by David Weber
There was no ready exit from the pond’s cul-de-sac, however, and he shrugged. He would have preferred to have a bolthole if he needed one, but sometimes an agent simply had to play the hand he’d drawn. He moved a few meters closer to the pond, then turned and faced back the way he’d come, still whistling and with one hand in his right coat pocket.
* * *
Nowak had never spent any time in this particular park, since he had an aversion to beating off muggers. Now, unfortunately, Mwenge had given him the slip. He had to be somewhere along one of the paths, but he’d managed to get around the initial bend and disappear before Nowak rounded it in pursuit, and the Włocławekan had no idea how those paths were arranged.
He stood very still, listening. The normal city sounds were faint and muted by the ratty, once elegant tenements that rose like some decaying ceramacrete canyon around the park. The cold, cutting wind was broken into little more than an unpleasant breeze by the same tenements, and as he cocked his head he heard—very faintly—the sound of someone whistling.
This is getting ridiculous. Why didn’t he just leave a trail of breadcrumbs like the kids in that old story?!
Well, either it was an ambush after all or else this Mwenge really wanted to talk to him badly.
There was only one way to find out.
* * *
As the man tailing him pushed through the same prickly gap, Harahap revised his size estimate upward. The fellow had very broad shoulders, too, and he carried himself like someone who spent at least an hour or so every day in the gym. He also seemed unsurprised to find Harahap waiting for him. His expression never flickered as he used his left hand to disengage a thorn-edged branch from the right sleeve of his coat; his right hand, however, stayed as firmly in his coat pocket as Harahap’s own hand.
“I wondered when you’d be along,” the ex-gendarme said calmly as his right thumb disengaged the safety on the compact pulser in that pocket. “Welcome to my office.”
His left hand waved to take in their desolate surroundings, and the newcomer snorted in what seemed like genuine amusement.
“You wondered that, did you?” he said. “Well, I wondered why you were so obliging about showing me the way here.”
“Sometimes you have to be ‘obliging’ to get the people you’re interested in meeting to talk to you.”
“Really?” The other man tilted his head. “And what makes you think I might be that kind of people? As far as I can tell, all you’ve done for the last week is talk to the kind of people someone working for a charitable foundation—especially one like yours—ought to be talking to. Which isn’t at all the kind of people I am.”
“No,” Harahap conceded. “On the other hand, the people I do want to talk to would know what was going on with organizations like the Siostry Ubogich. And they’d probably get suspicious and come all over curious if someone from off-world started talking to those same organizations. Especially if that off-worlder let slip just how much he disapproved of the SEOM and the łowcy trufli.” He smiled thinly. “And, while we’re at it, I should probably point out that I’m none too fond of Minister Bezpieczeństwa i Prawdy Pokriefke, either.”
He pronounced the Polish better than most off-worlders, Nowak noticed. At the same time, his accent was additional proof he was an off-worlder. But…
“You may not realize it, Mr. Mwenge, but that kind of talk can get someone in trouble here in the Włocławek. And for someone who’s not fond of Mała Justyna, her czarne kurtki were awfully quick to get you passed through security when you arrived. For that matter, Hieronim Mazur’s not in the habit of sending Stowarzyszenie representatives to greet his more trenchant off-world critics. Assuming they really are critics, of course.” He smiled thinly. “I’m sure you can understand my confusion here.”
Harahap smiled back as his earbug translated “Mała Justyna” into Standard English. “Little Justyna,” was it? That was one his intel reports had missed, and he wondered how. Somehow the nickname didn’t sound like a term of endearment.
“I can understand why you might be a little…puzzled,” he said out loud. “And obviously it wouldn’t be very smart of you to simply take my word for it that I’m one hell of a nice guy. On the other hand, we’re not going to get anywhere if we both just stand here with the pulsers in our pockets aimed at the other fellow.”
Harahap smiled more broadly as Nowak’s eyes narrowed.
“Now,” he continued in the reasonable tone of a man commenting on the weather, “I suppose it’s possible you’d have no interest at all in talking to someone who, A, doesn’t like what he sees in this system; B, managed to come up with a cover identity the local regime actually welcomed on-planet; and, C, might be in a position to provide someone here in Włocławek who didn’t much care for his current government with assistance in changing that government.”
He smiled again, more broadly, as the eyes which had narrowed went suddenly wide.
“By the way, I’ll deny I ever said any of that if it should turn out you’re actually a deep admirer of Pierwszy Sekretarz Krzywicka.”
“And if I recorded it while you were saying it?” Nowak asked, sparring for time while he tried to deal with his astonishment.
“Well, in that case,” Harahap reached into his left hip pocket and slowly and carefully extracted a small device and held it up, “I will be bitterly disappointed in the box of toys my superiors sent me out with.”
“What’s that?” Nowak’s voice was suddenly deeper, sharper, and Harahap shrugged.
“Check your com,” he suggested.
Nowak looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then raised his left arm, shooting his jacket cuff to look at the bracelet on his wrist. He gazed at it for a moment, then his eyes snapped back to Harahap.
“I’m afraid you need a new one,” Harahap said pleasantly. “And this time you might want to invest in one that’s hardened against directional EMP. On the other hand, I think I can be pretty sure any recorders hidden about your person are equally dead. And unless the pulser in your pocket’s military grade—like the one in my pocket—I doubt you’ll be able to shoot me very well. So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll take my hand out if you’ll take your hand out and maybe we can talk like civilized men for a few minutes.” He smiled again, and this time there was genuine warmth in the expression. “I promise not to ask you to make any commitments or even tell me who you are…this time. But judging from your actions, and unless you’re a much better actor than I think you are, if you’ll pardon my frankness, I think you’ll find it worth your time.”
* * *
Well, that went better than expected, Damien Harahap reflected an hour later as he watched his new acquaintance walk through the park gate and head back towards the heart of the city.
The Włocławekan hadn’t fallen all over himself providing information about any secret organization he might or might not represent. And it was always possible he represented no such thing, although the fact that Harahap was still un-arrested strongly argued that he did. Barring that possibility—which would end badly for one Damien Harahap sometime very soon—he seemed to be exactly what Harahap had been looking for.
Tough, smart, and pretty damned ballsy, too, he thought. And not just a low-level hanger on. Somebody else put him on to me, and he was either sent—or took it upon himself—to check me out.
The Włocławekan had given him a name—Topór—which his earbug translated as “Axe” and probably bore about as much resemblance to his true name as Mwenge did to Harahap’s. Aside from that, he’d spent almost the entire hour listening, with only an occasional question, while Harahap spun his spiel. Then he’d accepted the encrypted com combination and departed.
It would be interesting to see if he used it…and whether or not any second meeting he might arrange was a Biuro Bezpieczeństwa i Prawdy trap.
At least it’ll keep life from being boring, Harahap told himself philosophically and resumed his interrupted walk to the spaceport, whi
stling once more and enjoying the brisk night while he thought about the PR strategy he was due to discuss with Bjørn Kudzinowski’s senior assistant for off-world information.
It really was a marvelous cover.
Chapter Twenty
“So, Adam,” Karl-Heinz Sabatino leaned back with a tulip-shaped brandy snifter in one hand while he selected a cigar with the other, “I trust the funding arrangements are working out satisfactorily?”
Adam Šiml smiled—one might almost have said smirked—back at his host. His own snifter, with its seventeen centiliters of ninety-year-old Solarian brandy, sat on the inlaid end table of genuine Old Terran mahogany at his elbow as he leaned forward to select a cigar of his own from the humidor extended by Jiří Bradáč, Sabatino’s personal aide.
“I certainly can’t complain about the…promptitude with which the funds were transferred, Karl-Heinz,” he acknowledged.
He unwrapped the cigar, snipped the end with the solid gold clippers Bradáč provided, and took his time lighting it with the attention to detail the task deserved. He rolled the fragrant, sweet-tasting smoke over his tongue, wallowing in the sensual pleasure with unfeigned delight and once again grateful to Lao Than, the sixth-century Beowulfan physician who’d perfected the vaccine against cancer.
But then his mood darkened internally, although no sign of it touched his face, because he would have been even more grateful if that seventeen-T-century-old vaccine were currently available to every Chotěbořan. Before the komár plague, it had been; since the plague, it was available only to those prepared to pay for it in the clinics run by OFS and Frogmore-Wellington/Iwahara. As Frontier Security had pointed out, someone had to cover the expense of providing adequate medical care, and the fee wasn’t exorbitant—only about thirty-six times what the vaccine cost. Of course “not exorbitant” was one of those relative terms, particularly for something that was a routinely available public health vaccination on other planets…and especially when Chotěboř’s straitened economy meant the “not-exorbitant” fee was beyond the reach of all too many of the star system’s citizens.
As were the standard therapies to prevent a dozen other diseases which no longer existed on properly administered planets which enjoyed a modicum of prosperity. Just as they hadn’t existed on Chotěboř once upon a time.
But what the hell! A man couldn’t expect to have everything, now could he?
The familiar resentment rolled through him, and he responded by making his smile a bit broader.
“Sokol can always use another sports complex,” he said, “and quite a few of our stadiums and satellite fields need refurbishing.” He shrugged. “Money’s been tight for quite some time, Karl-Heinz, as I’m sure you understand. The ability to actually deal with some of those delayed repairs and renovations is going to make a lot of people very happy. Especially if we’re in a position to base our future planning on an ongoing cash stream, as it were.”
“I’m glad.” Sabatino had his own cigar burning nicely and he blew a perfect smoke ring, watching with almost childlike delight as it drifted across the magnificently furnished library. Then he looked back at Šiml. “I can think of very few causes more worthy than your organization, Adam. I’m actually rather embarrassed that it’s taken me this long to recognize just how beneficial Sokol’s always been here in Kumang. And”—his hazel eyes narrowed ever so slightly—“if I can simultaneously earn Frogmore-Wellington and Iwahara a little goodwill by supporting them, I count that a beneficial secondary effect. A bit crass of me, I suppose, but I do represent businesses who exist to make a profit for their shareholders. If I can kill two birds with one stone, as it were, that’s always a good thing, you understand. Especially when I have to justify expenditures to the accountants at the end of the day.”
“Of course.” Šiml nodded, drawing on his cigar. “And I understand how it might have taken a while for you to recognize just how worthy—and…beneficial—Sokol is. Or how beneficial it can be going forward, for that matter.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking about when I approached you about the donation program.” Sabatino beamed happily. “I trust the cash flow your Ms. Tonová and I have discussed will be adequate for your immediate needs?”
“For our immediate needs,” Šiml stressed the adjective ever so slightly, “yes. It’s more than adequate.”
“Excellent. And”—Sabatino’s eyes held his—“I’m sure we can address any future needs as they arise. Within reason, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Šiml agreed.
Sabatino smiled again, remembering his conversation with Luis Verner and the system administrator’s initial skepticism. To be honest, Sabatino had been a bit worried that Verner’s concerns might have been better taken than he himself had cared to admit, once he started looking more closely at the proposition. Adam Šiml’s reputation for civic-mindedness of the most revoltingly altruistic variety had appeared to be far better deserved than he’d assumed it could be. But Beowulf hadn’t been settled in a day, and Karl-Heinz Sabatino hadn’t achieved his current position by abandoning projects easily. He’d persevered, even though his initial personal contact with Šiml had seemed anything but promising. And it was working out very nicely, after all. According to young Bradáč’s discreet taps into the Chotěbořian banking system, Šiml had skimmed just under forty percent off the top of Frogmore-Wellington and Iwahara’s donations and grants to Sokol.
That was on the miserly side by the standards of Chotěboř’s financial upper crust. Sixty or even seventy percent would have been closer to the norm, especially for an organization like Sokol, which could wrap itself—and its chief executive officer—in the mantle of all its manifold good works. But even forty percent was a welcome early sign. Once Šiml had settled fully into his new relationship, he’d undoubtedly increase his cut, and he was already responding—tentatively, to be sure, but responding—to subtle hints that his new patron might be willing to back a return to the political arena.
And what he’s already taking is more than enough to put him under my thumb when he does, Sabatino thought, smiling benevolently at his guest. He may not’ve taken as much as most of the other neobarbs on this benighted planet, but he’s taken enough to shoot his reputation as a do-gooder immune to the attraction of filthy lucre right in the head. If his little arrangement with me ever becomes public it’ll destroy him with his current support base—especially since it’s such a contradiction of the front he shows everyone else.
“It always does my heart good to be able to lend a helping hand to someone who devotes so much of his life and time to helping others,” he said out loud. “And if I can make your own life a little easier in the process, why, that’s even better from my perspective, Adam.”
* * *
“And how did dinner go?” Zdeněk Vilušínský asked pleasantly, and then chuckled as Šiml raised his right hand, middle finger extended.
“That well, did it?” the farmer said.
“The food was excellent and the brandy was even better,” Šiml told him. “The problem was keeping it down, given the company.”
“Is he really that much worse than, say, Cabrnoch or Kápička?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘worse.’”
Šiml crossed his library—much smaller and less grandly furnished than Sabatino’s but filled with books and chips he’d actually read—and flopped into the chair behind his reading desk. Vilušínský followed him, settled into his favorite comfortable overstuffed armchair on the other side of the desk, and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
“Cabrnoch’s a pig in a trough.” Šiml’s calm, almost dispassionate tone turned the indictment of his star system’s president into a flaying knife. “He’s got every intention of hanging around and enjoying the hell out of his personal power for as long as he can, but he’s also worried about what happens if he falls off the back of the šavlozub. You know as well as I do that he’s grabbing cash with both hands and stashing it off-world to serve as
his golden counter-grav if he has to make a run for it.”
He paused, and Vilušínský nodded.
“That’s bad enough, but Kápička’s worse in some ways.” He grimaced. “I wonder what Juránek thought he was doing when he recommended Kápička to Cabrnoch for Public Safety in the first place!”
“Probably that he had enough dirt on Kápička to guarantee he’d be the one who actually controlled the CPSF when push finally comes to shove between him and Cabrnoch—or anyone else, for that matter,” his friend replied cynically.
“Then our esteemed vice president’s even stupider than I thought he was.” Šiml shook his head. “Kápička’s got at least twice Juránek’s IQ—which, admittedly, isn’t that hard—and Juránek’s a straight machine politician. Kápička isn’t. And I doubt there’s enough ‘dirt’ on Kápička for anyone to control him.” Šimlr tipped his chair back. “There are occasions when I actually like the man. At least he likes football, and he’s less addicted to living well at someone else’s expense than Cabrnoch or Juránek. He’s no saint, and he’s sure as hell not passing up any ‘legitimate’ graft that comes his way, but I don’t really think he’s inherently vicious. The problem is that he genuinely believes that if all those ‘subversive elements’ get out from under Public Safety’s heel, they’ll launch some retaliatory reign of terror.”
“And is he so wrong about what’ll happen if our jiskry ever do find themselves in a position to retaliate?” Vilušínský asked softly.
“I hope he is, but I can’t guarantee it,” Šiml admitted with bleak frankness. “Some of our people—no, a lot of our people—are even madder than I am, and with good reason. People like Taťána Holečková, for example. Or Kateřina Lorenzová.” He shook his head again, his expression even bleaker than his tone. “People who have dead or crippled or ‘disappeared’ family are going to want vengeance even more than they want justice, Zdeněk, and who are we to blame them? And that’s where Kápička’s logic breaks down. Every single name he adds to that list only creates more—and more bitter—opposition. Hell, for that matter, that’s why some of his own agents’ve found their way into Jiskra, and you know it! In the end, his tactics are only going to make it one hell of a lot worse when the wheels finally come off.”