“Well, maybe I can make you a Hammers fan,” said a grinning Kuypers as she took another sip of beer.
“It’s a nice jersey,” Pettigrew nattered on. “Although I have to say, it’s odd seeing crewmembers on board ship and out of uniform.”
Kuypers put her beer on the table and leaned forward, running her fingers through her curly red hair. “Sir, anytime you want to see me out of uniform, just say the word,” she purred. “Anytime at all.”
Pettigrew froze, staring at her with wide eyes. His first instinct was to think that it was one of her jokes—she did have a bizarre sense of humor. Looking into her sultry eyes, however, it was clear this was not meant to be funny.
“Lieutenant, just so there is no doubt—are you coming on to me?”
“That was the idea,” she said, flashing an impish smile. As he glared back at her though, Kuypers’ characteristic self-confidence vanished. “And it was obviously a very bad idea, ah, sir. Oh, Gods, what was I was thinking? Too many beers, maybe—or something.”
She quickly jumped out of her chair and moved to the door, almost tripping over her own feet as she retreated. “Please excuse me, sir. I’ll be leaving now, and again, I apologize, Commodore. I really do…”
“Kuypers!” he said firmly. “Hold it, right there.”
He stood and moved slowly to her side, gently placing one hand on her shoulder.
“Livvy, if you want to…,” he said softly. “I’d like for you to stay.”
The two looked intently into each other’s eyes. Every fiber of Pettigrew’s training screamed that this was a mistake, but right now, he just didn’t care. This woman was vibrant and alive. He had wanted her for a long time and her boldness had finally given him an opportunity to admit that to himself.
Kuypers’ tense body relaxed, and a relieved smile spread across her face as she moved close, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“Ship,” he said. “Dim the cabin lights.”
7: Torn
Yancey House
OMI Headquarters
Esterkeep, Sarissa
Jason Tolbert was always a ‘by the book’ kind of guy. Right now, Etta Sanchez wished she was holding that very thick book of rules and regulations in her hand—so she could club him over the head with it.
“I’m sorry, Etta, but I’ve shared everything I can with you. As a former operative, you know how tight the regs are.”
“Damn it, Director, you make the regs!” hissed Sanchez.
Her frustration was getting the better of her. For a moment, she pressed her lips tightly together and looked up at the ceiling. Her mind was abruptly flooded with memories of this office. She thought about the first time she ever came here, four years ago, when she was a freshly minted operative being sent off on a dangerous mission. Even worse, she had been paired with an arrogant partner who wanted nothing to do with her. Whatever happened to that conceited prick? Oh, that’s right—I married him.
“Director, the question still stands: where is my husband?”
It was five months now since she had seen Frank Carr off at the Boutwell Spaceport for destinations unknown—at least unknown to her. With interstellar travel, it wasn’t unusual for missions to take months, but Carr had missed his last three scheduled check-ins. Other than that, Director Tolbert wouldn’t give her any more details, hiding anything else that he knew behind his rules and regs.
“Etta, all I can tell you is that he dropped off the board two months ago. We know he arrived at his intended destination, but he failed to check in with the case officer there. Since then, he’s been dark.”
“I know all of this,” Sanchez snapped. “Why do you keep telling me the same thing over and over?”
“Because you keep asking. My hands are tied regarding what information I can give out, even to an operative’s wife.”
“Look, Director, surely this is a unique situation, something the regulations could never have anticipated,” Sanchez persisted as she made her case for the umpteenth time. “Yes, I’m his wife, but I’m also ex-OMI, a field operative no less. I can help you find Carr if you let me.”
Tolbert shifted in his seat. They had been through this several times in the past month, and he was either getting very tired of her persistence or she was wearing him down, hopefully the latter. As he stroked his salt and pepper Van Dyke beard, the man in his mid-sixties stared intently at her. He wasn’t trying to intimidate her, more like he was making up his mind about something.
Jason Tolbert had been director of the Office of Military Intelligence for the entirety of the agency’s existence, nearly two decades now. Word was that he was a senior officer in the Army, but nobody seemed too sure about his rank. He was at least a colonel, some thought a general, but all anyone ever called him was ‘Director.’ A close friend of both the Empress and the Supreme Commander, Tolbert was one of the most powerful men on Sarissa, which meant he wasn’t accustomed to having his decisions questioned.
He tried to address her in a reassuring voice. “We are doing everything we can to locate Frank and bring him home. I have agents searching for him, but things have changed since you left the Office last year.”
“Was forced to leave,” she corrected. When she and Carr married, OMI mandated that one of them had to go. The agency didn’t approve of married couples on the payroll.
“Yes—forced,” the Director hastily agreed, clearly not wanting to wage that battle again. “But you read the Nets. You know some of what’s been happening at the Central Command, and of course there’s the SSB situation.”
“What SSB situation? What is going on with State Security?”
A bemused look washed over Tolbert’s face as he steepled his fingers. “Well, when Superintendent Preiss initially took over the SSB, there was a period of co-operation between our two organizations.”
Ostensibly, the State Security Bureau had the responsibility for security inside the Empire, while OMI was the spy agency that operated outside the starhold’s borders. In truth, the two agencies had always been rivals, jockeying for power and clashing on numerous occasions about who had jurisdiction where.
“I fear that the honeymoon with Preiss and the SSB is over,” said Tolbert.
Sanchez was trying to be diplomatic, which was never one of her strong suits.
“Director, unless the SSB might be involved in Carr’s disappearance—”
“No, no—I don’t think they have anything to do with it. I was just pointing out some… ah, complications in the intelligence community that didn’t exist when you were last active.” He pointed toward the wall, indicating someone outside, someone in the capital city. “There is absolutely zero room for error these days. Those people aren’t very forgiving.”
Sanchez had known the Director for years, and she had never seen him this distraught. The man almost looked frightened.
“Who are ‘those people?’”
He looked at her as if she had asked a very stupid question. “The Supreme Commander and her bunch at the Ministry of Culture. Don’t you follow the news?”
“Ministry of Culture, hah! It ought to be called the Ministry of Propaganda. Since when does someone else run our intel ops?”
Tolbert snorted. “They don’t—I do. But Channa Maxon has given that bunch a remarkably long leash, and let’s just say they’re damn meddlesome people. The Culture Ministry has become the Supreme Commander’s private vigilante force. They are her enforcers, prying into every other ministry and department. It’s bothersome.”
Her eyes narrowed on Tolbert. This was all so un-Director-like. He had always been the man in charge, even when it came to dealing with his superiors. Sanchez wanted to leap across the desk and slap some sense into him. Instead, she settled on asking another question. “Director, what does any of this have to do with finding Carr?”
“I’m just pointing out how complicated things have become. If it were the old days, I could turn a blind eye, let you accidentally have a peak at the files, and then t
urn you lose to find him. Regrettably, times have changed.” The Director paused to take a deep breath. “Etta, I’m going to have to ask you not to come here anymore. If I receive any news about Frank, I’ll make sure to pass it on. In the current political climate, I just have to be more careful.”
“You have to be more careful,” she repeated slowly, piecing it all together. “I’m so stupid. YOU have to be careful, as in careful who you’re seen with. Like taking meetings with the niece of the Reform Party leader. It’s not about Frank’s well-being at all, is it Director? It’s about yours.”
“I admit that’s part of it,” he said grudgingly.
“You know I’m not political, and neither is Carr. Wait—you said it’s part of it. What’s the other part?”
The Director began stroking his beard again. “Some people at the Centroplex are questioning Carr’s disappearance.”
“They think he’s turned,” she said in a surprisingly calm voice. “Central Command thinks Carr is a traitor.” Sanchez had wondered when they would get around to this. If an operative went missing for an extended period, it was only logical to assume that he or she might have gone over to the enemy.
Her eyes fixed on Tolbert, boring into him. “Director, you know Frank Carr, and you know he would never betray his friends or his starhold. That man has more integrity than the Supreme Commander and all of her goons put together—you know that.”
Tolbert cleared his throat. “Etta, you have to see my side of it. Personally, I don’t believe Frank would ever turn, but as OMI Director, I have a duty to keep an open mind about it. I’m sorry, but even the best agents sometimes cross the line.”
Sanchez swallowed hard. At least now, she knew where things stood. “You said earlier that you have agents searching for him. Tell me, Director, is it to bring him in or to put him down?” she asked with a slight quiver in her voice.
There was a long silence. Tolbert looked frustrated, like a man who didn’t know what to do or say. “Etta, go home. Rest, meet up with some friends, go out to dinner. I promise to let you know what I can, when I can, but beyond that…”
Sanchez rose from her seat. There was nothing more to be gained here. “Thank you for your time, sir,” she said stiffly as she gave a slight bow and then headed quickly for the door.
Screw these people… I’ll find him on my own.
* * * *
Thirty minutes later she was sitting at the bar in Bismarck’s working on her second Blue Heron.
“You doin’ OK, Commander?” asked the bartender as he strolled by. “Want something to eat?”
“No thanks, Ravi, I’m good.”
Thank the Gods for Bismarck’s. After each of her recent and increasingly frustrating visits to the Director’s office, it was comforting to be able to walk across Uhlen Street and decompress among friends. Carr had first dragged her here four years ago, and she initially hated the place. Of course back then, she hated Carr too. Over time, both the restaurant and the man had grown on her.
The vodka and comforting surroundings were agreeable, but neither were inspiring any ideas on where to start looking for Frank. She still had a few contacts within the intel community, but by now most of them would have been warned off of dealing with her by Director Tolbert. There was always the possibility of using Simon James.
James was the Director’s executive assistant. Everything the Director knew, James knew—well, almost everything, but it would be enough for starters. James had always had a soft spot for Sanchez, one might almost call it a crush—Carr called it a fetish. If only she could get to him outside of Yancey House. Maybe she could arrange to ‘accidentally’ run into him…
A gentle hand touched her shoulder. For a split second, she half expected to turn and see her husband standing next to her. He would be fatigued, maybe a few bruises here and there, but he would be home. They would embrace and kiss, then go off to a corner booth and have a drink while he told her all about his adventure. She knew better as she turned around. That’s just not the way things happen.
Standing next to her was Erich Hessler, the owner of Bismarck’s.
“Erich!” she cried out, giving him a hug. “Come sit with me. You can buy me another drink.”
The portly man used his cane to steady himself as he climbed onto the barstool next to her.
“Etta, my dear, I’m so sorry,” the older man said, signaling to the bartender. Hessler wasn’t an official part of the OMI operation, but he wasn’t stupid either. He knew the building across the street from his restaurant wasn’t a financial consultant firm like the sign on the door said. He knew Etta Sanchez, Frank Carr, and a healthy portion of his clientele were government agents. The older man had also clearly figured out that Carr was missing.
“He will turn up, Erich—he always does. I think your little watering hole may have to struggle along without me for a few weeks. Lacking any help from a certain party across the street, I’ve decided to go find him myself.”
The bartender sat down a tall glass of water with a lemon slice in front of Hessler, but he didn’t touch it. Sanchez watched as an odd expression formed on his face—first puzzlement, then surprise, and then distress.
“Oh, my dear—you don’t know, do you? About your uncle,” he said in a grave tone.
Now it was her turn to look puzzled. “Know what?”
Hessler reached into his pocket and fumbled for a moment, finally pulling out his mobile. “Show me NavaNet,” he said to the device and sat it down in front of her, again resting his hand gently on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, but it’s all over the Nets,” Hessler said. A news reporter formed in front of her on a virtual screen.
“…as you know. Once again, the breaking news from Quijano, tragic news that Leonardo Sanchez, leader of the Reform Party, has been killed in an apparent air accident. Sanchez’s private helicraft crashed some twenty-five kilometers from his home in the small town of Saovina. The retired admiral and former leader of the Sarissan Space Force was apparently flying to a meeting in…”
“Uncle Leo,” she said, her words choking and tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. Her father had died when she was young. Etta Sanchez had only been close to two other men in her life—really, truly close. One was almost certainly in peril, and the other was now dead.
“I’m so very sorry, my child,” said Hessler as he shoved his glass of water in front of her. She took a quick gulp and then pressed her face deep into her hands.
“What will you do now? Do you still plan on going after Frank?”
It was a good question. Carr was her husband, her beloved, and he was still alive—he had to be. But Frank was also an experienced operative, the best there was. Leo Sanchez had been her surrogate father. He taught her how to fly and inspired her to pursue a career in the Space Force. The family would expect her on Quijano. More than that, they would need her.
“Would you like a fresh drink?” Hessler was asking as she tried to focus.
“A drink? No, no, thank you. I’ve got to get to the terminal and grab the next bullet train back to Boutwell. I have to pack and book passage on a starliner. I have to go to Quijano.”
8: Reaction
Koenig Manor
Esterkeep, Sarissa
As its name suggested, the Grand Hall was the largest room in Koenig Manor. Over the years, it had been used to hold formal receptions, state ceremonies, and other official proceedings. Gathering here instead of the Empress’s office was the equivalent of holding an Imperial audience, and it was meant to send a message to her guests.
The two men were escorted in by Colonel Flood, outfitted in her burgundy Kaskian Guard uniform. The Empress’s chief of security had developed Renata’s personal bodyguard into a force of over two-hundred strong, complete with their own uniforms and a designation from Central Command declaring the unit a separate and autonomous entity. The Kaskians were charged with securing the Imperial grounds and accompanying the Empres
s when she traveled, which was less and less frequent these days. Renata only half-joked that Flood’s people were more prison guards than protectors, and that she was the chief inmate.
As the two visitors halted before the Empress, Flood peeled off to be seated next to Bennett Boyer, the Imperial Chief of Staff. In unison, the guests bowed to their monarch and then subtly glanced around for a place to be seated. Most of the chairs had been moved to the other end of the large hall. Unmistakably, the visitors were meant to stand.
“Gentlemen, I have a singular question on my mind this morning,” began Renata. “Was Leonardo Sanchez assassinated?”
After a moment of hesitation, the taller man spoke up. “Your Majesty, we do not know at this time. It is very early in the investigation, but I assure you we will discover the truth of the matter.” Haywood Preiss, superintendent of the State Security Bureau, clasped his white-gloved hands in front of his body as he continued. “Admiral Sanchez was piloting his personal helicraft from his home in Saovina to Villanueva…”
“Villanueva?” interrupted Renata. “Not the capital? Not Santo Pacian?”
Preiss may not have had all of the facts yet, but he seemed certain about the ones he had. “No, ma’am. He registered a flight plan for Villanueva. Just minutes after takeoff, the craft crashed into a wooded area. Although we haven’t received an official autopsy report yet, it is likely that Sanchez died instantly. On the surface, this appears to be nothing more than a tragic helicraft accident.”
“Nothing more!” Renata roared. “One of the leading political figures in the Empire is dead, Superintendent, and I want to know precisely how and why it happened.”
“I meant no offense, ma’am,” offered a chastened Preiss.
Of course he didn’t—it wasn’t Preiss’s style to be dismissive. Yesterday’s accident—if it was an accident—had stunned Renata. She had known Leo Sanchez for less than a decade, but considered him one of her dearest friends.
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