Enigma Tales

by Una McCormack

  “Ah,” said Alden, and he seemed to double over slightly.

  “Castellan,” said T’Rena firmly, waiting until he turned to face her. “You’ve made your point.”

  Garak turned away. He walked across the room to a little alcove in the wall where a painting usually hung. He heard the door open, and T’Rena said, “I’ll contact you with any news, Castellan. I know you’ll reciprocate.”

  He turned, and nodded, and watched her leave. Alden followed, but, as he left, he made the mistake of turning back to look at the castellan. Garak gave him his full, bright blue stare. Alden blinked, shivered, and left. You’ve been played by a master player, Garak thought. You should learn from that, Doctor Peter Alden. If you can’t play the game to this level, then don’t invite me to the kotra board. He stared at the wall. It looked back blankly, like an accusation. He fumbled in his pocket for the scarlet petal, but when he drew it out, it was in pieces.

  * * *

  Katherine Pulaski stretched out her legs and thought about what she had just been told. “Well,” she said, “of course he’d deny it.”

  She was sitting safely in the Federation embassy, where she had been since her collection earlier that day. The big skimmers that had descended on her had turned out not to have been sent by Garak’s ­people, as she had feared, but had come direct from the embassy, after Alden alerted Federation security.

  “In fact,” said T’Rena, “he didn’t deny anything. I was listening very closely. The castellan assured us that his best people were looking for you—and for Elima Antok. He neither confirmed nor denied that he was involved in your disappearances.” T’Rena glanced at Alden, who was standing with his back to them, over by the window. Softly, she said, “This was not a wise move.”

  Pulaski looked at Alden too. “What do you mean?”

  “Doctor Alden was of little assistance. I’m afraid to say that the castellan found him rather easy prey.”

  Pulaski, imagining how the scene must have unfolded, was furious. She knew that part of the reason for Alden leaving Starfleet Intelligence was that he’d been sent on one mission too many, that his nerve had nearly gone, and he’d been close to a breakdown. The castellan would surely know that too, if he’d taken the trouble to read Alden’s file, and Pulaski doubted anyone came near Garak without him reading their file. He knew Alden’s weaknesses, and he’d chosen to use them to his advantage. Pulaski knew she had been right not to trust Garak. “That lowdown, goddamn . . .” She called over to Alden. “Peter, don’t beat yourself up.”

  Alden turned at the sound of his voice. He gave a bright, rather brittle smile that Pulaski did not like at all. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I made a mess of things. I went in pretending to be angry, and he made me angry.”

  “Hey.” Pulaski got up and crossed over to him. “Stop it. You shouldn’t have gone in there.”

  “An apology, Kitty? That makes everything worthwhile.” Alden gave a thin smile. “The fact is, it was a high-risk strategy and it’s blown up in our faces. And we’re still none the wiser about the castellan’s motives.”

  “I think we know,” said Pulaski. “Discredit Lang at all costs.”

  “Why remove you? Why remove Antok?”

  “I don’t know how his mind works!” said Pulaski. “The man is one riddle after another! If he’s framing Lang, then perhaps he was afraid that Antok would find out that the files had been doctored. As for me . . . You know what, I think he’s just pissed with me.”

  Alden gave a snort of laughter.

  “You’re cheering up,” said Pulaski. “Good.”

  “Kitty, you’re one in a million,” said Alden. “Do you think the castellan would risk an alliance with the Federation to which he’s devoted years of his life by kidnapping you just because you gave him a hard time at a reception?”

  “I’m told,” Pulaski said, “that I have that effect on people. And it wasn’t just the reception. I bad-mouthed him on a live ’cast.”

  “True,” Alden conceded.

  “I confess I’m struggling to understand why you were taken and then allowed to get away,” said T’Rena.

  “I don’t have an answer to that,” Pulaski said. “All I know is that it happened, and that the man who took me wanted to know why I was here on Cardassia Prime.” She shook her head. “What could I say? I told the truth, but he didn’t believe me. I don’t know what he was getting at—did he think I was here with Starfleet Intelligence?”

  “He doesn’t know much about you if he thinks that,” said Alden.

  “I think I was a mistake,” said Pulaski. “And that’s why I was allowed to get away. You’re right, Ambassador. Elima Antok is the key.”

  “She gave crucial evidence to the war crimes report,” said T’Rena. “It could be connected to that.”

  “Or this ridiculous attempt to frame Lang,” said Pulaski.

  Alden looked at her with interest. “You think the files are faked?”

  “I think they’re absolute baloney,” said Pulaski bluntly. “I’ll stake my reputation on it that Lang is being framed.”

  “I’ll take that bet,” said Alden.

  “You’re on. But in the meantime,” said Pulaski, “we’re still no closer to finding Elima Antok.” She frowned. “I don’t generally take to people who drag me off in the middle of the night, but this guy was twitchy as hell. I don’t like to think of her in his hands.”

  “For that young woman’s sake,” said T’Rena, “we should notify the authorities that you have been found, Doctor. They can surely garner information from the apartment where you were being held.”

  Pulaski shook her head. “I’d rather we did this ourselves for a while longer. The constabulary chief was appointed by Garak, wasn’t she?”

  T’Rena nodded. “Arati Mhevet. Garak appointed her to the position shortly after he became castellan.”

  “My understanding is that she’s one of his ­people,” said Alden.

  Pulaski gave him a narrow look. “Your understanding, huh?”

  “I’ve told you that I keep myself informed,” said Alden. “It’s not my fault if you only know what’s happening at the hound-racing. I’ve been out and about on Cardassia Prime, and I’ve been listening to what people say. Arati Mhevet is one of Garak’s people.”

  “She has by all accounts an excellent reputation,” said T’Rena. “Resigned her post before the war when Meya Rejal ordered Dukat to open fire on a civilian demonstration in the capital. Came back after the war and played a vital part in reconstituting the constabularies. And she was very friendly to the Federation while we were here.”

  “All right,” said Pulaski. “But does she have enough influence to pressure Garak?”

  “I’m still not convinced that the castellan is behind this,” said T’Rena. “It might be that Garak has no idea of what’s going on.” She pursed her lips. “We cannot go back to him.”

  “Sorry,” said Alden.

  “Hey, mister,” said Pulaski, “you did your best.”

  They fell into silence, each lost in thought, trying to find their way through the riddle.

  “There might be another route to Garak,” Alden said slowly, at last. “Ambassador, what do you know about Kelas Parmak?”

  “He is the castellan’s close friend,” said T’Rena. “Probably one of his closest advisors—not officially, but certainly they are often together.”

  “Are they lovers?” said Pulaski.

  “I don’t know,” said T’Rena. “I do know that Parmak was interrogated by the Obsidian Order in his youth, and that Garak may have been involved.”

  “Damn,” muttered Alden, “this place is twisted.”

  “Peter,” said Pulaski, “are you thinking of using Parmak to get to Garak?”

  He shrugged.

  “What do you have in mind, Doctor Alden?” said T’Rena.


  “Just an approach,” he said. “An informal approach.”

  “Oh, I bet Garak will love that,” Pulaski said.

  “The thought of offending Garak has not even crossed my mind,” said Alden.

  “You should move soon,” said T’Rena. “Not just for Antok’s sake, but if Garak is behind these disappearances, it won’t be long before he knows that you’ve escaped, Doctor Pulaski. He might be hoping that he’ll still be able to recapture you. Revealing yourself to Parmak loses us an advantage—”

  Pulaski shook her head. “I’m not interested in playing games. Elima Antok is still out there, and she’s in the hands of a nasty piece of work. I’d swap any theoretical advantage we might have over Garak if it means that we can get her home safe and sound.”

  Alden nodded. “Then let’s approach Parmak,” he said.

  “If that causes trouble for Garak?” said T’Rena.

  “Then he’s earned it,” said Alden.

  * * *

  Throughout his working day, Garak was accustomed to receiving messages from Kelas Parmak offering wry commentary on the news as it unfolded, most reliably whenever it was causing the castellan a headache. Parmak had been Garak’s comfort for many years now, particularly after Garak had taken the momentous decision to step into the public life and run for castellan. Parmak, Garak knew, had not been entirely sure that deciding to take on executive power was a good choice for Garak, but with the decision made, his support had been unconditional, steadfast, and honest. Bashir, on learning that Garak was running for castellan, had written telling him to surround himself with good people, people who would be honest with him, and not afraid to tell him when he was wrong. Mhevet was one; Akret was another. Garak had hoped that Bashir might continue in that role, but that, it seemed, was not to be . . . But there was the other doctor in Garak’s life—Kelas Parmak, patient and forgiving.

  Yet today, of all days, Parmak had been silent. This was not unusual; Parmak had a thriving medical practice to attend to, and, in addition, he served on numerous public health committees and on the board of trustees of one of the capital’s biggest hospitals. It was not that Parmak had nothing better to do than sit at home watching the ’casts and waiting for Garak to find time to play kotra and drink kanar with him. But something about his silence today troubled Garak. He knew that Parmak was not happy with how he had welcomed Pulaski, and he knew that Parmak did not understand his apparent lack of enthusiasm for Lang’s elevation to chief academician. And then there was the complicating presence of Bashir . . .

  Garak rubbed his hand across his eyes. Complication piled upon complication. Sometimes he wished that life could be simpler. Sometimes he thought wistfully of his tailor’s shop, when his most pressing concern was how to cut cloth. Then he would shake himself. Being in that tailor’s shop had nearly killed him. He’d had to blow it up to get some semblance of normality back to his life. “Get a grip,” he commanded himself. “Get a grip.”

  The comm on the desk chimed. “Sir,” Akret said, a strange note of apology in her voice, “Doctor Parmak is here.”

  Garak was surprised. Parmak generally kept a careful distance from Garak’s physical office during the working day. An unplanned visit was unheard of. Garak sighed. He feared he was about to become the recipient of one of Parmak’s gentle admonishments. He had the vaguest feeling that it was probably deserved, but then, he always felt that way.

  The door opened, and Kelas came in, slow-­moving and slightly stooped. Garak, looking up, seemed to see him properly for the first time in a while. He was shocked at how weary Kelas looked. He felt terribly guilty that he might be the cause. For all Garak’s frustrations with his current job, for all that it caused him worry, and anxiety, and the occasional panic attack, Garak knew that the truth was that he thrived on it. He was good at being castellan, and he was doing well. But was that true for the people who were around him?

  He hurried over from behind his desk. “My dear Kelas, are you quite well?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Elim,” Parmak said. “I’m rather tired at the moment, and I’m also rather anxious.”

  Garak took Parmak’s arm and led the doctor toward the comfortable seats. Forgoing his usual chair, he sat down on the sofa beside Parmak. “Can I get something sent in? Do you need a skimmer to take you home?”

  Parmak shook his head. “No, no . . . That’s not the issue—”

  “Then what is the issue?” said Garak urgently, ready to put all his weight behind whatever would make Parmak happy.

  Parmak pressed his fingers against his eyes. “I know where Pulaski is.”

  Garak nearly fell off his chair. “Kelas, you never fail to surprise me. Where is she?”

  “She’s at the Federation embassy.”

  Garak stared at him. He was starting to get the feeling that he was being played, and he didn’t like to find himself playing against Parmak. “I’ve just had T’Rena and Pulaski’s colleague Alden here. Did they know where she was when they came?”

  Parmak nodded. “I understand they were attempting to bluff you.”

  “To bluff me.” Garak’s voice was rather chilly. He was beginning to feel angry again.

  “They were hoping that you might reveal whether or not you were involved—”

  “They need,” said Garak, “to stop thinking they can play me.”

  “They’ve lost trust in you,” Parmak went on. “They are no longer certain of your motives.”

  “They didn’t bother to ask!”

  “I am also no longer certain of your motives, Elim,” Parmak said softly. “I am also losing trust in you.”

  Garak felt the cold familiar bands of panic tightening around his chest. Shocked, he looked at Parmak—­and he was horrified to see that the other man was trembling. “Kelas? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t know how far you’re willing to go.”

  Parmak fell into silence. He was still shaking. Garak reached out to put his hand upon the other man’s shoulder. To his great grief, he saw that Parmak had to struggle not to flinch. Garak removed his hand. He breathed deeply. Slowly, both he and Parmak began to relax again. Only when Parmak was still did Garak speak.

  “Kelas,” he said quietly. “My best friend, my truest friend. I do not deserve you, but I try—oh, how I try!—to be worthy of you. Look at me, please.”

  After a moment or two, Parmak looked at him.

  “I have nothing to do with this,” Garak said. “I am not involved in the disappearances of Katherine Pulaski and Elima Antok. This has nothing to do with me.”

  “Do you swear, Elim?”

  “I swear to you, I swear upon everything that I hold dear—our friendship, the memory of Tora Ziyal, the ashes and the ruins of all of our poor people—­that I have done nothing to harm them.” I swear upon the life of Julian Bashir, he thought—but he kept that back.

  Parmak looked steadily at him. “And what about Natima Lang?”

  Garak’s eyes narrowed. “What about Natima Lang?”

  “You’re not telling me everything there, are you, Elim?”

  Slowly, Garak shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m not.”

  Parmak put his hands up to cover his face.

  “But not because I’ve done anything wrong!” Garak burst out. “Kelas, please, listen to me! Believe me! I am not a monster!” I am not my father, he cried out silently, imploring the other man to hear, and to understand, and to have a little faith. Believe me, Garak begged. I am not him. I am better than him. “Kelas, please, I am working so hard . . .”

  Now Parmak’s hand was on his shoulder. “Deep breaths, Elim,” he was murmuring. “Deep breaths.”

  Garak obeyed. “I swear,” he said at last, “that I have done nothing wrong.”

  Parmak nodded. “All right,” he said. “You’ve done nothing
wrong. You did not order the kidnap of either Katherine Pulaski or Elima Antok, nor were you behind the threats that Antok received.”

  “That is correct. Absolutely, entirely, and utterly correct.”

  “And I am also going to believe—although you have not promised me either way—that you have nothing to do with this attempt to blacken Lang’s name.”

  “It may not,” said Garak scrupulously, “be untrue.”

  “Oh, Elim, please! Natima Lang agreeing to experiments on children?”

  “It was a different world—”

  “I know! I know what kind of world it was! I was there too! But Lang?”

  “Who knows what compromises she had to make?” Garak said. “Her students put themselves on the line at her instigation, and she always came through for them. Do you know how many of her students the Order interrogated over the years? Not one. Not a single one. As soon as we made a move on them, they were gone, like that”—he snapped his fingers—“offworld, out of the Union. That woman’s network was impenetrable, and it moved at warp speed. You don’t do that without exchanging favors.”

  “You cannot dismantle the master’s house with the master’s tools,” said Parmak.

  Garak blinked. “That’s . . . not a quotation I recognize.”

  “No?” Parmak gave a wry smile. “Look it up. You’re not the only one who reads, you know.”

  Garak smiled back. “I have never underestimated you, Kelas.”

  “Was that why you were the one to interrogate me?” said Parmak.

  And there they were, back to the matter that would always be between them. Bitterly, as he so often did, Garak regretted his past, which still came back to taint his dealings with the people who were most precious to him, most beloved.

  “Yes,” Garak said, and stood up. Slowly, he walked around the room. He could see red lights flashing on his desk, a thousand and one demands upon his time and his attention, none of which mattered as much as this. He poured kanar into two glasses and handed one to Parmak, who drank quickly. The doctor’s hands were shaking again slightly, Garak noticed with great sadness. This confrontation was costing Parmak very dearly. Carefully, Garak sat down again beside him. He did not try to touch the other man.