The Long Mirage

by David R. George III

  “It’s got one button, which activates and deactivates it,” Rethik said. “If it locates what you’re looking for, it won’t flash or make a sound, but it will vibrate briefly.”

  Quark opened his fist, and he exchanged his latinum for Rethik’s scanner. The strip and the slips quickly vanished inside the white jumpsuit the Andorian wore. Quark wedged the scanner in the fleshy region between his thumb and forefinger, then closed his hand around the device. He heard the door open behind him, and without another word, he exited the security office.

  Quark didn’t look back. He started for his rendezvous point with Laren. Halfway there, he saw the Argelian security officer heading back toward his post. Quark turned left at the second intersection, then met Laren at the second junction.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “I got what I needed,” Quark said. “The subject arrived seven hours ago, and I have the help I need to find her.” He resisted saying anything more, but couldn’t help himself. “That security officer didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”

  “None at all,” Laren said. “But we need to bring this situation to a rapid conclusion, otherwise I have a date tomorrow night.”

  “Sure, as long as it’s not with me, right?” Quark regretted the comment even as it left his mouth. He waited for Laren to upbraid him, but she said nothing. Quark didn’t risk even a glance over at her, but he thought he might at any moment hear her footsteps moving away from him.

  That didn’t happen. Instead, they walked in silence back to the western section of the spaceport, to one of the two pedestrian tunnels that connected with the city dome. They mounted the slidewalk there and let it carry them to their destination.

  When they reached the city dome, its interior looked different from what Quark had expected. The blue of its inner surface had a much darker tone than that of its exterior. The pedestrian walkways that led off left and right along the inside of the dome resembled all the others they had so far moved along, but those that ran into the city widened and stretched away at odd angles. The buildings, which Quark had thought would gleam of steel and glass, and rise far up toward the dome, appeared constructed of less sophisticated materials, like thermocrete and fusionstone. The structures reached two or three stories near the mouth of the tunnel, and not much higher even in the center of the city. The locale looked dark, even foreboding, an urban sprawl made for a transient, anonymous clientele rather than for an indigenous, permanent population.

  “Nice place,” Laren said. It pleased Quark to discover that she had not decided to stop speaking to him, even after his last remark.

  “Thieves don’t like to hide in brightly lighted areas,” Quark said.

  “Not unless they’re stealing by using corporate resources,” Laren said. “Then you just need to find the mansions in the force-field-enclosed communities.”

  Quark laughed. She wasn’t wrong.

  Stepping off to one side, Quark moved out of the flow of pedestrian traffic, and Laren followed. He squeezed his thumb and forefinger together and felt the button of the scanner click. “Let me do a preliminary scan,” he whispered to Laren. “We may have to move to the center of the city in order to—”

  The scanner vibrated in his hand.

  Quark’s eyes widened. “What is it?” Laren asked. “Have you got something already?”

  “Maybe,” Quark said. He lifted his hand to scratch at his brow, taking a peek at the scanner’s display as he did so. “I’m reading only a single Petarian,” he said. “About a third of the way across the city and to the left.”

  “Then let’s go,” Laren said.

  Together, they strode into Mericor City, on the trail of Mayereen Viray.

  viii

  * * *

  Nog sat with Candlewood and Lani in the backseat of the taxi. The two men had changed back into the suits they had worn into the holosuite, and Lani had put on a dress. The operations chief felt anxious as the vehicle turned into the drive that led up to the Silver Lode hotel, but he reminded himself that they had more information about Vic at that point than when they had first entered the holosuite three days earlier. That left them four days to resolve the situation. While they still didn’t know the precise nature of the trouble Vic was in, they at least knew who had abducted him—Bugsy Calderone, with whom they would soon be speaking.

  In the real world beyond the holosuite, Nog would have utilized DS9’s powerful computer system and its massive set of databases to learn everything he could about the mobster before meeting with him. Because he and Candlewood had entered Bashir 62 via a back door, though, they couldn’t yet leave without causing reinitialization of the program. Lani had not “perished” in Vic’s Las Vegas, but she too had used the back door, meaning they could not be certain about the effect of her departure. Since Calderone might not even have been a historical figure, but simply a character created by the code—in which case searching DS9’s databases for information about him would have been futile—Nog chose not to risk sending Lani out of the holosuite.

  Fortunately, the starbase’s computer system had not been the only option available to them. Candlewood suggested that they visit a public library. They spent the bulk of the day combing through physical copies of old newspapers, many of them bound together in large tomes. More recent editions had yet to be collected and came affixed to long, flat wooden rods.

  With the help of two librarians, the trio had scoured through archived copies of the Las Vegas Review-Journal and the Las Vegas Sun. They learned certain public facts about Bugsy Calderone—such as that he had moved west from Brooklyn, New York, two decades earlier—while other details came by way of innuendo or accusation—such as the reason for his relocation, namely to take control of an established crime syndicate. While he claimed to be a legitimate businessman, Calderone had a reputation as someone who either got what he wanted or spilled blood. Various articles suggested that Calderone carried numerous law-enforcement officers and judiciary officials in the city on his payroll. Although the criminal undertakings of his organization appeared generally known and widely reported, little had been done to successfully curtail its operations.

  All of that had sounded exceedingly ominous to Candle­wood, who had openly wondered if taking a direct approach with Calderone might be a bad idea. Nog told him no. In Vic Fontaine’s Las Vegas, avarice motivated the criminal element; in fact, avarice even motivated law-­abiding visitors to the city. Growing up in Ferengi culture, Nog had no trouble understanding such impulses, and so felt suitably qualified to deal with the mobster.

  The taxicab pulled up beneath the porte cochere of the Silver Lode. A pair of bellmen opened the passenger doors. Nog paid the driver, and then he, Candlewood, and Lani made their way inside to the hotel lobby.

  A man stood behind the concierge desk, different from the thin, gray-haired older individual Nog and Candlewood had spoken with the prior day. With a smooth, bald head and a stockier build, he wore a similarly well-tailored black suit. He looked directly at Nog and greeted him by name, no doubt a testament to the surveillance measures in place.

  “It is good of you to be on time,” the concierge said.

  “It is a basic sign of respect for Mister Calderone,” Nog said. “We appreciate his taking the time to meet with us.”

  Without overtly changing his expression, the concierge conveyed disapproval. “Mister Calderone agreed to meet with one individual, not three.”

  “These are my business associates,” Nog said. “Mister Candlewood and Miss Ulu.”

  “As I said, Mister Calderone is expecting to meet with you alone, Mister Nog.”

  The operations chief looked at Candlewood and Lani. Strictly speaking, Nog didn’t need them to accompany him to his appointment with the mobster, but he wanted them there. They would serve as moral support, but of more importance, they would provide two more sets of ears and eyes to ensure that N
og didn’t miss anything critical to accomplishing their goal. He opted to reiterate the type of argument he’d made to the previous concierge. “Please assure Mister Calderone that meeting with me and my associates will redound to his financial benefit.”

  The man regarded Nog, then said, “If you will excuse me for a moment.” As his predecessor had done before him, the concierge withdrew into the office behind him.

  “What if Calderone won’t allow us to come with you?” Candlewood asked under his breath.

  “I’ll see him by myself if I have to,” Nog said. “We can’t pass up this opportunity.” Nog expected it would be a few minutes before the concierge returned, but the door opened back up almost as soon as it had closed.

  “Mister Calderone will graciously allow Mister Candlewood to attend the meeting,” he said. “But I’m afraid the answer regarding Miss Ulu is, and I quote, ‘No dames.’ ”

  To her credit, Lani did not argue. “I’ll wait for the two of you back in our suite.” She did not wait for a response, but immediately strode back toward the hotel entrance. At the same time, another man stepped up to the desk. Tall and wearing a suit that did little to mask his muscular physique, he wore dark glasses that hid his eyes.

  “Mister Spinelli will escort you to your meeting,” the concierge said.

  “This way,” Spinelli said in a deep voice. He walked ahead of Nog and Candlewood, who followed him to a bank of elevators, one of which stood open. Spinelli stopped in front of it and motioned inside. Nog and Candlewood entered to find a second large man in a suit. Once Spinelli had boarded the elevator, the second man inserted a key into the control panel and pressed a button labeled PENTHOUSE.

  When they reached the top floor of the hotel, the doors opened to reveal yet another large man in a suit. He asked Nog and Candlewood to step out and open their jackets, which they did. The man carefully frisked them, clearly hunting for weapons of any kind.

  As he consented to the search, Nog examined their surroundings and immediately recognized the corridor in which they stood. Wider than those on the other floors of the hotel, it featured lush, decorative carpeting, rich wood paneling on the lower meter and a half or so of the walls, and brilliant crystal chandeliers suspended from a high ceiling. It had been there that he and Candlewood had last seen Vic Fontaine, accompanied by a pair of brawny men who had opened fire on them with projectile weapons. Nog cast a sideways glance at the science officer, who responded with a single, slight nod: Candlewood also recognized their location.

  Satisfied that neither Nog nor Candlewood carried any weapons, the man motioned ahead and said, “Follow me.” They did, and Spinelli fell in behind them. Halfway down the corridor, they reached a wide set of ornately carved double doors. Without knocking, the man pushed them open and entered the room beyond, then stepped aside. Nog and Candlewood both stopped in the doorway. Spinelli stood behind them.

  The large room ran lengthwise left and right. Floor-to-ceiling windows formed the outer wall, opposite the doors, providing a panoramic view of verdant grounds behind the hotel, ultimately leading to the dun-colored expanse of the desert. Various cabinets and credenzas, constructed of rich, radiant woods, lined paneled inner walls beneath gilt-framed artwork. An outsize conference table sat in the center of the space, its dark, fine-grained surface tying in with the furniture and the wine-colored carpet.

  Two men stood in the far corners of the room, their suit jackets unbuttoned and their hands crossed in front of them—their location, concentration, and stance making them each recognizable as guards. Nog didn’t doubt that they carried weapons. Their obvious charge sat between them, at the center of one long side of the table, facing Nog and Candlewood. Dressed in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit, he wore wire-rimmed spectacles with round lenses. He had a medium build and sat with his hands folded together on the tabletop.

  “That will be all, Mister Spinelli, Mister Sperano, thank you,” the man said. He had a thin, reedy voice, but he nevertheless spoke with confidence and authority. In response, the men who had led Nog and Candlewood to the conference room quickly exited, closing the doors after them.

  Nog stepped forward, motioning to Candlewood to remain where he stood. The operations chief coolly regarded the man seated at the table, waiting to see if he would begin the conversation. When he didn’t, Nog said, “You’re not Bugsy Calderone.” The operations chief had seen images of the mobster in the newspapers. He and Candlewood did not have time to wade through different levels of criminal hierarchy.

  “I never claimed to be,” the man said. “But I will offer you a piece of advice should you ever speak with Beniamino Calderone: he does not care for sobriquets.”

  “My apologies,” Nog said. “With all due respect, though, my associate and I requested a meeting with Mister Calderone, not you, Mister . . . ?”

  “My name is Herschel P. Steinberg,” the man said. “I am Mister Calderone’s representative in matters of business, and he has authorized me to speak with you, Mister Nog.”

  “That may be,” Nog said, “but we have come here for a meeting with Mister Calderone, not an underling who claims to represent him.”

  Steinberg smiled, though his expression contained no mirth. “In that case,” he said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket, “I am happy to cut this meeting short.”

  Nog immediately regrouped. Though he wanted to speak with Calderone directly in order to expedite Vic’s release, he could not throw away any chance to deal with the singer’s abduction. Nog held up his hands in a placatory gesture. “Please, Mister Steinberg, I meant no offense.”

  “And I took none,” the man said. “However, if you do not wish to meet with me, there is nothing I can do for you.”

  “Even though you represent Mister Calderone,” Nog said, “it’s not clear to me that you will be able to make the decisions that need to be made.”

  “Why don’t you let me determine that?” Steinberg asked. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, sat back down, and motioned to two upholstered chairs across from him. “Why don’t you and Mister Candlewood have a seat.”

  Nog peered back at Candlewood, who gave him a questioning look. The operations chief offered a quick nod, and the two men sat down beside each other. “Thank you,” Nog told Steinberg. “It recently came to my attention that a friend of mine might have had some business dealings with Mister Calderone, and that my friend might have made some . . . uh . . . inadvertent transgressions.” Nog didn’t know what had transpired between Vic and the mobster, but it seemed evident from what he did know that the singer had somehow run afoul of the crime boss.

  “Transgressions?” Steinberg said. “Inadvertent transgressions?” His words came wrapped in doubt. Nog knew that he needed to exercise caution.

  “I know my friend,” he said, “and I know that he would never intentionally try to take advantage of somebody of Mister Calderone’s stature.”

  “But he would take advantage of somebody of lesser stature?” Steinberg asked. The question seemed calculated to unnerve Nog.

  “No. What I am saying is that if my friend acted in a manner that damaged Mister Calderone in some way, it was accidental.”

  “And did you perhaps play some part in all of this?” Steinberg asked, making no effort to hide the accusatory nature of the question.

  “No, I didn’t,” Nog said, and then to be absolutely clear, he looked at Candlewood and added, “Neither one of us did.” He gazed back across the table at Steinberg. “But we are prepared to offer a solution in order to resolve the situation.”

  “I see,” Steinberg said. He stood up and began slowly to pace along his side of the table. “I wonder what the name of your friend is.”

  Nog had been circumspect about Vic’s identity to that point because it had seemed like the appropriate thing to do, but he saw no reason to continue avoiding the issue. “His name is Vic Fontaine.”

  �
�I see,” Steinberg said again. He reached the end of the table and reversed his course, slowly walking back toward his chair. “I’m not sure that we know Mister Fontaine, other than by his professional reputation, of course.”

  Nog’s lobes grew cold. If he had erred, if Calderone hadn’t been behind Vic’s abduction, then he had wasted three days. Nog felt the oppressive weight of time passing.

  “In theory, though,” Steinberg continued, “if a singer—or anybody, really—borrowed a large sum of money from Mister Calderone and then didn’t pay it back in a timely manner, that would be a cause for concern.”

  Nog didn’t appreciate the coyness of the response, but it at least indicated that the mobster had indeed kidnapped Vic. The idea of the singer borrowing significant funds didn’t seem in character. But then, his program’s been running for more than two years in a simulator, Nog reminded himself. Who knows what’s happened? “If somebody owed Mister Calderone a lot of money,” he said, “they wouldn’t be able to arrange repayment without freedom of movement.”

  Steinberg stopped when he reached his chair and stared over at Nog. “Ah, but freedom of movement also means the freedom to abscond—which is more of a possibility since, over time, such a debt would grow considerably as interest accrues.”

  “What kind of sum are we talking about?” Nog asked.

  “A loan of a hundred thousand dollars,” Steinberg said. “And perhaps payments were made for a time, but if those stopped at some point, the loan would have increased to a million dollars. Theoretically.”

  From the time he’d spent in Vic’s, Nog had some rough sense of the purchasing power of the dollar, and he recognized usury when he heard it. On one level, he couldn’t help but admire such profitmaking abilities. Except that Calderone hasn’t made profit from Vic, he thought. Otherwise we wouldn’t all be in the current situation.

  “I am willing to act on Vic’s behalf and pay back his debt to Mister Calderone, plus interest,” Nog said.