Prince of Havoc

by Michael A. Stackpole

  She shut off the light and left it with her keys on the carpet She reached up to the cabinet's top and felt around on the right owner. She always left a twenty-kroner bill on the cabinet, knowing that a thief would steal it. Had the alarm not been ringing, the missing bill would have tipped her right at the doorway that her place had been broken into.

  Had the bill still been there it would have indicated that the two own had come to covertly toss her apartment. They wouldn't touch the money, but had tripped the alarm they didn't know about. Of course, if they wanted to toss the place and make it look like a simple theft...

  Francesca started to work her way down the narrow hallway, keeping the needler pistol pointed deeper into the apartment. Hie living room opened off to the right and took up that whole side of the apartment Closer to the door was her small kitchenette, and beyond it was the doorway to her bedroom. As she advanced into the apartment she encountered one of the Couch's pillows slashed open and tossed onto the floor. She shifted it out of the way and found a few diskzines scattered beneath it.

  She slowly straightened up and reached around to flick on the kitchenette light. In its yellow illumination she saw that the whole apartment had been tossed. Everything had been scattered, and her computer smashed against the fireplace over which No Secrets X hung at a weird angle. She finished a quick check of the rest of the place and found herself alone.

  She double-checked the door, recovered her keys and set the dead bolt, then began a more complete search of the apartment. Piles of her personal computer disks had been stolen, as well as jewelry. She checked the remains of her computer and saw that the hard drive had been ripped out of it. She checked the keyboard, and though the case had been cracked, the special chip that allowed her to encrypt and decrypt messages still remained intact. Without it there was no way anyone could resurrect and crack the messages there. aside from a few other small items of value that could be easily concealed, the thieves had taken nothing. She was actually surprised they'd not added No Secrets X to their booty, and took their leaving it behind as a mark of contempt. In an instant she knew that it wasn't thieves who'd hit her place, but agents in someone's employ. Anyone from New Exford would have demanded their agents get Starling's painting, which meant these folks were from off-world.

  Francesca began to shiver. Lyran Intelligence, probably Loki. They don't know who I am, but the computer stuff they took suggests they think I might have information they want. The info I could have would be about or from Reg. Her mouth went sour. She immediately turned and checked the phone, but the line remained dead.

  She took a last look around her apartment, then gathered up the keyboard and No Secrets X. She shoved them and some clothes into a nylon bag that she set by the door. She then went to the window in her bedroom, opened the left side of the shades and tugged the strings of the blinds so the bottom slanted up on the left side. That odd configuration would let Curaitis know she had abandoned her digs and cover. They would meet, but the next emergency site and time wasn't until the following afternoon.

  She left the apartment with her handbag and satchel and took the stairs down. She came out of the apartment house, looked around, then crossed quickly to her hovercar. She tossed the satchel into the rear boot, then pulled away from the curb.

  She started driving in a seemingly aimless pattern and constantly checked her rear-view mirror for signs of anyone following her. She saw no pursuit, so spun the wheel and headed straight for Reg Starling's studio, hoping she wouldn't be too late.

  When she saw the open door, she knew she was.

  Gun drawn, she made her way into the studio. Reg had taken over an old hovercar repair shop and had converted the offices in the back into an apartment. The service bays had been left pretty much alone and were covered with paint that had been sprayed and splattered. Around the base of the walls a layer of canvases, all properly stretched and most covered with paint, stood in ranks. She recalled having looked through them once, early one morning, before Reg had awakened. When he found her looking at them, he referred to them as his "retirement fund." He said he'd sell them for a fortune someday, then wander off to some quiet and tropical world to relax.

  Not going to happen now. Francesca moved quickly through the studio to the apartment. The bottom floor, which boasted a small kitchen, bathroom, and auxiliary bedroom, was empty, but had been ransacked. She mounted the stairs to his private quarters. When she reached the top, she heard water draining from a tub. She passed through the bedroom to the master bath and froze in the doorway.

  Reg had insisted on a bathroom done in white marble, and he had kept it spotless. He always said it was his sanctuary from paint and color. It had been quite opulent, with a double vanity and wide mirrors, a shower stall, and a huge bathtub suitable for soaking and relaxing. Reg had loved spending time in the tub and had ended up spending the rest of his life there.

  But the room was no longer absent of color.

  Completely clothed, Reg Starling sat in a full tub of pink water. His wrists had been slashed open and his blood splashed about. Across the mirror, in his blood, had been written, "I'm sorry. I did it. I killed Ryan. Now I must die."

  Francesca slumped against the door jamb. "Oh, Reg, she got to you. And I was so close. That last secret, what you knew about Melissa's death ... I know I would have had it from you soon. And now . .."

  She'd been about to say she'd never know, but something about his expression stopped her. He had died with the hint of a smile on his lips. He must have concentrated so hard to be able to do that. But then, it would have been easy. They were here to silence Sven Newmark, but they were killing Reg Starling. And Reg Starling never let anyone get anything over on him.

  She crossed into the bathroom and crouched down to kiss him on the forehead. "You made sure that whoever was after you wouldn't win. That was a secret and now I know it. And between us, Reg Starling, she won't win."

  21

  State of the Art Gallery and Cafe, Crescent Harbor

  New Exford

  Arc-Royal Defense Cordon

  27 November 3060

  The stern expression on Francesca's face melted the plastic smile Mr. Archie wore. The little man with slicked-back black hair and a pencil-thin moustache had opened his arms to welcome her, but he stopped with his lips pursed for an air-kiss. His brown eyes widened as she drew closer, and a couple of patrons noticed his surprise.

  Francesca ignored them. "Your office, Arch." Her growl widened his eyes further, and brought secret smiles to the faces of those among the staff and regulars who heard her. Mr. Archie, as the self-appointed, judge of what was artistic and not on New Exford, ruled supreme in his gallery. He did not tolerate such familiarity from anyone save Reg Starling, and Francesca was treading perilously on her connection with Starling.

  Mr. Archie sniffed and half closed his eyes. "I'm afraid I have things I must be doing out here."

  "It wasn't a request." With her nylon satchel over her shoulder, Francesca brushed passed him and mounted the red, cast-iron circular stairway that led up to the gallery's office.

  The little man clutched at her arm. "You can't..."

  Francesca let molten fury pour through her eyes. "Now, Arch."

  Her footsteps echoed alone from the steps until she was almost to the top, then she heard Mr. Archie begin to follow her. She reached his office before he did and had already slid behind his desk by the time he caught up. The light from a single desk lamp provided all the illumination for the cluttered room. Every flat surface had small bits and pieces of sculpture on it, and many of those flat surfaces were formed by canvases stacked against the walls.

  "Fiona Jensen, I don't know what you think you're doing..."

  Francesca unclipped the keyboard from the computer on the desk and tossed it to Mr. Archie. He caught it and clutched it to his chest like a virgin raising a sheet to protect her modesty. Francesca clipped her keyboard into the machine, then started it up. as the machine churned through its start
up routine, she glanced above the monitor at the gallery's red-faced owner. "Get one of those agent sheets you sign that authorizes you to sell art for the artist showing here."

  "What? Why?"

  "You're going to become Starling's agent forever and all time."

  The man blinked his eyes. "What? How is that possible?"

  "I'm going to forge his signature and then you'll sign the contract and I'll witness it."

  "But that's fraud ..."

  She hit the reset switch and sent the machine into startup mode again. "Brace yourself: Reg is dead."

  The keyboard clattered to the ground, keys popping off to skitter over the floor. "Dead? How?" Mr. Archie's eyes grew wide. "You murdered him ..."

  "No, but I know who did, and I can prove to you that I didn't do it."

  The owner's face took on an expression of smug superiority. "Oh, and how will you do that?"

  "You'll be told that Reg Starling committed suicide."

  "He talked iabout it often enough."

  "Right, I know, but remember what he said. Remember how he said he wanted to go out."

  Mr. Archie smiled carefully. "Always the showman. Reg said he'd step in front of a speeding hovertruck, one of those white ones that cruises the streets selling ice cream to children."

  "Right. He wanted the blood to show and to give the kids something to remember." Francesca hesitated as the bathroom scene came to mind. "Reg slit his wrists, scrawled a message in a mirror in his blood, and then sat in a warm tub to die."

  Mr. Archie shivered. "Oh, no, not Reg. That's so ... so Elvis, dying in the bathroom. Whoever did it might as well have scattered doughnuts around and copies of Modern Mercenary Monthly. Not Reg at all."

  The little man's eyes sharpened. "And you, you would have staged it so he made a big splash. Not that I would have blamed you for wanting to murder him. We all did."

  "Yeah, but not recently." She glanced at the computer screen, then back at Mr. Archie. "Get that agent agreement out, will you?"

  He frowned. "No one would believe he signed it."

  "That's wrong because the signature will match over half of the certificates of authenticity and signatures on the prints you've been selling." Francesca smiled in spite of herself. "Reg thought it was the ultimate joke to have him signing my name and me signing his. We practiced until we could forge each other's signatures perfectly. If anyone is inclined to contest it, it will pass muster with experts."

  Greed sparked highlights in Mr. Archie's eyes. "And what will you want out of what I make?"

  "Nothing more than what I have coming out of the deals we've already made. I might need a little help before that, but the money is all yours. In fact, I doubt you'll ever see me again after I walk out of here."

  "Oh, that's unfortunate." The mock sympathy in Mr. Archie's voice was not lost upon Francesca.

  "One thing, though, I need whatever it was that Reg gave you to hold in the event of his death."

  Mr. Archie blinked again, then his right hand rose to cover his mouth. "In the shock, I had forgotten. Yes, just a moment." He sidled over to the corner of the room and knelt in front of an old safe. "I put it in here." as the gallery owner worked on the safe, Francesca encrypted a short message to Curaitis. Because she no longer had access to the books on her hard drive, the encryption routine used the onboard computer software help files to encrypt things. She typed in several of Curaitis' cover addresses and sent the message. If he gets it soon, great. If not, I meet him tomorrow.

  She shut off the computer and unplugged her keyboard as Mr. Archie turned and handed her a plasticine envelope. She tore it open and poured a safety-deposit box key and a note-card into her hand. The key had the bank's stamp on it, and she figured it was the branch where she and Reg had opened the account to handle the funds from the print sales.

  The notecard was covered with Reg's crabbed handwriting.

  Fiona, love,

  No tears and no secrets. You hold the key to my last secret and since you alone know what it is, it will be up to you to make people pay for its having been transferred to you. You're my friend and, now, my last work. Make a big splash, baby.

  Love, Reg.

  Francesca sighed. "You didn't let me down, Reg."

  "Good news?" Mr. Archie hesitated and glanced down. "I mean, given the circumstances ..."

  "The best that can be expected." Francesca held the key up. "Now I just have to wait for the bank to open tomorrow and finish things off. Can't go home, though."

  Mr. Archie's eyes suddenly hardened and the priggish air he wore like flesh seemed to drop away. "You'll come downstairs, we'll eat something, then I will find you a place to stay..."

  "Thanks, but anything connected with Reg might be a bit dangerous."

  The small man waved away her objection. "My dear Fiona, I supply artwork for this world's elite. Half the leading executives here have hideaways they use for clandestine meetings, and I've seen them all. I'll make a call or two and we'll have you a place to stay. It's the least I can do."

  Francesca smiled. "Thanks. And I'm sure Reg would thank you, too."

  "And ruin his image?" Mr. Archie shook his head as he waved her toward the door. "A little early to be making a saint of Reg Starling, Fiona. It will happen. I'll see to that, but not quite so quickly as this, I think."

  * * *

  Over dinner with Mr. Archie, which they ate in a back booth that afforded them privacy from being overheard, but let everyone see them together, a bit of his cattiness returned. Reg was free to spurn anyone while Mr. Archie had to pick up the pieces to make sales. Archie himself had to be courted by patrons and those who wished to be put on his primary lists for special sales and openings. He knew quite a bit about the local comings and goings, and shared Reg's delight in dissecting the faults and foibles of the rich.

  He did make good on his promise to find Francesca a place to stay. She spent an uneventful night in a fairly sterile corporate apartment, then woke early and made her way to the First Bank of New Exford's downtown branch. She flashed the key to the safe deposit box to the assistant manager, who took her over to the vault and had her sign in on the box log. She was not surprised to find that the bank had a digitized copy of her signature already on file for the box, and she knew by looking at it that Reg had forged it.

  The assistant manager led her into the vault and together they keyed the box open. Francesca slipped the long, slender metal box from the vault and took it to a private examining room. She opened it carefully and raised an eyebrow at the contents. "Oh, Reg, you really did pile all of your secrets in here, didn't you?" a chunk of the space in the box was taken up by 100,000 kroner in ten stacks of 100-kroner bills. It was not an insubstantial amount of money and certainly enough to get off New Exford and to another world if Reg had needed to run. In addition to the money, there were three sets of official documents. Two were in Sven Newmark's name—one issued by the Free Rasalhague Republic and the other by the Federated Commonwealth. The third was in the name Stefan Kresescu and had been issued by the Free Worlds League. Francesca couldn't tell at first glance, but she was fairly certain the League documents were forgeries. Very good ones, though.

  Reg had hidden away copies of diskzines that had said good things about his work and a small penknife with his initials on it. She picked up the sterling silver knife and smiled. She'd given it to him as a present and he later claimed he'd lost it. He didn't want me to know he could be sentimental. Not the image he wanted at all.

  The final thing in the box was a key and an attached tag with an address. It came with no message, but that didn't surprise her. The note that had gotten her this far had said everything Reg wanted to say. Even though he was counting on her to be his instrument of revenge, he didn't want to make it too easy. Even now he wants me to prove myself worthy of his trust.

  She pocketed the key and knife, then slipped the money into her handbag. She closed the box and returned it to the assistant manager, then got her box key back and
left the bank. The address on the key's tag was only a few blocks away, toward Crescent Harbor's waterfront, so she darted across the street, dodging a couple of hovercars, and walked to it.

  The building at that address was known in Crescent Harbor as The Plinth. It looked very much as if a jagged lightning bolt had been frozen in gray granite and shoved up from the center of the earth. The stone had been polished to a mirrorlike finish and had windows spaced irregularly. At night the lit windows seemed to stagger across the sky—"a Morse code distress signal from the sun," Reg had once commented to her when they had seen it after dark.

  She entered the lobby and stopped at the building directory. She keyed in some search parameters and took three tries before she hit what had to be the right one. Mark Newson and Associates, Limited, had its offices on the twenty-fifth floor. She walked over to a bank of elevators, picked out one that serviced the middle range of floors, and started her ascent.

  The firm's name clearly pointed to Sven Newmark, but not so obviously that anyone would make a connection if they weren't already certain there was one. As she rode upward, Francesca hoped Reg had been clever about paying the rent and obtaining the lease because a computer check of either could forge a link between Reg Starling and the firm; and the Loki agents who killed him certainly had been checking out his connections, which was how they had come to ransack her apartment.

  The elevator slid to a silent stop on the twenty-fifth floor. She found the Newson offices over on the west side of the building, meaning the offices would have a wonderful view of the harbor. An office in a building he hated, giving him a view of something he considered suitable only as a subject for the "starving artist factory fabrication" school of art. Just a study in contrasts, isn't this, Reg?