Shadowrun 44 - Drops of Corruption

by Jason M Hardy (epub)

  “I think you’re being a little cavalier about this. Don’t underestimate what they can do.”

  Bannickburn stood up, walked toward her, and patted her on the head in a gesture that was both affectionate and patronizing, and tended to drive her crazy. “I’ve met combat mages from Ares on the open field. I’ve been ambushed by toxic spirits in the Stinklands. And just a few weeks ago I punched a man the size of a bear in the face. I can handle it.”

  Jackie was not convinced, Bannickburn could tell, but he was gratified to see that she was going to pretend otherwise for a time. “Okay,” she said. “Just watch yourself.”

  6

  Bailey desperately wanted a scotch. Failing that, a strong cup of coffee might be useful. But he didn’t dare drink either one. He was walking a fine balance at the moment, and adding caffeine or alcohol might push him off one of the many cliffs on which he was teetering. He had to stay in control, so he had to drink water, unsatisfying as it was.

  “The casino,” he said to Shivers, who sat in a leather chair running his finger around the rim of a tumbler of bourbon. “The casino wants to control their floor. That’s okay. I like to control my floor, too. That’s what the rug is for. But they’re playing a dangerous game here. If we stay away, so do our accountants. A ban on us won’t hold.”

  “There’s no ban,” Shivers said.

  “True. True. Just a request. And not even a request for us to completely stay away, is it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Just a request that we limit our numbers so as not to draw the attention of the authorities. Do I have that right?”

  “You have it exactly right.”

  “Okay, then, here’s what we do. I'm going tonight. You’re going. Boone is going. Anyone else who’s not otherwise occupied is going. We’re dropping a fair pile of nuyen on their heads. And then we’re telling them that if we hear any complaints, our accountants will make our considerable losses of that evening disappear from their coffers, and that’ll only be the start. And if they decide to complain, our accountants go public with what they know.”

  “Losses?” Shivers said. “Does that mean you’ll be playing?”

  “No, of course not. The rest of you will, though.” “Are you ordering us to lose?”

  “No, just observing a sad fact. Most of you have the card-playing skills of lungfish.”

  Shivers finger traced a few more laps around his glass. “Why a lungfish?” he finally asked.

  “Dunno. Just popped to mind. So—what else is going wrong today?”

  “Cabel woke up long enough to say a few words.” Inside, Bailey jumped to alertness, startled. Outside, he slouched a little deeper in his chair. “What did she say?”

  “Complained a little about the pain. Then said something about the Finnigans.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Nonsense. Something about them and the Tir.” “Something in particular?”

  “No.”

  Good and bad, Bailey thought. Cabel hadn’t said enough to alert Shivers or anyone else who heard about anything, but she also hadn’t said anything that told him anything useful about what had happened to her. It was confirmation of a sort, though. The wheels Bailey had heard about were, in fact, turning. But even if Cabel knew what was happening, she wouldn’t be giving any details for a few days at least. If she survived that long.

  He needed more information, and soon. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Sottocapo Martel had been displeased with him lately.

  “Oh, there’s one more piece of news,” Shivers said, with an offhandedness that guaranteed this was going to be bad news.

  “What?”

  “There’s another visitor out in the hall.”

  “And you knew this when you came in,” Bailey said flatly.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And you didn’t tell me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Because you were trying to irritate both me and who-ever’s waiting.”

  “Right.”

  Bailey grinned and nodded. “Nice work,” he said. “You’re an annoying prick, but you’ll be the type of lad who helps me die with a smile on my face. Bring whoever it is in.”

  Shivers put his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and let out a whistle that Bailey half expected to shatter his glass. The door opened, and an ork in a herringbone suit walked in. He looked grumpy, even more so than a normal ork.

  Bailey stood. “Kross,” he said.

  “Quinn,” Kross responded in his polite growl, and they shook hands.

  “Herringbone?” Bailey asked.

  “I make it work.”

  “Okay. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. I’m here to help you.”

  Alarm bells—several of them, insistent and loud— went off in Bailey’s head. “Help? You’ve already done that. And I even thanked you.”

  “I’m to do it on a more regular basis. With anything you need. Sottocapo Martel is anxious that the many initiatives you’re working continue progressing, and I’m here to help them keep moving.”

  Wonderful, Bailey thought. I’ve got my own personal spy. He had just the assignment for Kross.

  “I’m glad to have your help, and your timing couldn’t be better. I’ve been having trouble with some of my suppliers in Aztlan, and I think it’s probably time for someone to physically go down there and straighten things out. You seem like the perfect man for the job.” “I’d be happy to do it,” Kross said.

  That was too easy, Bailey thought. “Okay. Great. I’ll get you started immediately.”

  “And what else would you like me to do?”

  “Else?” Bailey asked. “You’ll be in Aztlan. That should be enough for you.”

  Kross laughed, much too long and too loud to be genuine. “No, no, no. I’m not going to Aztlan. I said I’d take care of it—but delegation is the key to good leadership, isn’t it? No, I imagine I can take care of just about anything you give me while staying right here in town.” “Great,” Bailey said, not even trying to sound sincere. “That should work out fine.”

  The trick, he told himself, would be keeping Kross away from Cabel, or anyone who might talk about Cabel. Kross was welcome to learn a lot of things about Bailey’s way of doing business, but information about Cabel’s mission wouldn’t get out until Bailey was good and ready.

  He’d get Kross out of his hair for the afternoon, then make a few calls and see what more he could learn about Cabel’s mission. Then he’d take it to Martel himself. In this one thing, at least, he’d stay in front of the pack.

  The wallpaper was dark green with a satin sheen, the wall sconces were brass and emitted a soft light, the customers were discreet, and the steaks were as thick as two hands placed on top of each other. Real beef, not a trace of soy in it, worth its weight in gold (which was reflected by the prices on the menu). Sottocapo Alexei Martel could be found at the Brigham Steakhouse every evening.

  Bailey ran his hands down his lapels. Appearance mattered. The mob had long ago learned that rampant criminality went down a lot smoother when neatly groomed and dressed in tailored suits. The first thing Martel would do to judge Bailey’s work was give him a onceover. A loose hair would be almost as damning as a thousand missing nuyen, so Bailey had spent half an hour getting his wavy black locks into place. Judging by the grins several women (and a few men) gave him on his way to the restaurant, he’d done himself up right.

  “Mr. Bailey,” the maitre d’ said. A thin man with a thinner mustache, he was the first line of defense in the Brigham’s war against noise. He spoke in a leathery voice just above a whisper. He looked harmless, but was backed by a quite lethal security system hidden in the foyer’s nooks and crannies. No one got into the Brigham who wasn’t supposed to be there.

  “Mr. d’ ” Bailey said, one of about a thousand jokes that amused him more than anyone else.

  The maitre d’ gave no acknowledgement that humor of any sort had been attempted. “Plea
se follow me,” he said. “Your party is here, waiting for you.”

  Of course he’s already here, Bailey thought. Martel, one of the few full-time carnivores left in the world, would break out in hives if he was more than 100 meters away from meat for two hours.

  He sauntered through the tables as the maitre d’ walked primly forward. The tables were generously spaced, and the patrons hunched over them, bringing their heads together over flickering candles. The conversation in the room rustled like a dozen snakes on sand. Bailey couldn’t make out a word anyone at any of the tables was saying, which was exactly as everyone intended.

  Martel sat in a corner booth, mainly because a regular chair would never hold him. He was built like a buffalo, and jokes about his weight were common among those under his command (as long as he wasn’t in the room, of course). Some people called him fat, but Bailey had never seen a hint of anything besides metal and muscle in the man’s body. He stood smoothly as Bailey approached, carrying his size with grace.

  “Mr. Bailey,” he said in a voice like a long bow stroke on the thickest string of a cello. “Please sit down.” Bailey sat down without extending a hand toward Martel. The sottocapo didn’t seem to appreciate human contact, and if he ever got his right cyberarm on anyone else’s hands, it was usually for the purpose of mangling, not greeting.

  “Good evening, Sottocapo Martel,” Bailey said cheerfully. “From which portion of the cow’s body will you be dining tonight?”

  As was the custom when he spoke to Bailey, Martel simply ignored any remarks he found inconsequential. Knowing this, Bailey usually tried to make as many frivolous comments as he could.

  “I understand you’ve welcomed the new assistant I dispatched to you,” Martel said.

  “The ork? Yes, yes indeed, Sottocapo, and I want to thank you for your generosity in sending him my way. Big dumb muscle is easy to come by in this city, but big smart muscle is wonderful. And the fact that he’s such a fashion plate only makes him more delightful.”

  Martel placed a triangle of red beef in his mouth and chewed slowly. Bailey pretended to enjoy the sight.

  Martel swallowed. “Mr. Kross is a very valuable commodity,” he said. “I did not dispatch him to you lightly.” The trick of talking to Sottocapo Martel, Bailey had discovered long ago, was learning how much information Martel packed into his words. In contrast to Bailey, who had mastered the art of speaking for hours without really saying anything, Martel said as few words as possible, expecting the listener to pick up on every nuance and inflection. Thus, the two brief sentences Martel had just uttered said a lot more than they appeared to. Bailey translated them as: I’m paying Kross a lot of money, and there are plenty of things I could have him do, but of all of those I chose to send him to you. Don’t waste the family’s money—put him to use on some important assignments. Besides, one reason I sent him to you is to spy on your operation, and how can I do that if you assign him grunt work?

  The last sentence of the translation was tricky, as Martel did not necessarily want his subordinate to know that Kross was a spy. But Bailey had known it instantly, which meant he knew the real reason Martel wanted the ork put to good use, so he included that motive in the translation.

  “Certainly, Sottocapo Martel. He’ll only be washing the windows in my office—I won’t let him so much as touch a pane in any other room.”

  Martel was chewing again. Bailey took advantage of the opportunity to flag down a waiter and order some food of his own, if only so he’d have something to do while Martel was processing his bites.

  “Thank you for joining me tonight,” Martel said when his mouth was clear. “You have many important duties. I know they press on your time.”

  Bailey translated again: I’ve given you lots of assignments that I think are pretty important. You should be working on them now, but you’re meeting with me, so the best use of your time at the moment is to tell me how your progress is going.

  “Yes, Sottocapo, and I’m honored, of course, that you would entrust me with these jobs. Most of them are progressing well. I expect Pietro Vacini’s secret cannoli recipe to be in my hands within a day; our chefs should be attempting to duplicate his creations by dinner tomorrow.”

  Again, Martel showed no signs that he’d heard Bailey speak. Bailey grinned and proceeded to real business. “I think the Gates problem will be under control shortly. I’ve got a two-part strategy that involves annoying the hell out of them, followed by impressing them. I think it’ll work.”

  “You will be employing your strongest skills,” Martel said with a small nod.

  Bailey raised an eyebrow. It’s possible, he thought, that Martel just made a joke at my expense. Martel’s face remained expressionless, but Bailey thought he detected a hint of self-satisfaction in the large man. At this pace, he told himself, we’ll be bantering like old friends in a mere quarter century or so.

  “There are a few steps I need to take to get the Gates situation all squared away, but I’m not at all worried. As long as I can draw on some of our flexible resources.” Which meant money to hire outside help.

  “Of course.”

  “Now, I am worried about what’s going on in the Tir. The ‘others’ ”—Martel never liked anyone to say the Finnigan family name in his presence—“are, I believe, very close to getting their hands on the item. Time’s running short, shorter than I thought, but it’s something I can deal with. I’ve been moving plans ahead to compensate, and we should be able to derail them without effort.”

  “They already have it.”

  Bailey’s mouth opened, but, oddly, no words came out. It was never good, he thought, for your superior to know more about the progress of your project than you did.

  “Are you ... I have a—a source. Someone I’m trying to talk to. She hasn’t said anything about that.”

  “Your courier doesn’t know.”

  That sentence was only four words, but it carried a wagonload of bad news for Bailey. Martel already knew about Cabel’s mission. Not only did he know about it, he knew more than Bailey did about what Cabel had learned and what she hadn’t. And to top it all off, Martel had his own source that gave him better information than Bailey had on what was supposed to be Bailey’s most important project.

  That was all quite bad. But Bailey would be damned if he’d let Martel see him without his composure for another second.

  “Then we’re moving ahead,” he said brightly. “They may have it, but they don’t have a way out yet.” Bailey was guessing at this last bit of information, but he needed to sound like he still knew what was going on. “I’ll have people down there before they can do anything useful with it.”

  “Analysis would not take long.”

  “I know, I know, they wouldn’t need a lot of time, but they’re going to have to stay on the move as long as they’re down there. They may have better relations with the Tir than we do right now, but all that means is that they won’t be shot on sight. Now that they have it, the Tir’s going to be on their tails until they get out, and getting out of Portland while holding it is going to be about as tough as getting out of this place without dropping a couple hundred nuyen. We still have some time. My people will be there before it’s too late.” “You’ve chosen them?” There was a note in Martel’s voice that might have sounded impressed. Or it could just have been the calming effect of the steak.

  “Yes. The leader’s all lined up,” Bailey said. It was a terrible lie, but it had all just come to him. Who should do it. How. What the incentive would be. And how to get Kross out of his hair. It would work. He’d need a little help, but it would work. “It’ll be taken care of.” Martel said nothing, which Bailey took to be a sign of trust, though it could just as easily be an indication of disgust. Bailey spent the rest of the night telling stories about gambling in casinos, winning the hearts of lovely young women, and drinking prodigious amounts of alcohol, while Martel slowly chewed his steak, and then ordered another and another.

  7


  Bannickburn opened doors. He slid her chair back from the table with the grace of a ballet dancer. He spoke to the waiters in French. He smiled. He listened. He laughed. And as the evening wore on, he was amazed to discover that the act he had put on so many times before to impress scores of young ladies was no longer an act. He didn’t listen to Jackie to show off how attentive and sensitive he was. He just listened.

  He’d always worried this would happen. The greatest peril of age, he’d always thought, was a reversal of your natural tendencies. Those who spend their youth innocent find themselves growing more and more cynical as the years pass, ending in a bitter and jaded condition that Bannickburn had always believed was wholly appropriate. Those who caught on to the rhythms of life early, on the other hand, and who grew caustic in their youth in an attempt to keep pace with the savagery of the world, often came to an unfortunate juncture in middle age when they grow more naive, more trusting, more open to the good things of life.

  Bannickburn had watched in horror when that happened to one of his mentors, thinking that the desire to rhapsodize on the beauty of a flower was a fate worse than death. Now he felt it happening to him—odd feelings working through his normal armor. The worst of it was, the change was not entirely unpleasant. His whole nature should be rebelling against it, but it wasn’t.

  Maybe he should just put a gun to his head while there was still time.

  “. . . with so little IC around it, well, God, that’s just a joke, isn’t it? You might as well just leave it on your reception desk! You might as well put it on a fraggin’ billboard in the middle of downtown. You’re just begging me to take it when you leave it so open.

  “But the real problem,” Jackie continued, “was they didn’t know its worth. They thought of it just as pure data. They never thought about how to use it against anyone. They just thought it was . . . science. How pathetic is that? It just wouldn’t be right to leave information that valuable in the hands of those people.” Bannickburn decided he didn’t need to blow his brains out after all. How could he not find a creature as beautiful, crafty, and jaded as this one appealing? It wasn’t his age’s fault that she was perfect.