by Dan Moren
That didn’t seem to improve M’basa’s day. “I’m about this close,” she held up her hand with her thumb and forefinger a smidgen apart, “to taking your advice about not talking to the ambassador and shredding it.”
“Look,” said Kovalic, “we’ve still got some time here. Their ambassador isn’t going to talk to ours until IIS has had a chance to try and lock things down – for one thing, they sure as hell don’t want to look like they lost their own crown prince on foreign soil. The second they have to go outside their house, this is going to leak like nobody’s business. I doubt they’ve even told the Corporation anything more than that there was some sort of vague security incident. I’d say we’ve got at least twelve hours before the Illyricans are knocking on our door and we’ve got an intergalactic incident on our hands.” He looked at Tapper, who dipped his head in agreement.
“So, in other words, we’re playing a game of diplomatic chicken,” said M’basa.
“You learn fast, deputy consul.”
“I do,” said M’basa, folding her hands. “And you two better move fast, because when the ambassador’s morning briefing rolls around, he’s going to get the full story, no matter what. Find your people and bring them home. Tonight.”
“In that case,” said Kovalic, nodding to the binoculars he’d handed over, “get me the registration number off that recording as soon as possible.”
It took about half an hour for M’basa to roust a tech and get her, still bleary-eyed, to the embassy via private car. She was ushered into a secure office, where she was – somewhat to her addled dismay – placed under lock and key by a pair of marines.
Tapper insisted on hanging over the young woman’s shoulder, ignoring her sleep-deprived annoyance, while Kovalic took the opportunity to procure coffee from the embassy kitchen for the four of them. If nothing else, it gave his brain a chance to chew through the events of the last several hours.
Nat would be fine – she could take care of herself. No matter how much he repeated the thought, his brain kept derailing into nightmare scenarios. On the way back from the kitchen, he detoured into the embassy’s back garden, breathing in the cool, late night air, and sipping from one of the disposable cups.
He ought to report back to the general, he knew, but the situation on the ground was too uncertain. Even if a diplomatic fast courier were sent right now – and wouldn’t that look suspicious – it would be at least sixteen hours before they’d get a response back. Not nearly fast enough. And even with his best guess being twelve hours before the Illyricans admitted they’d lost the heir to the throne, it was still just that – a guess. The Imperium might go counter-intuitive, put pressure on the Corporation to mobilize a ground search, shut down air traffic. Another reason not to send a diplomatic courier: if the Illyricans thought they were behind the prince’s abduction, any Commonwealth vessel raising ship – diplomatic registration or not – would no doubt be intercepted by whatever Illyrican naval forces had brought the prince to the planet in the first place. And if it looked like the Commonwealth was in any way involved with the prince’s abduction, then relations between the two powers might escalate from heated words to live fire pretty damn quickly.
Kovalic ran a hand through his hair; it felt long against his fingers. He hadn’t had it cut since before they’d left for Sevastapol. Between that and the sandpaper around his jaw, Tapper’s comparison to a longshoreman had probably been pretty accurate. Somehow, though, he didn’t think he’d have much time for a shave and a haircut before this whole thing was over.
He flexed his right arm, a muted lance of pain shooting down it. The adrenaline had suppressed much of it during the night’s earlier activities, but none of that had been particularly good for his injured shoulder. He should probably check to see if he needed to reapply the sealant before they got under way.
His comm chimed and he tapped his earbud. “Yep.”
“It’s me, boss,” said Tapper’s voice. “They’ve cleaned up the image as good as it’s going to get, and the plate’s more or less readable.”
“Run a pattern match?”
“Already done. It’s a rental – surprise – pulled from the spaceport lot about twelve hours ago.”
“Twelve hours? That’s not much prep time.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Tapper. “The ID’s a dummy, of course, but there is a local address attached. Might be nothing…”
“… but it’s worth checking out,” finished Kovalic. “Think you can sweet talk the deputy consul into loaning us another vehicle from the pool?”
“Why me?”
“I think she likes you.”
“I’m not sure she’d loan me the bullet to shoot myself,” said Tapper dubiously.
“I’ve got faith in you, sergeant. I’ll see you in the parking garage in ten.” So much for the coffee, he thought, leaving the cups on the dry, unnaturally green grass.
M’basa had been nice enough to provide him with a room, where he used the facilities to replace his dressing. Whatever the doctor back on Nova had done was clearly still holding; the wound didn’t look considerably worse for wear than it had that morning – he was lucky he hadn’t compromised the patch. He slapped on a new bandage anyway, then pulled on his shirt and jacket, wishing he’d brought a spare change of clothes. He could use the Trollope identity’s bank account to buy something, but he sincerely doubted that any of Bayern’s haberdasheries were going to be open at – he glanced at his watch – 01:37.
Combing his fingers through his hair, he gave himself a hard look in the mirror, and headed down to the garage.
Tapper was waiting, lounging against a concrete pillar. The garage was mostly empty, except for a few black hovercars of the same type they’d seen get ambushed that night, and another van identical to the one they’d used.
“She was this close to flipping me off and giving us a metro pass,” said Tapper. “But I pointed out that that would give a trail for the Corp to track us, and I guess she decided better of it.”
“So, what have we got?” Kovalic asked, dubiously eyeing the official-looking vehicles in evidence.
Tapper nodded his head, and the two men walked around the pillar he’d been leaning against. The sergeant waved his hands. “Ta da.”
It was probably about ten years old, and you could see every year in the minor dings and scuffs that adorned the silver chassis. A good kick might very well take the rear bumper off. It wasn’t flashy, that’s for sure, but nor was it so battered that it would stand out in a crowd.
“I’m told it’s the most popular model of car in the city,” said Tapper, tossing the fob to Kovalic. “I think she’s just hoping to collect on the insurance when we inevitably wreck it.”
“She’s not going to get much of a payout, by the looks of it.” Kovalic popped the driver seat door and slipped inside, feeling the seat creak in mighty protest. Tapper joined him on the other side, and they buckled themselves in.
“Almost enough to make you want to play by CID’s rules, eh?” said Tapper. “Then they wouldn’t be so reticent about lending us the good stuff.” He cast an eye at the van on the other side of the garage.
“That thing screams ‘counterintelligence,’ Tap. We want to keep a low profile. Presumably this hunk of junk at least has a deniable registry plate.”
“So I’m told. But that may just be because nobody wants to admit to owning it.”
Kovalic punched the ignition. The dashboard display glowed green, reporting on all the system statuses. Fuel cells fully charged; the range suggested they could make several hundred kilometers. The power flow was clean, the repulsor field was solid – the car gave every indication that it was well maintained. As they said, it was what was under the hood that really counted.
“All right,” said Kovalic. “Let’s check out this lead.”
Twenty minutes later, Kovalic pulled the silver car into a parking spot across the street from G27-12 and flipped off the headlights. The G ring was in the middle of Be
rgfestung, a somewhat unremarkable residential neighborhood. Like most of the residences in the city, it was a mid-rise edifice of concrete, steel, and glass, with railing-lined balconies. A few trees sat forlornly outside, their deaths forestalled only by the sun-mimicking lamps.
Kovalic pulled out the binoculars, which Tapper had reclaimed from the lab after the tech’s recovery job. Scanning up and down the building, he didn’t see a single lit window.
“Nobody home?”
“It is the middle of the night, boss.”
“Fair enough. What’s the apartment number on this guy?”
Tapper brought up the record on his sleeve. “Unit 302. Third floor, I’d guess.”
So far, so good. There’d been zero chance that M’basa was going to let them draw weapons from the station’s armory, so best to keep it quiet as possible.
“Let’s go.”
The lights on the trees at the front made it unwise to attempt a breach there, so they hopped the five-foot fence without too much trouble and crept around to the rear. There would have to be some sort of back door, Kovalic reasoned.
The rear of the building abutted on a similar-looking apartment complex on the next hubward ring. In between was the dark square of a swimming pool, surrounded by carefully watered grass.
Tapper nudged him in the ribs and gestured towards a sliver of light coming from the back of the building. Kovalic waved him towards it, following a few steps behind.
That arc of light turned out to be from an emergency exit – some careless soul had left it propped open, a rubber doorstop jammed in the opening. Next to the door, a small keypad access box blinked in alternating shades of red and green, like a Christmas decoration. But there was no audible alarm, and it didn’t look as though security was going to be on their way any time soon.
Kovalic frowned, crouching and running his fingers over the sidewalk until he found was he was looking for: a small pile of ash. Pinching it between his fingers, he rubbed them together, then stood, dusting his hands off on his trousers.
“Someone was smoking,” he murmured. “Still warm.”
“Nasty habit,” said Tapper. He pulled the door open and gestured to Kovalic, who certainly didn’t need a second invitation. Hanging around outside an apartment complex’s back door in the middle of the night was a good way to have an encounter with the security services. Another encounter, anyway.
The emergency stairwell was well lit by the harsh blue glow of lighting strips, illuminating dull gray, featureless walls. A metal railing switchbacked alongside the steps, leading upward. Kovalic stood still for a moment, breathing shallowly and listening for any indication that they weren’t alone. But the stairwell was silent, aside from a faint whine from the lighting strips.
Beckoning to Tapper, he began to make his way upwards, climbing quickly but deliberately and maintaining a careful balance between noise and speed. They passed the door for the second floor, a heavy sheet of steel with wire-reinforced glass.
They came to a stop at the third floor, and Kovalic nodded at Tapper to take the door. The sergeant lined up alongside it and slowly turned the knob and pulled it open, allowing Kovalic to slip through.
He surveyed the hallway: off-white walls, a wall-to-wall carpet of a ghastly green-and-white pattern, a row of doors on either side. Opposite the stairwell, the metal doors of an elevator; the readout next to it indicated that it was currently in the lobby. There was no sign of any security cameras, and what lighting there was glowed dimly from ornate sconces on either side of the hall.
Holding open the door from his side, Kovalic waved Tapper in, and the sergeant squeezed through. Kovalic let the door shut quietly behind them, keeping the knob turned so that the sound of the latch springing back into place wouldn’t be heard.
A helpful sign on the wall next to the stairwell door pointed to the right for units 300 through 305. The unit they were looking for was the second door, facing the street where they’d parked the car. Like most modern buildings, it had foregone a mechanical or keycard lock for a wirelessly activated security system.
Kovalic held up his sleeve to the lock and tapped a few keys. Every manufacturer still had their own built-in override for maintenance, testing, and emergency service use. And those were only as secure as their chief engineer after a few drinks. All you had to do was find who made the system and…
The door lock clicked open as his sleeve found the right master key. Kovalic flattened himself against the wall next to the door’s hinges, Tapper taking up the same position on the opposite side, then pushed the door slowly open. Within there was only darkness.
He nodded to Tapper, who acknowledged by slipping around the doorframe and into the apartment in a low crouch. The sergeant disappeared into darkness, and after a moment, Kovalic followed suit, letting the door close softly behind him.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering in from the street, he could pick out more details. The main room, a living area, was blandly appointed with a sofa and armchair in an unappealing shade of gray, a coffee table, an end table with a lamp, and a small desk and chair in one corner. An entertainment nook hung on one wall, but it contained only a small, generic viewscreen.
To the left was a galley kitchen with an open doorway and a long countertop facing the living area, while the right wall had two additional doors, the first of which was open, showing a small dark space which Kovalic pegged as a bathroom. That left the last door as a bedroom.
Pointing to himself, Kovalic nodded to the bedroom door, then waved at Tapper to check the rest of the apartment.
Tapper gave him a high sign, summoning on a red-tinged light from his sleeve that would make it easier to search the room without interfering with his night vision.
Kovalic carefully turned the knob, letting the door open a crack; it squealed ever so slightly, and he winced at the sound. He keyed his own sleeve to low-light illumination and swept it across the room. Like the living room, this too seemed to have only the barest of necessities: a bed, an end table with a lamp, and another armchair that appeared to be a twin to the one in the living room. The curtains in here were somewhat more substantial than the other room’s, blocking out more of the light from the street.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention suddenly, the strong sensation of an indistinct warning. Something that he’d overlooked. Something that he was ignoring. With a frown, he rounded the bed towards the end table, crouching down to pull open its single drawer and peer inside. There was just a laminated card which, as he ran the light over it, turned out to be nothing more than maintenance and emergency contacts for the apartment complex.
He first attributed the slight rustle from behind as Tapper coming into the room, but too late his brain realized that he’d never heard the bedroom door. His muscles tensed, but before he could move an inch he felt something cold press against the nape of his neck, and heard the telltale click of a safety being flicked off – a sound he much preferred to be on the other side of.
“Hello, Simon,” said a soft, but familiar voice. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Chapter 17
Well, I can’t say they’re the worst accommodations I’ve ever had.
Eli paced around the fifteen-by-fifteen-foot room, once again examining every crack in the wall, the lone ventilation duct, the locked door. None of them had changed since his last circuit, two minutes prior. Or the one two minutes before that. Not a single thing had changed, in fact, since he’d awoken here about half an hour earlier, except that his feet were cold.
His captors had had the decency to leave him with his undershirt, underwear, and trousers. But they’d taken his dress shirt and tie, his jacket, his shoes, and even his socks. Damn it, that was the nicest set of clothes I’ve ever owned. And his trouser pockets had been turned out. He’d checked for the earbud, but it had either fallen out when he’d been hit or been removed.
He could try banging on the door again. But Eli didn’t think it likely that,
were someone to actually answer him, it would be with a surprised “Oh, you poor duck, how did you manage to lock yourself in this strange room? Let’s get you out of there and into a bowl of hot soup.”
His head was still a little bit fuzzy, which was probably the result of the rather large lump on the back of his skull. Oddly enough, he hadn’t noticed it at first, but once he had found it he didn’t seem able to forget about it. Now it pulsed, sending sonar ripples of pain through his head.
The room itself was pretty empty: just a threadbare cot, whose springs creaked like a dying man’s last breath, a drab green plastic bucket, and a sickly light fixture in the ceiling that left the room bathed in a jaundiced yellow.
Dropping to the bed, he rubbed at his temples. He’d been at the Illyrican embassy. On Bayern – god, he hoped he was still on Bayern, or this mission had gone the pear-est of shapes. Images whirled through his head, carousel-like, until he slowed them down and started to pick out individual ones.
A hovercar on fire. Taylor getting into a hovercar with the Imperium’s crown prince. Running towards the car, with Erich.
Erich. Whoever grabbed him might have taken Erich too. And Erich wasn’t some nobody from the colonies; he was the son of one of the most powerful men in the Imperium. Somebody would be looking for them…
Uh, I think that news might be a little overshadowed by the kidnapping of the emperor’s heir, his brain reminded him. Someone would definitely be looking for him.
That assumed, of course, that his captors were the same people who had snatched Taylor and the prince. Then again, if they weren’t, then Bayern had a serious abduction problem.
Somehow, he needed to contact Tapper. Presumably the sergeant was still free and could get a message to the Commonwealth embassy, or Kovalic, or the general, or someone. But he was locked, half-naked, in this room, and somehow he didn’t think his captors would be calling him a courier service.
