by David Weber
“You know,” Šiml said, “it’s at least remotely possible this was purely personal, Karl-Heinz.” Sabatino looked skeptical, and the Chotěbořan shrugged. “I’m not saying I’m incredibly unpopular these days, but there has to be at least someone I’ve royally pissed off over the years. For that matter, don’t forget how many people did absolutely hate me back in the bad old days when we still didn’t have a cure for the komár.” He shook his head, allowing more than a trace of bitterness into his expression. “It’s hard to blame people who lost someone they loved for feeling that way…especially after Jan worked so hard to make me the scapegoat. I’d thought most of that had faded. In fact, I’m positive most of it has, looking at the ’faxes and the political columns, but this really could’ve been someone whose opinion of me hasn’t changed, you know.”
“Funny you should mention that.” Sabatino’s voice was grim, and he barked a laugh when Šiml lifted an eyebrow. “That’s exactly what Cabrnoch told me he thought had happened.”
“Well, he has to say something,” Šiml pointed out. “And to be fair—although being fair to Jan isn’t all that high on my priority list—there hasn’t been time for any kind of determination. They’re just starting the investigation, you know. It’s entirely possible he genuinely doesn’t have any better idea of who may’ve been behind this than you and I do.”
Sabatino snorted and looked back out into the storm. He obviously suspected that Jan Cabrnoch had a very good idea of who’d planted the bomb in the brand-new air limousine he’d provided for Adam Šiml.
“Well, we’ll see what his ‘investigation’ turns up,” he said in that same grim voice. “And I’ve already requested that Gunnar be kept apprised of its progress. Personally apprised.”
Šiml’s eyebrow rose again. Gunnar Castelbranco, the head of security in Kumang for Frogmore-Wellington and Iwahara, was a hard, ruthless, not particularly nice, but highly intelligent fellow. He was also far more concerned with getting results for his boss than about any toes he might step on in the process, and he probably knew where all the political bodies of the Cabrnoch Administration were buried. No one in that administration was likely to miss the significance of Sabatino’s insistence that Castelbranco be kept “personally apprised” of the investigation’s findings.
“I appreciate your concern, Karl-Heinz,” he said, after a moment, “but having Gunnar looking over Cabrnoch’s and Kápička’s shoulders isn’t going to make my relationship with either of them any better.”
“I realize it might have that effect,” Sabatino acknowledged. “in fact, I thought about that before I spoke to them. Some things are more important than others, though. I don’t want anything happening to you, Adam, and something damned well nearly did.” He turned back from the window and smiled thinly at his guest. “And, while I’ve come to value our personal friendship, we both know my concern here goes well beyond that.”
Šiml looked back at him, then shrugged in acknowledgment.
“Of course I understand that,” he said. “I just don’t want you getting too firmly wedded to the notion that this had to be political. It may have been. In fact, I’ll be honest and admit I find it a bit difficult to believe any of those people who might be pissed off at me would be sufficiently pissed off to try to blow me up in midair. That doesn’t mean it can’t be what happened, though. And while I appreciate that your involving Gunnar’s intended to protect me, I hope it’s not going to…further polarize my relations with Jan. I don’t think it’s going to help either of us if this dumps more poison into that relationship.”
“Be honest, Adam!” Sabatino actually chuckled as fresh thunder crashed and re-echoed over Velehrad. “‘That relationship’ was pretty damned ‘poisoned’ when he froze you out of the government in the first place. When I started pouring funds into Sokol, it got about as bad as it ever could!” He shook his head. “No, whether any of his people were actually involved in this or not, he’d have danced a jig if it succeeded, and you know it. Under the circumstances, the benefit of making him aware that I’m…casting a protective wing over you, let’s say, far outweighs any possible negatives.”
“I just don’t want this to complicate our plans, Karl-Heinz.”
“I hope it doesn’t, either, but it may actually have simplified our priorities,” Sabatino pointed out. “And,” he looked up as a uniformed maid stepped into the open living room door and knocked lightly on the doorframe, “I see supper’s about ready. Let’s let this rest until we’ve eaten. But I’ve asked Gunnar to drop in after supper to discuss getting you some full-time security of your own.” Šiml opened his mouth to protest, but Sabatino shook his head. “I’m not talking about any of our people. If nothing else, I wouldn’t want to ‘taint’ you with that off-world patina. And I’m sure you don’t want a bodyguard following you around wherever you go. But whoever tried to kill you once may try twice, or even three times, and he only has to get lucky once. Besides, after what was clearly an attempt to murder you, I doubt any of your friends in Sokol—or anywhere else, for that matter—will think it’s out of line for you to acquire at least a little protection. So be prepared to humor me on this one.”
He pushed himself up out of his chair before Šiml could respond, and laid one hand on the Chotěbořan’s shoulder.
“Now come eat before it gets cold,” he said.
* * *
“I thought I’d better screen you directly, Adam,” Minister for Public Safety Kápička said from Adam Šiml’s com. Five days had passed since the explosion had demolished Šiml’s limousine, the Zelený Kopec executive parking area, and the thankfully unoccupied cars belonging to Marián Sulák and Hana Káňová which had shared it with the limo.
“Why shouldn’t you screen me, Daniel?” Šiml cocked his head. “It’s not as if you don’t have my com combination,” he pointed out mildly.
“Well, no, it’s not,” Kápička agreed. “But this isn’t personal, Adam. It’s not even about football.”
“Actually, I sort of suspected that,” Šiml said gently. “I was trying to put you at ease.”
“I appreciate the effort, but I think I’d best get on with it.” Kápička seemed to brace himself. “Our forensics people have finished their analysis of the explosive residue. In fact, they finished it day before yesterday, but I asked Jaromír Lepič to have them run the entire test protocol again. I got the results from him about twenty minutes ago, and he’s probably passing them on to Gunnar Castelbranco right now. In fact, I’ve asked him to make sure Captain Price gets them for System Administrator Verner’s information, as well.”
“This is all sounding very ominous, Daniel.”
“What it is is embarrassing, and maybe worse than that,” Kápička said. “According to the taggants, the bomb that took out your limo came from us.”
“‘Us’? Which ‘us,’ Daniel?”
“CPSF,” Kápička sighed.
“What?” Šiml sat up straighter. “That was a Public Safety bomb?!”
“No!” Kápička said quickly. “I swear to you, Adam, that nobody in Public Safety had a damned thing to do with it! Or, at least,” he added with the air of someone trying to be scrupulously honest, “if there was any involvement by someone in my shop, it was purely personal and I haven’t been able to find a single person with a motive to harm you in any way. And the instant we got that first taggant analysis, I pulled out all the stops looking for someone like that, I guarantee you!” He shook his head. “No. The explosives were manufactured for our SWAT teams, but it looks to us like someone stole them.”
“Stole them,” Šiml repeated carefully, and Kápička waved one hand.
“I know how that sounds. It’s the only answer I can think of, though,” he said, then paused and shook his head unhappily. “Actually, as much as I hate to admit it, we have the occasional problem with CPSF equipment—including weapons, sometimes, I’m afraid…finding its way onto the black market. We do our best to keep it quiet, for obvious reasons, but it d
oes happen. From what Lepič’s already turned up, I’m afraid this is another instance of that.”
“I see.” Šiml looked at him levelly for several seconds, then shrugged. “I can’t pretend I’m happy to hear about that, Daniel. For a lot of reasons.”
“I know. Don’t blame you, either. And—” Kápička chuckled sourly “—I don’t think Castelbranco’s going to be happy to hear it either. But I’m being as honest as I can when I tell you I’ve looked hard—in fact, I’m still looking hard—but I’ve found absolutely no evidence that…anyone in government service, let’s say, had anything to do with that explosion.”
That, Šiml reflected, was as close as Kápička could come to naming names like Cabrnoch or Žďárská, and from his expression, he was either totally sincere or one of the better actors Šiml had ever seen.
Or, more likely, a combination of both.
“Well,” he said finally, “I appreciate your informing me. And I see why you thought you should do it in person. I know you have a lot of people already looking over your shoulder on this one, Daniel, but I hope you understand that if you discover any more about these mysteriously missing explosives, I’d really like to hear about it. Especially if there might be any more of them floating around out there in the possession of whoever already tried to kill me once.”
“Of course I understand!” Kápička nodded sharply. “And I promise you that anything I find out will be forwarded to you immediately.”
“Thank you, Daniel. I appreciate that, too. And now, I’m sure you have things you need to be doing, so I’ll let you go.”
“Thanks, Adam. I’ll be in touch. Clear.”
Šiml’s display went blank, and he sat back with a cheerful smile which might have startled Daniel Kápička.
You’re not going to find out who sold these explosives on the black market, he thought with intense satisfaction, because that’s not what happened. No, you’re going to find out that these explosives were in that air lorryload that crashed over in Bílá Voda last year. Of course, they never actually got into the lorry, but I suppose the explosion was energetic enough it’s not surprising your crash investigators didn’t realize that.
His smile turned into something suspiciously like a grin. At the time, he’d been more than a little irritated with the jiskry who’d arranged that accident. They’d been careful, and while the CPSF could readily track the explosives back to a specific delivery lot, the paperwork tracing where every part of that delivery lot had gone was much more problematical. No one would be able to prove the part of it used to blow up his limo hadn’t been aboard that lorry. And the trio who’d actually engineered the theft had no official connection to the lorry, the explosives, or even the shipping order, so he’d been forced to accept their cell leader’s judgment that it had actually constituted a very low risk. Despite which, he and Vilušínský had sent back very firm instructions to never—ever—do something like that again. The quantities of weapons and explosives which could be diverted to Jiskra that way might have been very useful, but not useful enough to risk alerting Siminetti or Kápička to the fact that members of the CPSF might belong to a secret subversive organization.
Of course, we never thought about them being useful this way, he reflected. Actually makes me feel a little guilty for the nastygram we sent them when they did it.
* * *
“Let me put this as clearly as I can, Zuzana,” Karl-Heinz Sabatino told the red-haired woman on his com. “I’m not happy. I’m not happy at all.”
“I understand that, Mr. Sabatino,” Zuzana Žďárská said. “and, I assure you, President Cabrnoch isn’t any happier than you are. But, frankly, this is something you should be taking up with Minister Kápi—”
“I’ve already spoken with Daniel,” Sabatino interrupted. “And Gunnar Castelbranco’s discussed it—in some detail—with both him and General Siminetti. However, under the circumstances, and in order to avoid…misunderstandings, I feel it would probably be a good idea for me to make my feelings clear to you, as well.”
Žďárská closed her mouth. She maintained a politely attentive expression with the practiced ease of a lifetime in politics, but anger glittered in her eyes. Sabatino saw it, and it didn’t bother him a bit. Especially not since there was more than a little apprehension to keep it company.
“Thank you,” he said. “You see, Zuzana, I’ve been trying to figure out why someone might have wanted to kill Adam Šiml, of all people. I mean, the man’s uniformly beloved among sports-minded Chotěbořans, isn’t he? And Sokol is one of the relatively few institutions here on Chotěboř that’s universally popular. Oh, I know there was some ill feeling when he originally left government service, but that’s all in the past.” His eyes bored into her. “And, just between you and me—and possibly President Cabrnoch—the past is where that ill feeling had better stay. I’m aware Daniel and General Siminetti have been singularly unsuccessful in their effort to determine just how explosives delivered to CPSF’s SWAT teams could have ended up in the back seat of Adam’s air limo. I’m sure they’re doing their very best to unravel that mystery even as we speak.” He smiled with very little humor. “In the meantime, however, speaking both as one of Adam’s many personal admirers and, yes, friends, but also as the representative of Frogmore-Wellington and Iwahara Interstellar, I’d like to point out that on behalf of my employers, I may find myself required to…rethink my relationship with the current administration if it should happen the local authorities are unable to prevent the murder of a philanthropist of Adam Šiml’s stature. The loss of someone who’s become our most visible connection to Chotěbořian social causes and corporate charitable contributions would make me really, really angry, I’m afraid.”
He smiled again, the expression thin and cold.
“I do trust you’ll convey my deep concern in this matter to the President.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Sinead.” Lisa Katherine O’Daley’s blue eyes were dark, her expression troubled, and she shook her head as she gazed at her daughter. “I know you’d like to get away, but if Aivars isn’t expecting you—”
“No, he’s not expecting me,” Sinead O’Daley Terekhov interrupted, her tone rather more clipped than she normally used with her mother. “He’s not expecting the news he’s going to get in another week or so, either. I’d just as soon he saw me as soon after that as I can arrange.”
“Sinead—” Lisa began, then stopped, looking at the pain in her daughter’s green eyes. She knew that same pain echoed in her own, but it went even deeper for Sinead.
Thirteen days had passed since the murderous attack the newsies had already dubbed “the Yawata Strike” after debris strikes on Sphinx destroyed the entire city of Yawata Crossing. There’d been 1.25 million people in Yawata alone. The best current estimate was that over seven million civilians had been killed, combining losses on the planetary surfaces with what had happened to the Star Kingdom’s major space stations. No one had released numbers on military casualties yet, but everyone knew they’d been hideously high, as well, and Lisa doubted there was a single family in the Manticore Binary System who hadn’t lost someone they loved. God knew Lisa had! In fact, she’d lost over thirty coworkers—some of whom she’d known for upwards of forty T-years—in the First Interstellar Bank of Manticore’s Hephaestus office. And at least ten of her late husband’s friends and colleagues had died in the destruction of the Hephaestus headquarters of Brookwell, O’Daley, Hannover, and Sakubara, the partnership he’d helped build into one of the Star Kingdom’s half-dozen most successful investment management firms.
They came from old money on both sides of the family, the O’Daleys did, and a precious lot of good that did in the face of so much pain and loss.
But at least I was in Landing when it all happened, Lisa thought. Sinead wasn’t. Sinead saw it happen. Maybe that’s the difference. But…
“Have you discussed this with Charley?” she asked.
“No.” Sinead sat back on the small settee on the other side of the coffee table and looked out the four hundredth-floor office’s floor-to-ceiling window across the city of Landing. It looked so…normal, she thought. How could it look that way after what had happened?
“No,” she repeated, looking back at her mother. “He’s still on Gryphon, I think. Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s too busy to talk to me right now.”
Her mother snorted. Like Sinead, Lisa knew what Charles O’Daley really did at the Foreign Office. If there was one person who was turning over every rock for any clue as to who’d attacked them, her son was that person. And he probably blamed himself for every one of the millions of dead. After all, it was his job to have known about whoever had committed that atrocity. The fact that no one else in the entire Star Empire had seen it coming would never blunt his bitter sense of self-blame.
There was a lot of that going around, she reflected.
She climbed out of her chair and crossed to the window. She looked out it, her thoughts paralleling her daughter’s, although she didn’t know it, while she thought about guilt, responsibility, and pain. Then she turned back to Sinead.
“You and Aivars discussed your going with him when he first deployed to Talbott,” she pointed out. “You decided against it then because he was going to spend so little time in any single star system. So when you come down to it, will you really be any closer to him—effectively, I mean—than you are right here at home?”
And if you’re not, you’ll be alone with all this pain, where I can’t reach you, either, she carefully didn’t say.
“I don’t know.” Sinead replied. “But I know I won’t be any farther from him. And for at least the immediate future, he may be spending more time in Spindle, given what just happened there. And I need to be there with him, Mother…because of what just happened here.”
