“One hundred fifty pounds forty.”
They had shorted her. Not that she could prove it, but her private calculations and estimate put the owed amount at close to two hundred pounds. She shuddered inwardly. That left next to nothing after expenses.
“Forty cash, please,” she said, giving no indication of her thoughts. She inserted her chip into the receptacle.
Kranston counted out the forty, and handed it across the counter along with the pay record, which Kiera had to sign as correct. Correct, ha! She doubted she’d ever signed a correct sheet. She glanced at the deductions, and saw that they had charged for one more uniform cleaning than had actually occurred. Figured. But she knew better than to complain. Laura had complained; Laura no longer worked there. Kranston had seen to that.
“Thank you, Ms Kranston. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Ms West.”
Only when the door closed behind her did Kiera let the tears come forth.
* * *
Köln, Germany
Tuesday 18 May
“Oh, it made me cry,” Gretchen said, wiping at her eyes as they walked from the theatre back to the hotel.
He blinked. “You thought it was sad?”
She laughed, “No, dummy, I found it so beautiful. True love, lasting forever.”
Her hand squeezed his. And he knew what that meant. Very, very soon, he would reap the reward for the effort she thought he had expended on her behalf.
Once in their room, she began to undo his shirt, eyes fairly glowing. He held up his hand.
“We have to talk, Gretchen.”
“Talk?”
“Yes.” He sat her down on the bed, sat beside her, and took her hand. “This will likely be our last night together.”
She turned her head, and stared up at him, looking hurt. “But why? Is it something I’ve done?”
He chuckled. “Yes, actually.”
Gretchen’s eyes widened in dismay. “What? And you should have told me. I would have stopped, changed.”
He couldn’t allow her distress to go on. “It’s your art, dearest one. The drawings you make on your sketch pads.”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “You don’t like them? You said you did. You even bought me good-quality pencils.”
“I did, indeed. And I think you have real talent. Therefore, I’ve arranged for you to take a year at the Art Institute here in the city. You need some real training in order to become the best you can be. I only hold you back; I can’t allow myself to be that selfish.”
Her eyes widened again, but this time in wonder. “You remembered! But I only mentioned that once – months ago – when we first met.”
He squeezed her hand. “Yes. You said you had a dream, that you wanted to attend the Art Institute. Yes, I remembered. And now you can. But that means you’ll have to work really hard. And, unfortunately, that also means that you won’t be free to accompany me any longer.”
Sidney fell back on the bed as Gretchen threw herself at him, hugging and kissing him fiercely.
“You wonderful, wonderful man,” she said between kisses. And then she began pulling his clothes from him to reward him in the way she knew best.
Going out with a bang, he thought irreverently, the best way to go. He almost hated to set Gretchen free, but she had done her duty – in all ways – and continued use of her represented a danger. She had unknowingly made it worth the bribe and associated costs to get her the year. Well worth it. But now he’d have to find someone new.
And then he stopped thinking.
CHAPTER 3
Spaceport, USNA
Wednesday 19 May
Thinking that the day might mark a turning point in her life, Major Sharon Temple, United States of North America Space Force, examined herself in the mirror, making sure that no strands of her long blonde hair escaped the confinement of the regulation bun. She placed the Space Force dress cap on her head, and checked that it sat there, level. She took a deep breath, let it out, and then smiled at her reflection.
“Don’t worry,” came Trish’s voice from behind her, “you’ll make a good impression.”
“Easy for you to say,” retorted Sharon, looking at her uniform coat for any errant lint. “You don’t have to stand before a full general.”
Her friend, roommate, and fellow officer laughed. “And what will old Wingrove see that concerns you?”
“Someone too young for her rank.”
“You’re twenty-seven,” Trish scoffed, “on the young side for promotion, but not unheard of, and certainly not a record. Me, I might make it by 30 if I’m lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it. When they check your record, you’ll get your promotion,” Sharon told her. And would her own record make up for the youth she saw in the mirror? She looked down at the new half-stripe on her uniform sleeve, shining slightly brighter than the two wider ones that bracketed it.
“Oh, for crying out loud, you look fine. Just go. You don’t want to arrive late, do you?”
Sharon glanced at the chrono, and gulped. One last look in the mirror, and she gave her reflection a sharp, approving nod.
“Go get him, Major, sir.” Trish snapped a salute, which Sharon returned.
“Dismissed to your duties, Captain.”
They both laughed, and walked out to the waiting car together. It dropped Trish off at her office, and carried on deeper into Spaceport, to the HQ of 2nd Fleet.
At the door, Sharon showed her ID, got scanned and accepted. “Fourth floor, turn right as you exit the elevator, sir,” the guard said. “End of the hall.”
“Thank you, Private,” she replied. “Appreciate that.”
Which she did. He didn’t have to offer directions and, since she hadn’t asked, nerves causing her stomach to jump and her to forget to do that, it came as a welcome gesture. It made her feel more at home.
General Wingrove’s adjutant, Lieutenant Rhodes, stood as she entered. “The General will see you immediately, sir,” he told her, eyes guarded, expression bland, but something in his voice put her on guard.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said, as he opened the door.
“Major Temple to see you, sir.”
“Come in Major.”
She entered, walked up to his desk, and saluted. “Major Temple reporting, as ordered.”
His hand waved in a sketched return salute. She frowned inwardly at that. He opened a file on his screen. “You come to us highly recommended,” he observed, his eyes on her record.
Nice to know, but not something requiring a response.
“You have quite a knack for logistics,” he murmured.
She cringed inwardly. Surely not. She had hoped her long-awaited transfer would see her out of that field and into space – for which reason she had joined to begin with.
General Wingrove looked up and smiled at her. “We can use someone with a head on her shoulders.” But his eyes weren’t looking at her head. “Sit down, Major.”
She sat. “Sir, I had hoped—”
“Yes?” His eyebrows rose.
“I had asked for a transfer to get out of Logistics, sir. To get into space.”
“Ah, had you? Why did you go into Logistics, then?”
“Illness, sir.” She saw the doubt on his face. “Not mine, sir, Lieutenant Grieves – at the time. I had just reported to 1st Fleet, when he went down with appendicitis. The CO shoved me in his slot ... and liked the job I did.”
Wingrove scrolled up and read something. “Yes, high praise for someone so young and inexperienced. Just commissioned as Lieutenant j.g.”
“Yes, sir. And then every request I made for transfer got turned down. They told me that they couldn’t afford to lose me.”
But then her transfer had gone through, suddenly, without warning. Promotion, and two days to pack her bags for the move to Spaceport. And just when she thought she’d gotten on to something.
“Well, I have you now, so you’re out of 1st Fleet.�
�
“Will I be going into space, sir?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and he tilted his head to one side. “Well, Major, we don’t have anything open at the moment, but if you do a good job for us, it certainly isn’t beyond the scope of my office to get you there.”
* * *
Major Temple sat trembling at her new desk in her new office. That bastard! Wingrove had made it as plain as possible, without stating it outright, that her position with 2nd Fleet depended on her position elsewhere – on her back in his bed. And she had made it just as plain, without stating it outright, that it would be a cold day in Hell before she accepted that.
She looked around the office – her home until Wingrove retired, or she gave up and resigned her commission, as the general had intimated. She would have done far better to have remained with 1st Fleet. At least there she had found the work interesting if not engaging. This? She prevented herself from throwing her reader across the room.
“Welcome to Purgatory, Major Temple,” she whispered to herself.
* * *
London, England
Thursday 20 May
“Welcome back to England, Mr Tremblay,” the young Customs officer said, as she closed his case.
He smiled into her face, thinking she would make a good replacement for Gretchen – if she lost about 20 IQ points. Cute, built, but with eyes far too intelligent for his use.
“Thank you. Always good to come home.”
Then her attention went to her screen. She looked at it, and then at him, and his stomach jumped. He hadn’t had that reaction since the first few times he had smuggled seeds into the country.
“Please wait here,” she said.
Tremblay could feel his heart begin to beat more rapidly. What had he forgotten to do? What had they found? Why now, when he had an especially large stash in the secret compartment of his case?
An older, more experienced customs officer approached.
“Mr Tremblay?” the officer asked, eyes looking straight into Sidney’s.
“Yes, Officer, that’s me,” he said easily, proud that he could make his voice so smooth, so lacking in tension. He looked to the man’s nametag.
“Of Agri-Inc.?”
“Yes, Officer Kent. Is there a problem?”
The officer took his papers, and examined them much too closely for Sidney’s comfort, though they were in perfect order. Kent pursed his lips, then seemed to come to a decision. “Perhaps, Mr Tremblay. We have a man with papers saying he works at your company. Could you look at his papers to see if they are genuine? They appear slightly different than these.”
Relief poured over him. “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
He followed Kent to an observation room. Through the one-way glass, he could see a younger, well-dressed man trying to appear relaxed, but failing. He had fashionably short black hair that he occasionally ran his fingers through.
Kent showed him the ID papers. Sidney recognized them as well-done forgeries – perfect except for the paper, which looked about a half-tone off Agri-Inc.’s official stock.
He checked the name – Gerald Coleman. His eyes narrowed at that. By chance, he had seen Gerald Coleman on his last trip. They had not met, but Sidney remembered him, and this man sitting at the table bore little resemblance.
“Let me check our lists. Might I use your port?”
“Of course.”
Kent indicated the port, and Sidney plugged his portable comm unit into it. He logged into Agri-Inc. and brought up the employee lists, playing for time. He might be able to use this man.
“Well, I’ve never met him, but we do have a Gerald Coleman at Agri-Inc. I’m afraid I’m not authorized to go further into personnel files, so I can’t bring up an image. The ID looks genuine, though a little weathered. It’s a shade off – might have been left in the sun. I can put you in touch with the duty officer – I’m afraid it’s a little after hours, so there’s no one other than him. At least none other who can help you. Shall I do that?” He wouldn’t risk anything for this stranger, and he could explain it all away, should the authorities find out the impostor. He had already given all the clues that Customs might need.
But Kent merely smiled at him. “I hardly think it’s necessary, Mr Tremblay. He just had an air about him that seemed slightly off. He’s clean – not bringing anything in.”
Sidney nodded.
“Best to be safe,” he agreed. “And Agri-Inc. certainly wouldn’t want you to be less than vigilant just because it is one of our people.” He lowered his voice just slightly, and unnecessarily. “I’m in Enforcement. We don’t take the breaking of our patents lightly. In your place I’d give this Coleman a rigorous check, too.”
Kent nodded – one enforcement official to another. “My thanks, Mr Tremblay.”
“Not at all.”
Kent led the way out of the room, and Tremblay took the opportunity of his momentary lack of vigilance to snap a picture of the impostor.
Outside, he followed the man to the Underground station, and from there to a building in a lower class area of the city. The man seemed to have no idea that anyone followed him. Definitely not a professional.
Now tired, Sidney decided to go home. He could turn in his confiscated seeds – and stash his purloined ones – on the morrow. And, on the morrow, he could begin his hunt for a new intermediary. He knew just the place to begin that hunt.
* * *
Friday 21 May
Sidney Tremblay didn’t like the looks that he received as he walked into the Agri-Inc. head office. Too many people turned their heads to look at him. This had never happened before.
“Sidney,” Anne Parsons, the main receptionist called him over. “Mr Williamson would like to see you this morning as soon as you get settled in.”
Williamson? He didn’t like the sound of that. Williamson stood two rungs higher up the ladder. He had the job of making sure the whole section ran smoothly – and he had the duty of firing those who didn’t shape up.
Sidney smiled at Anne. “Just take me a few minutes.”
He wanted to ask why Williamson wanted to see him, but refrained. That would only show weakness.
He took the lift up to the third floor, walked the hallway to his office, only to receive yet more unwanted looks. Gods! Had someone found out about his sideline? Had someone called up the office about the Customs incident?
He walked into his office. Nothing had changed since he left it. Placing his case on his desk, he took a quick look in a hand-mirror, pressed his lips together, and then drew in a deep breath.
Williamson.
On the fifth floor, Williamson’s secretary looked up as he strode in, showing the absolute confidence of an innocent man.
“Mr Williamson is waiting for you.”
She didn’t smile – but then he had never seen her smile. Waiting for him? That didn’t sound good.
But, when he entered the office, Williamson stood and came around the desk to meet him, hand outstretched.
“Another successful trip, Sidney?”
Sidney Tremblay nodded to that. “Another successful trip, Mr Williamson. They just never give up. I have the confiscated seeds on my desk right now. Soon as I get the chance, I’ll get them sent to inventory.”
“A drink?” Williamson pulled out a fine single-malt scotch from a shelf that held thousands of New British Pounds worth of alcohol.
“Love it.” He accepted the glass, and took a small sip. If Williamson offered him such a drink, firing couldn’t be on his mind – unless he wanted Sidney to become overconfident. “Of course, I appreciate their devotion.”
Williamson raised his white eyebrows. “Is that a fact?”
Tremblay laughed. “Naturally. It keeps me in work. Once we stop the last of them, I’ll be out of a job.”
Williamson joined him in laughter, then he took on a more serious mien. “Perhaps so, but their tenacity and cleverness makes me suspicious.”
Tremblay f
elt his stomach lurch. Had he made a mistake somewhere? Had the Old Man lured him into relaxing with the fine whiskey only to present him with a list of his crimes? Surely they hadn’t discovered his stash?
“Oh?” he said, allowing his own eyebrows to rise a little in studied nonchalance. “How so? I had cause to remember Herr Braun of some years ago – he lived in Moselkern, which I passed through on my way back. He had just a small operation, no sophistication at all. And he’s out of business – as far as I know. We caught him; he quit.”
Williamson looked like he disagreed. “No matter how many operations we shut down – small like Herr Braun’s, or large like the farmer you just put in prison – we never seem to see an end to the seeds.”
Tremblay nodded. “True enough. But I’m not so sure that they’re as organized as you believe. I think more that they’ve learned to diversify. Take Braun, for example. I confiscated seeds from fifteen varieties of plants that we have under patent.” He paused a moment for that to sink in. “Fifteen varieties. Twenty years ago, when I came to this section, a seeder might get caught with one or two varieties. He would become the local expert on those two plants, and have something of a monopoly, so to speak. Catching that seeder would damage their operations considerably. We even obliterated several varieties of loose seeds. We now have possession of all the seeds extant.”
And by ‘we’, he meant both Agri-Inc. and himself.
The Old Man wasn’t buying it. “I don’t know about that.”
And, from the look on his face, Sidney wasn’t going to like what came next. He took a furtive deep breath, and waited.
“You’re not going to like this, Sidney,” the Old Man said, matching his words to Sidney’s thoughts, “but I’m going to...”
Remove me.
“... add a dozen new investigators to your section.” He raised his glass to his lips.
Not With A Whimper: Preservers Page 4