Lady Sonja acquiesced with a mere bend her lips and allowed herself to be guided through the locked back doors into Hiro-Ion’s employees-only warehouse. Knowing full well who the shipment nominally belonged to somewhat mollified her. Soraya Bertram might be Beelzebub’s own bitch, but she had good taste, if a trifle outré at times, and in this case, outré was just what Sonja was looking for. As in, say, that pair of albino leopard-anaconda boots over there. The heels weren’t ideal, but she could live with that, and the moon jades set up the sides could work if she got a matching necklace. That would mean redoing the neckline of the bodice to something slightly scandalous, but there was no harm in that either. Indeed, she was beginning to warm up to the idea . . .
The manager’s cel beeped. She interrupted the obsequious sales patter Sonja had been studiously ignoring to check it and barely kept a hand from flying to her permanently rouged mouth. “Your Ladyship, I do beg your pardon most extremely. I must see to something at the front desk. It will not be a minute. Unavoidable. I do apologize—please continue to browse. Anything, you desire. Shall not be a minute, truly . . .” And backing and bowing, she scuttled off.
Sonja heaved a sigh of relief and went to turn over some larl-fur coats. She really was coming to like the idea of those boots—
“Hello, Kat.”
That voice, so shockingly close and even more shockingly familiar, calling her by a name she hadn’t used in over a decade, jolted Sonja away from thoughts of exotic boots—away from any thoughts at all. A voice she never thought she’d hear again and a voice that should never ever be heard around here. It simply was not possible . . .
“Mariwen?” she whispered, turning at last.
Mariwen smiled at her from among the crates and stepped further out, into the light. “I realize it’s a shock—”
“Shock? Mariwen! What—? You’re not . . . I thought— You can’t be here! You were in rehab!”
“Yes, I was,” Mariwen agreed and came closer. “May I have your xel, please?”
“My xel?”
“I won’t harm anything, I promise. I just need to make sure they think you’re still looking at boots.”
“Boots! What are you talking about? She’ll be back any second! We can’t—Mariwen!”—as Mariwen reached out and gently tugged Sonja’s xel from her nerveless fingers.
“No. She’ll be some time. She’s busy dealing with Lady Bertram.”
“What!” Sonja looked around frantically. “How do you know—what’s going on? What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.” Mariwen mated her xel to Sonja’s, tapped a brief code and handed it back. “It’s all right, Kat. I just want to talk to you.”
“This doesn’t make any sense!” Sonja accepted the xel mechanically. Her lips were trembling and she looked to be on the edge of tears.
“It will,” Mariwen said soothingly. “I have to talk to you, Kat. I have to talk to you tonight. I can’t explain more until then. Will you talk to me—please?”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you here. Please, Kat. Just an hour.”
“Mariwen, this is insane! You know what will happen if the authorities find you here!”
“Yes, I do. But don’t worry. I won’t be here long enough.” The look on Mariwen’s face rendered Sonja silent. She came and put her hand on Sonja’s tense shoulder. Taking a piece of plaspaper out of a pocket, she showed the address to Sonja. “You know where this is?”
“Of course”—as if the familiar location written there gave her back a few precious shreds of composure.
“And Nigel’s gone until tomorrow night, isn’t he? To see his father?”
“How do you know all this?”—her tone shifting from shell-shocked to suspicious.
A shift Mariwen ignored along with Sonja’s question. “So no one will notice if you go out for the evening. Can you be there at 2530? I’ll pick you up.”
“What about my driver?”—recognizing that Mariwen would not (maybe could not?) answer her previous question.
“Just say you’ll call him to come for you later. He can track your xel so he’ll know where you are and what you’re doing—it’s okay. This is safe, Kat. I promise it is. I just need to talk to you.”
“Mariwen . . .”
“Please? I really need you right now. This is the most important thing you’ll ever do.”
Sonja looked down at the little scrap of plaspaper. “I . . . Okay. But you gotta tell me—”
“Shhh . . .” Mariwen kissed her fleetingly on the cheek. “I promise I will—everything. Thank you.” She straightened and gave Sonja a glimpse of that old wicked smile. “And do get those boots. You’ll look stunning in them.”
* * *
At 2530 sharp, a nondescript aircar piloted by Zorya Vechernyya, Paavo Kirkunummi’s chief aide (a broad term that encompassed secretary, researcher, bodyguard and—when necessary—assassin) and bearing Mariwen, pulled up in front of Su-Pynsenti, a demurely fashionable restaurant in Halevirdon’s East River district. Sonja Geris was waiting outside and Mariwen let go a sigh of relief. All Paavo’s work of the weeks before she arrived could easily have been for nothing if Sonja had gotten cold feet or, worse yet, reported her, and that worry had been gnawing at her with increasing vigor ever since she had surprised her in Hiro-Ion Design’s private warehouse.
The entire little masterpiece of misdirection had been designed to that end: getting Sonja into one of the few places she could go without arousing suspicion where neither Halith government surveillance nor that of her bodyguards extended and keeping her there long enough for a brief private chat while ‘updating’ her xel so the rest of the operation could proceed. The assistant manager of Hiro-Ion was one of Paavo’s people (where better to gather valuable gossip than the most fashionable couture establishment in the capital?) and as soon as this target of opportunity presented itself, she’d seen to it that Lady Sonja’s order was placed in the queue in such a way that the gold would be stranded by the Ilion fleet’s impending departure, which Paavo’s organization had been tracking for over a month.
The assistant manager had also arranged for Lady Bertram’s shipment to arrive a day early while Paavo had dispatched one of his female operatives to Vehren to ensure Lady Bertram would return on the same day. The details of that part of the operation were neither here nor there. Soraya Bertram had left Vehren right on cue, while Lord Bertram remained behind, vigorously—and quite correctly—protesting his innocence in the matter of being unaccountably absent for an evening in which he was last seen in the affectionate company of Paavo’s lovely operative.
That Lord Bertram—promptly accused, tried, convicted and condemned for infidelity by his volatile wife—had subsequently decided that he might as well give the charges some currency (a plan in which he was destined to be disappointed) was of no concern to anyone, except for the entertainment value.
Thus, it was the simplest thing for the assistant manager to suggest to her boss that they might discreetly raid Lady Bertram’s shipment to replace Lady Sonja’s delayed order, since Lady Bertram’s items could be more readily replaced, and—once the manager had taken the bait—to call Lady Bertram, now ‘unexpectedly’ back in the capital, to give her the happy news that her shipment had arrived early.
Halith ladies do not raise their voices in public, so the fireworks at the front desk when Soraya Bertram appeared were not of the kind a foreigner might recognize. But they were real enough and provided an excellent diversion that allowed Mariwen to exit the premises unobserved. They also gave Sonja some cover for her discomposure at seeing Mariwen suddenly appear like Banquo’s ghost (if that apparition had been a stunning female), but from what Mariwen heard later, Sonja carried herself off rather well and appeared to get the best of the encounter. The manager, however, caught between the two eminent women, had to be escorted home in a state of advanced dissolution.
It had all gone swimmingly, right up to now, since Sonja was keeping the appointment, but sh
e could still balk at the last second and derail everything. That was why Zorya had come along. Without further ado, she exited the cab and escorted Sonja politely but firmly into the passenger compartment where Mariwen waited. As the doors closed and sealed, Sonja turned and looked daggers at Mariwen.
“You said you were picking me up!”
“I am,” Mariwen replied innocently.
“Then who’s she?”
“She’s my driver. I didn’t want to try to talk and fly in a strange city at the same time.” She tapped on the armor-glass partition and Zorya guided the car away from the pick-up zone and into their assigned lane.
“So where are you taking me?”
“My apartment.”
“You have an apartment here?”
“You don’t expect me to sleep out in the bushes, do you?”
“And how do I explain going to your place?”
“You don’t have to. You had dinner at Su-Pynsenti, then you went for a walk in the Voskeritchian Gardens—they’ll find pollen from there on your clothes and hair, by the way, if they bother to look—and maybe you met an old friend and spent the evening talking.” She didn’t mention the enhancements she’d made to Sonja’s xel—some of Trin’s best bots—that would provide the rest of the ‘proof’ of her horticultural excursion.
“What old friend?”
“Me. If you have to, you can them the truth.”
“What does that mean? You can’t be here officially!”
“I’m not. But if it comes to that, there are people here who will understand—”
“That I committed treason by meeting an enemy alien.”
The words and the tone Sonja used both stung. Mariwen waited a moment to keep the tension out of her voice. “Who will understand why I’m here.” More or less.
“And why is that?”
“I told you. I just want to talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“That should wait until we get to my place.”
“Who sent you?”
“Oh . . . “ Mariwen paused and glanced out a side window. They were gaining altitude and entering main traffic pattern. No one seemed to be following them, based on the way Zorya was behaving, and the sensor suite in her xel had picked nothing up. That was not definitive, but at least it meant the odds were in their favor. She turned to back Sonja with a careful smile. “That. Grand Senator Huron sent me.”
“Grand Senator Huron?”
“You know how these things work, Kat.” As a prominent diplomat’s wife, Sonja would certainly understand the clandestine negotiations warring governments sometimes engaged in, especially if defeat appeared to be imminent. “You know how the war’s going. There are people on our side who are . . . looking to the future. Some of your people are doing the same. A go-between could carry an unofficial proposal—well, a feeler anyway. And then . . . something might come of it.” That was twice she’d referred to Sonja as being Halith and she hadn’t objected either time.
“And they sent you?”
“I know you,” Mariwen answered. “You’re the person we want to talk to.”
“Why?”
“We’ll be there in a minute.”
True to her word, Mariwen let them into ground-floor apartment in sprawling complex that mainly housed guest laborers in Halevirdon’s Docklands Quarter. “Sorry, it’s not much,” Mariwen said as she shut the door and locked it. “I needed a place with a low profile.”
Low profile in this case appeared to mean seedy, and Sonja regarded the threadbare sofa and the two ugly overstuffed chairs crowded around a small worn rug with a wrinkled nose.
“Can I get you something?” Mariwen typed a code into the dumbwaiter that was set into the back wall of what passed for a kitchen. “A drink?”
Sonja, standing in the middle of the small living space with her arms crossed, didn’t answer at once. When she did, it wasn’t about a drink. “You said you were going to explain all this.”
Mariwen came out of the tiny kitchen holding a squat glass full of clear liquid with slices of citrus fruit. “Yes, I will. Would you like to sit down?” Considering the seating options with the utmost distaste, Sonja stayed where she was. “Would you prefer I extend the bed, then?” Mariwen nodded at the sleeping niche.
Needled, Sonja sat on one of the chairs with an exaggerated show of bad grace, keeping her arms folded across her oversized breasts. “Now tell me what’s going on.”
Mariwen settled gracefully on the sofa, in marked contrast to Sonja’s aggressive thump, putting her drink on the small battered oblong table between them. “It’s about exchanging POWs.”
“We don’t exchange prisoners,” Sonja snapped. We don’t . . . Mariwen took a calming breath. Maybe Sonja was just angry. She’d always gotten contrary when she was angry. Or maybe she was talking to the wrong person.
“I know,” Mariwen said carefully. “That’s why I’m here. There’s a huge number of POWs being held on both sides now. We think things ought to go back to the way they used to be.”
“What do you mean we?”
Mariwen hesitated a split-second. “Senator Huron. And the people he represents.” She retrieved her drink and sipped it to cover a nervous catch in her breathing. “Your husband has a great deal of influence. We were hoping that he might be able to raise the issue with the Council. I could carry back any proposals to our people.”
“Nigel has nothing to do with POWs.”
“I know, but—”
“General Tristan Heydrich is responsible for POWs.”
“Yes—”
“This is bullshit.”
“I’m sorry?”
“This is bullshit, Mara. You didn’t come all the way here to talk to me about POWs.”
“I did. We thought you might bring it up with Nigel—”
“Admiral Caneris has already been bringing it up with Nigel! For months!”
“So then Nigel would have Caneris on his side. Isn’t that—”
Sonja laughed once, a flat bark of contempt. “Caneris is trying to get Nigel killed!”
In spite of herself, Mariwen stared. “What do you mean?”
“He’s trying to set Nigel up, Mara! Joaquin Caneris is an old reactionary—he doesn’t give a shit about POWs! But he hates Heydrich. He needs the centrists’ support in Council if he’s gonna destroy Heydrich and Nigel leads the centrists. So Caneris has been trying to goad Heydrich into having Nigel assassinated!”
“By getting him to raise the POW question? That makes no sense.” The astonishment was clear in Mariwen’s strained voice.
“Yes, it does! Heydrich hates the idea of exchanging POWs more than anything! He makes too much money off them, for starters. If Nigel starts pushing the POW issue, Heydrich will likely kill him because Nigel’s the one person who can make it happen. If Nigel is killed, Caneris thinks the centrists will run to him for protection. Then he has them to use against Heydrich! That’s how things work here! Don’t you see?”
Mariwen did see—but it wasn’t what Trin saw. Trin was a fine analyst, but she didn’t live here. Could we have gotten this so badly wrong? She swallowed uncomfortably.
“So I think I know what’s going on here,” Sonja sniped. “It’s got nothing to do with POWs, does it? Senator Huron must know it’s ridiculous to ask Nigel to put himself in that position. This is about Rafe—right?”
The twinge in Mariwen’s chest nothing to do with Kat’s ire. She’d understood Rafe being a POW was still a closely held secret. “How do you know about Rafe?”—struggling to keep her voice level.
“Nigel told me, of course.” Kat’s tone was just shy of pitying. “That’s not the sort of thing that stays secret for long. So is that it? He sent you for Rafe? Are you two fucking again?”
Mariwen could forgive Kat getting waspish. But how far had the news of Rafe’s capture spread? If they knew about him, they’d know about Kris too. Or was her husband the only one who found out? He’d been in communication with Caneris�
�it would make sense if Caneris told him. They might even . . .
With enormous effort, she halted her frantic speculations. “No”—pausing to get a handle on her jangled nerves. “He didn’t send me for Rafe.”
“Then why?” Sonja started to get up. “You promised to tell me, Mara! You know what I’m risking to come here for you and all you’re giving me is this bullshit.”
“I . . . I asked him to—to help me.”
“With what?” Sonja glared at her, the simmering impatience boiling over.
Dropping her forehead to her left hand, Mariwen rubbed a throbbing spot between her eyebrows. The glass in her right hand tilted, spilling a narrow stream onto the thin rug. She glanced at the spreading stain, swore under her breath and reached out to set the glass on the table. Missing it, she caught the edge and slices of citrus skated across the surface. The glass slipped from her fingers, bounced on the rug and rolled under the sofa.
“Her name’s Loralynn Kennakris.”
Sonja eased back down, tucking one foot up and settling slowly. “Who?”
“She’s a flight officer. She was captured with Rafe.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
The word hit Mariwen’s ears jarringly and she wanted to scream at the trivialization. But she held it in and simply nodded. Then added, “Yes.”
That seemed to soften Sonja, as being something she could better understand. “So you came all the way out here to try to get her back?”
“Yes.”
“And that was all crap you told me. About the Senator Huron and the POW thing?”
“Not completely. He did send me. He was hoping maybe I could get both of them back. And they did ask me to talk to you about POWs.” Mariwen looked down. “But I came for her.”
“What did you expect me to do?”
“I thought . . . with Nigel’s help maybe we could do something. Admiral Caneris captured them and since we heard they’d been talking, I hoped there could be an arrangement.”
“Oh.” Sonja leaned back in the chair. “But there’s nothing I can do.”
“I love her, Kat. I’ll do anything to get her back.”
Orion's Price (Loralynn Kennakris Book 6) Page 18