He snorted.
“It will be much easier to get Richardson to open it for us,” he assured her, carefully replacing the painting where it covered the safe.
Now that he’d pointed it out, Mariko could see that the painting didn't fit in with the rest of the room. Richardson should have covered his entire wall in paintings to ensure that the safe was better-hidden. But she was anxious to be gone.
“Just let me put a couple of bugs in here,” Fitz said, apparently picking up on her anxiety, “and then we can be on our way.”
Mariko waited impatiently as Fitz hid one bug in the living room and another in the bedroom, before shining his flashlight around to make sure that they hadn't left any obvious traces of their presence. Fitz had issued them fingerprint gloves that would conceal their identities if a forensic team examined the room, but he’d been insistent that they leave as few traces as possible.
Shaking his head, he beckoned for Mariko to follow him outside into the dingy corridor, locking the door behind her. Then, he led the way down the unpleasant staircase to the outside world.
Darkness seemed to be falling over Sumter, although it was hard to be sure. The local population looked busier, with hundreds of small cars driving about with a reckless disregard for the rules of the road. Mariko was surprised to see them, until she remembered one of the pieces of data from the briefing notes. Sumter had attempted to start up its native industry too early and ended up with a great many cars that were unsuitable for export, even to the more deprived worlds in the sector. The local population had been able to obtain them at knockdown prices.
“Over there,” Fitz said, pointing to a small cafe. “It’s time to start the oldest tradition of the spying industry.”
Mariko looked over at him, catching his smile. “And that is?”
“Waiting,” Fitz said. He led the way across the road, dodging a pair of tiny cars carrying young men with no hope in their eyes, and pushed the cafe door open. “We get a bite to eat, dump the data to the ship...and we wait.”
The interior of the cafe almost made Mariko recoil. On Edo, or on any other core world, it would have been shut down as a hazard to public health. The genetic engineering in her system had its limits, she knew, and eating something from this cafe would push them right to the limits. A huge stick of meat rotated in front of a glowing cooker, surrounded by a horde of flies that seemed intent on crawling all over the food before it could be served to the cafe’s human patrons.
Not that there were many patrons.
Mariko had the impression that the locals generally knew better than to buy food at such an unhealthy place. There were only two other men in the cafe and they were both drinking beer at an astonishing rate.
“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” she said, as they sat down on a pair of filthy seats. “You can't mean for us to eat here?”
“Maybe that part of the plan needs revision,” Fitz agreed.
The waitress tromped over towards them. She was short, fat and utterly unhygienic.
Mariko took one look at her hands and resolved never to eat anything she might have touched. It was a minor miracle that she hadn't killed anyone through food poisoning. Of course, most of the planet’s inhabitants would have improved immune systems spliced into their DNA. They’d be able to eat the food, even shake hands with the waitress. They just wouldn't enjoy it very much.
“Two sealed cans of Coke-Cola, please,” Fitz told the waitress. The waitress nodded and ambled away.
Mariko blinked in surprise, and then understood. No one was quite sure of the exact origin of Coke-Cola, but the corporation that currently held the right to produce it came down very hard on anyone who tried to manufacture their own. The cans would have been produced several light years from Sumter and shipped to the planet through the wormhole, rather than produced on Sumter itself. It wouldn't be infected with the waitress’s hideous touch.
“Good call,” she said, after a moment.
The waitress ambled back towards them, carrying the pair of cans and two menus, dropping them both on the table. Fitz eyed his can carefully before unsealing the lid and taking a swig.
“Does it taste normal?” Mariko asked.
“It seems to be,” Fitz agreed. Despite the best the corporation could do, there were a hundred different places to manufacture the drink and the flavour was always a little different. “Have a drink while I study the menu.”
Mariko opened hers and rolled her eyes. The cafe boasted everything from bacon and eggs to something called a roast beef hash, all promoted by glossy photos that looked more appetising than the real thing. She found herself looking wistfully at a hamburger before glancing around the cafe and deciding that their food wouldn't look anything like the pictures in the menu. It would be covered in flies, for one thing.
“I repeat my earlier comment, with added sarcasm,” she said, dryly.
Fitz nodded in agreement, put the menu on a nearby table and pulled a terminal out of his pocket.
“What’s that?”
“Live feed from the bugs we put in,” Fitz said. He placed the terminal on the table and settled back in his uncomfortable chair. “And now we wait.”
The next hour passed very slowly, broken only by the waitress’s increasingly unsubtle hints that they should order something or get out. Fitz spent it reviewing the data pulled out of Richardson’s computer, although he found nothing worthy of further investigation. Mariko guessed that the fact that Imperial Intelligence could prowl through their own computers was an open secret by now. It would be a foolish spy who left evidence lying around for Imperial Intelligence to find.
“Unless he wants to be caught,” Fitz commented, when she said as much out loud. The waitress had vanished; Mariko didn’t want to think where. “I’ve seen that before in some spies. They feel guilt for what they’ve done and even though they don’t dare confess, they make mistakes. And that allows an investigator to track them down. But Richardson has gone too far, I suspect, to want to be caught. By now, his crimes would almost certainly earn him the death sentence.”
Mariko frowned. “But how does that encourage him to help us?”
“It doesn’t,” Fitz said. He winked at her. “Why do you think I wanted to deal with him myself, rather than go through the Imperial Intelligence office here? I can make a deal with Richardson, get him away from the planet, before I tell the local intelligence officers what has been happening on their watch. They’re the ones who will be most vocal in their demand for a death sentence.”
“Because his existence makes them look incompetent,” Mariko guessed.
“Precisely,” Fitz said. He shook his head sourly. “But heads are going to roll, probably literally. Richardson was an obvious weak point, in hindsight; someone with a lifestyle like that was bound to be vulnerable to blackmail. The locals will have to explain a fairly embarrassing failure to their superior officers – and they won’t even be able to claim that they caught Richardson themselves. They sat here, playing with themselves, while we discovered his existence and set out to turn him into a possible ally.”
“I see,” Mariko said. “What are you going to do about it?”
“My report to my superiors will include a suggestion that Imperial Intelligence sends in a team of internal security agents” – he grinned, rather savagely – “devils in human form, to investigate possible security breaches on Sumter. That team will identify what happened with Richardson and use it as grounds to remove the boss of the local intelligence station, probably along with his second. Then someone new can be brought in, and everything will be re-examined in the hopes of catching any other blackmail victims.”
“But we don’t have any proof that there are others,” Mariko pointed out.
“We don’t have any proof that there aren’t others either,” Fitz countered. He took another sip of his coke. “You know the real problem with intelligence work?”
Mariko lifted an eyebrow.
“Nine times out of te
n, you have the data you need right in front of you, but you can't make it fit into the right pattern,” Fitz told her. “After the disaster you failed to see coming hits, the Grand Senate will crucify you for not having warned them in advance – after all, you had all the data, so why didn't you put it together? And even when we do have all the data and the right picture, our political lords and masters don’t listen to us.”
He shrugged. “Did you hear about Han where you were?”
“I was getting my qualifications at the time,” Mariko said. There hadn't been much on the Imperial Communications Network, but rumours had been flying everywhere. “I heard something, but...”
“There are times when I think the only thing we’re good at is suppressing information,” Fitz said. His face was artfully blank. “Han was settled by a group of people who believed that they had to be fruitful and multiply. So they had their genes modified to ensure that they would have triplets every time, along with some other modifications ensuring that they practically went into heat at least once a year. A few hundred years later, they had a major population problem – and a growing alien underclass. We kept telling the Grand Senate that Han was a disaster waiting to happen, a problem that needed to be solved through copious intervention. They didn’t listen to us.
“Until the day that Han rose in revolt, and much of the Imperium’s presence on the planet was destroyed. The Civil Guard largely went over to the rebels. They managed to take a number of starships intact and used them to raid nearby star systems, creating new living space for their population. The Imperial Navy had to put them down savagely – and they still didn't listen. An entire Marine battalion was wiped out because the Admiral commanding the operation didn't listen to intelligence warning him that they were going to land on top of a fortified position. They had to kill over three million humans and aliens to convince the rest to settle down and accept the removal of most of the genetic modifications they had spliced into their bodies.”
He smiled, rather bitterly. “Whatever you do in the intelligence world, there’s always some wiseass who thinks he knows better than you,” he concluded. “And that person is normally the one authorising the budget.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Mariko said.
“Not always,” Fitz agreed. “But there are times when Lord Fitzgerald cannot be seen to move openly.”
He stopped, looking out of the grimy window towards the darkening street. “That’s him,” he said. Mariko followed his gaze. Richardson was a slight man, bent over as if he were carrying some great weight. He was alone, naturally. All the signs in his apartment had pointed to a bachelor life.
Mariko started to stand up, only to be stopped by Fitz. “Let him get upstairs first, then the bugs will confirm that he’s gone to his apartment,” Fitz said. “No point in chasing him when we know where he has to be going.”
He watched the terminal, waiting until one of the bugs revealed that Richardson had entered his apartment. Mariko found herself wondering if he’d notice that they’d visited the flat, even though they’d done their best to hide their presence. Richardson might have set up traps to warn him of the presence of unwanted guests.
“Time to move,” Fitz said. He stood up, dropped a pair of coins from the local currency on the table, and headed towards the door. “Showtime.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Remember to show assurance at all times,” Fitz muttered, as they made their way up the dingy stairs. They made no attempt to conceal their presence this time. “You’re an officer in Imperial Intelligence. Such people don’t make mistakes. You know he’s guilty and you are going to hammer him if he refuses to cooperate.”
Mariko nodded as they reached Richardson’s door. He couldn't have left without the bug alerting them, nor was there any way out of the apartment without going through the main door. It struck her as a fire risk, but the Imperium had used the cheapest possible supplier to build their apartments. They’d probably thought that they could move on to something better by now. She raised her hand and knocked on Richardson's door sharply.
There was a flurry of motion from within…and then, silence.
They exchanged glances and Fitz nodded at her. She rapped on the door again.
It opened slowly, as if Richardson didn't want to speak to anyone. “Yes?”
Mariko put her foot in the door, as Fitz had instructed her. “I am Agent 008 of Imperial Intelligence,” she announced. When on official duty, Imperial Intelligence officers didn't use names, something that made little sense to her. “We need to talk to you.”
Richardson staggered backwards as if she’d struck him physically, allowing Mariko to follow him inside and Fitz to close the door behind them, blocking out the gaze of interested neighbours. There had been no one in sight, but Fitz had warned her that most residents had a sixth sense for official trouble. Mariko made a show of keeping her eyes on Richardson, while Fitz pretended to roam the room, searching for anything interesting.
“But...” Richardson stammered, and then tried to clear his throat. “I didn't do anything!”
“Matter of opinion,” Mariko said, firmly. Fitz had told her to open about where they’d found the pictures, in the hopes it would dislodge any loyalty he felt to the Secessionists. “We discovered images of you in a Secessionist base we raided. Those images were used to push you into spying for them. We know you did it. And your only hope is to cooperate right now.”
Richardson swayed, only to be caught by Fitz before he hit the floor.
“There’s no point in trying to deny it,” Mariko said, in a more gentle tone. “We already know you’re guilty. The only hope is to cooperate with us right now.” Fitz had told her to keep drumming it into his head, time and time again. “We have two possible sets of orders for you,” she continued. “One will see you taken away to jail, interrogated under various truth drugs and then executed for espionage and treason.
"The other, if you cooperate, will see you transferred to another planet where you can live out the rest of your life in peace. What are you going to choose? Death...or cooperation?”
A hard-boiled infiltrator might have dared her to do her worst, but Richardson had been living under immense stress for years. The earliest picture, according to Fitz, was at least six years old, suggesting that he might have been blackmailed for that long.
Mariko wondered, with an odd flicker of sympathy, if the lie Richardson had been forced to live was better or worse than what Carlos had had in mind for them, back on Dorado. Maybe better, as Richardson had opened himself to blackmail through doing things that society frowned upon, not entirely without reason.
“I...I want to deal,” Richardson said, finally.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mariko said pleasantly. “Start from the beginning. Who contacted you, and why?”
Fitz had warned her not to let up, even for a moment. Given time to think and plan, Richardson could start lying to them – or insist on guarantees that they were in no position to give.
Richardson hesitated, and then took the plunge.
“I never knew his name,” he admitted. “He must have seen me in the slums, because that’s where I went for my...sessions. I opened the door and he walked right in, shoving a packet of pictures in my face. He knew everything: he had pictures, details, sworn statements...I knew my career was doomed the moment I saw them.”
He started to shake. Perhaps the shock was finally getting to him.
“He told me that if I didn’t do as he said, copies of the pictures would be sent to my superiors, my family and even my few friends at work,” he added. “And what he wanted me to do at first was so harmless. He only wanted data on starship flight paths, something anyone could have put together with access to the OTC feed.”
Fitz and Mariko exchanged glances. Having a vague idea of a starship’s flight path wasn’t good enough to intercept the starship, but having a precise flight path was more than good enough. It would be simple to intercept the sta
rship in question, which might be an ordinary merchant ship, or a passenger liner with thousands of wealthy passengers who could be picked up for ransom. There was no way that sort of data could be described as harmless.
“And then he wanted more data on shuttles and shuttle accidents, and then he wanted me to start adding details to the databanks,” Richardson continued, bitterly. “I wanted to protest, but he just kept reminding me that my career was doomed – and that I would be charged with espionage if anyone found out the truth. There was nothing I could do about the trap I was in – he even enjoyed reminding me that I was in his power. By the end of the year, I was just giving him everything he asked for.”
On The Imperium’s Secret Service (Imperium Cicernus) Page 20