Worf rumbled his concern.
“I have a great deal of faith in the Cardassian people,” Fry said. “I don’t believe for a moment that they want someone like Temet in power. Finally, after so many years of instability, Cardassia is really beginning to feel stable once again. Think about where they once were, and think about where they are now. A castellan who has actually survived long enough to seek reelection. Admission into the Khitomer Accords. And now we at HARF are saying: ‘We trust you. We believe you’re ready to mind your own affairs again.’ ” She smiled slowly. It transformed her from someone rather brisk and sparse to someone with great warmth. “The Cardassian people are different now. They aren’t going to elect Evek Temet. They’re wise to what he’s peddling.”
Worf’s frown wasn’t doing too great a job disguising his doubts. Šmrhová took a swig of water. Perhaps Fry was being optimistic, but she had been here a long time, and presumably knew what she was talking about. Still, Šmrhová picked out the boundaries of the compound, took into account the surrounding terrain, and mused upon how it might be defended.
The comm on Fry’s desk chimed. Excusing herself, the commander took the message. Šmrhová watched her expression turn grim. “Bad news?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Fry. “One of our officers has been found dead—murdered, in fact. Lieutenant Aleyni Cam.”
Worf’s frown deepened further. “The name sounds Bajoran.”
“Yes, Cam was Bajoran. He’d only been here eighteen months. Recently married too. Poor Zeya. . . .” Fry headed toward the door. “My apologies, we’ll have to continue our discussions later. I should be the one to inform his wife.”
“Of course,” Worf replied.
“Our facilities are at your disposal. Do speak to my staff if there’s anything you need.” And with that, she strode out of her office.
“Not such a smooth departure after all,” Worf remarked.
Šmrhová noted her commander’s concern. “We don’t know the circumstances,” she said. “He could simply have been walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.”
“We’ll see, Lieutenant. But I fear that Commander Fry has spent too long here. She may be blind to the obvious.”
“The obvious, sir?”
“That under the surface, perhaps Cardassia has not changed.”
* * *
Garak, having spoken to Reta Kalanis, stiffened the sinews and summoned up the blood to inform Picard of the death of Aleyni Cam.
“Of course I understand that this has nothing to do with our current mission,” Picard said. “We have no desire to make any capital from this—that would be an insult to the family of the young man concerned. Rest assured, Ambassador, Starfleet has no interest in delaying the withdrawal from Prime any longer. Your city constabulary is surely best placed to investigate a murder, and we shall of course give every assistance needed to bring the guilty party to justice.”
The conversation concluded with the usual mutual assurances of friendship and support, and when the comm cut, Garak leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief.
The door opened, but Akret, ominously, stood on the threshold and didn’t come any closer. “You’re not going to like this,” she said.
“What now?”
“The text of the withdrawal agreement has been leaked.” Akret took a step back. “I hate it when you do that face,” she said. “It makes you look like you want to kill someone.”
“Oh, Akret.” Garak gave a heartfelt sigh. “Let us not even joke about that. . . . How much of the text exactly has been leaked?”
“The full document.”
Garak put his head in his hands.
“Do you want to see how the ’casts are handling it, sir?”
“No, Akret, I want to go home, where I have not been for months. But do what you must.”
Akret switched on the screen at the far end of the room. Garak’s jaw clenched as the ’cast blared out with its brash presenters and garish colors. Garak’s heart quailed at the thought of all that uncontrolled information flooding past. He thought longingly of the productions overseen by the Order’s Office of Vision. They had been stately affairs, authoritative, soothing, and largely devoid of anything approaching the truth. Whereas this . . .
On the screen, a fresh-faced young man wearing a Cardassia First badge was letting his opinion of Garak’s carefully wrought agreement be known: “What I can’t believe is this section here! A limit on military spending for the next ten years! The Dominion War was a decade ago! We’re signatories of the Khitomer Accords! Are we really still being made to pay for the actions of one dead madman? Haven’t we suffered enough? Lifting that clause alone would put hundreds of jobs directly into North Torr. No wonder the castellan has tried to conceal this. The people of North Torr will be rightly furious to hear about this, and no doubt will want to make their opinion heard—”
“Who,” Garak muttered, “will rid me of these turbulent priests?”
Akret, who took the time to read whatever her boss happened to be reading, asked, “Is that an instruction, sir?”
“No. Or, at least, not yet. First, I want to speak to whoever produces this excuse for a news broadcast. Immediately.”
While Akret busied herself arranging this, Garak sat at his desk and fumed. This, he thought, would never have gotten past the Obsidian Order. Nobody would have dared to transmit something like this; no, nobody would even have dared to know something like this. . . . And so soon after the trouble in Cemet? So much for Crell and the CIB.
The face of a young woman appeared on the screen in front of him. “Ista Nemeny for you, Ambassador,” Akret said smoothly. Garak launched straight in. “Young woman, do you have even the slightest idea how much damage you’re causing right now?”
“Sir, if you could give me a moment—”
“Months of work have gone into this agreement! Months. On both sides. Months of delicate negotiation—!”
“Sir, if I could speak—”
“In a few days’ time, the president of the Federation will be here to sign an agreement that will send her people home. I would be happy, she would be happy, and the chances are that the entire population of the Union would have been happy. But, no. You couldn’t wait. You couldn’t resist the bait offered by those third-rate hooligans in Cardassia First—”
“Sir, I insist you listen to me!”
“You insist, do you?”
“Yes, I insist!”
All of a sudden, Garak wasn’t angry any longer. He was very tired, and he was desperate to go home. “Well,” he said, opening a palm, “if you insist. I shall, at your insistence, endeavor to listen.”
The woman took one deep, shuddering breath. She pressed her thumb into the concavity at the center of her forehead. “You do know your reputation, don’t you, sir?”
“I wonder,” Garak purred, “what you could possibly mean by that?”
“Ambassador to the Federation? Adviser to Alon Ghemor? Last man standing with Corat Damar? Not to mention your previous career. . . .”
Softly, Garak asked, “What about my previous career?”
“Let me just say that having you on the screen there makes me want to run home and hold my children.”
Garak closed his eyes. “Young woman—”
“If you didn’t want a free press, Ambassador, you shouldn’t have let Alon Ghemor set one up.”
There was a pause. Then: “I must apologize,” Garak said, more calmly. “You are entirely correct. This . . . debacle is of course exactly what I have been trying to achieve for the best part of a decade. I suppose now I have to live with the consequences. You are naturally well within your rights to inform the Cardassian people of the full details of the withdrawal agreement.”
“Thank you.”
“If I may, however—you might have considered some of the potential consequences.”
“I’m sure the castellan’s media team will cope,” Nemeny said.
“That�
��s not what I’m worrying about,” Garak said. “It’s what the public response might be. None of us wants a repeat of what happened in Cemet.”
Nemeny blinked. She looked as if she hadn’t thought about that. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “that in fairness I should tell you that we’re inviting Evek Temet from Cardassia First onto the program tomorrow morning to debate this. You might want to warn your friends in the administration. Assuming you have friends in the administration? I’ve been hearing rumors that the relationship between you and the castellan is strained—”
The woman’s nerve was incredible. “Your concern for my popularity is touching. The castellan and I are in perfect accord when it comes to the benefits of this agreement for the Cardassian people. Forgive me, but I need to attend to clearing up the mess that you are currently creating for me—and I would so hate to keep you from making further mischief.”
“A pleasure to speak to you too, Ambassador,” she said.
Garak cut the comm. Then he braced himself to speak once again to the castellan.
She was, as expected, horrified. “Where has this leak come from, Garak?”
“Who knows? A disgruntled underling at Foreign Affairs? A young hopeful trying to curry favor with the press? An enemy set upon doing us harm? The head of the CIB himself?”
“There are significant differences between all those! Some are considerably more alarming prospects than others!”
“My team is being interviewed—” He surreptitiously tapped out a message to Akret to tell her to get onto it. “I suggest you conduct a similar investigation of your own.” Sweetly, he added, “Or ask Crell to do it.”
The castellan glared at him. Garak was not the only one out of favor with the head of the CIB. Crell’s son had died in the forgotten war with the Klingons, and he was not well disposed to that particular alliance.
“Is there a problem?” Garak asked. “I only ask because, as I’m sure you know, a castellan at odds with the head of her intelligence service could end up facing difficult questions in the Assembly—”
“Therefore you can be sure that I’m very much in control of that situation.” The castellan shook her head. “Really, Garak, I wish you would stop trying to make every single aspect of government your business. Your responsibilities as an ambassador are quite clear and are surely enough to tax even the most energetic of men. Worrying about the governance of the entire Union will probably kill you.”
There was a pause while Garak tried to determine whether that was an expression of concern, a brush-off, or a threat. Unable to come to a conclusion, he pressed on with all of his bad news. “Rest assured that I’m in excellent health. But if I might trouble myself with domestic politics a little longer, you might like to know that Evek Temet intends to make as much political capital out of this as he possibly can. Starting with a debate on Edek Mayrat’s newscast tomorrow morning—”
“That’s it,” said the castellan. “I’m coming home.”
“That . . . strikes me as an overreaction. It’s not as if you’d be back in time to debate with him. All you’ll be doing is signaling that you believe matters really are spiraling out of control. Better to sail serenely above all this and return home on your own terms and according to your own timetable—”
“While Evek Temet takes to the airwaves to stir up who knows what kind of trouble? No, Garak, this really is getting out of control. I’m coming home.”
“The other signal that will send,” said Garak quietly, “is that you do not have faith in your ambassador to the Federation to handle this affair.”
She hesitated. “Your responsibility is the diplomatic fallout, not the political fallout. That’s my business—”
“You have a deputy to handle that.”
She sighed. Garak sympathized. Her second in the Assembly, Enevek Vorat, delivered a number of significant critical rural client worlds, but he was not fast on his feet in debate. “No, Garak, I need to be there. Evek Temet is not going to hold back.”
“Who,” Garak murmured, “will rid me of this turbulent priest . . . ?”
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Perhaps you’re right. . . . Very well, I’ll expect you home. But while you’re en route Evek Temet will be taking to the airwaves to call you and your administration craven and under Bacco’s heel. May I ask what you intend to do in the meantime? Put Vorat out there?”
The castellan shook her head. “I’ll be asking Vorat to come here to take my place. Besides, this is not a partisan issue, and we should try to prevent Temet from making it a partisan issue.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I think you should debate with him.”
“Oh, no! Under no circumstances—!”
She spoke quickly. “Think about it. You’re not allied to any political group and you know this treaty better than anyone. Who else can convincingly argue that this withdrawal is good for all Cardassians, regardless of their political allegiance—?”
“You know I prefer not to be in the public eye—”
“If you didn’t want to be a public figure, Garak, you shouldn’t have become a public figure.”
This was turning out to be a revelatory day on that score. Garak had the unpleasant feeling of having suddenly discovered that there was a huge target painted on his back.
“You say that my returning home sends a signal that I don’t have faith in my ambassador. So let me demonstrate my faith in you. You’re the one I want out there defending this treaty.” The ghost of a smile passed over the castellan’s face. “Temet won’t know what’s hit him.”
Despite himself, Garak found his own lips twitching. “Oh, very well,” he said. “I suppose it can’t do any more harm.”
“Excellent. That’s decided. I know you’ll do a marvelous job.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll assign one of my aides to assist you.”
So not that marvelous a job, then, Garak thought.
“There’s nobody who understands the terms of this agreement better than you.”
And nobody better placed to take the flak in such a way that the castellan’s administration was not implicated. I’m a fool to let myself be persuaded to do this, Garak thought. But somebody has to. . . . With a sigh, Garak conceded that he had been outmaneuvered. Perhaps it really was time to retire. “You realize one of us has to speak to Captain Picard?”
There was a pause.
“I’ve not really worked with him,” said the castellan.
“Oh, very well. . . . I suppose it won’t be the first difficult conversation that I’ve had with the captain today.”
“I appreciate this, Garak.”
Garak cut the comm, took a deep breath, and prepared himself, for the second time that day, to speak to Picard. Outside, the daylight was quickly fading, and his garden would soon be covered in darkness.
Three
My dear Doctor,
In one way my home does not change: she never fails to surprise me. What was meant to be a smooth path to the signing of our agreement has now become fraught with complication. And suddenly I find myself in the limelight—surely no greater service has Cardassia ever requested! I do not know how closely you follow our news, but you may wish to keep an eye upon it tomorrow. You may see something to amuse you, not least:
Your friend,
Elim Garak
* * *
As he waited in his ready room for the call from Admiral Akaar to come through, Picard leafed through the book that Garak had given him. He had read two-thirds already and wanted to be finished by the time that he and Beverly went to the ambassador’s home that evening. The story was fast-moving, like a glancing blow in fact, following events as a future Cardassian Union swept through the quadrant, conquering all that lay in its path. The second act (where Picard had put the book aside the previous night) had ended with a critical defeat of Starfleet. Now the armies of the Union were poised to occupy Federation space and set foot on Earth.
Where was this g
oing? Picard wondered, as he flicked back through the pages, reviewing what had happened so far. Why had Garak given him this particular book? The ambassador was a subtle man: there must be meaning to this gift-giving somewhere, if Picard could only decipher what it was. A story in which the Cardassians conquered all? Not a warning, Picard was sure; that was far too obvious an interpretation and incongruent with the man’s actions over recent years. So what else? Of course, he hadn’t finished reading yet. The story might have a completely different meaning once he had come to the end.
On the inside front page, a name had been inscribed. Only a part of the signature remained now: scorch marks and other damage accrued during the fall of a civilization had obliterated the rest. Still, there was enough left that when Picard put the thin translator film in front of the page, he could see clearly who had once owned this book.
—bran Ta—
It sent a shiver up Picard’s spine. Even though Garak had told him who had owned this book, there was something frighteningly immediate about seeing the man’s own handwriting, thick-stroked and blocky, impressed upon the page. Enabran Tain: the most ruthless and successful head of the now defunct Obsidian Order, and the man whose unprovoked and genocidal assault on the Founders’ homeworld had been the opening move in the game that ended with the near destruction of his own people. Garak had played a part in that too, Picard recalled. Underneath what was left of his father’s mark, Garak had written, in a precise and elegant hand (in Federation Standard too; Picard had not needed the translator to read this):
To Captain Jean-Luc Picard, in the hope that while past deeds cannot be forgotten, future acts may in time outnumber them.
With respect, Elim Garak.
A relic from a burned civilization. A fragment of a name. An offer of friendship from a duplicitous man. A story in which Picard’s own civilization stood on the brink of ruin. How did one decipher all this? The chime of the comm saved him from further reflection.
Star Trek: Fall 02: The Crimson Shadow Page 5
