really is no tail."
"What do you plan to do?"
"For now—nothing. As soon as her 'vacation' ends, I'll leave."
"Where to?"
"To Japan," I decided. To be honest, I decided exactly right now. "Many martial arts schools have opened there. I'll take a look. Maybe I'll learn something. Will you go with me? Or?"
"Or," Erik sighed. "I'll dash to America. To the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. They are actively studying magnetism there nowadays. Many very sensible young researchers. I want to work with them."
I shrugged—his choice, his right.
"I'll visit you sometime. If I'm still alive."
"What could possibly happen to you?" he chuckled. "You're tougher than a cockroach!"
"For every cockroach, there is a slipper. Sooner or later."
"Better later than sooner," Erik chuckled and shook my hand.
* * *
Thirty days flew by quickly. I got used to the spectators hanging on the windows quickly. Fortunately, I was planning to scram soon anyway. So I didn't care about the rumors: a different name, a different country, a different appearance, doesn't match Creed's verbal description. Even if they reach the wrong people, by the time they get around to it, I'll be out of the country. Like Erik. So let the kids look at a miracle—I don't mind. Maybe they'll practice harder having such an example before their eyes.
But there are twenty-four hours in a day. Let eight go to sleep. Three or four hours for training. That leaves at least twelve more.
Naturally, Nicole and I didn't sit at home all this time. I, like in the old days, entertained the girl as best I could (and to me, despite all the years she had lived and the position she held in society, she still remains a girl)—took her to a shooting gallery and a firing range, gave her a ride in a stolen military fighter jet, showed funny and colorful chemical experiments, made a birdhouse with her, taught her to sculpt from plaster, and the basics of pottery, went with her to museums and exhibitions, gave lessons on the basics of painting, played various musical instruments for her (and over my long life, I had mastered quite a few: from the violin, cello, guitar, flute, folk Siamese, Chinese, and Japanese string instruments, to the saxophone, drums, and piano), took her to the hippodrome, where I taught the basics of vaulting, simply drove with her to the Riviera beaches in a rented car, went with her to the forest to collect snails and edible frogs (and then taught her how to cook them properly), showed her what mushrooms grow where (even dug up a dozen truffles—my sense of smell is better than a pig's. Orders of magnitude better), taught her to cook borscht and make dumplings... In general, I was that very "Uncle Victor, who can do absolutely everything." And from my point of view—I was just having fun.
The most unpleasant thing was that I really didn't feel any surveillance all this time. At all.
"Tomorrow I depart for duty. My vacation period is ending," the already traditional sit-downs on my veranda in wicker chairs were sponsored by Nicole this time. On the table again stood two snifters and a bottle of cognac. Judging by its appearance (the bottle's), something no less expensive than what I brought last time.
Only I am not a connoisseur of such things. Moonshine is moonshine, just not from cheap mash, but from wine. That's the whole difference. Maybe, having become older (although, how much older can one get), I will start treating this somewhat differently. But today is clearly not that day.
"Don't want to?" I asked her in response to this remark.
"No," she sighed.
"Then don't go," I noted.
"How do you imagine that?" Nicole smiled mirthlessly.
"Resign."
"No, I can't," having thought over my statement with a serious look for a whole five minutes, she delivered the verdict. "If not me, then who? Someone has to crush all this scum."
"'No one but us,' sounds familiar," I chuckled.
"A beautiful phrase," Nicole became interested. "Where is it from?"
"The motto of Soviet paratroopers," I muttered. "'From the sky to the earth, into battle,' 'a paratrooper runs as much as he can, and then as much as he must,' 'there are no sick and wounded, there are only the living and the dead,' 'a paratrooper doesn't freeze, he just turns blue and falls,' 'knocked off your feet—fight on your knees, can't stand up—attack lying down'... They have many such phrases."
"Never heard a single one," "here Stierlitz realized he had blurted out too much." All that was left was to silently shrug and not answer questions on this topic anymore.
"It doesn't matter," seeing that I had switched on the "deaf-mute log, ordinary" mode, Nicole decided to drop the subject. But more than sure, she put a tick in her memory. "This is my best vacation in my entire past life! Thank you, Uncle Victor!" she raised her snifter and saluted me with it. After which she drank the contents.
I shrugged and also raised my snifter, taking a small sip of the contents after the returning salute.
"Say hello to Max," she said, seemingly casually, pouring liquid from the bottle into the emptied snifter.
I put on an uncomprehending face and looked at her.
"To Eisenhardt," Nicole clarified. "He is alive, right?"
"I don't know," I decided to lie. Although I already understood that this was useless. Whether I tell the truth or lie, just like if I remain completely silent, she will read the answer on me like an open book. Check and Mate. In one move. I give her credit—she dragged it out for a long time. But the move is made.
And a choice is set: Nicole or Erik. Erik or Nicole. If I want to leave Erik's secret undiscovered, I can do only one thing—kill her right now. Right here.
But this is Nicole—the girl who literally grew up in my arms. Zen!
"The 'Katyushas' plowed everything there. When I dug myself out from under the bottom of the tank, there were no living people nearby," such a frank and brazen lie. Stupid—I understand. But, I wrote already—my tongue is poorly hung. I do not know how to twist facts and weave verbal lace-traps, playing with meanings and understatements. Even a full course of Rhetoric at the Sorbonne could not correct the situation. I learned to understand and unravel such lace in others. To get to the meaning hidden in it. Diction and pronunciation became perfect. The voice strong and deep. I became capable of shouting down the surf, a construction site, or even a crowd. But I never learned to choose the right words. A memorized text—please, with all artistry and expression. But from myself... crap. Just crap.
And neither reading books nor memorizing poems, which I like to recite somewhere in a deserted place (most often from that same rocky seashore, in a strong wind, or even better a storm), help me in this. That is exactly why I appreciate such an ability in others. That is exactly why I learn poems by whole book volumes, in all the languages I know. But I myself cannot put together even a quatrain... Apparently, what is not given by the gods, is not given. And if someone has a talent for this, then in my case it is an anti-talent.
"Regrettable," Nicole lowered her gaze. She understood everything from me. Read everything. And I couldn't bring myself to raise my hand. Nastiness.
* * *
As soon as the plane, in the depths of which Nicole disappeared, got lost in the clouds of the sunset sky, I went into the men's restroom and transported to British Oxford. From there, already by normal means, through the embassy, with a different passport, I got a visa to Japan and departed there the old-fashioned way, by ship. Or rather a passenger liner, but to me, a ship is a ship even in Africa.
Well, let's hope they don't find Erik immediately. And won't start ruining his life... it's better for them if they don't. He is currently more terrifying than a hydrogen bomb in military terms. And the world doesn't yet have Xavier with his X-team, capable of stopping him.
So they better not pressure him... But who ever listened to me? A rhetorical question.
Maybe that's why I'm sailing to the other side of the planet from him? A subconscious desire to live a little longer? I don't know.
* * *