Turning from him, Thea bit her lower lip. It hurt more than she'd expected, more than should have been permissible. "Please don't say it," she murmured. "Promises from an illusion are scarcely relevant."
The Vulcan nodded to himself, glancing through the open doors to see the sun slowly sinking beneath a cloudy autumn horizon. It was his last sunset, he realized disjointedly, the last time his eyes would ever see the greens and blues and reds and golds of Earth … or any other world. In less than six hours, he would be nothing more than a memory in the atoms of the universe.
He turned abruptly toward the double doors, toward the ramp, toward his own destiny, and did not look back.
"Spock?" A gentle plea.
He stopped, but did not turn.
An unseen hand touched his shoulder, and a final moment of warmth passed through the link. "If I could choose," Thea's voice whispered, "perhaps I would indeed choose illusion. . . ."
But her hand fell away, leaving them both alone.
Chapter Twenty-three
IN SILENCE, SPOCK, Kirk and Richardson made their way into the outskirts of the city. A gentle patter of rain had started to fall, and as they moved down the steamy gray sidewalks, occasionally passing by pedestrians and bikers, Kirk felt himself shiver. He glanced briefly at the Vulcan, noticing that his friend had carefully pulled a wool hat down to cover the irrefutably pointed ears. Spock seemed unusually silent, but the human tried to pass it off to the tension they were all starting to feel in a very tangible way. Overhead, the sky had turned slate-gray, blending almost perfectly with the ancient architecture of the old city. At last, after what seemed like hours, the Vulcan stopped, glancing up at a modern high-rise hotel which seemed vaguely out of place in the conglomeration of slanted roofs and cobblestone streets.
"From what I was able to discern through Romulan computer records of the event," the Vulcan stated, breaking the ominous silence, "the three officials who are to be assassinated will be holding a preliminary conference in this building this evening." He paused. "It was during that meeting, according to Second History, that Doctor Palmer and his two associates … disappeared."
"How did they die?" Richardson asked, pulling the bulky knit sweater, which Thea had provided, tighter around his chest as a brisk wind whipped through an open alley.
"That," the Vulcan replied, "is where the records are sparse. We know only that they were not seen after the meeting. However," he added, "I believe we can assume that the operatives would have found some method to dispose of any evidence. Also, their methods of execution were apparently sophisticated, since Second History reveals that the operatives were never captured."
Kirk nodded to himself. "Which means there's at least a billion and one possibilities, Spock," he observed. "And six hours isn't enough time to figure out which one is the right one in time to prevent it."
The Vulcan studied his human companion carefully. The rain had stopped, and the strong breeze had already started to dry the damp golden hair. "Alternatives?"
Kirk shrugged. "Well, since we know that it happened duringthe meeting, we have to find some way to be inon that meeting. The Romulans are obviously going to be designed to appear human—since Earth hasn't had any contact with alien civilizations at this point. But even if they lookhuman on the surface, if we can get into that meeting, it shouldn't be difficult to spot them."
Richardson groaned. "I seriously doubt they'll be eating nuts and bolts for an appetizer, Jim," he pointed out.
Kirk glanced at the Vulcan as a smile grew on his lips. "I've got a plan, Spock," he added, quickening his pace toward the hotel as he grabbed the Vulcan by the elbow and fairly dragged him along. "It's a long shot, but … I think I've got a role for you that'll make your charade as the Praetor look like the sixth-grade Christmas play by comparison!"
Once inside the lobby of the massive hotel, the conference room was easy enough to locate, Kirk discovered. And other than occasional glances from well-dressed businessmen, their presence scarcely seemed to be noticed. Making his way down a long hall which led to the banquet facilities, Kirk felt himself breathing a little easier.
Making one last turn into a more secluded area of the hotel, he found what he'd sought. The Starlight Ballroom rested at the end of one plushly carpeted hall; two sets of doors stood open, and various officials from numerous governmental bodies seemed to be arriving in a continuous flow. Glancing over his shoulder, Kirk motioned the Vulcan into a small corridor which apparently led into the kitchen area. Then, with Richardson at his side, the human walked boldly up to the first set of doors, and peered inside. One long table had been set with approximately thirty chairs; ornate floral arrangements ran the length of the table, and a large globe of the Earth as viewed from space rested in the center of the arrangement. Intricately carved candle holders held white candles; and with the dim lighting, the table seemed to glow with importance.
As he stood there, staring into the empty room, he soon became aware of Doctor Palmer and his associates. They seemed to stand out in the crowd, the human noticed with a grimace, as he observed several finely clothed men and women cloistering at the end of the hall less than twenty feet away. Under any other circumstances, Palmer could have been just another face in another crowd; but as Kirk looked at the man, he suddenly understood the importance of one individual dressed in a casual business suit. In Palmer's unspoken words, Kirk realized, his own future rested.
After a few moments, the crowd began drifting into the room; there was a scuffle of chairs, a murmur of hushed conversation … and absolutely no one who even vaguely resembled a Romulan. He studied the faces carefully, yet nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Any one of those thirty milling figures couldbe an assassin … or none of them. Yet something like a sixth sense warned Kirk that his hunches had paid off in the past. He glanced over his shoulder, and found Richardson engaged in mundane conversation with a stately woman who, Kirk realized, was old enough to be the ensign's mother. But at least no one seemed to object to their presence in the hall. Within another few moments, the woman smiled gently, blushed appropriately when Richardson kissed her hand, then disappeared into the banquet room. A porter came to the doors, kicked the support guards away, and allowed the last few guests to enter.
He glanced at Kirk. "Are you gentlemen part of Doctor Palmer's party?" he asked politely.
Kirk shook his head with a smile as Jerry rejoined him. "We're waiting for someone," he said casually, motioning to a nearby guest elevator.
The porter nodded with exaggerated courtesy, then quickly disappeared.
Kirk turned to Richardson, then sank down onto the plush courtesy divan against one wall. He took a deep breath. "I think we can safely assume that our little friends are inside," he stated. "We'll give it another five minutes—just long enough for things to settle down in there—and then we'll make our move."
Jerry took a deep breath, glancing around the now-empty hall. "You sure about this, Jim?" he asked.
Kirk shook his head with a lopsided grin. "Not at all," he confessed, then motioned around the corner. Presently, Spock stepped out into the corridor, one brow raising questioningly.