by S F Chapman
“Why?”
“It was set up weeks ago by the military, you idiot. Agent Macaroni thinks we have some new information to pass along to the Free City busybodies.”
Rollo seemed to barely comprehend what was about to happen, “We gonna kill everybody?”
A menacing sneer darted across Wolfe's face, “We just need to get the spy. Anyone who dies after that counts as good luck.”
• • •
As she often did late in the day on Mondays, Keira Norton was frittering away a few stray hours of the workweek by thumbing through the Free City Liaison Office Message Postings.
The hundred or so notations and intra-agency requests represented a fascinating view of what was transpiring just beyond the hubbub and noise of everyday life in Free City and the Fiefdoms.
The habit had started a little over a year ago when Keira had come upon an appeal in the Message Postings by the Free City Consular in Dublin for some help in securing a few new household staff members. The work had been easy and had, by lucky chance, led to an exciting months-long adventure dashing across the Solar System with the highly esteemed Inspector Ryo Trop in search of pirates and stolen antimatter.
Keira grinned as she recalled that she had met Lev Fesai during that escapade.
Most of today's listings were routine: a request for a Liaison Agent to help settle a group of fifteen new arrivals to Free City from IndoPacifica, a query about how to negotiate prices for bulk tea leaves in East Africa and a plea for a guest lecturer in International Affairs at the University of Buenos Aires.
But Item 87 had caught her attention for some reason. An unnamed department at Free City University was seeking help to discreetly relocate a mysterious elderly gentleman. Details were maddeningly missing from the notice. Was it perhaps an old professor who'd gone embarrassingly bonkers and now had to be quietly shuffled away to avoid a scandal? Or was it something else?
She reread the notice several times, trying in vain to parse more meaning than was possible from the dozen and a half words.
Finally on a whim, Keira entered her Liaison Office ID number at the bottom of the notice and pressed 'Enter.' She had now officially expressed a desire to take on Item 87 in the current Free City Liaison Office Message Postings.
• • •
“I'm sorry to say that I don't care much for this particular city,” Ryo shook his head in disdain.
“Really?” The Lieutenant was taken aback by the declaration, “I rather like New Rome.”
The two old friends strolled together towards a rather seedy looking nightspot called The Hissing Serpent.
“New Rome seems too self-absorbed and mean-spirited compared to the generally jovial atmosphere of Free City.”
“I guess that much is true,” Zmuda laughed, “at least it's better than Dublin or Tunis.”
“What's wrong with Dublin?” Ryo chortled.
“Nothing, nothing,” Zmuda smiled.
The cop and the spy made their way into the garish drinking establishment.
• • •
“Hi, sugar. How's the deciphering going?” Jasper leaned down and kissed Mixion's cheek as she labored away with the latest message from Tunis.
She flashed a huge grin at the affectionate greeting.
The two junior spies had slowly become much more than mere coworkers.
Mixion glanced down at the several sheets of paper spread out on the desk, “I'm just starting, but it looks like it should be an easy decryption.”
He stared over her shoulders as she worked.
“Well; that's odd,” Mixion tapped at the character that she'd just written.
“An exclamation point?” Jasper noted.
“Yes. Our guy in Tunis has never used one before.” She added a seven and a one to the message, “Jasp; take a look in the appendix of the Morse Code book and find out if exclamation points have any special meanings.”
He nodded pleasantly.
She scribed out several more characters while the big man thumbed through the reference.
“Big surprise,” he finally chortled, “exclamation means urgent.”
“Mmm,” Mixion finished up with the decoding. “OK; I have !719RNZTLLLIK.”
Jasper tilted his head as he studied the string of numbers and letters, “I guess it is important, whatever it is.”
“Nothing pops out,” she noted. “Perhaps it's reversed. He's been doing that a lot lately.”
“That makes sense,” Jasper noted, “exclamation points usually go at the end of sentences.”
She inverted the string, which yielded 'KILLLTZNR917!'
Jasper pointed to the characters, “Three 'Ls?' That's strange.”
“WAIT!” Mixion held up her hand to stop him.
She hastily wrote out 'KILL-LT-Z'
“Kill Lieutenant Z? 'Z' must mean Zmuda.”
Mixion quivered as she continued, “N-R? New Rome?”
“AH, CRIPES!” Jasper shouted. “9-17 is today!”
“Kill Lieutenant Zmuda, New Rome 9-17!” She dropped the pencil and stared up at him, “We've got to do something!”
The burly Australian was uncharacteristically silent.
“What about his communication device?” Jasper finally asked.
The woman slid open the desk drawer with a look of utter horror, “It's here! The boss forgot to take it with him.”
“OK; he's with Ryo Trop, right?”
Mixion nodded.
“Let's just get a hold of him.”
She hurriedly tapped out his number.
'Delivery denied at New Roman Message Nexus -- Issuer of Block: UNAVAILABLE,' flashed on the communication screen.
Mixion leapt to her feet, “WHO ELSE IS IN NEW ROME?”
Jasper studied the short roster of trusted operatives, “It doesn't look good...”
“Damn it!” She stared at the list of names, “What about her?”
“No;” Jasper shook his head in dread, “the New Roman police locked her up last night for drunk and disorderly conduct. She’ll be in jail until next week.”
Mixion nervously dug her nails into Jasper's arm as she studied the other names.
“There! Contact this guy!”
Jasper quickly tapped out an imperative message to the improbable savior, “Hopefully it will work, he's not a regular.”
23. The Hissing Serpent
“There's Mac!” Ryo pointed to the third booth to the left in the dim and musty back section of The Hissing Serpent nightclub.
Liaison Agent Hugo Mackillroy waved to the old Inspector. Ryo nudged the Lieutenant towards the table.
“Wait a minute,” Zmuda resisted. “Do you recognize the two bruisers with him?”
“No;” Ryo shook his head, “but if they are OK with Mac, they're OK with me.”
“I have a weird feeling about those two,” the Lieutenant muttered.
“Me too,” Ryo frowned. “Good, bad or ugly, we're here to collect some leads for our stalled investigations.”
Zmuda donned a wide smile, “I suppose you're right.”
“Mac! It's good to see you again,” Ryo reached across the table bestrewn with empty drink glasses to offer a hand to his old pal.
“It's been a long time,” the Liaison Agent pumped Ryo's arm with vigor. “This is Mr. Wolfe and his colleague, Mr. Rollo.”
“Gentleman;” the old Investigator bowed slightly, “this is...uh...”
“Uloff Lebrinski,” Zmuda grinned.
“Lebrinski, are you the Free City spy that Agent Macaroni promised us?”
“Mackillroy,” Ryo corrected Wolfe, “Agent Hugo Mackillroy.”
“You're Trop. We know all about you” Wolfe sneered a bit. “Ryo Trop, age 55, Inspector Second Class with the Free City Inquisitor's Office. ID number 783682. Divorced with one young kid. Your home is at Number 17, Na Daracha Ársa Street, Apartment 392, in the Ballaghaderreen District of Free City.”
“There's just one thing that you've gotten wrong, Mr. Wolfe.”
“What's that?” the big man smirked.
It was a rather rough and tumble effort at verbal intimidation, Ryo decided, a game that he could play quite well. He let the young punk hang for several seconds as he stroked his chin.
“I was recently upgraded to Inspector First Class.”
Wolfe burst into laughter, “Fair enough, old man!”
The rather inebriated Rollo cackled along with Wolfe.
Ryo could sense an odd underlying tow of duplicity in the young men.
“Yes;” Zmuda finally answered in an effort to ease some of the tension at the booth, “I have some connection to a spy organization in Free City.”
“Excellent! Have a seat,” Wolfe grinned. “Bevvies for the table on me!”
• • •
They were well into their fourth round of drinks with no end in sight when Ryo spotted a familiar face at the bar.
The old Investigator had steadfastly stuck to his habit of imbibing in only a single beverage during the course of a gathering. At this point he was certainly the only one at the booth still in full possession of his wits.
Mac, Zmuda and the two roughnecks merrily quaffed the latest offerings as the waitress deposited them on the table.
While the others roared at a rather crude joke involving a randy barmaid, Ryo studied the tall slim man in his mid-twenties who stared at him from the bar.
The fellow unobtrusively beckoned to him.
Ryo discreetly nodded in reply.
“Gentleman,” the old Investigator started, “I'll check with the bartender to see if he's got a certain rare old Irish Whiskey that will knock you into the next county.”
“Here, here!” Mac offered a toast with his now empty tumbler.
Ryo slipped out of the booth and theatrically staggered off.
The smutty jokes began anew.
The Investigator picked a spot at the bar just to the left of the man and well away from the bartender. He wanted as much time as possible to find out what was happening before he had to continue his ruse regarding ancient spirits.
“Lev; what are you doing here?” Ryo whispered.
The young man glanced back at the raucous group at the booth, “I'm so glad I found you. Mixion sent me.”
Ryo stretched lethargically to cover his growing concern, “Really? What's up?”
“Take a look,” Lev produced his communication device and casually set it on the bar between them.
Ryo picked up a soiled bar napkin and dabbed at his lips as he read the display screen out of the corner of his eye.
'Plot to kill Lt. Z in New Rome today! INTERCEPT & PROTECT AT ALL COSTS!'
“Son of a...,” Ryo turned and waved amiably to the soused group at the booth, “I thought that there was something sketchy about this meeting.” The Investigator swiveled around and glowered for several seconds. “Any idea as to how I could tip off Zmuda without the others knowing?” he whispered.
Lev tapped several times at the communication device screen and a second message appeared from Mixion.
'Make reference to Z's wife Charlotte when intercepting.'
Ryo flagged down the barman. “That makes sense.”
“I don't understand,” Lev whispered.
The bartender ambled towards them.
“Zmuda has never been married.” The older man stared at his young friend for just an instant, “When all hell breaks loose, get the Lieutenant out of here no matter what. Don't worry about me or anyone else.”
“OK.”
The bartender smiled at Ryo, “What'll it be, my friend?”
Ryo beamed wickedly at the question, “We've got a bet going on in the booth over there that the big guy dressed in black can't drink a shot of pure grain alcohol without vomiting.”
The barman snorted at the wager, “I'll put ten Units on barfing!”
“You got it,” Ryo laughed. “What do you have that'll do the job?”
“OH; you want Dragon's Breath Black Rum from Indonesia. It's about as puke-inducing as you can get.”
“Perfect. Give me a large tumbler full.”
The bartender retrieved a stout black bottle labeled with a stylized skull and crossbones, “Enjoy!”
Ryo tapped out the payment and added a huge tip for the man. He was, after all, probably not going to collect on his bet.
The Investigator lumbered back to the booth with the vile black liquid and carefully studied the arrangement of the others around the table. He had only an unlikely chance of successfully saving himself and the Lieutenant.
The bench curved in a semicircle around the back of the table; fortunately Zmuda was at one end and could easily dash away. Ryo's spot was at the opposite end, which was equally advantageous. But Mac was right in the middle, sandwiched tightly between Rollo and Wolfe.
Ryo winced when he realized that the Liaison Agent could not escape unscathed.
“AH, he's back!” bellowed Mac.
Ryo slipped into the booth next to Wolfe and placed his palm protectively over the tumbler filled with nearly pure grain alcohol.
“Alright;” harangued Wolfe, “who's got the balls to take the first shot?”
The old Investigator slowly nodded and stared across the table at Zmuda. He produced a wide, friendly grin when he was sure that the spy was paying attention to him. “Well; it won't be him,” Ryo joked.
“Why not?” Rollo asked.
Ryo's outwardly calm appearance belied his extreme inner anxiety.
Zmuda tipped his head and frowned, he now seemed well aware that something was amiss.
“His dear wife Charlotte will kill him if she finds out that he's been drinking.”
Uproarious laughter erupted at the table.
Zmuda's eyes grew huge at the quip, he knew.
While their intoxicated tablemates harassed and belittled the Lieutenant, Ryo's eyes leapt towards the bar where Lev was waiting.
The young man quickly pointed one finger at the side exit.
Zmuda nodded with a grim look of acknowledgment and eased himself up to depart.
“HEY!” Wolfe produced a small and very unusual handgun, “Where the HELL are you going?”
Zmuda stopped, “You guys are asses. I need some air.”
“Sit down, you bastard!” Wolfe pointed the gun at the man; “We know that you ordered the murder of Madame Sophia Kufuzu last year. Now it's your turn to die.”
The nightclub grew eerily quiet.
Ryo let his hand slip off the top of the tumbler.
CRASH! A porcelain plate shattered on the floor.
Wolfe turned towards the sound of the disturbance.
Ryo used the diversion to fling the contents of the tumbler into the big Goon's eyes.
Wolfe screeched in agony.
Ryo slammed the man's pistol hand onto the tabletop and the gun skittered across the floor.
Lev dashed over and he and Zmuda sprinted away.
Mac had a look of utter terror as he realized that he was unable to escape the unfolding disaster.
Ryo quickly backed away from the table, glancing around as he moved, trying in vain to spot the missing side arm: it was likely one of the particle beam weapons that had done in Nate Briggs and Captain Takahashi.
Lev pried open the exit door and he and Zmuda waited for just an instant as Ryo trotted their way.
“The grenade!” yelped Wolfe, “GET THEM WITH THE FRIGGIN' GRENADE!”
Rollo hastily retrieved a fragmentation grenade from his jacket and pulled the pin.
The dimwitted punk hesitated as the spy, the cop and the scruffy young man stood at the exit.
With the vile black liquid running down his face, Wolfe clawed madly at his burning eyes.
Rollo had a pathetic look of uncertainty; “It's a ten second delay, right?”
“NO FIVE, YOU IDIOT!” screamed Wolfe.
The grenade exploded in Rollo's chubby right hand just as his arm arched above his head for the unfortunately postponed pitch.
&
nbsp; The concussive force of the blast and the frightfully high number of razor sharp bits of metal shrapnel instantly killed Liaison Agent Hugo Mackillroy and the two thugs.
24. News Item: Nightclub damaged by explosion
Dateline: 18th of September, 2446; New Rome, Earth
“We've had drunken altercations at the Hissing Serpent before,” reported blood-splattered Bartender Jackson Ito, “but never anything like that.”
New Roman police are currently struggling to explain why an apparently friendly gathering involving three unidentified Free City residents and two mysterious locals suddenly went wrong last night at the nightspot on Spinoza Street.
Early reports indicate that three people were killed.
Dozens of drunken patrons were injured, some quite seriously, when a scuffle apparently broke out in a back booth.
Several barflies reported that a wager involving drinking prowess seemed to have gone wrong which prompted one of the dead men to draw a sidearm and a second combatant to respond with a military-grade fragmentation grenade. The ensuing blast killed both men.
An apparently innocent Free City resident was also killed.
Due to the still murky details and the death of a Free City citizen, the New Roman authorities have asked the Free City Inquisitor's Office to aid with the perplexing case.
The Hissing Serpent will be closed for at least a week to allow for repairs.
25. The aftermath of the blast
Fortunately the crime scene was nearly devoid of others at this early hour.
“Here you go Inspector,” the young New Roman crime scene technician uncovered the last of the three corpses that were scattered around the ruins of the back booth at the Hissing Serpent.
Ryo winced as he bent over to look at the body. He still had four or five tiny shards of metal trapped annoyingly just under the skin of his back.
But the sight of this particular body was much more painful than the stray bits of shrapnel: It was the badly mangled remains of his old friend Mac.
The naive assistant was obviously unaware of the older man's distress.
Cops and Liaison Agents died in the line of duty all of the time, but Ryo had been pals with Mac for decades.
The old investigator turned to the novice technician, “Any idea of who he is?”
