The policeman gave the card a cold stare.
Not the least disconcerted, Raoul tucked the card into the man’s Nuit pocket, gave the pocket a caressing pat. He gazed up at the man through provocatively lowered eyelids. “I’m staying at the Grand Modenan Hotel, near the presidential palace. Ask for my room number at the desk. I’ll be in ... all night.”
Pursing his lips, Raoul kissed the air between the two of them, favored the policeman with a melting smile, turned, and strolled off to rejoin the astounded Baejling.
“It is my considered opinion that the gentleman will no longer follow us,” Raoul said gravely.
The policeman did not follow them from the spaceport. But, as Dolf mentioned grimly, that meant little. The police undoubtedly had backup agents in place.
“They’re keeping an eye on us because we’re meeting with an off-worlder. Although”—Mary Krammes managed a smile for the first time since Raoul had met her—”I imagine that they no longer consider you and your companion much of a threat.”
The four were seated in an outdoor cafe located along one of the tree-lined boulevards of the capital city of Modena. The volume of traffic along the major streets was heavy. The air was filled with the screech of brakes and the honking of horns. Modenans still drove wheeled vehicles, since hovercraft were banned in the city proper, with the exception of the police, whose streamlined vehicles could be seen whizzing above the congested streets, sirens adding to the din. Unaccustomed to the smell emitted by gas-powered autos, Raoul held a scented handkerchief to his nose and refused all food. The location had one advantage. No one could overhear their conversation. They could barely hear each other.
“This woman, Madame President, is a monster,” Dolf was explaining. “Our President is a good man. Probably too good. That’s how she was able to get her clutches into him. He met her shortly after he was elected to office. All of us saw what she was after. But he was blind, poor fool. He was in his fifties, unmarried. One of those scholarly types who just never seemed to get around to relationships. She’s in her thirties, intelligent, charming—”
“Beautiful,” Mary Krammes added.
“Yes, she’s beautiful.” Dolf shook his head. “And deadly. She married him, and almost the very next day she was grabbing the reins of power. She had her organization already in place, ready to move. She put her people in top-level positions—Ministry of Defense, Law Enforcement, Justice Department. She either bought off the right senators or blackmailed them. Those who denounced her simply disappeared. Now the senate tamely approves all her new legislation.
“You’ve seen the result of the travel restrictions for yourself. She’s shut down all vid stations, closed up all the newsmags who opposed her. Those who spoke out were arrested. We’ve heard rumors of concentration camps, mass grave sites. Entire families have disappeared; their relatives don’t dare ask about them for fear they’ll be next. Something’s got to be done.
“She’s surrounded by bodyguards, of course. She travels in an armored car, when she travels at all, which isn’t much. She has to keep her claws in her husband.”
“He’s a wreck,” Mary added sadly. “Poor man. He was a fool, but he’s paying for his folly now. You hardly ever see him in public. She makes him appear on occasion and then he’s a puppet, dancing to her piping. He never opens his mouth but that he looks to her for approval.”
Raoul attempted to appear deeply interested and profoundly sympathetic, but his gaze wandered. He stared at the trees, the flowers, the drab people walking by—all of whom returned the favor by staring hard and suspiciously at the colorful Adonian. Finally, when this occupation grew tiresome, he sneezed, dabbed his nose with the handkerchief, and stifled a yawn.
“Pardon me,” Dolf said irritably, “but have you been listening to anything we’ve said?”
“Frankly, no, Dolf,” Raoul returned languidly, blinking his mauve-colored eyelids. He fluttered a delicate hand. “Why should I? You have hired the Little One and myself to murder the wife of your president.”
“Good God, man!” Baejling paled. “Keep your voice—”
“Bah! No one can hear us. You have a guilty conscience, that’s all. Which is why you are taking all this time and trouble to explain to me and my companion your own justifications and motivations. Personally I don’t give a damn about you or your country or your problems. And neither does the Little One. Why should we?”
The raincoated figure indicated, with a shake of the fedora, that such was the case.
Mary Krammes stared into her empty wineglass. Dolf Baejling took out a neatly folded handkerchief, toyed with it.
“I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I’ve never done . .. I’ve never even imagined . . .” He mopped his sweating forehead.
“It’s for the good of the country,” Mary Krammes said automatically as if she’d been repeating the words over and over again, even in her sleep. “That woman’s death is for the good of the country.”
Raoul shrugged. “Of course, that is what all traitors have said, since the beginning of time.”
Baejling rose stiffly to his feet. “We should proceed to the hotel, Excellency. Tonight is the Embassy Ball. You will be formally introduced and presented to the President and Madame President. You can meet her, get a good look at her. Tomorrow you deliver your letters of mark—”
“All forged, you know. Quite a good job. We have a member of our team. His name is Tycho. He—”
“Tomorrow.” Baejling hung on grimly. “You will proceed to the palace tomorrow—”
“Oh, we won’t be staying that long,” Raoul said complacently.
Baejling sat back down again.
“What? But— How? Surely you’re not thinking of”— Baejling swallowed, lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper— “assassinating Madame President during the ball! She’ll be surrounded by bodyguards! Her supporters. They’d catch you. We’d all be shot on the spot!”
Raoul gazed at Baejling long moments. The Loti’s drug-fuzzy eyes slid into focus, became fixed and cool, without pity, without compassion.
“I am an expert at my work. The Little One is an expert at his. You either trust us and allow us to proceed as we think right or you terminate our employment this moment.”
Baejling looked sick. Mary Krammes, white to her lips, said something to him in her own language. He nodded heavily, wiped the handkerchief over his head again. Lifting his previously untouched wineglass, he downed the drink at a gulp.
Raoul glanced out of the corner of his eye at the Little One. The Adonian’s eyelashes flickered. He smiled serenely. “Well, what will it be, Dolf, dear?”
Baejling’s hands clenched into fists. “Do it,” he said harshly.
“Is ... is there anything you need ... from us?” Mary Krammes asked faindy.
“No, Mary, darling, thank you,” Raoul said. “We have everything we need. However, I assume that you two will be in attendance?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Good. And now, I do believe that we should be proceeding to the hotel. This beasdy smell is giving me a pounding headache. And headaches cause wrinkles. As does stress. You should really do something about that, Dolf. Those frown lines around your mouth—most unattractive. I could give you some cream I found on Avedai Arden. Oil of cucumber. Rub it in three times daily....”
Raoul took hold of Baejling’s arm, sauntered off, talking of his favorite subject next to clothes—cosmetics. The Little One shambled after, small legs forced to take two steps to the humans’ one. His shoulders, beneath the raincoat, heaved up and down.
Mary Krammes, hurrying along fearfully behind, wondered if the strange little creature was laughing.
The Embassy Ball was a glittering affair, held in the Grand Ballroom of the Presidential Palace. Men and women, dressed in their very finest, most elegant clothes, drank champagne and ate small, fancifully decorated and bland tidbits, which were being circulated throughout the ballroom by tall, fancifully dressed waiters. Si
nce all present knew that the waiters were spies for the secret police, the conversation among the guests tended—like the food—to be elaborate and innocuous.
Talk picked up considerably with the arrival of the Ambassador from Adonia. Raoul was in full regalia; he might have gone onstage as the Sun God or even a sun itself. He was dressed all in gold, from a rayed golden headdress, to golden doublet and knee breeches and hose, to golden slippers—low-heeled, since he might possibly be going into action. Every centimeter was crusted with golden bangles and/or sequins. His eyelids were painted with gold and he wore metallic gold lipstick, of which he was evidently worried about smudging, for he kept his lips always slightly apart, was careful never to bite them or pass his tongue over them.
The Little One, trundling along at Raoul’s side, wore the same raincoat and hat—a small and shabby satellite orbiting a gorgeous sun.
The majordomo pounded his staff on the polished marble floor, made his sonorous announcement. “His Excellency, the Ambassador of Adonia.”
Raoul extended a shapely, gartered leg, bowed low, sweeping a large feathered fan across his body. Rising to what he assumed were admiring murmurs from the audience, he glanced about vaguely, accosted a passing footman, who indicated the reception line, where the President and his wife and other dignitaries waited to greet their arriving guests.
Raoul floated that direction, spreading charming smiles and clouds of lilac perfume. He passed down the line, blithely ignoring the cold and withering stares of the ministers of Defense and Morality. He gave the men what passed for an Adonian handshake— dabbling his fingers lightly in the palm. With the women, he brought their hands near his lips but never bestowed a kiss on any of them, undoubtedly to protect his flawless lipstick.
But, when introduced to Madame President, Raoul behaved quite differently. Awed by her beauty, he murmured a few words of polite and correct greeting, then actually deigned to press his golden-coated lips against the skin of her extended hand.
Madame President found this all highly amusing. She made a polite response to Raoul, then, switching off her translator with a feigned, casual gesture, she said something to her husband having to do with “fairies and fags.” All of which the Little One passed on to Raoul.
Raoul, smiling coyly, advanced to pay his respects to the President. The Adonian ambassador was apparently not all that impressed with Mr. President, who was shriveled and shrunken, a withered husk covered by wrinkled skin. Raoul, gazing at the man, speculated seriously on vampirism in modern times.
Madame President, meanwhile, was delightedly and laughingly exhibiting to her neighbors the gold lipstick impression left on her skin. She would, she claimed loudly, never wash this hand again. Her comments drew polite laughter from all those within hearing distance, as well as from those who could not possibly have heard but considered it politic to laugh anyway.
Raoul wended his way through the crowd. He discovered Baejling and Krammes huddled together in a distant corner of the gigantic ballroom, attempting to appear nonchalant and comfortable, with the result that both managed to look extremely suspicious.
“Ah, here you are!” Raoul sang out loudly. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere. Don’t kiss me, either of you. You’ll muss me.”
“What the devil are you doing?” Baejling demanded in a furious undertone. “You’re drawing everyone’s attention to us—”
“There’s something I must tell you,” Raoul whispered, adding loudly, with an admiring glance, “You’re right about one thing, Dolf. Madame President is a remarkably beautiful woman.” He gave a rapturous sigh. “I’m quite smitten. Is my lipstick smudged, Dolf?”
Baejling gave him a disgusted glance, started to turn away. Krammes tugged on her partner’s sleeve. Several of the waiters were eyeing them closely.
Raoul removed his mirror from a gold lame shoulder purse, studied himself critically. “I’m smudged! How beastly!”
“Hot in this room, isn’t it?” Baejling said loudly, adding in a low voice, “Look, we’re calling this off. We’ve had word that the secret police are on to us. Why don’t you—”
“Ah, a bit late for that,” said Raoul quietly. “The deed is done.”
Baejling darted a swift glance at the reception line, where Madame President—looking extremely fit and healthy—continued to receive guests.
“What is this? Some kind of sick joke?”
Raoul removed a small vial from his purse, then began dabbing the contents on his lips.
“In about six hours,” he said, speaking softly, under cover of music from a small orchestra, “your Madame President will start to feel extremely unwell. About an hour after that, she will be in excruciating pain and convulsions. In twenty-four hours, she will no longer be able to move her lower extremities. In forty-eight hours, she will be dead.”
The Little One pulled a handkerchief out of one of the raincoat’s pockets, handed the cloth to Raoul.
“Thank you, my friend,” he said gravely, and began to wipe his lips.
Baejling’s jaw sagged. “How—”
“The lipstick,” Raoul said simply, taking extreme care to remove the last vestige. “The poison is in the lipstick. One of my favorite techniques. I wear a protective base coat underneath and I am quite careful, of course, never to ingest any myself. But it is always wise to take precautions. I am drinking the antidote for it now.”
He consumed the contents of the vial, then examined his lips critically. Certain that every trace of the golden, poisoned lipstick was gone, he returned the mirror to his purse.
The Little One held open a plastic bag marked HAZARDOUS WASTE. Raoul deposited the handkerchief and the empty vial inside. The Little One snapped the bag shut, thrust it into a pocket. Baejling and Krammes watched the proceedings in dazed disbelief.
Raoul reached into his purse, drew forth a second vial of the clear liquid. He held it out.
“What’s this?” Baejling eyed it suspiciously, refused to touch it.
“The antidote,” Raoul said with a sly smile. “Administered anytime in the next twenty-four hours, it will save Madame President’s life. The choice is yours. She will not be in such extreme pain that she cannot negotiate. You might, perhaps, be able to strike a bargain with her. The antidote in exchange for an extended trip on her part to a distant moon. If the lady proves recalcitrant”—Raoul shrugged—”you let her die.”
He pressed the vial into Baejling’s hand. The man’s fingers closed over it nervelessly.
Krammes clutched at him. “This gives us a chance! We don’t have to be murderers—”
“Unless she refuses. Or orders us shot anyway. The safest course to follow would be not to tell her. Let her die.”
“A difficult decision.” Raoul was sympathetic.
Baejling stared at the antidote, then lifted his haggard gaze to Raoul. “Damn you.”
Raoul smiled sweetly. “Our work is guaranteed or your money will be cheerfully refunded. And now, if you both will excuse us, we have a transport to catch.”
“You won’t be able to leave. There are no transports for off-world—”
“Ah, I have the distinct feeling that one will soon be making an unscheduled departure. Not to worry. We can take care of ourselves. Farewell. It’s been lovely. Give me a kiss good-bye, Dolf.”
Shuddering, Baejling backed up a step.
Laughing, Raoul turned on his golden heel, sauntered leisurely through the crowd. Taking his time, he paused to drink a glass of champagne. The Little One trotted doggedly along behind.
“So very civilized. Didn’t want to do the dastardly deed yourselves, did you?” Raoul raised his glass in a toast to Krammes and Baejling. “Here’s to what you kiss next, my dears.”
Chapter 9
Assess the advantages of taking advice, then structure your forces accordingly, to supplement extraordinary tactics. Forces are to be structured strategically, based on what is advantageous.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
“What the hell’s keeping that damn Loti?” Xris demanded. Switching on the screen in the center of the table—a screen that provided a view of the large bar area of the Exile Cafe—he scanned it for some sign of the flamboyantly dressed Adonian.
“Relax, will you, Xris? He’ll make it. He said he wanted to say hello to a few old friends from back when he used to work here. You didn’t say it was urgent, you know,” Harry reminded him. “This is just a planning session, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Xris was roaming restlessly around the room. “It’s just ... I want to get on with it, that’s all.”
The others present exchanged glances, raised eyebrows, asked silently what was up. Most specifically, all looked to Harry Luck, who had been with Xris and the Mag Force 7 team the longest.
Harry shrugged his shoulders, made a face. He didn’t have a clue, indicated silently to the rest, You know as much as I do.
Each one of the members of Mag Force 7 had received a coded transmission to meet on this date in the Exile Cafe on Hell’s Outpost—a desolate chunk of rock that could barely be dignified with the term “moon.” Drifting on the fringes of the galaxy, Hell’s Outpost was made unique by the Exile Cafe, described politely as “a meeting place for professionals in search of employment.” All the galaxy knew, however, that the Exile Cafe did not cater to the sort of professionals likely to scan the vid classifieds.
But even if one was not looking to hire or to be hired, the Exile Cafe was an excellent meeting place. A large bar area located on the ground floor provided decent liquor and edible meals. The waiters and waitresses were attractive and would provide their own form of entertainment for a price. Weapons could be worn but not used—on penalty of immediate death. This was a place of business and those who came here were serious.
Rooms in the Exile Cafe were guaranteed private by the management, who boasted that not even the Royal Navy took such precautions to keep identities concealed and conversations secret. The user paid for such luxuries, of course, but the people who frequented the Exile Cafe could generally afford it.
The Knights of the Black Earth Page 10
