Path of the Fury by David Weber
But at least she now knew what he looked like, and . . .
Her green eyes brightened as the last, elusive details clicked. Alexsov due to return here soon . . . and Quintana’s own constant need for dependable carriers.
Her hungry smile echoed the Fury’s hunting snarl, and she felt Tisiphone reach even deeper, no longer taking thoughts but implanting them. A few more brief seconds sufficed, and then Quintana’s eyes snapped back into focus and his voice continued, smooth and unhurried, unaware of any break.
“—I highly recommend it.”
He handed her one of the glasses, and she sipped, then smiled in unfeigned enjoyment. It was sweet yet sharp, almost astringent, and it flowed down her throat like rich, liquid fire.
“I see why you think highly of it,” she said. He nodded and waved at the chairs around a coffee table of rich native woods. She sank into one of them, and he sat opposite her, peering pensively down into his glass.
“Lewis said you have a charter on Cathcart, Captain Mainwaring?”
“Yes, I do,” Alicia confirmed, and he frowned.
“That’s a pity. I might have a profitable commission for you here, if you could see your way to accepting it.”
“What sort of commission?”
“Very much like the one you’ve just discharged, but with a considerably higher profit margin.”
“Ah?” Alicia crooked an eyebrow thoughtfully. “How considerably?”
“Twice as great—at a minimum,” Quintana replied, and she let her other eyebrow rise.
“I suppose you might call that ‘considerably higher,’” she murmured. “Still, Cathcart is a bird in the hand, Lieutenant Commander, and—“
“Oscar, please,” he interrupted, and she blinked, this time in genuine surprise. From what she’d seen of Quintana’s mind, he didn’t encourage familiarity with his employees. On the other hand—
“Oscar, then,” Alicia said aloud. “As I was saying, I know I have a cargo on Cathcart, and the port master will slap me with a forfeit penalty if I don’t collect it as scheduled.”
“True.” Quintana pondered a moment, then shrugged. “I can’t guarantee the commission I’m thinking of, Theodosia—may I call you Theodosia?” Alicia nodded and he continued. “Thank you. I can’t guarantee it because there are other principals involved, but I believe you and Star Runner would be perfect for it. I’m reasonably confident my colleagues will agree with me, and even if they don’t, I have other consignments for a discreet and reliable skipper, so I have a proposal for you. I anticipate seeing one of my senior colleagues in the near future. Starcom your regrets to your Cathcart contract, and I’ll introduce you to him when he arrives. If he accepts my recommendation, you’ll make enough to cover your forfeit and still show a much higher profit than on this last shipment. If he chooses to make other arrangements, I will personally guarantee you commissions of at least equal value.”
Alicia let herself consider the offer carefully, then shrugged.
“How can I pass up an offer like that? I accept, of course,” she said . . . and she smiled.
Chapter Twenty-six
The small, well-dressed diner accepted the proffered chair with distracted courtesy, then reached into his jacket for a micro-comp. He set it beside his plate, punched up a complicated list of stock transactions, and studied them intently. Only the most suspicious might have noticed the way he set it down, and only the truly paranoid would have suspected the ultra-sensitive microphone concealed in the end pointed toward a nearby table.
Ben Belkassem spread a small sheaf of hard-copy on the table, then punched more keys and brought up yet another layer of meaningless sales while he uncapped his stylus. He scribbled notes on the hard-copy, frowning in concentration as the tiny ear bug from his computer whispered to him.
“. . . derstand, Captain.” Oscar Quintana sipped wine and blotted his lips, eyes gleaming with sardonic amusement. “It’s regrettable, of course, but a certain . . . wastage must be anticipated in any transaction.”
“Precisely. But the object is to make certain the wastage is suffered in the right place.” Gregor Alexsov’s own wine sat untasted, and Quintana smothered a mental sigh. The man had done wonderful things for his credit balance, but there was no lightness, no sense of what the game was all about, in him. Those hard, brown eyes swiveled over his face like targeting lasers, and the thin lips wrinkled in what was obviously intended as a smile.
Sad, so sad, but that probably represented Alexsov’s best effort. Well, a man couldn’t be good at everything, Quintana supposed. “If you’ll give me a list of what you want wasted and where, I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you.” Alexsov’s eyes moved away, scanning the crowded restaurant, and his mouth tightened with disapproval. “I’ll have it for you by the time we reach some less public place.”
“I applaud your caution, Captain Alexsov,” Quintana said, ignoring the way his guest winced at the use of his name, “but it’s unnecessary.”
“Perhaps, but I dislike meeting among so many strangers.”
“None of whom,” Quintana pointed out, “are close enough to hear a word we’re saying. Half the deals on Wyvern are concluded in this restaurant, Captain, because it’s swept for bugs several times a day, and despite your concern, we’ve been less than specific. Even had we not, none of our business violates any of Wyvern’s laws, and—“ he gestured dryly at the six well-armed retainers seated at flanking tables “—I hardly think anyone would be foolish enough to intrude on us. I am Lieutenant Commander Defiant, you know.”
“No doubt. But an agent of the Empire, or even some of your non-imperial neighbors, might not care.”
“Which would be fatally foolish of him, Captain.” Steel glinted behind Quintana’s smile as his relaxed pose slipped for just a moment, and his eyes locked with Alexsov’s. Then he shrugged and waved a hand, banishing the mood. “Have it as you will, however. In the meantime, I think I may have located just the skipper we need. She’s a newcomer to Wyvern, but her credentials are excellent. Good-looking young woman, but she’s already demonstrated her competence on several occasions, and—“
Ben Belkassem’s meal arrived. He made himself smile around a silent curse on all efficient waiters as he put his computer away, but he’d heard enough. He knew now why DeVries had spent the last three weeks cultivating Quintana, and he had a name—one which was almost certainly genuine, given “Alexsov’s” reaction to its use— beyond the Wyverian. Perhaps even more importantly, it seemed DeVries was about to move another link up the chain.
The inspector sampled his food with an admiring smile. He didn’t know how she was manipulating her enemies, but no one could get this far this fast on pure luck. For all his ego, Quintana was a shrewd operator; she had to be influencing him some way to win such a recommendation after carrying a single cargo for him, and the inspector wondered what sort of magic wand she used.
He paused, smile fading at a sudden thought. He knew she was working Quintana somehow—might it be equally obvious to someone else? Of course, he had the advantage of knowing who she was and some of the other things she’d done, but if anyone ran an analysis and recognized her straight-line movement to Wyvern or, worse, checked her career before MaGuire. . . .
He laid aside his fork and reached for his own wine-glass, remembering Alexsov’s evident caution, and his brain was busy behind his eyes.
Commander Barr looked up in surprise as Captain Alexsov strode onto Harpy’s bridge. He hadn’t expected the chief of staff back aboard for another hour, and his expression suggested he had something on his mind.
“Good evening, sir. Can I help you?”
“Yes.” Alexsov slid into the exec’s chair and reached for the synth link headset. “Patch me into the port records
Barr nodded to his communications officer, then turned his chair to face Alexsov. “May I ask what you’re looking for, sir?”
“I don’t know yet.” Alexsov smiled thinly at the CO’s expression. “I may not be looking for anything at all, but if I find it, I’ll recognize it.”
“Of course, sir.” Barr turned his chair tactfully away as the chief of staff closed his eyes in concentration. This was Alexsov’s first trip in Harpy, but aside from a certain fetish with schedules, he’d evinced few of the oddities Barr’s fellows had warned him about. Until now, at least.
Alexsov suspected what Barr was thinking, but it bothered him far less than his inability to pin down what made him so uneasy. It was just that it was unlike Quintana to recommend any captain, much less one he’d dealt with only once, as enthusiastically as this one. Of course, if Mainwaring was as attractive as Quintana had implied, that might explain a good bit of his enthusiasm, Quintana being Quintana. Still, whatever had aroused his initial admiration, her record since entering the Franconian Sector was impressive. She had a fast ship, and she’d certainly demonstrated a short way with would-be hijackers. That cargo of Dreamy White was a point in her favor, too; anyone who’d transport that had very few scruples.
He reached the end of the data and leaned back, frowning without opening his eyes. If only the woman had a longer history in-sector! Without querying the Melville data base directly via starcom—and vague concern was hardly enough to justify that sort of risk or expense— he couldn’t check her previous record. There was nothing in her recent activities to arouse suspicion, and if this was a false background, it was the most convincing one he’d ever seen. But perhaps that was the real problem. Maybe she was too good to be true?
Nonsense! He was getting as paranoid as Rachel Shu! But that paranoia, he acknowledged, was exactly what made Rachel such a success.
His frown deepened. Smitten by her looks or no, Quintana must have checked her out. The merchant’s dealings might be legal under Wyverian law, but Quintana had to know how meaningless that would be if the Empire ever discovered them. O Branch had no qualms about arranging a quiet little kidnapping or assassination, and ONI would be right behind them on this one. Possibly not even such a quiet assassination. The Empire would want other Rogue Worlders to rethink their positions on aiding enemies of the Crown.
He removed his headset and coiled the lead with methodical neatness. Every indication was that Captain Mainwaring was genuine. If she was, she could prove an invaluable resource; if she wasn’t, she was a deadly danger. Any operative who could penetrate this deeply had to be eliminated, but all he had was a worry—a “hunch,” much as he hated the word—and that wasn’t enough. Rachel, he suspected, would simply have her killed out of hand, but Rachel wasn’t noted for moderation, and if his hunch was wrong, Mainwaring was just as perfect for the job as Quintana thought.
Fortunately, there was a way to be certain. He put the headset away, nodded briefly to Commander Barr, and headed for sickbay.
The hover cab stopped outside the imposing gates, and Alicia stepped out into Wyvern’s autumn night, damp and rich with the scent of unfamiliar, decaying leaf mold. She fed her credit card into the cab’s charge unit and looked around, tugging her bolero straight. Chateau Defiant lay thirty kilometers from town, and clouds hid both moons. Without sensory boosters, the blackness would have been Stygian; even with them, it was dark enough to make her jumpy—especially in light of the importance of this meeting.
Alicia swallowed a chuckle as she reclaimed her credit card. The gates opened silently, and Quintana’s voice issued from the speaker below their visual pickup.
“Hi, Theodosia! We’re in the Green Parlor. You know the way.”
“Pour the drinks, Oscar,” she replied with a cheerful wave. “I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.”
“Good,” Quintana said, and switched off with an unhappy glance at Gregor Alexsov. “Is this really necessary? he asked, gesturing distastefully at the peculiar, long-barreled pistol one of Alexsov’s people carried.
“I’m afraid so.” Alexsov nodded, and the man with the pistol retreated into the next room and pulled the door almost closed. “I trust you completely, Oscar, but we can’t afford any slips. If she’s as trustworthy as you believe, it won’t hurt her a bit. If not . . .” He shrugged.
Alicia strode up the walk with brisk familiarity. She’d been here several times in the past weeks, although Oscar Quintana’s memories of her overnight visits differed somewhat from her own. She grinned at the thought, relaxing further with the amusement, and never noticed the catlike shape that slid tracelessly through Quintana’s sophisticated security systems behind her.
She was one of Quintana’s “special friends” now, and the retainer who met her at the door gave her a wry, half-apologetic smile as he held out his hand. She smiled back and slid her disrupter from its holster, then handed over her survival knife and the vibro blade from her left boot. He stowed them carefully away and gestured politely at the scan panel beside him, and Alicia made a face.
“Oh ye of little faith,” she murmured, but it wasn’t bad manners on Wyvern, where titles of nobility—and estates—had been known to change hands with sudden and violent unexpectedness. No doubt Tisiphone could have gotten an entire arsenal past the man behind the scanners, just as she did Alicia’s augmentation, but there was no real point in it.
“There, see?” she said as he peered at her internal hardware without seeing it.
He smiled at her rallying tone and bowed her past, and she grinned back as she turned down a corridor hung in priceless tapestries. If not for the way it was paid for, she could have gotten used to this kind of life, she thought, nodding to an occasional servant as she passed.
The double doors to what Quintana modestly called the Green Parlor stood open. She stepped through them, and he turned to greet her, standing beside a tallish man she recognized from his mind.
“Theodosia. Allow me to introduce Captain Gregor Alexsov.”
“Captain.” Alicia held out her hand and made herself smile brightly.
“Captain Mainwaring.” Alexsov extended his own hand graciously. She took it and felt the familiar heat, then—
Ben Belkassem muttered balefully as he filtered through the pitch-black grounds. This damned house was even bigger than he’d thought from the plans, and he’d almost missed two different sensors already. He paused in the denser darkness under an ornamental tree and checked his inertial tracer against the plat of the grounds. Quintana had mentioned the “Green Parlor,” and if his map was right that was right over there. . . .
Alicia gasped and snapped around to stare at Quintana as pain pricked the back of her neck. He looked distressed—he was actually wringing his hands—and her eyes popped back to Alexsov, then widened as she collapsed. The carpet bloodied her nose as her face hit it, and deep within her she felt the elemental rage of the Fury.
She tried to thrust herself back up, but Alexsov had chosen his attack well. He knelt beside her, and she couldn’t even feel his hands as he removed the tiny dart and rolled her, not ungently, onto her back.
“I apologize for the necessity, Captain Mainwaring,” he murmured, “but it’s only a temporary nerve block.” He snapped his fingers, and one of his henchmen handed him a hypospray. “And this,” he went on soothingly
Horrified understanding filled Alicia as the hypo nestled home.
Anger and fear—for Alicia, not herself—snarled in the Fury’s reply.
The hypo hissed, and Tisiphone cursed horribly as the drug flooded into Alicia’s system . . . and her augmentation sensed it.
She gasped and jerked, and Alexsov leapt back in consternation. Even that small movement should have been impossible, and his brow furrowed in lightning speculation as she quivered on the carpet. Escape protocols blossomed within her, fighting the nerve block, trying to get her on her feet, but they couldn’t, and panic wailed in her mind as the idiot savant of her processor considered its internal programs. Escape was impossible, it decided, and truth drugs had been administered.
Ben Belkassem eased through the ornamental shrubbery to the glowing windows. Their translucent green curtains let light escape yet were too thick to see through, but he’d expected that. He checked for security sensors and placed a tiny, sensitive microphone against the glass.
“. . . happening?!” Naked panic quivered in Oscar Quintana’s voice. “You said she was just supposed to be paralyzed, damn it!”