The Bonds of Orion (Loralynn Kennakris Book 5)
Page 16
But what the hell? It was a risk she was willing to run.
“Under what terms do you propose our forces cooperate?” The Patriarch was sounding a trifle less suspicious. Her tone must’ve carried conviction. As it should have.
“I don’t propose we cooperate. We take out the defenses for you and secure the starport. You have fun downtown. All we need to do is coordinate the timing.”
“And if you fail?” asked the firebrand hotly. “What then?”
“Then you’re back to square one with your angel boys.”
That did not mollify him. “I would still like to know why you think you can obtain the futbalový? You did not answer. General deLange carries them with him at all times. You plan to kidnap him? Even if you catch him abroad and overcome his security detail even if you could penetrate his private compound he can activate the defenses in a moment. What do you intend?”
“You can help me with that,” she answered, thinking he probably did not really want to know. “Tell me about this General deLange.”
The firebrand looked to the Patriarch, who nodded. Then, in oddly clipped official tones, he began to recite: “His full name is Deon Connor-Chaetes deLange. He is Syrdarian. Forty-three years of age. Began his career in the militia. Entered into the ground forces as a captain. Served for seven years at that rank before promotion. Was transferred into the Ministry and promoted where he ”
“You’re not telling me anything about the man,” Colonel Yeager interrupted.
Firebrand’s mouth shut with a click. The Patriarch shot an irritated look across the table. Their eyes clashed. From the opposite side of the table, a calmer voice spoke.
“He is fond of music. He gambles heavily, sometimes all night. He’s vain about his looks and considers himself . . . flamboyant. He likes . . . companionship.”
This was much more useful. “Is he married?” she asked.
Several men snickered. One of them remarked, “Assuredly. He takes a new bride every night.”
Leaning back in her chair, Colonel Yeager felt her the muscles in her back untense for the first time since she arrived. “I don’t suppose you’d know if he favors a particular house?” She didn’t have a good idea how many upscale brothels the capital had, but there couldn’t be more than a few.
“We do not,” the Patriarch said flatly.
“But you have a file on him, don’t you?”
“We do.”
“May I see it?”
Two sharp-drawn breaths. Then: “It shall be seen to.”
“I appreciate it. Have we done enough damage here for today?”
He glanced around at his companions, all once again silent. “I should say as much.”
Palms flat on the table, she stood up. “I’ll get back to work, then.”
He stayed seated. “I shall summon your escort.”
“Thank you.” And as she turned, he stopped her with a sudden question.
“Colonel? By what name shall we identify your unit to our people?”
Colonel Yeager looked back with a ghostly smile. “Sutton’s Brigade.”
Chapter 17
Frunze (Capital)
Amu Daria, Epsilon Aquila, Aquila Sector
General Deon Connor-Chaetes deLange breezed through the wide doorway of The Swan, trailing his security detail like an impatient comet. His florid, youthful face (a bit too much of both) beamed as he swept off his tall, peaked cap with its burden of heavy gold braid and handed it to the petit woman to his right, who wore nothing but a fine lace shawl. On his left, another girl, wearing even less, waited for him to unseal the smartly tailored ribbon-encrusted uniform coat, dripping with the insignias of various orders and the cuffs nearly rigid with still more braid. He did, and the third girl, appearing on bare silent feet and clad only in a drape of tiny crystals, eased it off his shoulders and handed it to her companion. His security men hung back, smirking and enjoying the show.
A tall white-haired woman, rail thin, with a prim triangular face, stepped from the vestibule, her long ivory gown swishing against the thick carpet, and gave the general a warm smile of welcome. As usual, he was early for his appointment.
She bowed. “Greetings, General. Your room is ready. Shall I conduct you?”
Watching the girls carrying his hat and coat retire with a blatant grin, he shook his head. “No, Erzsébet. I know the way.” Then he gestured to his security team. “Make the usual arrangements for my men, eh? No more than two at a time, eh? See they don’t linger?”
“It shall be seen to, General” dipping her head again. “Enjoy your visit.” She stood aside, and without so much as a nod, he took the wide balustraded stairs behind her like a boy, two at a time.
“Lord Randy Wildebeest has his tail up tonight,” muttered one of the two security men at the head of the queue as the trio of girls reappeared and both men drew lots from the hostess.
“And every night,” muttered the second man, unfolding his slip of plaspaper. He looked at it, and his face split in broad smirk. “Ha! Jewels!”
The first man glanced at his own slip and shrugged. “Whorehouse-lucky fuck,” he said, but without any particular rancor.
Opening the door to the room without warning, General deLange surprised a girl with her back to him, applying makeup from a small compact as she sat cross-legged on the bed. She scrambled off with a gasp and stood, dropping her head so the long pale-gold hair fell forward to cover her face. Under the rich blue-black robe with its high winged collar, he could see her shaking.
“Where is Odile?” he asked, gruff voiced. If this were a mistake, he would be highly displeased.
“Coming, sir.” Her reply was barely more than a whisper.
“What are you, then?” He cocked his head, trying to pierce the fine veil of faintly swaying hair.
She crossed her wrists and held them out in ritual submission. “Your bonus, sir. Madam said I am to be your bonus.”
“Bonus, eh?” No mistake after all, then?
“Yes, sir.” She hadn’t raised her head yet. “I’m new, sir.”
“New, eh?” Still examining her closely, he undid diamond closures of his pleated white tunic. “And when Odile comes, what of you?”
“I am to stay, if . . . if I please you.”
“Both of you?”
“Both of us, sir. If . . . you wish.” Her voice was stronger now, but he still detected tremors beneath the robe.
“I see.” Shedding the tunic, the two slim metal ingots he never took off showed their outlines sharp beneath the tight sleeveless undershirt. “Remove the robe.”
She tugged the loose knot the robe’s neck. It slid to her feet with the rustle of heavy silk. In spite of himself, he grunted.
Tall, and seeming taller now that she was nude. Slender. Well-muscled. An athlete, no doubt. A touch hard, perhaps? But graceful. Yes, definitely graceful. That long hair, like Zalamenkar white gold. Skin like new snow. Next to Odile’s warm duskiness and ripe, open voluptuousness, this girl would be a pleasing contrast.
Most pleasing. Erzsébet had done well.
“What do they call you, girl?”
Lifting her head, he saw her flint-colored, strangely gold-flecked eyes for the first time.
“Kristīne.”
Chapter 18
OverHallin Estate, outside Halevirdon
Halith Evandor, Orion Spur
The man who applied for entrance to the OverHallin estate, a grand demesne entirely suitable for one of the oldest and loftiest of Halith’s pedigrees, would not have stood out in a crowd, would not have been looked at twice, and when out and about in his younger days, had sometimes suffered the indignity of being asked the same question over again by service people, as if they had not recollected him from five minutes ago, or even, on occasion, being ignored.
This was much less of a problem these days, for the visitor went out and about much less, and in any event, he’d long ago learned to cherish this soft invisibility, so useful in his line work. I
ndeed, those aspects of his character that were not so invisible seemed calculated for obfuscation, beginning with his title: Assistant Undersecretary to the Director of Research of the Office of Interstellar Security in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In fact, the visitor, Marcus Eusebius Danilov, was the head of one of those small and clandestine intelligence services smaller than most and probably more clandestine than any who kept watch over the other Halith intelligence organs, including the Imperial Research & Intelligence Service (IRIS) and the counterintelligence branch of the Ministry of Public Security, as well as the ministries themselves. Exactly who Danilov was keeping watch on them for sometimes seemed almost as obscure as his title, but Danilov excelled at making himself indispensable to his superiors. This and his unassuming demeanor (so well-suited to his ostensible role as a faceless bureaucrat) maintained his position. He also counted some powerful men among his friends, Lord OverHallin being chief among them, and the admiral’s estate was one of the few places he was well known.
Well known, but not expected. Danilov, for reasons of his own, had not called ahead, and today he had even dispensed with his normally ever-present security detail. It pleased him to slip away like this at times, to see if he might, in effect, elude his own shadow. His staff detested it.
Appearing like this, the shock on the face of the security man who received him, well concealed but still noticeable, had gratified him, and he did not mind at all when the man told him the admiral was “not in the way”. He was shooting. Would Danilov wait?
Danilov would certainly wait. Shooting was the admiral’s principal recreation, relaxation and (Danilov felt) mediation. Unless circumstances pressed, and pressed extremely, he did not take a xel with him, and his staff knew not to interrupt except for the most exceptional reasons. It also meant the admiral was not here, but at his country house on Lake Vann, a flight of twenty minutes, where he had a private range, some five kilometers in extent. The man said he would send a messenger to inform the admiral at once (a visit by Danilov falling well within the boundary of exceptional reasons) and conducted him to a comfortable vestibule off the atrium. There Danilov waited, hands held loosely behind his back, looking at the estate’s large courtyard with its elegant gardens, compete with reflecting pools stocked with silver-tailed catfish.
Indisputably elegant, for Ava Marcellanis, the admiral’s wife of fifty years, had loved gardening and designed these, as well as the smaller private gardens at the country house. Of the two, Danilov preferred those other, as being less mathematical; less rigidly elegant. These were in the nature of a public statement; a garden fit more for an admiral than a man. The couple had been devoted to one another (an unusual state of affairs in the arranged marriages of Halith aristocrats), and the wife’s hand showed still through the precision. Perhaps a bit less than in former years, as time and the admiral’s natural proclivities did their inexorable work, and, in that private inward space whose existence none suspected, he found that a trifle sad.
On the balance, Danilov could not say if Admiral Caneris’ personal life tilted more toward sorrow or joy. Few had found as much happiness in family life; few had lost it so early. In addition to his wife’s untimely death, his only son and daughter-in-law had been killed on a trip to Syrdar, back in the year ’33. Such accidents and Danilov, who’d investigated their deaths personally, had concluded that’s all it was were never free of suspicion in the upper reaches of Halith society, where violent and unnatural ends were, historically, more the rule than the exception.
Dark whispers and covert fingers had pointed and continued to point at the Heydrich family, even after all these years, and with the recent duel between Caneris and the late Admiral Heydrich’s heir, the finger pointing and whispers had resumed, with uncommon relish; whispers which said that after eleven GAT years, the admiral had claimed his revenge.
General Heydrich, the young man’s uncle, was not one to let an opportunity go to waste and while he had conceivably gained rather than lost by the duel’s outcome, that mattered not one whit in his quest to gain more. Or to do harm to a man he considered his personal enemy. Danilov had detected, or rather sensed, as he had no firm data, some disquieting shifts in the undercurrents that it was his job to monitor, and it was these that prompted his unannounced visit and moved him to keep it unannounced.
Caneris would soon leave for Amu Daria to deal with the crisis unfolding there and, in view of what Danilov had learned, the absence was untimely. The admiral still labored under something of cloud due to the defeat at the Apollyon Gates, although the main casualties had been in IRIS, where the ill-fated scheme was hatched. Nevertheless, selecting him to quell a colonial uprising in the far back of beyond and on such short notice did not strike Danilov as coincidental. Fleet commanders were not typically assigned to put down insurrections; that normally fell to the Ministry of the Internal Affairs, who had authority over the colonies and, where and when needed (which they often were), MPS forces to lend bite to their bark.
Of course, it was bungling by the local MIA authorities coupled with the MPS forces’ incompetence that led to the current crisis, and it was true that Amu Daria presented a difficult and more than usually urgent case. The colony had gained de facto independence once before a serious blow and if they succeeded again, it could not but have the most far-reaching effects.
Already, the reports were that the separatists had seized the capital and its starport, along with a vast quantity of matériel equipment, weapons and vehicles and stores of every kind; enough, potentially, to reassert their autonomy. Equally worrisome, from Danilov’s perspective, was that a such major offensive must have been in the works for years and could not have succeeded without modern weapons most particularly, planetary aircraft which they had always been at pains to deny the various separatist groups.
Yet, surprise had been complete. The local authorities had not an inkling of these developments, due to criminal laxity or deep corruption, either of which or both could flourish so far from the core systems. Considering what he knew about the late and unlamented General deLange, it was certainly both. Ever since he became aware of General Heydrich’s venture in Amu Daria’s drug trade, Danilov had maintained his own small network of agents in the colony, and they’d kept him tolerably well-informed. Now, his agents were reporting what they could in the capital’s chaotic situation, although this info was necessarily fragmentary.
He did know the remaining MPS forces were huddled at their main base in the southern hemisphere, still possessed of considerable firepower, but without the will to use it. Under this combination of circumstances, dispatching a fleet commander of Caneris’ stature was perhaps called for. The very reasonableness of the move did nothing but pique Danilov’s suspicions.
A commotion in the courtyard stirred him from these thoughts and looking up, he beheld a slight adolescent girl backing a stout nurseryman through a row of heliotropes, threatening him with a bloom of some kind. Pointing vehemently backwards, she shook the vegetable under his nose. Her indignant voice reached thinly through the thick glass of the window and brought a twinkle to Danilov’s eye, the only sign of his inward smile. The girl was Caneris’ granddaughter Arianna, his only surviving family; a rather headstrong young girl who took after the admiral more than a little. What sins the nurseryman had been found guilty of, Danilov could not make out, but Arianna had put him to flight and was now standing there alone, fists planted on her hip points, glowering after her defeated enemy. Then, tossing the half-crushed stem over her shoulder an gesture of eloquent disgust, she turned and stalked off, dispersing a small crowd of servants who had gathered at the courtyard’s far end with a wave and shrill bark.
Stroking the space beneath his lip with the side of his index finger, the gleam of amusement more pronounced, he turned at the sound of a diplomatic cough to see the security man waiting. The admiral would be most pleased to see him, and a flyer was waiting conduct him there. Would the undersecretary be so good as to step this way?
* * *
The distinct crack of a chemical explosive rang out as Danilov trudged up to Admiral Caneris’ private weapons range, followed by four more at, Danilov noted as he pause to check the time, precise two-second intervals. When the last echo from the hills backing the range died away, Danilov stepped into the long, low open space beneath a sloped roof, where the admiral occupied a simple wooden bench.
Ejecting a brass shell casing from the antique firearm he was holding, Caneris set it neatly in line with its four mates and turned to his friend.
“Marcus Eusebius. How are you?” he said, placing the rifle, its bolt action open, gently on a folded cloth. Mothers handled their first-born less tenderly, Danilov thought, than Caneris laid down the rifle.
“Quite well, Joaquin. It is good of you see me.” And not ready to launch into the purpose of his visit without some preamble, he added, “That is a splendid looking weapon.”
“Isn’t it?” The admiral’s gaze traveling fondly along its 1.16-meter length, mounted with an equally ancient-looking optical scope. “The Mauser Model 98. German manufacture.” Adding the last detail in case Danilov might not be familiar with the fabled arms maker and its most celebrated rifle. “This specimen was produced during what they called ‘the Great War’. The scope is also original.”
“So I see,” Danilov commented, bending to squint at the ancient markings in the receiver. He had indeed heard of Mauser, and its founder, Paul Mauser, who had designed this particular rifle. “A most serviceable instrument in its day and age?”