When Diplomacy Fails . . .-eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  His only hope was for Ayisha to say no. He screened her.

  “Well, hi!” she said. She was a little flaky, but honest and intelligent and fun. Right now she had fiberoptic highlights in her hair and a top that was shaded to match her skin. She was obviously clothed but looked nude.

  “You look great,” he said, and he meant it, though he said it largely to be polite.

  “Thanks. What’s up?” “My job moved up to Monday early, so this weekend is going to involve some packing, too.”

  “Okay. Can I help?”

  “Probably not. It’ll all be battle gear.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, with wide eyes.

  “It’s fine. We carry it all as a precaution, and there’s no particular risk. It’s just not stuff anyone can really help with.”

  “Ah, right. Secret.”

  “Not really,” he said. “Just complicated and specialized.”

  “We’re still doing something, though, right?” Her smile promised something. He ardently hoped he’d find out.

  “Something, yes, but I’ve got an invite to England. You’re invited as well, if you like.”

  “I’d love to!” she said. “Do I need to bring anything?”

  “I’d say one nice conservative outfit and something for Sunday. We’ll be back late, I think. Oh, and a suit for travel.”

  “Can you afford this?”

  “A friend of mine is covering it. A woman I know,” he admitted.

  “Ah,” she said, with a glimmer of comprehension. “Well, it sounds interesting. I’ll be there.”

  Luckily, they weren’t serious enough for her to get jealous. Instead she was interested.

  Unluckily, Aramis would have to juggle two scorching women and play an entire hand of gentleman cards. That couldn’t be a good start to a high-stress mission.

  Alex picked a lodge owned by the TanCorp conglomerate for staging. They were a very professional group, valued discretion, and Ripple Creek had no contracts with them; they had their own, quite respectable security, and their own star system—Grainne, actually. He sent out notices through anonymizers. There really wasn’t any secrecy, but enough vagueness slowed down the intel gathering necessary to confirm anything. That, and when possible, messages sent openly were ironically safer. There were so many messages, and so few reasons to search them.

  He let the car drive him down a sunny North American 95, off into the Appalachians, and into the site. He ignored the highway in favor of compiling packing lists and schedules, and studying their principal. He had a rough briefing package, but whoever put it together had different objectives. It contained a modest amount of personal information, but not enough data to determine threats or even objectives those threats might aim for, other than “politician.”

  He took a break and enjoyed the scenery in the mountains—hills, really, after sixty million years of erosion. Besides, he couldn’t work well with the vehicle swaying over the switchbacks and around hilly curves.

  Upon arrival at the site, he flipped to manual, slowed and stopped for security. After they scanned and approved his car at the real iron gate, he followed the map around more twists, fountains and flower beds, to the log-built cottage on a small pond. It wasn’t cheap, but it was reasonable secure, and it would be approved on the invoice.

  As requested, there was no staff. He climbed out with his bag, punched in the reservation code, and stepped inside. Nice. It was clean and plain, easy to sweep for bugs, and had just enough furniture to be comfortable. There were three sleeping rooms, a porch, and a loft overlooking the common room. It also had a fully stocked bar in the kitchen nook. He left his bag on the coffee table and mixed up a Clubbed Seal—Arctic Club whisky and club soda on the rocks, a mound of fluffy coconut and a bloody red splash of grenadine.

  It was only a couple of hours before another car pulled up, and Bart Weil and Elke Sykora jumped out. She was above average height for a woman, but Bart was near two meters, and towered over her. They each had a personal bag, and a rolling softside trunk with the non-restricted battle gear they’d take. Alex’s gear was due to arrive as cargo the next day. Horace “Shaman” Mbuto would arrive late tonight, Aramis would show up for departure, and Jason would meet them on site. It wasn’t how he preferred to do things, but staggering them out was less obvious. Even using this site made it seem less like an off world mission, if anyone was watching.

  Bart nodded and put his gear in a room. Elke took the loft, where she had a good, clear field of view, and fire. That was like her. She was always surgically precise and her gear spotlessly clean.

  Bart came back through then, to the kitchen, grabbed a liter bottle of hefeweizen, and with a look for assent, sat on the couch and sprawled.

  “It is good to stretch,” he said.

  “I imagine. I get uncomfortable. You must be crunched.”

  “It’s worse in armor. Can we talk before the others arrive?”

  Elke came through with a glass of juice, though he suspected she’d doctored it with liquor.

  “We can. If we’re not secure here we’re in trouble anyway. And I’ll still ask Elke to do a scan.”

  “It’s secure,” she said, holding up a box he knew generated interference for most bugs. She wasn’t as expert as Jason, but she was more than proficient. They had enough layers.

  He said, “We’re protecting a high-ranking UN bureau official out of system.”

  Bart asked, “Are there specific threats?”

  “Some. We’ll be able to cover those during transport. We’re traveling together.”

  Elke asked, “What restrictions do we have on weapons and gear, and rules of engagement?”

  He understood she was asking if she could have explosives. “Unknown yet, but I do know the usual security contingent are armed.”

  “Then why us?” Bart asked.

  “The threat level is perceived as higher than typical.”

  “So the free market is better at protecting the government than it is at protecting itself.”

  “Fundamentally, yes.”

  “Very amusing.”

  “We’re going to Mtali for the Environmental Summit and some other meetings,” he said.

  Bart raised his eyebrows. Yes, if they were up to date on newsloads, that pretty well gave away who the principal was.

  “Perhaps I will like this person,” Elke said. “I respect ruthlessness.”

  “We’ll have to see. The public presence is not very nice, but people are almost never how the media present them, and of course, we don’t know how much is done as a public image.”

  Bart said, “Alex, you are hedging your bet.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I expect we’re not going to be on great terms. We’ll see.”

  Elke said, “I don’t need to like the principal. I just need to be able to do my job. This seems less of a problem than last time.”

  “We won’t have time to run physical practice, but I do have sim programs we can play through. Bart, I’ll want you to take lead on this.”

  “Is Aramis joining us?”

  “A bit late, yes. There are political reasons.”

  “Ah. Those.” The big man nodded understanding without expressing emotion.

  “Yes, those. He’s discreet, she’s a friend of the company, and there’s a certain level of public visibility. I didn’t want him to rush. In fact, the six of us are more identifiable now, so we’ll likely stagger our transit and arrival in future as well.”

  “A few more of these beers and I will stagger now,” Bart joked.

  “Practice first, then stagger.”

  “Of course.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “SO WHY AM I IN A SUIT?” Ayisha asked in the back of the auto cab, and damn, did she look good even in business wear. Though that was likely in part because he knew she wasn’t wearing underwear. That made it even more aggravating. She looked very professional outside, her hair neatly up, and it was all a mask.

  She hadn’t said much while boa
rding the Airstreak 5. She probably hadn’t known its actual value, but “expensive” was easy to figure. He’d expected that. She didn’t ask details of where in England they were going. Actually, they were going to Wales.

  An hour later they landed, and she was still cool. I may have overplayed it, he thought. This was far more exotic and money-laden than anything they’d done, and he imagined she was put upon, or jealous, or worried at what kind of personal tag it carried, or if it was merely to show off.

  The Skoda limo didn’t help, though she smiled politely as she accepted a third margarita. He’d mixed them light, for hydration more than intoxication. He preferred women alert and willing, not clumsy-drunk and pliable.

  “Such pretty scenery,” she said. “I didn’t know there were still areas this undeveloped over here.”

  “Not many, but there are a few. A few kilometers of hills hide a lot of things.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  It also helps when you own all those kilometers and get to decide who builds what, he thought. At one time, this had all been coal country, and the Prescot family owned it all.

  It was a lovely sunny day as they pulled into the apron, past the polished and manicured flower beds and under the perfectly transparent rain dome. Ron Schenk, his opposite number for this team, was waiting.

  Aramis said, “Uh, we have to be searched before we go in. Thoroughly.”

  “Oh. Patted down?” she asked.

  “‘Felt up’ is more like it. They’ll have a female guard.”

  The driver opened the door, and Schenk said, “Hi, Aramis. And this must be Ayisha?”

  “I am,” she agreed with a nervous smile.

  Aramis spread arms and legs and let them scan, flash and grope him. Besides clothes, he had nothing except his wallet, feeling very naked unarmed, but that was one of the rules. He didn’t know who the female was, but she was Company, so she was a veteran and knew her stuff. It had taken him one tour with Elke to accept that there were women who measured up for this job, and he’d never questioned the idea since.

  Then they were done and inside and Caron swept through the parlor in a dark blue dress.

  “Aramis!” she said, and moved in for a hug and a warm kiss on the cheek. That was very nice of her, very nice of her, but probably wasn’t going to make Ayisha relax enough for anything.

  Sure enough, Ayisha said, “Oh, my, I recognize you, but I’m afraid I don’t recall your name.”

  “Caron Prescot. You must be Ayisha.” She extended a hand and smiled with a friendly crinkle of her eyes.

  “You’re . . . her.” Yes, that had overloaded Ayisha’s brain.

  Yes, Ayisha, my other girlfriend is the richest person in the universe. Oh, and scorching hot. Sorry.

  “I am. Welcome to Wales. I have refreshments out and my staff will move your things.” She didn’t say to where. Aramis assumed adjoining rooms, giving Ayisha a choice. It wasn’t likely to help. And he wasn’t going to visit Caron’s room while Ayisha was here. Sigh, and dammit.

  Caron continued, “Would you like a tour?”

  Ayisha didn’t hesitate this time. “I would.”

  “Then Aramis can mix drinks for us, and we shall be back soon.” Caron smiled at him and led Ayisha away. One of the guards followed at a discreet distance.

  Yes, but first he’d mix himself one, strong. The Penderyn honey finish whisky was wonderful stuff, something that was affordable on Earth, and potent enough to dull his jitters.

  He was on the couch, halfway through a second glass, when he saw them pass through the palatial public kitchen, separate from the professional one Joanne Crandall, the chef, used.

  The two women were giggling and muttering, hunched close.

  On the one hand, he was glad Caron was able to relax so easily. Things had improved for her. On the other hand, that pretty well ensured he was going to spend the weekend being a gentleman, and trying not to arouse jealousy in either of them.

  He went for a third drink.

  Joy Highland was irritated, more than usual. Minister of State was not her first choice of job, nor her final goal, but until the election she was stuck with it, and with having to do her best. That was fine. It wasn’t fine for her putative boss, that upstart little social climber, to load extra tasks on her. She wasn’t needed for the Summit on Mtali. It was just an excuse to get her off planet for a while leading up to the election. The outsystem votes weren’t enough to matter.

  Some people would be happy managing international relations on Earth and in the colonies. Managing relations, however, was not directing or leading. Or not enough to suit her.

  That upstart Cruk, when campaigning for secretary general, had violated plenty of finance and ethics policies and laws, and played the press off to his benefit. Fair enough, it got him, and the Equality Party, into power. It got her the position she held now, which was a good launching platform.

  Now, though, he remained a cheat and thief, even to his own party and administration. He might get reelected, but it would wreck them as a party if he did. Hence her campaign. It was completely legitimate. The party caucus could decide if they wished to support another run by him, or by her. If they chose him, she was just young enough to run again on the next cycle.

  Instead, he was trying to derail her early on, so he’d have minimal competition. Hunter was the only other candidate with a shot, and she could take him out any time with accumulated dirt. It wasn’t that he was dishonest. He was dishonest and clumsy.

  Cruk’s solution? Get her off planet with a small staff, to block most of her public appearances and name recognition. Any comment of hers would be twelve hours or more after the fact of the event, and she’d have only recorded second-string facetime, nothing live or leading. Well done, fucker.

  Still, if he wanted to play that game, she’d play it. Mtali was a war zone. That could be useful.

  She checked through her list while alternately responding to deputy queries. James Jaekel, her chief of staff, was going to have to manage in her absence for a while. The fastest she’d be able to respond was twelve hours, and she’d be dealing with events on Mtali. There’d be no instant feedback to keep him on track. Of course, Cruk might have planned that. Or his staff. He certainly was neither that scheming, nor that intelligent. The bureaucrats had an empty suit they could puppet, and they still whined. If she could get in . . .

  “My detail understands they are to be armed, yes?”

  “They do,” said her personal assistant, Jessie. “Does that include explosives?”

  Joy turned, holding her brush halfway to her hair. “What? Oh, hell no. Whose fucked up idea was that?”

  “An Agent Eleonora Sykora, who is a munitions disposal expert. She’s one of the ones who identified the nuke on Salin.”

  “And she wants a nuke?” That couldn’t have been what she just heard.

  “No, she apparently had a nuke at the Prescot mine on Govannon. All she’s asking for now is half a tonne of Composition G, Orbitol and Smithereen.”

  That was impressive in its arrogance. “What a bloodthirsty bitch. Maybe I can get her vote. But no, I don’t need some militaristic nutjob with explosives. The guns will work better for visibility. We don’t want to actually hurt potential voters, just make it obvious I’m actually in a hostile zone.”

  “Should I relay that message?”

  “It’s probably better to let them think it’s agreeable, and stall until they accept it.”

  “They won’t be loaded on the transport, then.”

  “Is there any way we can let . . . no, the stuff is traced, dammit. It will just have to get forgotten.”

  On Sunday morning, Alex was almost too content to be happy. Shaman—their nickname for Horace Mbuto—had arrived the night before, and rose early. He made smoked Scotch Eggs for breakfast. Everyone was accounted for. Transport was ready, and it was military-managed, with their client part of the same government. That meant there were standard protocols for safety and transfer. H
ighland’s existing security detail would see her to the ship, they’d transfer responsibility in transit.

  It seemed too good.

  He chalked it up to nerves. They’d had easy missions, though eventually they always earned their pay.

  A message chimed in, and he scanned it. Subject: security detail weapons. Requested: a long list of stuff they optimistically hoped would be one third approved. Approval: everything.

  Everything.

  Pistols, carbines with grenade launchers, a sharpshooter’s rifle, two squad weapons, an autocannon, a Medusa system, ammunition, hand grenades, Jason’s tomahawk, knives, demolition hammers, stunners, stun batons, stickybombs . . . ah, there. “Authorization for incapacitance gas denied.” Fine. He could live with that. Someone had either been very agreeable, slightly greased, or smart, and they had all the firepower they needed to hold off an angry mob with torches. Possibly due to the fact that once they had fought an angry mob with torches.

  No mention of explosives yea or nay. He frowned, sent a query back, and decided not to mention that to Elke just yet.

  Elke was slicing up a Scotch Egg with a surgically sharp knife, and fork. “These are fantastic,” she said. “Though I’ll need something vegetable to go with it. It’s just too much by itself.”

  “Peasant food,” Shaman said. “For very rich peasants. Such a marvelous world we live in.”

  “Caron’s people are doing very well with the vats. It even tastes like it was well-exercised range meat.”

  Bart said, “I will be happy to assist her in testing any food, liquor or beer she wishes before the market. All they care to send.”

  Shaman said, “You know, I’m fairly sure she’d take you up on that. You are a connoisseur of beer, and reasonably experienced with liquor. You’d give her people honest feedback, which is a problem she always has.”

  “It will not be a new job, but it might be a nice hobby,” the big man said with a slow nod. “I will suggest it to someone.”