by Dan Moren
“Simple psychology,” said M’basa. “They just put a light up there that’s timed to flash when people are heading out; it gets their attention and they look at it involuntarily. Even if it’s only for a split second, they’ve got ’em. Anyway, I’m running him through facial rec right now. Should have an ID shortly.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Tapper, shaking his head. “Probably messing with our brains, too.”
Kovalic ignored him, staring at the face in the image. Handsome, for sure: clean-shaven, light eyes. Nothing else that made it stand out, certainly not to Kovalic. But there was something about the man’s bearing that was ringing all the alarm bells.
He looped the shot of the man turning towards the camera, running it over and over again as he stared at it. Something was still nagging at him, and had been since the abduction. Something about the way the captors had moved. Not just well-trained, but with the precision and confidence born of military training. They’d known all the places where they wouldn’t be spotted by the Illyrican forces. Even known exactly which car in the convoy to hit. They must have done a hell of a recon…
“Shit,” he said aloud.
“Boss?” said Tapper.
“I think I know where this is going,” said Kovalic. “And it’s not good.” Staring blankly at the floor, he tried to compose his thoughts, his eyes shuttling back and forth like a typewriter carriage.
M’basa turned to Tapper. “Does he always talk in riddles like this?”
The sergeant shrugged, and leaned back in his chair. “It’s a process. Wait it out.”
M’basa looked poised to issue a retort when her comm chimed. Frowning, she answered it. After listening for a moment, her eyes widened sharply, then murmured an assent. “We got the facial recognition result back on our friend at the rental shop. You’re never going to believe it.”
“Let me guess: he’s an Illyrican military officer,” said Kovalic.
M’basa’s jaw fell open. “How the hell did you know that?”
Kovalic shook his head. “We’ve been searching for motive in all the wrong places. You know that old saying about things always being the last place you look?”
“That’s where I always find my keys,” said Tapper.
“Yeah, well, who’s the last person you’d suspect of kidnapping the crown prince of the Illyrican Empire?”
Tapper scratched his temple. “You mean, like, the Illyrican Emp…” He trailed off, his face falling, as he met Kovalic’s eyes. “No way.”
“It was an inside job. Had to have been. They knew where the prince would be, they knew all the blind spots and the decoys. Nobody’s recon is that solid without an inside source.” He glanced at M’basa. “Who was the guy? Military attaché? Advance planner?”
M’basa nodded to the screen, still showing the looped footage from the rental office. “Meet Erich von Denffer, Commander of the Honor Wing for Prince Hadrian.”
It was Tapper and Kovalic’s turn to gape at that one. “I suppose you don’t need an inside source when you’re the one giving the orders,” said Kovalic.
“I still don’t get it,” said M’basa, running a hand through her hair. “Why the hell would the Illyricans kidnap their own prince? What do they want?”
“It still has something to do with that meeting with Vallejo. Maybe there’s some faction that opposed the deal?” Kovalic shook his head, frustrated. “But what’s the point? They’d have to know it would bring…” He blinked. Kidnapping the prince would bring the whole Illyrican fleet down on them. They were military – they’d have known that.
So, the only reasonable conclusion was that bringing the Illyrican fleet to Bayern had been the plan all along.
“And now he’s just not finishing sentences,” said M’basa. “Seriously, how do you work like this?”
Tapper cleared his throat. “Uh, boss?”
Everything was slotting into place now as if on fast-forward. “OK, here’s what we know. The Illyrican Empire is broke.”
M’basa looked up sharply. “The Illyrican Empire is what?”
“All those invasion fleets cost money,” continued Kovalic, almost talking to himself. “Lots of money. They leveraged everything to build warships, but they lost a big chunk of them at Badr, and even more when the Fifth Fleet was destroyed at the Battle of Sabaea. So, they’re having credit problems because the Corporation, well, the Corporation doesn’t see them as a solid investment any more. Hence Vallejo requesting a meeting to talk things over – originally with Bleiden, who was responsible for the Imperium’s accounts with the Corporation. But he was talking out of school – to us – so that was the end of him.
“The hardliners in the Illyrican government don’t want to roll over for some mere bankers, so they come up with a plan: send the prince to Bayern in Bleiden’s stead, then stage a kidnapping. Because they’re the ones who have him, the Bayern security forces won’t be able to locate His Imperial Highness, which lets the Imperium justify sending in the cavalry. The Illyrican military descends en masse to look for the prince; they’ll find him, safe and sound, and surely invent a cover story about dissidents or something. But they’ll leave a security force here – for the safety of their investments on Bayern, of course. An invasion, under the guise of a police action. And with the Illyricans establishing military control, the Corporation’s resources just tacitly become the Imperium’s. In short: Bayern’s not going to give the Imperium what it wants – so the Imperium’s just going to take it.”
Silence hung in the room. It was a hell of a theory, nothing more holding it together than some spit and baling wire. And yet, it made a demented sort of sense. An outright invasion would provoke the censure of the galaxy, and the Commonwealth, as the only power even remotely capable of balancing the Imperium, wouldn’t be able to take it lying down. That would plunge the whole galaxy back into outright conflict. But a backdoor invasion… well, there wasn’t an army for the Commonwealth to fight. The diplomats would protest, and argue – in Kovalic’s experience, endlessly – but it would be a fait accompli, and the galaxy would eventually move on, but the Illyrican Empire would now have more assets at its disposal, allowing it to rebuild its fleet. The whole galaxy would take a giant step away from détente.
But they could forestall that. All they had to do was get the prince back to the Illyricans, and present him to that incoming Illyrican fleet – gone would be the rationale for a military presence. But to do that, they needed some help. Kovalic brought up his sleeve and punched in a code.
Tapper frowned at him. “Who are you calling?”
“Frayn. He might be able to help us.”
“Are you serious? What if he’s in on it?”
Kovalic shook his head. “This isn’t Harry’s style. He doesn’t want open war any more than we do.”
Tapper rolled his eyes. “You’re putting a lot of faith in a guy who had a gun to your head not two hours ago.”
“What?” said M’basa again, eyes jumping between the two of them. “When did this… you know what? Never mind. I don’t even want to know.”
The intelligence officer answered on the second ring. “Frayn.”
“Harry, I’ve got bad news and worse news. Which do you want first?”
Bergfestung’s fifth ring was the closest residential district to the city center, the inner rings being entirely zoned for commercial and governmental uses. It also happened to be the poshest neighborhood in the entire city – and probably on Bayern, for what it was worth. Every house visible from the road was fronted with a rectangle of carefully trimmed greenery; those that weren’t visible were secreted behind ivy-encrusted brick walls. Apparently the climbing plant did well in low-light, from the amount of it that Kovalic had seen about the city.
The silver hovercar they’d once again borrowed from the Commonwealth embassy cruised through the streets, its lights off. The early morning sun was pouring across the inside of Bergfestung in patches; the Corporation’s tower was bathed in light, for
example, but even just a few rings out, it was as if dawn was just breaking.
Nobody else was on the streets at this hour. Kovalic swept his gaze across the houses, not entirely sure what he was looking for, but certain that he’d know it when he spotted it.
“Frayn wouldn’t just give you the damn address?”
“The man works for the Illyrican government; that’d hardly be professional.”
Tapper paused. “Say he just conspicuously stood outside the house and we happened to see him. How professional would that be?”
“Kind of walking the line, I’d say. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” said Tapper. He pulled the car over to the side of the road and rolled down the window. “Evening, officer.”
“Gentlemen,” said Frayn, leaning down to put his elbows on the doorframe. “You look a bit lost. Can I help you out?”
“What are you doing here, Harry?” said Kovalic.
Frayn raised his eyebrows. “My job is to protect the prince. Everything else is subordinate to that.”
“Shouldn’t you be calling in a battalion of special forces, then?”
The older man shrugged. “Right now, we have reason to believe that the prince has been taken by rogue members of our own military. So, logically, the only people I can trust are those outside the Imperium. Besides, you guys don’t want the prince – you want Natalie and your young Mr Adler. Correct?”
Tapper glanced at Kovalic, who nodded without hesitation. “I think our interests are aligned: we get our people back, you get your conspirators wrapped up. And best of all we prevent the Imperium from taking an action that will destabilize any fragile peace we have.”
“Splendid. Then shall we dispense with the pleasantries and get down to brass tacks? The house is on the next block, on the left. I’ll take you there. Leave the car here.”
The Illyrican intelligence officer had confirmed that the prince’s honor wing had been housed with him at the personal residence of Ambassador Dubois, which made it the perfect place to stash the Illyrican heir: all the comforts of home, and the last place anyone would think to look for him. It also all but confirmed that the Illyrican diplomat was in on the plan – no surprise there, with his hawkish past – and explained why IIS’s head of station had done an end run around Frayn to call in the fleet. An ambassador trumped a colonel.
Given what Kovalic had heard about the ambassador, the house – ostentatious in its ostentatiousness – seemed like a surprising choice for the man. Kovalic could think of many a wealthy businessman or self-styled noble who would have dismissed the residence as simply too much.
Set back on a half-acre of sculpted gardens, the building itself was a monument to rococo style: no surface that could support some sort of flourish or decoration was left bare. A large, broad set of granite steps led up to the veranda, which featured a row of ivory pillars inlaid with gold and twined in ivy. Statues of classical figures dotted the gardens, which were arranged around a reflecting pool – impressive in size, given the lack of natural water inside Bergfestung – featuring a working fountain spewing water from the mouths of a pair of mermaids.
“Christ,” muttered Tapper, “not sure whose house this is, but they ought to have him hauled in for crimes against architecture at least.”
Kovalic’s eyes swept the grounds: there was no sign of roving guards or snipers posted on the roof. Which didn’t in and of itself mean anything; there were probably plenty of places to conceal oneself. Maybe the mermaid statues had cameras or turrets in them.
He pinched the bridge of his nose – the sleep deprivation was really starting to take a toll.
“How do you want to handle this, Simon?” Frayn asked. “I was thinking perhaps the sergeant and I could flank around to either side, while you circle around the back.”
“You know, I thought I might just walk up and knock.”
Frayn blinked. “You’re joking, right?” When Kovalic didn’t respond immediately, his eyes shifted to Tapper. “He’s joking, right?”
“I’ve heard he has a sense of humor,” Tapper said, “but sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
“Simon, this is a heavily guarded residence,” Frayn said. “You’re unarmed – unless you somehow found a way to smuggle a cache of weapons onto Bayern that I don’t know about– the sun is starting to come up, and you’ve barely slept in the last day. What could possibly make you think this is a good idea?”
“They’ve got Nat, Harry.”
Frayn opened his mouth to protest further, then seemed to think better of it and just gave a curt nod.
“Besides,” Kovalic added, “they won’t be expecting one person. They’ll be expecting that battalion of special forces. Might be a slight advantage, but I’ll take anything I can get.”
“I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”
Kovalic shook his head, then pulled out the KO gun Tapper had given him in the van and checked the charge. He should have plugged the thing in when they’d been at the embassy, but it had slipped its mind; it was only about a third capacity. A few shots, depending on the intensity.
“In that case,” Frayn said, slapping him on his shoulder – the uninjured one, fortunately, “all I’ll say is good luck. Oh, and please try to keep the casualties to a minimum, would you? There’s a good fellow.”
Kovalic pulled himself up the concrete wall that surrounded the ambassador’s residence. His shoulder strained, but the sealant held, despite all the abuse it had taken in the past couple days. Rolling his way across the top he dropped into a crouch behind a thicket of shrubs that bordered the wall to the rear of the house. That was poor security – someone should have told the gardener to leave a clear sightline to the wall.
A guard walked by and Kovalic held his breath until she passed. Just sneaking his way around the security was an option, but that left way too many people at his back. No, he’d have to incapacitate them all. He crept around the bush until he had a clear view of the one he’d just seen – she was broad of shoulder and easily his height, toting a compact weapon, probably a machine pistol.
He closed the distance slowly, his feet falling quietly on the soft grass. At least the ambassador hadn’t spared any expense for his grounds – a gravel courtyard would have made this considerably more difficult. Flooded with adrenaline, every nerve was pinging like an overloaded radar, quickening his pulse and telling him to hurry before he was caught.
Or worse, before something happened to Nat and Brody.
It was training that slowed his breath, kept him from falling prey to the animal instinct to charge headlong at the person. He couldn’t know where his team was or what state they were in, and rushing in would only put them in more danger.
Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Another favorite from Tapper’s big book of aphorisms. See also “measure twice, cut once.”
Before he knew it, he was in striking distance of the guard. The stunner could have dropped her easy at this distance, but he needed her conscious for a moment or two at least. Slipping up behind her, he placed the stunner at the base of her neck. The woman’s muscles tensed, coiling to strike, and Kovalic knew she was fighting that same adrenaline he’d been tamping down.
“Easy,” he murmured, carefully removing the earpiece from her left ear and stepping back to a safe distance. “Just put the gun down.” The machine pistol dropped with a dull thud to the grass, and her hands went up.
“You’re making a big mistake,” said the woman, her voice deep and husky.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Kovalic cheerfully. “Now, before you go down for your nap, don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to tell me how many more of you there are?”
“Go to hell.”
Well, it had been worth a try. With a shrug, Kovalic squeezed the trigger, the familiar quiet hum and blue flash of the stunner fire hitting the woman square in the back. With a quiet grunt, she toppled to the ground where she lay, softly breathing, in a heap. Kovalic knelt and
took her machine pistol, sticking it in the back of his waistband. He swapped his earbud out for the guard’s so he could monitor the channel. Quiet at the moment, but it might let him identify any other threats before he saw them.
That dealt with, Kovalic stole to the side of the building, and pressed his back up against it. His breathing had calmed somewhat after dropping the guard, his body relaxing into the familiar rhythms of combat ops and their intense flurries of activity amongst the patient hours of waiting.
The earbud he’d taken from the guard crackled to life.
“Breach,” rasped a voice. “Everybody to second floor balcony, now.”
Kovalic’s eyebrows went up as he flattened himself against the wall. Breach? The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth: Nat. Had to be.
He risked a quick peek around the corner. No movement on the side of the house, so he followed the wall to the next corner, and took a gander towards the front of the house.
A pair of guards, a woman and a man, had rounded the opposite corner and were making their way at a brisk pace towards the house’s front door. Both of them were carrying machine pistols like the one he’d taken off the previous guard, and they didn’t look any friendlier. Kovalic glanced down at the power meter on the KO gun – it had redlined, which meant one or two shots left, but they were well out of range.
He worked his shoulder, grimacing at the pressure in the joint. So much for resting his injuries on this trip. For someone who’d followed orders for a living, he never seemed to listen to his doctor’s.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded to himself, then rounded the corner and sprinted as hard as he could towards the front door and the pair of guards.
They might have been on high alert, but by the time the man had caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye and started to turn and bring up his weapon, Kovalic had already covered more than half the distance. He raised the KO gun and fired, full power; the man’s eyes rolled back into his head as he collapsed.
But the man had taken the full brunt of the shot, leaving the woman behind him unscathed. She had her machine pistol up and was taking aim even as Kovalic saw the flashing red “Empty” indicator on the KO gun in his hands. Without a second thought, he hurled the gun at the woman’s face.