The Caledonian Gambit: A Novel

by Dan Moren

  “Hold,” grunted Page. A door slammed. “Negative, sir. I appear to have lost the target.” A tinge of some emotion—embarrassment, anger, regret—colored the voice of the normally impassive lieutenant.

  “Shit.”

  Tapper’s eyebrows raised in question and Kovalic shook his head, then covered the mouthpiece. “We lost Eli.”

  “Knew letting the kid go was a mistake,” muttered the sergeant.

  Kovalic rolled his eyes, but raised the comm again. “See if you can run him to ground, lieutenant. Call me when you’ve got something.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Kovalic rang off. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Now, it’s bad.”

  “All right,” said Tapper. “Square one. What’s our play?”

  Pressing the comm to his forehead as though it could somehow impart wisdom directly into his brain, Kovalic squeezed his eyes closed and tried to marshal the information they had into some sort of usable order. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he didn’t think Eli Brody had gone down to Berwick with the intent of taking off. But if he had gone to ground, then Kovalic had a pretty good idea of who was involved—and that, at least, gave them their next step.

  Kovalic opened his eyes. “We need to find that warehouse where they took Brody last night.”

  Tapper snorted. “Easier said than done. We’re going to have to comb through a whole lot of warehouses to find the right one.”

  “We would,” said Kovalic slowly, “but I think I know someone who might be able to narrow the field for us. And maybe we can kill two birds with one well-placed stone.”

  Every morning, Major Jagat Shankar stopped to buy a cup of coffee and a pastry from the same small corner café. The coffee was black, the pastry a Caledonian variation on a chocolate croissant—heavy on the chocolate. As he sipped the coffee and nibbled at the pastry, he scanned through the morning headlines on his handheld comm, marking any that merited further investigation. Nobody ever joined him at his table—by this point, the café proprietor knew his order and would bring it without asking. And, given that Shankar’s position as the chief Illyrican spy on Caledonia was, if not known outright then at least heavily rumored, the whole thing was, needless to say, on the house.

  So it would be hard to say who was more shocked, Shankar or the café manager, when Kovalic—carrying his own cup of coffee, pastry, and comm—plopped himself into the seat across from Shankar, not two minutes after he had begun his morning ritual.

  Kovalic gave a low whistle as he read something on his device. “Fifteen to seven!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in disappointment. “The Griffins got shelled last night. Looks like that trade for O’Neill didn’t pay off for them, huh?”

  To his credit, Shankar’s initial surprise lasted only a moment. Unfortunately for him, however, that moment was just long enough for Kovalic to prod him under the table with something very much like the business end of a gun.

  Shankar leaned his bulk backwards—he was a big man, there were no three ways about it—and clasped his hands on top of his paunch.

  Kovalic offered a friendly smile. “Isn’t this the part where you indignantly exclaim ‘Don’t you know who I am?’”

  Shankar gave a shrug which rolled down from his incongruously narrow shoulders through the rest of his body, like a waterfall pouring down a mountainside. “I presume you know who I am. Why else would you choose to accost me in this particular manner?”

  “With a brain like that,” said Kovalic, tapping his temple with his free hand, “I can see why the Illyricans are lucky to have you.”

  Beady, deep-set brown eyes flicked Kovalic up and down, scanning him from top to bottom. “So, unless I miss my guess, you are Mr. Danzig’s mysterious visitor.”

  If he’d been trying to shock Kovalic, Shankar had shot wide of the mark: As Kovalic had told Danzig, station heads were always surveilled—it was just the way the game was played.

  The hand that was above the table opened and closed in modest acknowledgement. “I’d say he sends his regards, but he doesn’t know I’m here.”

  Shankar raised a white eyebrow. “And what brings you here, mister … ?”

  “You can call me Fielding. And I’ve got a business proposition.”

  “Very well. As long as we are conducting business, I suppose you realize that your window of opportunity here is fairly limited. When I don’t show up for work in—” he paused to glance at the clock ticking away on the café’s wall, “—fifteen minutes or so, alarms will be raised.”

  “Ah, so we’ve moved on to the part where you offer to forget all about this if I let you go?”

  Shankar chuckled, his stomach heaving up and down in almost hypnotic undulations. “Dear me, no. Right now, your options have merely been reduced to whether you rot in prison or are simply shot on sight.”

  Kovalic grinned. “Believe it or not, those are my favorite options. But I wouldn’t worry about that—your building won’t notice your absence for a little while yet; they’re busy dealing with an unscheduled fire alarm.” He gave Shankar a sympathetic look. “I know: it’s a little cliché, but if it makes you feel any better, there is an actual fire.” He raised a hand, thumb and forefinger slightly apart. “A small one.”

  The big man pursed his lips but didn’t seem discomfited by the news. His head bent toward Kovalic in a nod. “I suppose the least I can do is indulge you—though, really, must you hold that weapon on me? It’s a bit theatrical.”

  With a shrug, Kovalic pulled his hand out from under the table and placed its contents—a bottle of peach soda with a long narrow neck—down on the table. “I hope I didn’t shake it up too much. This carbonated stuff can get a bit explosive.”

  The big man leaned back and laughed. “Well played. Commonwealth intelligence agents are always so … resourceful.”

  Kovalic didn’t take the bait, letting the remark sail past him. “But before you get any ideas, I should let you know that one of my colleagues is outside the café and is armed with considerably more than a fizzy drink. So I advise you to choose your actions carefully.”

  “Fair enough. To business, then. What is it you want, Mr. Fielding?”

  “Information—your stock in trade, I believe.”

  Shankar’s head cocked to the side. “You must know I wouldn’t give you anything of a sensitive nature. Whatever kind of example would that make me for my own subordinates?”

  Kovalic leaned back, crossing his arms. “Well, what I’m looking for is more in the vein of local color. Think of yourself as an exceptionally well-informed tour guide.”

  The noise that emerged from Shankar’s mouth sounded a bit like a small pocket of pressurized gas escaping; Kovalic took it as a sign of interest and continued.

  “I’m interested in the Black Watch.”

  Surprise gave way to a scowl on Shankar’s face. “Not that I imagine my advice means much to you, but just in case it carries any weight—professional to professional—I would strongly suggest you avoid associating yourself with this organization. Not only can they not be trusted, but they are the worst sort of terrorists.”

  “Oh?”

  “They cloak themselves in patriotic rhetoric, claiming to be ‘freedom fighters.’ But all they seem to care about is violence. You have heard, I take it, of the Bloody Hundred?”

  Kovalic frowned. “Vaguely.”

  Shankar folded his hands. “This was, oh, seven years ago. One of our cruisers, the ISC Trident, was being retrofitted at the Caledonian Shipyards, so the Black Watch smuggled up a bomb.” He shook his head. “Not only did it destroy the Trident, but it killed twenty-five Illyrican servicemen—along with seventy-three civilian contractors. Both Illyrican and Caledonian.”

  He leaned forward, the tone of his voice dropping but becoming, if anything, more heated. “That’s par for the course for this self-styled ‘resistance movement’—the murder of innocent civilians.”

  “And this De Valera … I have to say, I’m surpr
ised you haven’t caught him yet.”

  If anything, Shankar’s scowl deepened further. A tch of disgust issued from his throat. “Not for lack of trying.” A look of regret crossed his face. “Far be it from me to admit our own shortcomings, but his identity is the most well-kept of secrets. We’ve sent in a few operatives over the years, but each time they were lucky to make it out with their lives.” He shook his head. “They are brutal people, Mr. Fielding—it would be better for the Caledonians themselves were the Black Watch gone, but they, of course, do not see it that way.”

  Kovalic tried to keep himself from snorting. Yes, the Illyricans would probably crack down less on Caledonia if they didn’t have the threat of the Black Watch looming over them, but giving them up also meant ceding the last thing the Caledonians could call their own: hope. That was the path Earth had chosen. His lips compressed into a thin line. It hadn’t been his choice—that was for sure.

  “We’ve been working with the Caledonian Security Agency to keep tabs on the Watch,” Shankar continued, “but …” He opened his hand, palm up, in a gesture of fruitlessness.

  CalSec again. If they were investigating the Black Watch, keeping tabs on Wallace’s apartment made more sense; they’d probably seen him with Eamon Brody. What else might they know? Kovalic scratched at his chin. “So you wouldn’t happen to know if there were, say, a warehouse in the port district with ties to the Black Watch?”

  Shankar’s eyes narrowed and stubby bronze fingers reached up to comb his white goatee. “Like the mythical djinni who grants but three wishes, I am afraid there are limits to my powers, Mr. Fielding. We have yet to discuss precisely what I—and through me, the Imperium, of course—stand to gain from this exchange.”

  Kovalic’s eyes drifted over the rest of the café’s patrons. It was a small place and even at this, its busiest hour of the morning, there were only a few other customers: an older gentleman enjoying a demitasse of coffee, and a young couple apparently in the morning-after phase, their drinks steaming away even as they refused to meet each other’s eyes.

  “Not that you have any reason to believe me,” said Kovalic, “but we want the same thing here: security.”

  “Ah, but whose security?” asked Shankar, raising a finger. “Your citizens’ or mine?”

  “Can’t it be both? Some things are larger than the petty issue of borders.”

  A snort issued from the bigger man at that suggestion. “Those words are dangerously close to treason, Mr. Fielding.”

  Kovalic’s gaze didn’t waver from the man across the table.

  Shankar leaned forward, his elbows resting on either side of his coffee, chin atop his interlaced fingers. “You are a difficult man, Mr. Fielding. And an inscrutable one to boot.”

  “I’m told it makes me irresistible to women.”

  To that, the big man leaned back and roared his first genuine laugh of the encounter, causing the couple in the corner to start in surprise and rattle their coffee cups. “So it is with those in our profession,” he said with an expression of mock suffering. “I’m afraid it is our burden to live with.” After a lengthy sigh, he nodded. “Very well. I will offer you some information—but I require something from you; a quid pro quo.”

  Kovalic spread his hands outward. “If it is within my power to give.”

  Shankar nodded. “Good. I will tell you what I require of you, and you may decide whether the price is acceptable. Fair?”

  It was a generous proposition for Shankar to make. At the very least, Kovalic would not walk away empty-handed: whatever question the man asked would be revelatory in and of itself. Kovalic bowed his head in acquiescence.

  Shankar drummed his fingers on the table as he weighed his decision. At last he spoke. “There is a man in whom the Imperial Intelligence Service has a particular interest. It is altogether possible that this man is currently in the Commonwealth.” He raised his hands to forestall Kovalic’s objections. “Of course, out of professional courtesy, I would not dream of asking you to confirm or deny that. All I want is that, should you come across him, you pass him a message from me.”

  “And that man is?”

  Shankar looked around, his expression nervous for the first time, and lowered his voice even further. “Hasan al-Adaj.”

  Kovalic allowed his own eyebrows to arch. “The Marquis al-Adaj? The head of Illyrican intelligence?”

  “The same. There’s no need to dissemble, Mr. Fielding—I’m sure you’re aware that he no longer holds that post, having defected from the Imperium several years ago. You probably even know that, despite their best efforts, our most elite agents have been unable to track him down.”

  “I see. Well, if he’s such a hard man to find, I’m sure there’s little chance I’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting him, but I’ll do what I can. What’s the message?”

  Shankar scraped the underside of his chin with his fingertips. “Tell the old bastard—not in so many words, of course—but tell him that he may have disappeared for now, but he cannot remain hidden forever. And should he ever set so much as a foot on Illyrican soil again, his incarceration and execution will swiftly follow.”

  Kovalic waited, but Shankar didn’t continue, just once again leaned back in his chair. “Dramatic. I’m sure he’ll take comfort in that. Is that all?”

  “Also, please remind him that he still owes me three hundred marks for the scorch marks on a perfectly serviceable Bayern carpet.”

  “If I do see him, I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kovalic shook his head, bemused, then resumed his original line of questioning. “So, the warehouse in the port district?”

  “Ah, yes. The Black Watch have many fronts and, of course, a warehouse presents particular advantages and opportunities for an organization such as theirs to move goods without being detected. Alas, we have been unable to pin down precisely which of the many firms in the area belongs to them. Despicable though they may be, they are also—and I hate to admit this, as it is tantamount to admitting my own failure—extremely clever.”

  “No leads at all?” Kovalic pressed.

  Shankar picked at an imaginary piece of lint on his lapel. “There were a couple of places that caught our attention, yes, but I hesitate to mention the most prominent of them.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Shankar gave a half-smile, but refused to meet Kovalic’s eyes. “I suggest you talk to your good friend Walter Danzig about that.”

  Kovalic frowned. “Danzig?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m reluctant to compromise an ongoing operation,” said Shankar with an apologetic air. “But what I can tell you is that one of the warehouses we have under surveillance for Black Watch connections has been receiving regular shipments, signed for by our mutual friend, Mr. Danzig. Furthermore, those shipments have been marked with Commonwealth diplomatic seals.” He made a hands-off motion, palms outward, as though the mere idea of violating that sacred trust had never even occurred to him.

  Kovalic’s eyes flicked rapidly back and forth, taking it in. “Very interesting,” he murmured finally. Either Danzig had been holding out on him or something was going on right under the station chief’s nose. He suppressed a grimace: that’d be his mission on Haran all over again.

  Peering at the handheld comm on the table, Shankar looked back up at Kovalic. “And with that, I’m afraid our interview must come to an end. Even without your little distraction, it has gotten rather late and my workload is rather heavy these days: reports to collate, Emperor’s Birthday security arrangements to review, other mysterious strangers to meet—you understand. So I’m afraid I’ll be going—unless you wish to offer me another drink,” he said, indicating the bottle on the table.

  “Keep it,” Kovalic suggested, getting to his feet. “A souvenir.”

  Shankar rose as well. “You’ll forgive me if I decline. It would seem unwise to keep any, er, mementos of ou
r encounter.”

  Kovalic grinned and reached over to grab the bottle. “Your loss. They make a great peach fizz.”

  The two stepped out of the café and into the bustling street. Shankar turned to face Kovalic, even as a compact, gray-haired man, staring intently at the handheld he carried, barreled down the sidewalk, oblivious to everything around him. Kovalic stepped out of his way, closing the distance between himself and Shankar to just a few inches.

  Shankar sighed in exasperation, watching the man go. “People are always in a rush. No respect for other people’s lives.”

  “Tell me about it.” He felt a slight buzz from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Well, I’ll not detain you any longer, major. Thank you for your assistance.” He moved to raise his hand, but Shankar cut him off with a sharp jab of his chin.

  “I have no wish to be seen shaking hands with a Commonwealth intelligence officer, Mr. Fielding. As it is, I fear that I’ve opened myself up to too much risk already. Good day.” And with that, he turned and strode off.

  Kovalic watched until Shankar disappeared around a corner, then turned and headed in the other direction. He rounded the corner of Muckross Place and walked down a few blocks, pausing to stare into a shop window. After a moment, a short man stopped next to him to eye the goods on sale.

  “That close enough?” asked Tapper.

  “Perfect, thanks.” Kovalic pulled a device about the size of a deck of cards out of his front pocket. A light winked green on the front and he slid it back into his pocket. “I cloned his comm and his ID card; they’ve got to be encrypted to hell and back, but we’ll set the computer to cracking them. If there is a secret Illyrican project on Caledonia, odds are Shankar’s involved.”

  Tapper fell into step with him as they walked away from the shop. “Now what?”

  “Well, it looks like Walter wasn’t completely forthcoming with us,” said Kovalic, ignoring a snort from the sergeant. “I think it’s time we pay him another visit.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  To the scrawny blond man’s credit, he did a reasonable job of trying to stop Kovalic from bulling his way into Danzig’s office.