The Scorpion Jar mda-13

by Jason M. Hardy

  “Paladin GioAvanti,” Cragin said, making no attempt to conceal his distaste. “I hope your appearance here means that my complaints about the conditions in this place have been heard.”

  “I’m afraid not, Royle,” she said. “Besides, you know Paladins aren’t in charge of the jails.”

  “That’s because they don’t want to be,” Cragin said. “The Paladins have the authority to be active in any area of The Republic in which they take an interest. Should they truly desire to fix our prison system, they could. They just feel more comfortable overlooking the tremendous inequities and dehumanization that occur regularly in prisons, so they pretend they have no oversight. Convenient for you, isn’t it?”

  Heather sighed, hoping Cragin noticed. Setting him off on a political diatribe was about as difficult as rolling a ball down a hill. You just had to let it go.

  “Well, Royle, if you’d like me to I could make some sort of promise to look into your complaints when I leave, but we both know I’d only be saying that to shut you up, so why should I bother?”

  “Then we have nothing to talk about. Guards!” Cragin yelled. The door behind him, though, remained stubbornly closed.

  In other circumstances Heather might have attempted charm, if only to annoy her opponent, but she knew it would have no effect on Cragin. His loathing for her was too deep for him to even notice.

  “It’s my interview, Royle,” she said. “I’ll decide when it’s over.”

  “Fine. I can sit here silently for as long as you please.”

  “You’d actually shut up? What a novel phenomenon that would be.”

  Cragin, true to his word, did not respond.

  “How much longer do you have in here, Royle?”

  Silence.

  “Okay, that was rhetorical. Two years, four months. Now, here’s another thing I’m not going to do. I’m not going to dangle the possibility of getting your sentence reduced. Frankly, I don’t know that I could do it if I wanted to, and I certainly don’t want to. If it were up to me, you’d have a decade, maybe two, to go. But as it stands, you have two years, four months.”

  Cragin did nothing to acknowledge her summary.

  “You’ll still have a lot of living left when you get out. You won’t even be fifty. That gives you plenty of time to put your syndicate back together, do some more damage in The Republic. Sure, you’ll be under surveillance the minute you get out, but you know how to deal with that, right? I don’t think it’ll slow you down too much.”

  As Heather well knew, it was impossible for Cragin to remain silent for any length of time. “You’ve got me all wrong, Paladin GioAvanti,” he said, using the country-boy tones that had almost swayed the jury to acquittal. “I’m a changed man. Prison’s reformed me. I’m on the straight and narrow from now on.”

  “Then it seems our rehabilitation system is working fine. I’ll tell the proper authorities to disregard your complaints.”

  Cragin glared.

  “Anyway, Royle, you should be a little nicer to me, because I’m here to help you. I’m here to give you a warning.”

  Cragin had decided to give silence another try.

  “You’re not going to have anything when you get out. Your network, your people, your operatives, they’re not going to be there for you.”

  Cragin shrugged. “It’s a big Republic, Heather.” He’d remembered how much it annoyed her when he’d called her that once, and he did it whenever he could. “There’s a lot of people.”

  “But from the minute you get out, you’re going to be second best. Or worse. Why would people deal with you when there’s a better organized, better funded man with a more effective organization already in place? You’ll be finished before you get started.”

  “You think I can’t handle competition?”

  Heather surprised herself by taking the question seriously. “I don’t know, Royle. Maybe you can. But it’ll take time. You’ll have to wage a war between insurgent groups before you get to your real targets. Who knows how long that will take? Who knows how much older you’ll get, fighting just to get back into power? You have time, Royle, but I don’t know if you have that much time. Your competition’s going to be pretty stiff and, with the surveillance, you’ll be fighting with one hand tied behind your back.”

  “Mmmm hmmm. And who is this competition I’m supposed to be worried about?”

  “Henrik Morten. I’m sure you know who he is.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Heather faltered briefly, and immediately hoped Cragin didn’t see it. Her instincts had told her this was absolutely the right thing to do, that Cragin would know something. When he was out, Cragin had been perhaps the best-connected radical in The Republic, his fingers somehow monitoring a thousand heartbeats at once. If there was anyone gaining influence, whether they were a potential ally or potential enemy, Cragin knew about them. If he didn’t know Morten, that meant the diplomat was really a little fish trying to stretch out a little. It meant Morten hadn’t made as much of a name for himself as she and Jonah had guessed.

  But then why did someone entrust Morten with an assignment like doing away with Victor? He couldn’t just be a no one. She decided to press forward.

  “Oh, okay, you’ve never heard of him. And you’ve probably never heard of the Kittery Renaissance.”

  “Them, I know.”

  “Impressive group, aren’t they?”

  Cragin shrugged.

  “I don’t know how much news gets in here, but about a year ago they poisoned the entire staff of a representative from Clan Jade Falcon that was in town. Didn’t kill any of them, just made them all stay very close to their bathrooms for a couple of days. They were just showing off, telling us what they could do if they wanted to. I don’t know if even you could have pulled off something like that in your prime.”

  “I heard about that one. And yes, I could.”

  “Well, it looks like Henrik Morten might have a connection to these folks. That could make an interesting allegiance, I’d think—only you wouldn’t know, since you’ve never heard of Morten.”

  No response.

  “All right. If you don’t know him, you don’t know him. I’m sure you’ll find out about him in two years.” She stood up.

  “Won’t you have caught him by then?” Cragin said in mocking tones. “Isn’t that one of your actual responsibilities?”

  “Yeah,” Heather said casually. “Maybe I’ll have him by then. But maybe I won’t. Might be fun to see the two of you duke it out for a while—if I’m lucky, you could get each other out of the way for me. Anyway, see you around.” She walked toward the door.

  Cragin waited until her hand was on the doorknob. “I know what you’re doing,” he said.

  She turned and arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “You’re fishing. You want this Morten guy out of the way, and you’re hoping to get me mad enough that I’ll help you out.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “Of course! I’m not trying to be subtle here, Royle. I want him out of the way, and I want you to give me the info that’ll help. I know you’re not going to do anything to help me, but I figured you were still smart enough to help yourself.” She stayed by the door, but didn’t move. She knew what was coming.

  “Kittery Renaissance, huh?” Cragin finally said.

  “That’s right.”

  “This is the guy from Mallory’s World.”

  Heather took a step back toward her chair. “That’s the one.”

  Cragin’s face twisted into a snarl then puckered, like he had bitten on a pickle while drinking unsweetened lemonade. Heather watched his fingers flex involuntarily, and knew he was imagining how they would feel around her neck. She stood firm and expressionless.

  “I’ve heard of the guy,” he finally said.

  40

  Jonah Levin’s Office, Geneva

  Terra, Prefecture X

  17 December 3134

  One thing Jonah hated about getting around Gen
eva was the number of one-way streets. For some reason, they always seemed to be pointing him opposite the direction he wanted to travel.

  That’s the way this investigation seemed to be going. He kept accumulating information telling him to look in one direction, when he’d prefer to look almost any other direction.

  Maybe the problem was that he hadn’t thought through the data well enough. If he sat down, reviewed his notes and organized his thoughts, he might find something he’d missed, something that could point him in an entirely different direction.

  He fervently hoped this would be the case.

  Unlike most Paladins, Jonah could find privacy in his official offices. Even during the middle of the day they had an abandoned feel, as Jonah kept a minimal staff on hand—usually a single receptionist hired from a temp agency. He simply wasn’t on Terra enough to require permanent staffers, and he had no enthusiasm for finding temporary help when he was on-planet. The receptionist was stationed at the front of his suite, while his chamber was in the back. He could lock a marching band in his office and she wouldn’t hear them.

  She politely said hello as he walked by, and he smiled, vowing to remember her name before he left Terra. He told her not to send through any visitors or callers.

  “Even other Paladins?”

  “Especially other Paladins,” Jonah said. He had even less time than usual for politics.

  Jonah’s office resembled a prison cell with a very nice desk. When Jonah was appointed Paladin, the office maintenance staff had thrown a few items into this room (a picture of a sunset, a plastic plant and a matched set of blue marble bookends), and these remained the only decorative items. A single book of governmental rules and procedures sat between the bookends. The plain curtains turned the sunlight gray.

  He opened the curtains at the touch of a switch, then locked the door behind him with his personal key code and set it to report the suite as unoccupied to all but the highest security inquiries. He then sat down at the desk, opened the portfolio he had been carrying, and took out all of the sheets of paper inside. Some of them represented his notes on the case; others were Burton Horn’s. He hadn’t looked at the dossiers Heather GioAvanti had forwarded to him yet, but Jonah doubted he would need them. What he had was bad enough.

  He removed a datapad and a stylus from the desk drawer and began setting down the items one by one.

  Fact. Steiner-Davion had been scheduled to give the opening address for the Paladins’ Electoral Conclave, but was killed the night before he could give it.

  Fact. Henrik Morten, the lover of Victor’s nurse-housekeeper Elena Ruiz and a diplomatic troubleshooter with questionable ethics, encouraged Ruiz to pass along to him information about the late Paladin’s final project.

  Fact. Gareth Sinclair was appointed Paladin after Victor died.

  Fact. Victor was working on a document that named Gareth Sinclair, Melanie Vladistok, Lina Derius, Geoffrey Mallowes, and about a dozen Knights of the Sphere. Why their names were on the list, and what the numbers meant, was unclear at the moment.

  Fact. Morten has been connected to numerous politicians, with an emphasis on those with Founder’s Movement sympathies. Of the Paladins, he has worked for McKinnon, Sorenson, and Sinclair. Victor Steiner-Davion was considered an antagonist by the Founder’s Movement.

  Fact. Morten was spotted at a riot believed to have been instigated by the Kittery Renaissance.

  Fact. Senator Melanie Vladistok was involved with Morten, and wanted to conceal the nature of her relationship.

  Supposition. The politicians whose names appeared on Ruiz’s document were involved in something shady enough to arouse the suspicion, and significant enough to arouse the anger, of Steiner-Davion—who, in his long personal history, had experienced firsthand just about every kind of treachery and underhandedness the universe had to offer.

  Supposition. Victor had intended to rip the lid off of whatever plot he had discovered, using his speech to the Paladins as the occasion. He likely thought this information would influence the election in some way.

  Supposition. In the short run, Gareth Sinclair gained the most from the death of Victor, but there’s little chance he would have known he would be appointed Paladin in his place. The Founder’s Movement also gained politically, but it is difficult to imagine either McKinnon or Sorenson going so far as to kill Victor to reach their goals.

  This wasn’t as helpful as Jonah had hoped. Any objective person looking at this information would know what the next step would be. He was hesitant to say that had a prime suspect, but he certainly had someone who needed to answer some hard questions.

  The one anomaly was the Founder’s Movement connection. Sinclair, as far as Jonah knew, had never expressed any Founder’s Movement leanings. Of course, he’d just been made Paladin, and in his previous life as a Knight there might not have been much need to express political opinions. He could have kept them safely under wraps.

  In the end, the Founder’s Movement connections might just be a coincidence. Morten could have hired killers to dispose of Victor while working for one client, while monitoring the Kittery Renaissance riot for another. His involvement in both was not proof that the two events were tied to the same client, or the same cause.

  Jonah had walked into his office thinking there were two people he needed to speak with. His activity, unfortunately, hadn’t changed his mind.

  He turned to the desk’s communications console and punched in the code to get a secure outside line. After a half-dozen rings, a voice at the other end of the phone line said, “Burton Horn.”

  “It’s Jonah,” he said. “I don’t mean to sound impatient, but…”

  “…but you are. I understand. I’ve got a bead on him, I think. Looks like he’s in town.”

  “Can you reel him in?”

  “I think so. You want me to handle the questioning?”

  “I suppose. Though I’d like to meet this guy.”

  “Meet?”

  “He ordered Victor’s death. But I don’t think there’s time. It will probably be up to you.”

  “Yeah,” Horn said. “Yeah, I understand. What rules are we following for the interrogation?”

  Horn was dangling a considerable temptation in front of Jonah, and he felt almost disgusted enough to reach for it. But he couldn’t.

  “Standard. By the book. We have to play this right.”

  “I understand. What about your part?”

  Jonah reviewed his notes. “I’ve been trying to find a way to avoid it.”

  “And?”

  “I can’t.”

  41

  Hotel Duquesne, Geneva

  Terra, Prefecture X

  17 December 3134

  Jonah had long known that, sometimes, the most advantageous terrain for a battle was a place where your enemy felt safe.

  Hesperus was renowned across the Inner Sphere for its rugged, inhospitable terrain, but one of Jonah’s favorite spots for combat on his old home was perhaps the friendliest spot on the planet. About five hundred miles south of Defiance Industries’ headquarters, the mountains briefly smoothed into a broad valley. Armies who found this spot immediately headed for the center of it, out of reach of weapons fire from hidden stations in the mountains. There, in the treeless valley, they believed they could encamp safely. And there, on a number of occasions, Jonah had waited in a narrow crevasse whose opening was invisible to anyone more than thirty meters away from it. He’d wait for his quarry to relax, then spring.

  He certainly didn’t think of Gareth Sinclair as his enemy; he was reluctant to even consider him his quarry. But he needed Sinclair to speak openly, and the element of surprise generally allowed you to get past people’s initial defenses.

  Jonah had requested a meeting on Sinclair’s home ground, or at least what passed for it in Geneva: the Hotel Duquesne. Sinclair would be in comfortable, familiar surroundings there, while Jonah would be out of his element. He’d make sure Sinclair noticed the disparity, an
d allow it to sink in, before he made his move.

  Jonah nodded to Emil the concierge as he entered, walking quickly past before Emil could exercise his flamboyant brand of hospitality. He entered the dining room, the echoing footsteps of the lobby giving way to the muted conversation and quiet piano of the restaurant. He was, as he had planned to be, a few minutes late. Sinclair was waiting for him.

  He stood as the maitre d’ led Jonah to his table.

  “Paladin Levin!” he said happily, extending his hand. “Thanks for joining me!”

  Jonah shook his hand. “It was Jonah before you were a Paladin, so it certainly should be Jonah now. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Not at all,” Sinclair said kindly. “I know how busy you are.”

  “It’s not that,” Jonah said with an embarrassed smile. “It’s the size of this place. I can never get used to it. I must have spent five minutes just wandering through the lobby.”

  “I understand. It confused me when I first came here as well.”

  “But you adapt quickly,” Jonah said, then continued as Sinclair tried to interrupt. “No false modesty, Gareth. I know you and your reputation well enough—you have a gift for sizing up a situation and adapting yourself to it.”

  Jonah hated himself for his friendly tone, for calling Sinclair by his first name, for everything he did to conceal the real purpose of this lunch. I’m playing the game, Jonah thought to himself with disgust. They’ve finally drawn me in, and I’m just another politician.

  He thought again of Hesperus, of hiding in the crevasse. Same technique, different battlefield. You’ve always known how to do what’s necessary, he told himself.

  “Of course, I don’t believe you’ve ever had to size up a situation quite like the one in front of you now,” Jonah continued. “How are you adapting to your new position?”

  Sinclair looked up from his menu and smiled. “I’m sure I haven’t yet. I have no idea how a Paladin is supposed to act, supposed to speak, or anything. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be.”