by Chris Bunch
This sort of clean solo operation was what Goodnight lived for. He was feeling so very good, he thought he might even cut Star Risk in on the profits from the sales of the theones.
Chas Goodnight caught himself. He wasn’t sure he felt that good.
FORTY
“I have a mention of Sufyerd,” Jasmine King announced, looking up from her computer.
She was searching the fiche of the letters between Hyla Adrianopole and Premier Ladier that Goodnight had stolen from Shiprite’s safe. The others hovered over their own screens in the mansion’s operating center.
“A mention?” Goodnight said. “That’s all?”
“A mention,” King said. “I’ve searched half a dozen times, using every variant I can find of Sufyerd’s name.”
“And what do we have?” von Baldur asked.
“I quote,” King said. “‘On a minor note, darling, I was curious about this traitor Sufyerd’s guilt, since there are a few fools questioning the military court’s verdict. I was assured by the good L’Pellerin as to his absolute, unquestionable guilt, so that’s something, at least, I don’t have to worry about, compared to this abysmal mineral lease scandal, about …’ end quote, and that’s all there is.”
“Shit!” Goodnight said. “For this I risked my life … or anyway my good reputation, and ruined a perfectly good, brand-new formal?”
“It appears so,” King said.
“Well, what about the dirty parts?” Goodnight said. “Since this twink went and shot somebody to keep from getting her good name despoiled, at least there should be some hot and heavy.”
“Here’s something,” Jasmine said. “Patching it over to you.” She touched sensors.
Goodnight read his screen.
“That’s hot and heavy? I did better than that when I was fifteen!”
“Including with the snake?” Riss asked.
“Snake? What snake?” Goodnight sputtered. “I didn’t see anything about any snake.”
Then he realized M’chel was laughing.
“Goddamnit, Riss,” he started.
“I also,” Jasmine went on, “found something very interesting, since I was wondering whether this Hyla Adrianopole is a bubble-brain, or if there’s maybe another game being run.”
“Why,” Grok asked, “do you think possibly Adrianopole is of less than adequate intelligence?”
“Well, we actually know she’s close to that,” Jasmine said. “Shooting down Editor Fall wasn’t that bright, especially since she didn’t then have her hands on the letters, or even proof that Fall hadn’t made copies.
“Jasmine,” von Baldur said patiently, “you’re veering. You said you had something interesting.”
“I do, and doing a search suggests there’s many things in that category. Unfortunately, they don’t pertain to our assignment to free Sufyerd.
“But they are very interesting. I’ll give you one quote, which is pretty well borne out by other references. I quote, ‘after two hours with the ambassador from T., I feel vastly relieved that they intend no harm to the Belfort Worlds, and that all this sword-waving is but an excuse for the T. navy to completely rearm,’ end quote.
“Here’s one even more interesting, and I quote, ‘After very private talks, it seems that a viable alternative to the present conflict between T. and ourselves would be to suggest a conference, and … this was the ambassador’s suggestion … that a pacifistic solution to the B. problem would be some sort of power-sharing,’ end quote.”
There was stunned silence.
“Son of a bitch,” Goodnight said. “I didn’t waste my time.”
“T like in Torguth,” Riss said. “Yow!”
“I do not understand,” Grok said.
“It is simple,” von Baldur said. “Ladier and his party have been maintaining a peaceful stand, saying that the Belfort Worlds will remain under Dampier control, and that the Torguth have no intentions of fighting a third war.
“Now, just from these two quotes, we have mixed signals. One is that the Torguth navy has big eyes for war, and the Torguth ambassador is dissembling to Ladier, and secondly that Ladier has no objection at all to giving up the Belfort Worlds to Torguth.
“Anyone who proposes sharing power means to have all of it in time, and anyone who accepts such a proposition is preparing themselves for surrender.
“While this does not pertain directly to us, it surely will be of interest to Mr. Reynard.
“This is the sort of thing that makes governments fall. Now I see why Adrianopole was so eager to shoot Fall, and risk everything to get her hands on those letters.
“Jasmine, you were right. There is at least one fool in this whole mess. But it is not the woman, but rather Premier Ladier, for being stupid enough to reveal secrets like this to anyone in writing, let alone to a mistress.
“Yes,” von Baldur continued thoughtfully. “I think Mr. Reynard will complain a great deal less about our expenses when he hears of this matter. I shall make an appointment with him, and provide him with pertinent extracts from these letters, if you would be so good as to prepare such for me, Jasmine.”
“Well,” Riss said, “while you’re being a political animal, I’m going to hunt down that mailboy Chas’s ever-so-passionate friend told us about. I think it’s time for a little direct action.”
FORTY-ONE
It took only three days for M’chel Riss to find Strategic Intelligence’s mailboy, Runo Kismayu. Since Ha and L’Pellerin’s Dampier Information Bureau were hardly cooperating with Star Risk, it took a day longer than it should have, but still was fairly simple. Riss, after running into security holds checking the conventional ways of tracing ID’s, finally had one of Reynard’s minions check Kismayu’s basic security clearance form, and that was that.
She wanted to do a bit of burglary before she confronted Kismayu, and so enlisted the light-fingered Goodnight.
She put in a com for Kismayu at Ha. If he was at work, the coast should be clear for some sedate B&Eing. The somewhat chatty com operator said Kismayu hadn’t been in for three days, and they supposed he was sick.
Riss got off the com and said, in low voice, “By the prickling of my thumbs …” and let her voice trail off.
“What?” Goodnight asked.
“Never mind. You don’t know anything about wicked. Let’s go a-visiting. Are you heeled?”
“Lady,” Goodnight said, “I don’t use the bathroom without having a gun close at hand. Particularly around here.”
They parked their lifter two blocks away from Kismayu’s address just after noon, when most of Montrois’s citizens would be thinking about or consuming their customarily heavy lunch, and went unobtrusively to the mailboy’s address.
The area had tree-lined, very quiet streets with older, impeccably kept town houses and small apartment buildings on either side.
“A bit posh around here,” Riss said, looking about.
“Maybe our boy lives with his parents,” Goodnight said. “Or maybe he’s like his frigging boss, and able to maintain a lavish life without effort … and without anybody asking about it.”
“Don’t be bitter, Chas. Sooner or later you’ll figure out how Caranis can fly so high without an engine,” Riss said. “Here it is. I’ll go knocking.”
She went up the steps, found the sensor with 3 - KISMAYU on it, and rang. She waited, and there was no response.
“Here,” Goodnight said loudly. “Let me try.”
He came up the steps, and a pair of picks flashed into the door slot.
“Hey, Kissie,” Goodnight said into the speaker, as if someone had answered the ring. “It’s us. Buzz us right on in.” The lock came open. Goodnight pocketed his lock picks, bowed Riss in.
There was a small landing with an atrocious bronze of some hero on it. They went up steps to Apartment 3.
Riss had her hand inside her rather smart jacket, on her gun butt. Goodnight had a small, ornate pistol M’chel hadn’t seen before concealed in his hand.
No response.
There were three very modern locks on the door.
Goodnight considered, took out an autopick, turned it on, and fed the tendrils into the first lock. After a moment, it clicked open. He went to work on the second.
Riss sniffed, wrinkled her nose, touched it and the door. Goodnight made a face, nodded. He’d smelled the same thing. The second lock came open, and Goodnight took only a second to break the third.
They went in fast, crouching, guns ready.
Nothing.
Riss had a good idea what the smell was, pointed to a slippered foot sticking out from the dining area.
They got up and swept the apartment, ready to shoot. It was empty, except for them and the corpse sprawled in the dining area. The body’d begun to swell and turn black.
Riss had smelled a lot of corpses, gotten to the point where she could operate around them, but still felt her stomach knot. The stink didn’t seem to bother Goodnight.
The corpse lay facedown, wearing a very old-fashioned, but very expensive dressing gown. There was a glass lying near the body, dried wine splattered out from it across the highly polished floor.
Goodnight used a foot to turn the body over. The face was distorted, but distinguishable as a young man with complexion problems and overly styled hair, who was far too young to wear that dressing gown.
“Kismayu,” Goodnight said, pointing to holos here and there in the apartment of its late tenant with a succession of cheap, clearly available young women in various stages of undress.
There was the remains of a meal on the table. Riss went into the kitchen, found more food in delivery cases on the stove, more than enough for one person.
She opened cabinets, found wineglasses. Using a napkin, she lifted the front one. It stuck for a moment to the wood. None of the others did.
She checked the stored plates. Again, the top one stuck for an instant.
Riss nodded, went back into the dining area, knelt, and, carefully using the napkin, picked up the wineglass and sniffed at it.
She made a face, held it out to Goodnight. He, too, sniffed, shrugged.
“Poison,” Riss whispered. “I’m pretty sure nobody’d ever drink wine that smells that crappy.”
On the table was a near-empty bottle.
Goodnight pointed around, at the expensive holo set, a home theater complex, furniture upholstered in what looked like real leather. They went into the bedroom, which was furnished as a young man’s nest of lust. There was a money clip on the dresser, fat with bills.
Goodnight looked at the pictures in the bedroom. Again, provocatively posing women.
Riss pointed to the door. They slid out, relocked the locks, went down the stairs and away. They kept their guns at hand, just in case.
Half a block away, Riss thought it was safe to talk. “There was another person there,” she said. “To be sexist, a man.”
“I’m not arguing, but why?” Goodnight asked.
“Whoever was there … maybe brought the takeout … ate with Kismayu. When Runo’d had enough wine so he wouldn’t smell anything, the visitor put poison in his glass.
“Exit one mailboy, who also was the nice, invisible Torguth spy on the inside of Ha, the one who stole the plans that Sufyerd was accused of taking. Nobody ever thinks about mailboys or custodians.”
“Hang on to that thought,” Goodnight said. “I say again my last. Why a man?”
“The killer thought he was clever, and after Kismayu fell over dead he took his glass and plate to the kitchen, rinsed them, and put them away.”
“Again, why did it have to be a man?”
“Not for certain,” Riss said. “But a woman probably would’ve dried them, rather than putting them away wet, so when they dried they’d stick to the shelf.”
“You are a very clever woman,” Goodnight said, and there was honest admiration in his voice.
“It gave me something to think about instead of puking,” Riss said.
“All right,” Goodnight agreed. “No pictures of family anywhere, which suggests he wasn’t particularly tight with anyone who might’ve been sending him regular checks. But he had a wad of bills that’d choke Grok. If Kismayu came from money, he’d never be so vulgar as to carry that much cash. Real richies have an account.”
“So he was on the take from someone,” Riss agreed. “Someone who was furnishing him with a nice, lavish lifestyle.”
“And who got worried,” Goodnight went on. “Maybe about the time we started digging, and decided to clean up the traces of their boy.”
“Who sure as hell wouldn’t have been smart — or educated — enough to have known what the defense plans would’ve looked like or meant without some serious guidance,” Riss said.
“All we got is the dead little man. His control … whoever’s really the traitor … is still out there. Running ahead of us.”
“True,” Goodnight said cheerily. “But not that much farther. When they start cleaning up with murder — and I’m not dumb enough to think that our target would’ve been stupid enough to do the murder himself … or herself — they’re generally getting worried about the hounds on their ass. Which means us. We’re closing in.”
“I hope you’re right,” Riss said.
“Have I ever been wrong?”
Both of them broke into laughter.
“Now, let’s get out of this oofrawfraw neighborhood, and find ourselves a nice strong drink,” Goodnight said. “Something that’ll let my stomach forget what it saw.”
“You got bothered, too?”
“Don’t I look human?” Goodnight said in an injured tone.
FORTY-TWO
Star Risk had assumed that Reynard would take the information that Premier Ladier, and conceivably the entire Universalist party, were in league with Torguth to the media.
“And that is why,” Reynard had said, “you are soldiers, and I am a politician. Besides, don’t you think there’s something interesting in the fact that Fall, and his publisher, Shiprite, had these letters for some time, yet never quite got around to going public with them?
“Perhaps Shiprite is trying to cut a deal with the Universalists to get back in favor if he doesn’t run the letters. Or perhaps not. I’m not trying to second-guess him.
“I have a lasting distrust of the media. Their reporters may be relatively honest, and relatively incorruptible. But their bosses, the publishers, are as crooked as a sea snake in a whirlpool. No. I have my own plans for this information.”
When Riss found out exactly how Reynard wanted to play his cards, she agreed that she and the others had no talent at all for political schemes.
Reynard made a point of encountering a man named Faraon. He was a ranking leader of the Universalists, and, more importantly, the man who wanted to be Universalist party leader and then premier, but had lost to Ladier in a vicious bit of in-party fighting that included party brawling and rumored blackmail.
It took almost a week to arrange a meeting, since neither Reynard nor Faraon trusted the other.
It was finally agreed upon to take a small dining room at Tournelle’s. Remembering the bugs that Star Risk had found, Reynard proposed they sweep the room before the meet. Faraon grudgingly agreed, and specified that a team of specialists from his own party team up with Star Risk.
Reynard worried about this, until von Baldur reassured him there would be no problems with a Universalist bug. “Nor,” he added, “will you have to worry about not having a record of the meet later.”
The Universalists were awestruck by Grok, and very impressed with King’s expertise, especially when she pointed out the two windows in the dining room, and then explicated.
“Now,” she said, “I’m sure you’re aware a window has certain resonances when sound impacts it, and a proper parabolic microphone can pick up and translate those almost as well as if the mike were in the room.”
“W
e are,” the leader of the Universalists sniffed. “A very ancient device. We Dampierians may be on the fringes of civilization, but we’re not isolated.”
“My apologies,” Jasmine said hastily. “I didn’t mean to offend. Here’s my countermeasure.”
Both windows were covered with a thin, clear film.
“This gives us dead air between the room and the window glass, so whatever’s said in the room stays there.”
She and Grok then made sure they were completely open about searching the room with the Universalists. They found two bugs.
One was very ancient, that might have been planted a century earlier. The other was fairly modern, hidden in a wall cavity behind a screwed-down portrait of the restaurant’s founder, who had an expression like someone who’d just learned his refrigerators had seized.
“Yours?” King asked.
The others shook their heads.
She took out that bug’s power supply, then said, “Perhaps one of L’Pellerin’s.”
Grok took it, crushed it underfoot.
From then until the meet, a Universalist and a Star Risk guard stayed in the room. There was a last-minute attempt by one of the waiters to put a vase of flowers in the room. It, of course, had a microphone.
Rather than destroy it, King took it back to the mansion. After Reynard and Faraon arrived at Tournelle’s, she fed that microphone a series of speeches by the two men made on the floor of Parliament.
Both politicians arrived with armed guards and were searched for body wires. Neither wore one, and pretended mild offense at the search.
The transcript of Ladier’s letters and a copy of the fiche were removed from Reynard’s briefcase, the briefcase was taken away in case it had a built-in mike, and the two men went into the room.
Grok waited a few moments for the amenities to be exchanged and any further sweeps made.
Then he put power on to the window films King had installed, just enough to activate them as a pair of large, high-resolution vibration-sensitive microphones. The microphones fed into a transmitter hidden in the frame of that portrait of Tournelle’s first patron. The bug that King had “found” in the wall behind it had, of course, been a quite successful mask that Jasmine had planted earlier.