The owner and the waiter stood helplessly over Schlange, who was still alive. A diminishing stream of blood pumped from the side of his neck into a widening pool on the floor. Fragments of gray matter protruded from the exit wound on top of his skull, mixing with the blood beneath him. His one good eye stared up at Landser while his lungs worked spasmodically to expel the blood flowing into them from his destroyed mouth. He gurgled and wheezed as frothy bubbles burst between his bloody lips.
As he calmly reloaded his pistol and slammed it back into his holster, Landser stood over Schlange. Miraculously, the table where they had been sitting remained upright, and Landser's hardly touched glass sat there invitingly. Landser shrugged, picked it up, and took a slow mouthful of the wine. He rolled it around on his tongue before swallowing it. "Ah! An excellent vintage!" he told the owner, who stared at him in horror. "Schlange! Schlange," he said, bending over the dying informant, "the employee's name? His name, please?"
A huge blood bubble burst forth from between Schlange's lips with a sound that could have been someone's name: "Rajinderpal." Landser remained bent over the dying man for a few more moments, but satisfied he would say no more, he straightened up. "Schlange," he said, "you are a mess. Try to clean yourself up before the funeral.
"Gentlemen," Landser bowed toward the owner and his waiter, "you run a most excellent establishment. I shall recommend it to my friends." Landser carefully replaced his glass on the table and strode jauntily out of the cafe. Neither man thought to ask him who would pay the tab.
"I wish I was back with the platoon, where at least we could shoot back at a real enemy," Claypoole said one night after their return from Friedland. The massacre of Mother Siebensberg and her followers had been the single worst event of its kind in the history of Wanderjahr. Not nearly as many people had lost their lives in the witchcraft frenzy two centuries earlier. That had been due to hysteria; the massacre in Friedland was cold-blooded and calculated murder.
"The goddamned guerrillas," Dean responded angrily, "we should hunt them down and kill the lot!"
They were sitting at their workstations at police headquarters, reviewing the satellite reconnaissance tapes from the Denver's databases for the second time. The search had now been extended to include any information picked up prior to the attack at Morgenluft, with the same results: nothing.
Chief Long came in and asked the pair what they were doing. "Nothing, sir," Claypoole said.
"Come with me, then, lads, we do have something." He led them to the police communications center, where a young lieutenant in the Brosigville police intelligence unit by the name of Bashwa was also reviewing Denver intercepts.
"You see," Bashwa explained, "the chief here thought it might be a good idea for a Stadtpolizei officer to review those intercepts since we are familiar with the political and social conditions on Wanderjahr. I went back to just before the raid on Oligarch Keutgens's villa at Morgenluft and discovered this." He played back a recording of two men talking about visitors. "What alerted me was the name 'Ludendorf.' He was a famous German general a long time ago. I concluded that possibly Ludendorf is a code name for Brigadier Sturgeon. I also assumed that whoever made the call was in the party waiting for the brigadier's arrival. I then took that man's voice print and compared it with others on file, and..." He punched a key on his console. The picture of a balding, middle-aged man appeared on the screen, with two voice prints beneath it. "The upper one is the recording from the Denver's computer. The lower one is from a speech he made at an international conference on trade last fall. He is Lorelei Keutgens's deputy minister for commerce."
"Wow!" Claypoole exclaimed. "Question the bastard!"
"We are." Chief Long smiled.
"Who owns the other voice?" Dean asked.
"That we do not yet know," Bashwa said. "He was using a voice masker on his end. But we do know the transmission came from right here in Brosigville."
"Damned fine work. Lieutenant," Chief Long said, patting Bashwa on the shoulder. The lieutenant's dark face broke into a wide smile. "And now, my lads, we're having another small conference."
Commissioner Landser and Lieutenant Constantine were waiting for them in Chief Long's office. Landser had gotten used to the presence of the two enlisted Marines at the conferences, but he still had not accepted their presence at high-level meetings that should have been for officers only, and he did not understand why Chief Long persisted in dragging them about everywhere. But the chief had made it very clear to the commissioner and every officer on his staff that the two Marines were Brigadier Sturgeon's intelligence staff and hence deserved all the respect and assistance any police or Marine commissioned officer would expect.
"Gentlemen," Long began, "Lieutenant Constantine has done a technical intelligence sweep of this office, to ensure this conversation remains private. Let's start with what we know about the murders in Friedland. Pete?"
"The little red books were printed here on Wanderjahr," Constantine said. "We've traced the paper to a company right here in Brosigville. We're checking now with everyone who purchased that kind of paper in any quantity. We're getting no cooperation from some of the oligarchs in other Staats, but that should come as no surprise. The books contain the usual Peoples Liberation Army propaganda, mostly junk based on the ravings of an obscure twentieth-century Chinese rabble rouser.
"The bootprints match the patterns of several popular brands of footwear manufactured on Wanderjahr that are worn by farmhands."
"What troubles me most about these attacks," Landser interjected, "is the level of their violence. The PLA has always preached that the people are their best friends and encouraged their forces not to harm them. What acts of terrorism they have committed up to now have been against prominent individuals, plantation overseers, local officials in the areas where they are strongest. But since they came here," he nodded at the two Marines, "things have turned nasty all of a sudden."
Claypoole resented the implication that somehow the presence of the Marines on Wanderjahr was contributing to these terrible crimes, but he held his tongue.
"There may be some connection," Chief Long said. Both Claypoole and Dean stared at the chief in shock. He merely winked at the two Marines.
"All of this is just too pat," Constantine said. "First the bombing here, then someone tries to kill Dean and Claypoole, then the attack against Keutgens, and now this. Particularly this last act, as if we haven't gotten the point yet that the guerrillas are supposed to be behind all these events. Where does the PLA find the men, material, and time to mount all these terrorist attacks when the Feldpolizei, being led by Marines now, is putting salt on their tails out in the boonies?"
"Yes, and do not forget," Landser chimed in, "that the most severe of these attacks have occurred in Staats where the PLA is weakest. For them to have mounted them there would require a logistical and political organization of more sophistication than they seem to possess, at least outside Arschland and the other two or three Staats where they are strongest."
"Lads?" Chief Long said to the Marines. Dean looked at Claypoole, who shrugged.
"Sir," Claypoole responded, "we're going through the satellite tapes and intercepts for the second time. The detectives here and at Friedland have helped us identify every registered flight and ship entering the territory for the ten days preceding the attack. Nothing. The same with departures up to five days after the attack. We have identified no transport either coming into the place or leaving it that wasn't there on legitimate business. It is our guess—and the detectives back us up on this—that the raiders came into Friedland in small groups, smuggling their weapons and equipment in their luggage. They may have dispersed by air, but so far we can't prove it."
Dean marveled at how smooth the speech was. Was Rachman really becoming a regular staff weenie?
"Sir," Claypoole continued, "the LT and the commissioner have good points too. I thought it was Garth who set off the bomb and shot at us, until he denied everything, and he ha
d no reason to lie about it before he died. By the way, sir, has anybody figured out what Garth meant when he said 'Titties' set off the bomb?"
Chief Long looked at Commissioner Landser. When Landser did not offer anything, he told Claypoole, "Not yet," but he was pretty sure Landser knew.
"And then you confirmed he was spying on Multan for the guerrillas all along," Dean said. "In fact, it was he who turned in the raiders at the warehouse that night," he added.
"It's as if someone was deliberately trying to put the blame on the PLA so we'd go after them," Claypoole said, thinking out loud. Immediately he smiled to himself. So that's what the chief meant!
Chief Long smiled. "That's about what it comes down to."
"Yeah, but who?" Constantine asked.
"Who indeed?" Landser asked.
"Ah, yes, Alois, any new information on who assassinated Kalat Uxmal? Oligarch Arschmann is very anxious that you pursue that case. Why, you were with Uxmal at the time." It was a statement that begged an explanation.
"We go back a long way together." Landser smiled tightly, thinking of Schlange, the Snake, whom he had known for so many years. He exchanged glances with Chief Long. Long knew he was hiding something, but he chose not to pursue it just then. "We found the assassins' vehicle a few hours ago. The passenger's seat was covered in blood, and there were a total of a dozen bullet holes in the rear."
"Good shooting. Commissioner," Lieutenant Constantine said. Landser smiled again.
"Any motive for the shooting?" Chief Long asked. "Uxmal was spying for the guerrillas, Chief. They may think I turned him."
Chief Long had to be careful how he responded to that nonanswer. Landser was, after all, the commissioner of the Brosigville Stadtpolizei, a good officer too. Calling him out now, in front of the others, would serve no useful purpose.
"Let's recap what we have, then," Long went on, deciding to change the subject. "One: Multan's men were behind the raid at the warehouse. I've got Multan on violation of Confederation law against the unauthorized possession of plasma weapons. As the Confederation's chief law enforcement officer on Wanderjahr, I am going to arrest him, with some help from Brigadier Sturgeon and you, Alois. I do not need the approval for this from your local magistrates either. This is Confederation business and I have the muscle to do what I have to. We'll let the diplomats sort the legalities out—after I have Multan safely in prison offworld. He is history."
"There will be a fight," Landser cautioned.
"So there will be," Chief Long responded. The men sitting around his desk sat up straighter in their chairs.
Landser grinned. "I could never do anything about him because as a member of the Ruling Council he is immune to prosecution while here on Council business, and he is not stupid enough to come here as a tourist. I closed some of his enterprises down and arrested some of his men, but that never stopped him. Chairman Arschmann never seemed to be very upset about it because, frankly, I think he was in on it, although I can't prove it, and as Chairman of the Ruling Council he is always immune to arrest. Until you came here." He nodded at Chief Long. "Now..." He smacked a fist into his palm.
Long continued: "Two: the raid on Keutgens was ordered by someone in Brosigville using her deputy minister of commerce as a spotter. The minister is already in custody, and in time we'll know who his contact is here in Brosigville. That person is mine. He is responsible for the attempted murder of a Confederation military officer, and for that he will be extradited and tried by the Confederation.
"Three: we don't know who slaughtered Siebensberg and her people, but the guerrillas are not our first choice for that deed.
"Four: we're not sure who bombed Marine headquarters or shot at my lads here. Of all the incidents, those two are most likely the work of the guerrillas. But maybe not.
"Finally, gentlemen, we have a very complicated situation before us. My guts tell me we're right in the middle of a colossal power struggle on Wanderjahr, of which the war with the guerrillas is only a very small part. Gentlemen, I'll let you know when we're ready to move against Multan. Meanwhile, word of this must stay among us." He looked at each man. "I will need your best men for this operation, Alois, but they shall know nothing of our destination until we are en route. Thank you for your time this afternoon. Alois, please stay behind when the others leave, won't you?"
Alone, Chief Long regarded the commissioner carefully before he spoke. "You are not telling me everything, are you, Alois?"
"No, I am not."
"May I ask why? Your orders were to do so."
"Yes. I disobeyed." Landser swallowed and shifted his weight in his seat. "It is no secret, Chief, that I resent the way Chairman Arschmann forced you on me. I hate him for that, and I only hope my personal feelings have not clouded my judgment in this case."
Chief Long nodded but said nothing.
"But I have come to respect you." Landser's face reddened. Compliments did not come easily to this man. "I will show you that I am a good officer," he said with feeling. "I am just not sure yet about my evidence, but when I am, I will ask for your help."
"I could have you dismissed for this, Alois," Chief Long reminded him.
"Yes, I know." Landser smiled. "But you won't."
"No, I won't" Chief Long sighed. "From now on, Alois, trust me. I am the only one you can trust, you know that. The oligarchs are all at each other's throats. Watch your back, my friend."
"If anything happens to me. Chief, my files will survive." He held out a microdiskette. "Everything is on here. Will you trust me for another few days?"
Chief Long took the diskette. "Yes, Alois, I will do that," he replied.
"Oh, and one more request." Long nodded. "I must leave town for a few days."
"May I inquire where you'll be going, Alois?"
"I'd rather not say. Chief."
"I can always find out, Alois."
"Yes."
Chief Long pretended to consider the request for a moment. "Be careful. Oh, and that was very, very good shooting." Landser was smiling like a schoolboy as he walked out of the office.
After Landser had departed. Chief Long took out one of the cigars Claypoole had given him and lighted it. He puffed contentedly for a time, feet propped on his workstation. Who is doing what to whom? he asked himself. Alois Landser certainly held the key, but Chief Long had already figured most of it out for himself.
Over the next few days, certain individuals in Arschland and Morgenluft mysteriously disappeared from their normal haunts, and wound up incommunicado in a safe house known only to Commissioner Landser and a few of his most highly trusted subordinates. Only then did Landser take Chief Long fully into his confidence. Together, they decided it was time to approach Ambassador Spears and Brigadier Sturgeon. Swift and very decisive action was required, and soon.
Chapter Fifteen
The headquarters runner, whose name Hing never did learn, led the way to an Arschmann Plantation utility ground car parked a couple of kilometers away, where they got into the cargo compartment. The driver, who wore an Arschmann Plantation foreman's uniform, scowled at them and merely grunted when the runner said, "Take us away." By the time the two guerrillas had changed into the civilian clothes that were waiting for them, the utility car was on a paved road, speeding toward a settlement fifty kilometers north of the 257th GSB headquarters.
Hing didn't bother asking about the driver's identity; he didn't need to know, and understood that he wouldn't be told. Which was all right. He had his own group of informants who were Arschmann employees. For the guerrillas, that was one of the benefits of working in Arschland. The oligarch was so uniformly hated that many people willingly helped the guerrillas, and most of them refused to provide any information or assistance to the Feldpolizei. Arschland was one place where a guerrilla could move as a fish in a school of fish.
The driver stopped the car at a monorail station. Hing wasn't certain, because the settlement was outside his normal operations area, but he thought it was Ulbrich
tsburg. For all the cleanliness of its streets, the town certainly was as drab as its name suggested. The few people he saw walked fast with their eyes cast down, as though in a hurry to get off the street and not wanting to be seen. Their clothing seemed gray or brown, as drab as the town itself. The few ground cars he saw were Arschmann Plantation vehicles.
The runner paid their fare at the station's gate and they mounted to the northbound platform to wait. Only one other person waited with them, a stout grandmother type in a rumpled brown dress, with a gray sweater and a head scarf that had once been a bright blue. A large bag sat at her feet.
The wait was blessedly short; the ride wasn't.
Hing had plenty of time to wonder about the meaning of the peremptory summons to Staat HQ. He'd never even heard of a brigade commander getting a peremptory summons. On the rare occasions that a summons was issued, it was done more politely. Some lead time was always allowed, and generally some explanation was given.
Not this time, though. Hing racked his brain, trying to think of whom he might have offended, what he might have done wrong. He could think of no one and nothing. With the possible exception of Lieutenant Pincote's disastrous ambush a few days earlier. And word of that could not have reached headquarters so quickly.
After a half hour of futile mental exercise, he gave up thinking and tried to enjoy the passing scenery. But it was hard to appreciate its beauty when the scenery passed at 150 kilometers an hour. Even the occasional village the monorail stopped in was drab. There were no quaint villages in Arschland. Oligarch Arschmann thought quaintness was a waste of valuable resources resources that could be put to better use increasing his wealth and power.
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