"What does one have to do with the other? Was Dugan a back-up for Polzinsky?"
"This is what strains credulity," the agent admitted. "It appears Dugan had to know of Polzinsky's mission. At least three weeks ago, going by his reservations. He had a perfectly legitimate business appointment for the security company employing him, which he kept. However it also appears he was booked into the same hotel," he said, lifting a dubious eyebrow. He did not believe in coincidences. Not at all.
"He met a limo and rode off with three men and a driver. He had made no arrangements for a rental car, or a pickup from his company for himself. We have video of him walking out of the terminal following a man who met him. A man who knew a null spot in the terminal video coverage. So if they exchanged tokens, or pass words, or signs, we will never know. But they accepted him."
Wiggen looked at the photos. "They're close but not that close," she decided. "You might look at him and take him as the fellow's younger brother."
"And the spacer ID doesn't fit anything. They've stopped using them, so why would he have one? Was it his pass to ID himself? Polzinsky didn't have one on him. Why didn't he destroy it? I can't imagine any way the man would lift it off Polzinsky on the plane. It would be worth your life to try."
"It seems like it would be worth your life to pass yourself off as a professional assassin to a bunch of crazed fanatics and ride off with them too."
"Well yes, there's that too."
"So why didn't we have people waiting to pick up the people meeting him?" Wiggen asked.
"We didn't know anyone was meeting him. and if we had the situation was so thick with peril we wouldn't have risked an agent to approach them like Dugan did. It would be suicidal unless we had the manpower there to surround and overwhelm an armed group. We've been stretched too thin for that sort of contingency with," he grimaced, "other recent events."
"So, whoever Dugan was working for had better intelligence than my own security?" she asked and managed not to sound accusing.
"That's the size of it, no matter how much it hurts me to agree and stepped in and impersonated a world class assassin, made sure his plot could not be carried out and we strongly suspect faxed pix of the people who picked him up to the FBI, before the whole thing went down. I hate people doing my job for me. He was visited in his hotel room the night before by the FBI, who searched the room and found neither the spacer ID, nor the key-cards to the shooting. He brazened it out with them, gave them a hard time actually and read a book while they searched his room."
"But you found the stuff later?"
"Yes, but in fairness it took a much higher level search. It took eight expert agents over an hour to find them both and they spent another three hours before quitting. We knew by then something had to be there, so not to give up."
"What about the pictures he sent? Any leads on them?"
"We can't tie him to the pix directly. The one fellow we still have no ID on him. The vehicle he was picked up with is either a duplicate vehicle, or a duplicate plate of a legitimate limo owned by a transportation company. It was provably in Sacramento all day. Two of the men in the art work were eventually pulled over by State Highway Patrol assisted by county sheriffs. When they pulled off on the shoulder the car blew up with injury to the deputy and damage to both patrol cars. The explosion was massive enough to crater the roadway and cause a pile up."
"What about the security company you say he works for? Surely they had to be involved in this. They made all his reservations and chose him to be there at this time?"
"I agree, but I can't make a thing stick to them. We interrogated them and the business in LA hiring them. It appears to be a perfectly legitimate business decision. We pressed it to the point they threatened a defamation suit, if we caused their new customer to withdraw. They insist Dugan made no special request to be assigned the California deal. What am I supposed to charge them with?" he asked, spreading his hands, "preventing your assassination?"
"Where is Mr. Dugan now? Is he in custody for questioning, or did you allow him to return to Atlanta?"
"That's the kicker. He bought a lift ticket for Home with his company credit card. He was in the air before the slime balls blew up. His boss informs us, that being meticulously honest, he has already paid them back for using the card for personal expenses and apologized for quitting without notice. The owner said he'd hire the guy again in a New York minute and to hell with anybody who doesn't like it."
"Home just saved my bacon, didn't they?" Wiggen asked. She didn't say again.
"I can't prove it, I can't prove much of anything here," he said frustrated, "but it sure looks like it. and it all tells me that Home militia has an effective and extensive intelligence network, likely with sleepers and support people in North America. If you'd asked me a week ago I'd have told you they didn't have any intelligence assets in North America, maybe not even on Earth."
"The militia? No, Jon has been Spox for them, but he wouldn't lift a finger to save me. All the Home people ever involved with me, have revolved around April Lewis as a fixed point. That group is quite different than their militia."
Wiggen paused and looked thoughtful. "How about the possibility he just stumbled into the situation and brazened his way through?"
"Please, don't insult my intelligence. He's a visual match and has the means to be accepted and then has every skill and device to systematically thwart their plot at hand? I supposed he just happened to want to emigrate anyway and grabbed the opportunity without a thought to abandoning all his possessions? He didn't clear anything out of his Atlanta apartment. It's beyond coincidence. That's not all that has been happening," he said and drew a deep breath. "Remember the former agent whose file you had pulled, Santos, who hosted Miss Lewis in Hawaii?"
"Yes, he was drowned in the Drake passage, wasn't he? His yacht went down."
"Well, he seems to have lifted for Home from the Canary Islands spaceport since his drowning, along with his wife and an agent the Chinese government seems to want very badly right now. On the same flight was a woman who also appears to be on our State Department detain and question list and several others we are trying to identify."
"Do they run special bargain charters for defecting spies? Free champagne if you show your agency credentials?" she asked, incredulous.
"I know. If you wrote all these improbables up as a spy thriller, the editor would chuck it in the waste basket, as too farfetched and silly to ask readers to suspend disbelief. But tell me, who else right now wants you to remain in office more than Home? You're the only one right now who isn't hot to blow them out of the sky the first chance they get."
"If any of this gets out, it will look like I've only survived by being protected by a foreign power," Wiggen predicted. "My polls are bad enough, that would kill me and I have to deal with this lawsuit in the world court. I can't afford to look weak to the voters in any of it."
"Then if you can't reach an accommodation with them to settle the suit, I'd recommend you move very aggressively to rein in the lunar colony. Bold action looks better, even if it isn't the bold action you'd prefer," Wainwright suggested.
"I've already put the executive, the surviving one, under arrest and issued orders to resolve most of the issues brought up by this legal action. It was a can of worms up there, I admit."
"And are you getting independent confirmation those orders are being followed?" he asked pointedly. "They have a history of ignoring them, so I wouldn't assume it is fixed."
Wiggen looked funny at Mel, getting a slowly twisted smile. "I think you have a point there. I'll try to settle, but if it can't be done I'll make sure the public sees me arrest them and that their actions were not what I wanted or ordered. I'll appoint a special investigator today. One with enough power to get the job done. I wanted to say they wouldn't dare, but they did dare."
"People do understand, underlings don't always do what you wish," Wainwright asserted.
"You know, speaking of underlings doing the
unexpected, the bodyguard I forced on Miss Lewis decided to accompany her back to Home."
"You mean he agreed to emigrate?" he asked genuinely surprised. "Who did you send her? If you'd sent one of my active duty men, scheduled to your own guard roster, I'd have known about it."
"She insisted on a single guard and wanted somebody older and asked for an expert shooter, somebody really good. So I sent her Master Sergeant Tindal, Gunny they called him."
"You sent somebody to her who knows every detail of your personal security? Who trained my men and knows their strengths and weaknesses and helped write the very procedures and manuals they use?" he was clearly outraged.
"Why so upset Mel? Didn't we just conclude they moved Heaven and Earth to keep me from being assassinated? She'll hardly turn about and use him against me, right?"
"Of course not, but as you said your polls are looking poorly. In two years it may be my unpleasant duty to guard one of those Home hating politicians. What if she and the Master Sergeant aren't as fond of the people's choice then, as they are you now?"
"Oh."
"I do believe I shall resign if you fail to win the election."
"Mel, the opposition is talking criminal sanctions against my whole administration if they win. You may need to worry about running for your life instead of resignation letters."
Chapter 16
"It isn't much volume, can't you fit another ten kilos on the manifest?" Jeff asked.
"I'm not going to play this game," Ross told him, "it kills you. If you add ten kilograms, that becomes the new maximum gross lift weight. Then in a couple weeks you'll want to add another couple kilograms. They never ask you to lift ten kilos lighter. It nibbles away at your margin for error, until one day you have what should be a minor problem and find yourself fifty meters off the landing pad and out of juice."
"OK, what can we strip off the ship that is ten kilos and unimportant? I'm riding this thing too and want to live just as bad as you."
"You designed it. Are you telling me you left ten kilos of dead weight on her somewhere, that doesn't matter? When we repaired the Happy after it was shot up you redid all the braces and mounts to pull higher G. Run it like that to take advantage of the higher efficiency."
"I don't want to let anybody know we can do over nine G, unless we need to do so. Let's keep that little secret in reserve. How about if we fly with a half load of missiles? We seem to be in a lull action wise."
"How about if you ride with no p-suit?" Ross counter offered. "Since things are so peaceful you won't miss it."
"I won't change the gross weight," Jeff agreed. "We have a big load-out of fresh food. I'll substitute some freeze dried this trip. We're running a surplus of water anyway."
"What is so important you'll eat dried stuff to get it to the moon?"
"As pilot you have to know the manifest, but this is confidential. We have a client who is depositing metal with our bank and I'm reminting it. We want to spread it out for security. Some will go to other stations and some will be buried in the Moon. This load is four hundred new gold Solars. Twenty-five gram coins. It has to go next load because of client expectations. We just started doing business and it would look bad if we couldn't do what we promised."
"OK, give me a five percent hazard bonus, or you eat the dried crap."
"No problem. I like the teriyaki chicken and the shrimp Alfredo."
"Wait a minute. That's ten kilos of coins. What were you going to do? Stuff them in your pockets?"
"Oh and a foam board box with plastic coin tubes. They are really light," he asserted, caught out.
"A magic box and tubes that don't mass anything?" Ross asked, grinding his teeth. "If it says ten kilos on the manifest, short the packaging mass, that is falsifying it."
"I'll make sure we're under weight if I have to fast," Jeff promised, seeing anything over zero was a lost cause to defend. "I have two days until we load out and leave. I can lose three or four kilograms if I exercise."
* * *
"I had the carpet and walls cleaned. The sofa and love seat don't match," April said, frowning at them, "but they are clean and the cushions don't slump. You have a decent wall screen and some extra Hardoy chairs if you have company. It really needs a low table in front of the sofa doesn't it?"
"You fret too much," Mama-san told April. "When we were newly married we slept the first half year on a camping mat, in a Tokyo apartment half this size. We sat on the floor around a shipping crate for a table. It wasn't at a comfortable half G either."
"If you want me to get my kitchen installed ahead of time so you guys can use it I'd be happy to do that."
"We have the cafeteria and we'll keep a few packs of self heating stuff here, for if we have an off day and don't want to march to the cafeteria. If you have it installed you can bet something will need torn out again when you do the rest. It's only for a couple months."
"All right, you're sure easygoing. It feels weird being a landlord before I ever had a real chance to be a homeowner."
"You have your Hawaiian home," Papa-san pointed out.
"But I never got to spend a night there. It never felt like home. I'm not sure I'll ever get back to use it. Com me if you need anything," she offered at the door, reluctant to leave.
"We shall," Mama-san assured her, waved American style and closed the entry on her, firmly.
Papa-san made a brief call on his hand com and they relaxed on the new-to-them sofa.
In about five minutes Chen and his wife Huian were at the door with luggage. Papa-san set the entry to their hands and welcomed them.
"Are the children not interested in seeing their new place?" Mama-san asked.
"It was near time to report for their full G sleeping period, so they remained in the cafeteria which is near the nursery. They'll see it tomorrow. Our son is trustworthy to get himself and his sister there," Huian said tensely, like that might meet with disapproval.
"No criticism implied," Mama-san assured her. "We didn't coddle our daughter like North Americans. We lived in Hawaii, but we didn't adopt the culture when it didn't suit us."
"How badly do you want to keep our sublease secret from Miss Lewis?" Chen asked.
"I don't expect either of us to skulk around or lie. It's not forbidden. It's just a long standing habit to keep my business to myself. It has avoided so many complications over the years."
"Do you want to run our households on staggered shifts or the same shift? Chen asked.
"Trying to be quiet on staggered sleeping shifts is hard. Main shift seems to be for business. The other two shifts have active maintenance and things like ship repair, but things like personal services and retail are on Main. Why should one of us miss that? Let's do the same shift, but staggered wake-ups, so we are not all wanting the bath at the same time. Say 0600 and 0700?"
"That sounds good. Who first?"
Papa-san took a bright new gold Solar from his pocket and flipped it carefully in the unfamiliar half G. The trajectory was a bit odd. "Call it," he said, snatching it from the air and slapping it on the back of his other hand, covered. "Scenic face, or assay tail?"
* * *
The gossip news site was tacky, catty, trashy and vulgar. It needlessly presented itself on the screen as garishly flashy too. April used serious rating sites for business reputation or reviewing hardware, but didn't approve of sites like this, that just spread personal rumor and gossip. The sad fact was it had far more readers than serious journals with reputable news. It was sited in England, but had readers in America, Europe, a serious number in Australia and the moneyed parts of Asia. To April's irritation, it apparently had readers even on the habs and the Moon. She received a note that it mentioned her and to check it out with a link provided, but not a hint how the sender found it, amusing or otherwise. It might be something important if ignored, she worried.
The lead story, right at the top of the first page, showed her table at the Home Social Club last month. She'd been waiting to visit the club
when they had live jazz, after her grandpa informed her she was part owner of it, among other things she'd inherited from her brother Bob. She happened that day to be showing a kindness to a couple who were having a hard time finding their way around the corridors. After showing them their way, she and Gunny had supper with them at the cafeteria and invited them to join them and her gramps at the club later where they had gotten along well with them.
She really didn't think having supper with her grandpa and new friends was newsworthy. The blogger gushed in detail at how everybody was dressed, as if it was amazing they didn't all show up naked with bones in their noses, spacers known to be wanton heathen savages and all. When the writer felt it necessary to report the huge Marine in dress was not a love interest, but her bodyguard April had to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of it.
The couple James and Elena Alphonse were described as 'royals', which was at most technically true. They were distant relatives of the Spanish king, but certainly not in the secession, to properly be called part of the royal family. They were middle class executives at best. But the article tried to make them sound mysterious and exotic.
Attention was drawn to her grandpa's hair coming in dark. That was just despicable to invade his privacy that way. Yes, it showed he'd been getting Life Extension Therapy, which was nobody's business to advertise his medical information. If that bothered any fanatic Earthies they could all go twirling to hell in the same giant hand basket. They also made a point to display a picture with him leaning back and the grip of his Singh laser showing under his dark blue tux. As if that was any rare thing on Home.
What she didn't really pick up on in her irritation was how the three pix looked to Earthie eyes. It had apparently been shot from a table further along the same wall. She dimly remembered another two tables for four there. They had the jazz musicians for a background, as well as the door to the gambling room that was marked Poker Pit / Tuesday and Thursday, with none of the usual Earthie euphemistic shyness. The ice bucket with a Magnum of Champagne was in the foreground and looked as big as the Happy Lewis at dock. Most Earthies only ever saw Champagne in a video and didn't know a Magnum was anything but a big pistol.
April 4: A Different Perspective Page 8
