"You got the notebook, didn't you?" the Queen said. "But of course it
wasn't luck. It's prescience--the ability to predict the future. You've
had it all along, but you haven't been consciously using it. The only
way you'll ever catch those boys is to know where they're going to be
before they get there."
Malone sat down heavily on the couch next to Dorothea. His mind was
whirling with a fine, dizzy rapidity. In a few seconds he was going to
try and grab the brass ring.
"Oh, I'll help you," the Queen added. "Don't worry about that. I think I
can pick up Mike's mind, now that I'm closer to him. And if we can
figure out what their plans are, and where they're going to be, we can
nab them all, Sir Kenneth. Won't that be nice?"
"Ducky," Malone said. "Simply ducky. All I have to do is predict the
future while you read minds and we both teleport. And Dorothea can sit
around sticking pins in dolls, I guess. Or--"
"Well, now," the Queen said, "I don't know. Perhaps she just doesn't
have that talent. Besides, why would we want to do anything like that?
It seems to me--"
"Never mind," Malone said hopelessly. "If we're going to do anything,
let's get started."
* * * * *
Twelve hours later, Kenneth J. Malone was sitting quietly in a small
room at the rear of a sporting-goods store on upper Madison Avenue,
trying to remain calm and hoping that the finest, most beautiful and
complete hunch--only now it wasn't a "hunch" any more, he reminded
himself; now it was prescience--was going to pay off. With him were Boyd
and two agents from the Sixty-ninth Street office. They were sitting
quietly, too, but there was a sense of enormous excitement in the air.
Malone wanted to get up and walk around, but he didn't dare. He clamped
his hands in his lap and sat tight.
They waited in silence, not daring to talk. There wasn't a sound in the
room. Malone felt like screaming, but he managed to control himself with
an effort.
There was no reason why the plan shouldn't work, Malone told himself.
According to all the theory he knew, it was fool proof. Her Majesty had
no doubts about it, either. She assured him that he had prescience, and
several other powers as well. Unfortunately, Malone wasn't quite as sure
as she was.
Even if the theory seemed to back her up, he thought, there was still a
chance that she was wrong, and the theory was wrong, and everything was
wrong. His hunch--prescience, if you wanted to call it that, he
amended--said definitely that this would be the place the Spooks would
hit tonight. Her Majesty was quite sure of it. And Malone couldn't think
of a single really good reason why either of them might be wrong. But
maybe he'd got the address mixed up. Maybe the Spooks were somewhere
else right now, robbing what they pleased, safe from capture--
It doesn't do much good to know where a teleporter _is_, Malone thought.
But it's extremely handy to know where he's going to be. And if you also
know what he plans to do when he gets where he's going, you've got an
absolute lead-pipe cinch to work with.
The Queen and Malone had provided that lead-pipe cinch. They were sure
that Mike planned to raid the sporting-goods store with the rest of the
Spooks that night.
But, of course, they might all just be riding for some kind of horrible,
unforeseen fall--
The main part of the sporting-goods store was fairly well lit, even at
night, though it was by no means brightly illuminated. There were
show-window lights on, and the street lamp from outside cast a nice
glow. Malone was grateful for that. But the back room was dark, and the
four men there were well-concealed. A curtain closed the room off, and
Malone watched the front of the store through a narrow opening in it. He
stared until his eyes ached, afraid to blink in case he missed the
appearance of the Spooks. Everything had to go off just right, precisely
on schedule.
And it was going to happen any minute, he told himself nervously. In
just a few minutes, everything would be over.
Malone held his breath.
Then he saw the figure walk slowly by the glass front of the shop,
looking in with over-elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint,
making sure there was no one left in it.
Mike Fueyo.
Malone tried to breathe, and couldn't.
Seconds ticked by.
And then--almost magically--they appeared. Eight of them, almost
simultaneously, in the center of the room.
Mike Fueyo spoke in a low, controlled voice. "O.K., now," he said.
"Let's move fast. We haven't got much time. We--"
And that was all he said.
Malone concentrated on just one thing: holding an image of the room,
with the eight Spooks in it.
There was a long second of silence.
Malone felt a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek. He held the image.
"What's wrong?" the tallest boy said suddenly--Ramon Otravez, Malone
remembered. "What's wrong, Mike?"
Mike let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "I ... don't know," he said
slowly. "I can't move--"
"It's a trap!" another boy shouted.
Malone bore down. He could feel power draining out of him, but he held
on, willing the boys to remain in the room, blanking out their own
teleportative abilities with his stronger ones.
The eight boys stood, frozen, in the center of the lit room.
Malone let another second go by, and then he stepped out from behind the
curtains.
"Hello, boys," he said casually.
Mike stared at him. "It's Malone," he said.
"That's right," Malone said. "Hello, Mike. I've been waiting for you."