by Timothy Zahn
The service alley was much nicer than I’d expected. There were large bins on both sides, but they were neatly lined up and even looked relatively clean. There were only a few stray papers blowing around loose, with none of the more disgusting debris that had a tendency to collect in out-of-the-way places like this. Apparently, the merchants on this block took pride even in the less public areas of their properties.
“Which way?” Bayta whispered.
I pointed south, the direction we’d just come from. “Let’s see how fast they are on the uptake.” I turned and started to take a step.
And froze as a soft click came from the far side of one of the bins now behind us. The soft but distinctive click of a gun’s safety catch being released.
Bayta heard it, too. “Was that—?”
“Yes, it was,” a raspy voice said from the direction of the click. “Just pull your hand out of your coat, friend. Nice and easy. And empty.”
Keeping my head motionless, I gave the area around us a quick scan. But there was no cover anywhere, at least nothing Bayta and I could reach fast enough. With a sigh, I pulled my hand out of my jacket, holding it up to demonstrate its emptiness. “You’re good,” I complimented my ambusher.
“No, you’re just predictable,” he said. The voice was moving, indicating he’d left his cover and was coming up behind us. “You really should work on that.”
“I’ll make a note,” I said.
“You’d better,” he warned. “In this business, when you get predictable, you die.”
I frowned. Fatherly advice from a street assailant?
And then, suddenly, it clicked. “Well, you would certainly know,” I agreed. Without waiting for permission, I turned around.
It was the middle-aged jogger I’d spotted earlier, all right, his gun in hand but pointed harmlessly up at the sky. His hair was gray and ponytailed behind him, his face was lined and leathery with age and a lifetime of too much sun, and he was sporting a two-day stubble on his cheeks. It was a face I’d never seen before in my life. “Hello, McMicking,” I greeted him. “What in the name of hell are you doing here?”
SEVEN
The Hanging Gardens was pleasant, pricey, and seemed to have plenty of rooms available. Bayta and I checked into a two-bedroom suite, got a recommendation for a nearby restaurant from the concierge, and headed back out.
McMicking was already seated when we arrived. “How did you know we were coming here?” Bayta asked as we sat down at his table. “I didn’t think Frank had called you yet.”
“He hadn’t,” McMicking said, handing her a menu. “But I got the same recommendation from the concierge last night. Considering the averageness of the food, I’m guessing he’s getting a kickback from the management.”
I looked around at the low lights and the booths’ wraparound isolation shells. “But the privacy factor is above average?” I suggested.
“Exactly,” McMicking aid. “Let’s order, and then we can talk.”
We ordered a stuffed mushroom appetizer, and as we ate I gave him a thumbnail sketch of our activities since my departure from Manhattan, leaving out only our meeting with Rebekah. Restaurant isolation shells were all well and good, but they could be trusted only so far.
McMicking seemed fascinated by all of it, especially the Veldrick part of the story “Interesting,” he said after the waiter had cleared away the appetizer plates. “So is this a truce you’ve got going with the Modhri? Or would you consider it more of a full-fledged alliance?”
“I consider it a complete scam,” I told him flatly. “The only question is what that scam is, what he’s actually going for, and how we stop him.”
“Good questions all,” McMicking said. “You have any proof it’s a scam? Aside from your natural distrust of the universe at large?”
“Sure,” I said. “Veldrick. If the Modhri’s trying to pretend he’s giving us rope to track down the Abomination, why reveal the fact that there’s a coral outpost in the neighborhood? Or as Bayta and I were discussing earlier, why bring in an outpost at all?”
“Uh-huh,” McMicking said, an odd look on his face. “But of course, if he’s running a scam, why tip his hand by showing you the coral in the first place?”
“That one’s got me stumped,” I admitted. “All I can think of is that word of our so-called truce hasn’t made it to the local mind segment yet. But that seems ridiculous. It took five days for our torchyacht to get here from the Tube. Plenty of time for the Modhri to have lasered in a message.”
“Unless the Modhri mind segment that made the deal hasn’t figured out that we’re here,” Bayta said suddenly. “He took all his walkers off the Quadrail, remember, and there wasn’t anyone at the New Tigris Station.”
“He may have taken all his walkers off,” I corrected. “We only have his word for that. He could just as easily pulled the old duck-blind trick.”
“What’s a duck-blind trick?” she asked.
“Three people go into a duck blind; two people come out,” I explained. “Since ducks don’t count very well, they all relax, thinking they’re alone and off the hook.”
“There is another possibility,” McMicking said thoughtfully “Is there any way to tell whether or not Veldrick is a walker?”
“Not until the Modhri takes him over,” I said. “There are definite changes in face and voice when that happens.”
“I was hoping for something a little less drastic,” McMicking said. “I was thinking about the fact that the Modhri and the Spiders are all telepathic, and wondering if Bayta might be able to sense his presence.”
“I wish I could,” Bayta said. “But there’s no crossover. Spider and Modhri communications work on—” She looked at me, as if searching for the right word. “I guess you could say we’re on different frequencies.”
“Though thought viruses prove that—” I broke off at a warning twitch of McMicking’s eye. The waiter arrived, and we sat in silence as he laid out our plates. “I was going to say, thought viruses prove there’s some telepathic overlap between the Modhri and normal humans,” I finished when we were alone again.
McMicking grunted. “The fact that polyp colonies can whisper suggestions and rationalizations to a host proves that much,” he pointed out. “Where I was going with this was that Veldrick might not be a walker. If he isn’t, then there’s no connection between him and the Modhri’s truce or scam or whatever.”
“Interestingly enough, I was wondering that same thing myself earlier,” I said. “But then why did he go to all that trouble to show us the coral? Because he did deliberately do that.”
“Maybe he was trying to gauge your reaction to it,” McMicking said.
I frowned at him. With McMicking, it was as much about what he wasn’t saying as about what he was. “And he would do this because . . .?” I prompted.
McMicking smiled tightly. “Because I came here to take it away from him.”
He pointed at my plate. “But your steak’s getting cold. Let’s eat.”
The dinner had been eaten, the plates cleared away, and we were on coffee and the dessert sampler when McMicking finally picked up the story again. “It started five months ago when Hardin Industries bought Crown Rosette Electronics,” he said. “One of the first things Mr. Hardin always does once the papers have been signed is to send someone around to make a survey of local manufacturing centers. About three months ago, the rep got around to New Tigris.”
He made a face. “And discovered to his stunned disbelief that the head of the local branch had about a cubic meter of highly illegal Modhran coral in his house.”
“I warned Veldrick about that,” I said.
“So did the rep,” McMicking said. “Unfortunately, it was too late for warnings. The stuff was here, and in the possession of a Hardin Industries subsidiary.”
I nodded as the light dawned. “Which means if someone decides to make an issue of it, Hardin is on the hook for the whole list of judgments and penalties.”
&n
bsp; “Exactly,” McMicking said. “Obviously, the fact that Veldrick got it in implies the local Customs officials are pretty casual about that sort of thing. But there’s no guarantee one of them might not suddenly get all virtuous and law-abiding.”
“Especially now that someone like Hardin is sitting in the crosshairs?” I suggested.
McMicking shrugged slightly. “Mr. Hardin has his detractors,” he said diplomatically. “Regardless, things obviously couldn’t be allowed to remain as they were.”
“So Mr. Hardin sent you here to destroy it?” Bayta asked.
“I wish it was that simple,” McMicking said ruefully. “But you know Mr. Hardin. Well, you don’t. But Frank does.”
“All too well,” I agreed. I’d briefly worked for Larry Hardin some months back, having been hired to find a way for him to take over the Quadrail system from the Spiders. Our relationship had ended abruptly when I told him it couldn’t be done, and then proceeded to blackmail him out of a trillion dollars. The money had gone for a good cause, but Hardin didn’t know that. “And I know Mr. Hardin didn’t get to be a multimillionaire by burning up valuable assets,” I continued. “A cubic meter of Modhran coral represents, what, about half a million?”
“You’re behind the times, friend,” McMicking said. “Try about eight million.”
I goggled. “Dollars?”
“Or more,” McMicking said. “Between you drying up the supply on Modhra I and your friend Fayr busy blowing up the Bellidosh Estates-General’s current supply, the price has gone through the roof.”
“Hence, you?” I asked.
“Hence, me,” McMicking agreed. “My job is to get the coral out of Veldrick’s house, off the planet, onto the Quadrail, and to a buyer Mr. Hardin’s trying to set up.”
I exhaled loudly. “Terrific.”
“I’m not any happier about it than you are,” McMicking said grimly. “All alternative plans will be cheerfully considered. But any such plan absolutely has to start with getting Veldrick’s coral off New Tigris.”
“Understood,” I said, frowning as I visualized Veldrick’s meditation room. Something wasn’t quite right here. “Well, the bad news is that he now knows—or suspects, anyway—that Hardin’s about to lower the boom on him. You might have given me a heads-up on this before I left Manhattan.”
“I would have if I’d known about it,” McMicking said. “You remember me saying Mr. Hardin was about to give me a special assignment? This was it.”
“So how did you get here ahead of me?” I asked. “I thought my shuttle and torchliner were the first ones out.”
“Eight million dollars can make a man impatient,” McMicking said with a touch of humor. “Mr. Hardin had a private shuttle and torchyacht waiting for me after my briefing. Much faster than commercial travel. I’ve actually been poking around here a couple of days now.”
“Ah,” I said. “At any rate, that’s the bad news. The good news is that he thinks Bayta and I are the ones here to do it. Ergo, he’s going to be keeping his beady little eyes on us, not middle-aged joggers.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway,” McMicking said.
“Unless someone reports we were together tonight,” Bayta warned.
“Not a problem,” McMicking assured her. “I won’t be wearing this particular face again.”
“Wait a second,” I said as the nagging feeling suddenly fell into place. “You said Hardin’s rep reported a cubic meter of coral?”
“About that, yes,” McMicking confirmed. “All in Veldrick’s meditation room?”
“Again, yes,” McMicking said. “Why?”
I grimaced. “Because at least a third of it isn’t there anymore.”
For a long moment McMicking stared at and through me, his eyes narrowed. “Interesting,” he said at last, his voice casual. “So Mr. Veldrick’s decided to be awkward about this. I don’t suppose you were given a tour of the whole house?”
“No, just the great room, the meditation room, and the guest suite,” I said. “But just shifting it around the house hardly seems worth the effort.”
“But he did say Modhran coral helps grease the wheels of commercial enterprise,” Bayta offered. “Maybe that means he’s given out pieces as gifts.”
“More likely as bribes,” I said. “He also went out of his way to mention it worked especially well on non-Humans.”
“Clever little man,” McMicking mused. “A fair percentage of those offworlders will have diplomatic immunity. Even those who don’t are probably covered by trade agreements that limit what local law enforcement can do to them.”
“He was probably hoping to scatter most of his collection around Imani City before Hardin made his move,” I said.
“With the expectation that he would get at least some of it back at a future date,” McMicking agreed. “When his friends at Customs reported Frank Donaldson of Hardin Industries had arrived, he must have been rather annoyed.”
“Hence, the invitation to visit his home and see if I reacted with the proper displeasure to his coral,” I said. “I wonder what his next move will be.”
McMicking’s eyes flicked over my shoulder. “I think we’re about to find out.”
I turned around in my seat. Two Imani City policemen were striding through the restaurant toward us. “You armed?” I murmured to McMicking.
“Of course,” he said. “But let’s not be hasty.”
They came to our table and stopped. “Mr. Frank Donaldson?” the taller one asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid so, sir, yes,” the cop said. “I’m Sergeant Aksam; this is Officer Lasari. Would you mind coming with us, please?”
“Why?” I asked, making no move to get up.
Aksam glanced around at the restaurant’s other patrons. Most of them, I noted, were staring back at us with the morbid fascination people always have for the objects of police interest. “I think this would be handled more pleasantly back at the station,” he said, lowering his voice a bit.
“I doubt it,” I said. “The seats here are really quite comfortable. Shall I ask the waiter to bring you a couple?”
His face darkened. “Fine,” he growled, raising his voice back to its original level and then some. If I was going to insist on embarrassing myself in public, he was going to make sure I did it right. “Frank Donaldson, you’re under suspicion of associating with known criminals. Now stand up, please.”
“Which known criminals are these?” McMicking spoke up.
Aksam flashed him a look. “This doesn’t concern you, sir,” he said warningly.
“Oh, I think it does,” McMicking said calmly, holding up an ID. “My name’s Joseph Prescott. I’m Mr. Donaldson’s legal advisor.”
Years of playing poker against fellow Westali agents allowed me to keep my bland expression in place as McMicking’s verbal grenade rolled into the center of the conversation. Beside me, Bayta stirred but didn’t speak, and I had no doubt her own face was equally unreadable.
Aksam wasn’t nearly that good. From the way his eyes momentarily widened I guessed that the last thing he’d expected on this little outing was to have to explain himself to a lawyer.
I was rather looking forward to this.
“Well?” McMicking prompted.
Aksam found his tongue. “Mr. Donaldson met this afternoon with a bartender in Zumurrud District named Usamah Karim,” he said. “Mr. Karim has a criminal record.”
“What sort of record?” McMicking asked. “Overcharging for stale pretzels? Watering the drinks?”
“Selling to minors and obstruction of justice,” Aksam shot back.
“Really,” McMicking said calmly. “What sort of obstruction?”
Aksam threw a hooded glance around the restaurant. Clearly, this wasn’t going the way he’d expected it to. “Mr. Karim’s record is not the issue here.”
“On the contrary,” McMicking said. “If Mr. Donaldson is accused of consorting with criminals, th
e criminality of the other person or persons is of paramount importance.”
He looked sagely at me. “Furthermore, unless New Tigris has local ordinances with which I’m not familiar, the prohibition against association with criminals applies only to convicted felons or former felons still on parole. Does Mr. Donaldson have any such criminal record you’re aware of?”
It was definitely not going the way Aksam had hoped. “I have my orders,” he said stiffly. “And I have a warrant.”
“Really.” McMicking threw a significant glance at me. I caught the glance and lobbed it back again. If the cop had a viable warrant, he should have mentioned it long before now. “May I see it?”
Aksam looked at his partner, as if hoping for help or inspiration. But there was nothing there but more uncertainty and a clear wish to be left out of this battle. Reluctantly, the sergeant pulled a folded piece of paper from inside his pocket and handed it over.
McMicking unfolded it and ran his eyes down the fine print. I watched, wondering how much of his act was actual legal knowledge and how much was complete blown smoke. With McMicking, one could never be sure.
He took his time, going through the entire document. Aksam was starting to fidget by the time he finally looked up again. “I’m sorry,” he said, handing back the warrant, “but this document is completely invalid.”
“What are you talking about?” Aksam demanded, frowning at it. “It looks fine to me.”
“The alleged crime is far too vague, with no dates or other specifications,” McMicking told him. “Furthermore, the authorization signature is illegible, and the four referenced laws aren’t tagged with their statute and subsection numbers. Any one of those would be enough to invalidate the entire document.”
