The Caledonian Gambit: A Novel

by Dan Moren

  “Excellent,” said Kovalic, as the pair strolled down the path. They slowed to a stop in a no-man’s-land between several booths, and Kovalic looked around to make sure they weren’t in any danger of being overheard.

  It didn’t take much to see that Tapper was unhappy. The older man’s arms were crossed over his chest and his face wore the expression he usually reserved for someone trying to make him eat broccoli: dubious and stubborn.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Tapper gave his head one short, sharp shake. “I don’t like this, boss. Eamon Brody wasn’t our asset, so why are we the ones down here looking for him?”

  Kovalic sighed. “Because when Eamon’s handler, James Wallace, stopped reporting in about a month ago, our colleagues at the Commonwealth Intelligence Directorate declined to look into the matter and instead swept the whole operation under the rug.” He’d worked with a lot of intelligence agencies over the years—military and civilian, foreign and domestic—and none of them were known for being particularly altruistic. Still, this seemed unnecessarily callous.

  Callous … or extremely suspect.

  Tapper seemed to agree; if anything, the scowl on his face only darkened. “CID cut Wallace loose? On the ground? With no backup?” His voice had lowered to a dangerous growl. “What lame-ass excuse did they give for that?”

  “You know how broadly the general likes to interpret his authority for ‘oversight.’ You think he bothered asking them?” The relationship between the Commonwealth’s main intelligence agency and the general’s small task force was frosty in a way that made the Sabaean tundra look temperate. But the general had the ear of the people that mattered, and in the end he tended to get his way. And if he didn’t, well, he had a habit of going ahead and doing it anyway.

  Tapper relented slightly, belligerence fading into his usual background grumpiness. “Fair point.”

  “Plus,” Kovalic added, casting a quick look around, “this is all tied up with that mysterious Illyrican project. Eamon Brody was feeding the intel, Wallace was relaying it back to CID.”

  “Seems kind of a big thing for CID to drop like a hot potato.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” said Kovalic, raising his eyebrows significantly. “The general wants to know what the Illyricans are up to—and he wants to know yesterday. Something’s going down two days from now; we just have no idea what.”

  “Under the gun, as usual.” Tapper rolled his eyes.

  “That’s about the size of it. Based on the limited intel the general had, I’d say we’ve got about 36 hours to run Eamon Brody to ground … and maybe less than that.” Above them, the sun had already started on its long descent toward the horizon.

  “What happens if we don’t?”

  “Well, as the general would have it, the Illyrican Empire will roll over the Commonwealth, darkness will swallow the land, and we’ll all be forced to live under the rule of an aging autocratic dictator whose policies are increasingly informed by a coterie of counselors with their own selfish interests at heart.”

  “Ah,” said Tapper. “Must be Thursday, then.”

  “Also, we might be out of a job.”

  “Well that would be a damn shame. So what’s our move?”

  “Eli Brody will be looking for his brother. We need to find out what happened to Jim Wallace.” He nodded to Tapper. “You know him, right?”

  “Sure,” said Tapper. Sometimes it seemed like he knew—or at least had drank with—almost everyone in the service. “I know ol’ Grim Wallace. We spent some time raiding supply ships in the asteroid belt during his stint in covert; that was on Earth, after the occupation. Heard he mustered out, went civvy. Good man.” His face took on a wistful expression. “And I will say this: the man could cook. We once intercepted a freighter full of provisions; I don’t know how he pulled it off, but Grim made a braised lamb shank so tender it brought a tear to the eye.” He shook his head slowly. “Haven’t had a meal that good since.”

  “Family?”

  “Ex-wife, I think.” Tapper scratched his head. “No kids that I remember. Wasn’t much of a guy for personal relationships. All business.”

  A familiar enough refrain. Personal relationships tended to be the first casualty of a career in covert operations, something to which Kovalic could attest personally.

  “Any reason Wallace might go dark?” Kovalic asked.

  A thoughtful expression crossed the sergeant’s face. “If he thought the mission was going to be compromised, sure. But he’s not a rookie; he’s not going to panic for no reason.”

  “No … sympathies?” It wasn’t common, but it did happen—Kovalic had arranged a couple of defections himself, including at least one that could rightfully be called “high profile.” You never knew exactly what people were really thinking all the way down on the inside.

  Tapper made a face. “Please. If Grim tried to defect, he’d have himself shot on sight.”

  “I had to ask.”

  “I know, boss.” Tapper glanced at his wrist. “Look, Three asked for a break in about an hour; I said I’d spell him while he grabbed some food.”

  Kovalic nodded, then abruptly pulled out a round plastic Illyrican cash chit and a pen out of his pocket and scribbled something onto it. “See that this gets to Brody.” He handed it to Tapper.

  “Sure thing, boss. What about you?”

  “I’m going to follow the only other lead we’ve got. We know that at least some of Wallace’s reports found their way home.” The general had worked every angle he could to try and find copies, but CID had been remarkably thorough. One of the general’s sympathetic sources inside the agency had gotten them the termination order for the op, but everything else was gone. Secrecy was nothing new for spies, but there was a not so fine line between compartmentalization and cover-up.

  “Right. Otherwise we wouldn’t even be on this lovely vacation,” Tapper said with a snort.

  “I’m guessing they were sent via diplomatic courier. Which means Wallace had to have contact with someone through official channels.”

  “And that means the CID station in the Commonwealth embassy.”

  “I’m going to be honest,” said Kovalic, breath whistling out from between his teeth. “I’d really hoped that we were going to be able to avoid letting CID know we were here.”

  Tapper hesitated. “You do know who the current head of station is, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Kovalic glumly.

  “You could just save yourself the time and have me stonewall you.”

  Drumming his fingers against his thigh, Kovalic grimaced. “Well,” he said finally. “I guess I’m just going to have to appeal to his better nature.”

  “Yeah?” said Tapper. “Try not to break any bones.”

  The deputy consul’s office wasn’t quite nice enough to make Kovalic reconsider a career behind a desk, but it was pretty close.

  Perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed, during which Kovalic had helped himself to a drink from the well-stocked liquor cabinet and put his boots up on the coffee table, when the room’s owner, a reedy man with a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, pushed his way in. Under one arm he had tucked a briefcase, while the crook of his other overflowed with file folders. He peered down at the top one.

  “Now, Mister … Fielding,” he said, reading the name off the sheet. “I hear you’re having an issue with your papers. What seems to be the prob …” His voice dissipated as he looked up at the man before him.

  “You.” He spat the diphthong.

  “You look overworked, Walter,” said Kovalic. “Sit down and have a drink.”

  Drawing himself up, Walter Danzig stalked to his desk and dropped the multitude of files on top of it in a heap. He scowled at the top folder, as if it were the source of all his troubles, then turned his attention to his visitor.

  “‘Fielding,’ is it?” said Danzig, pushing his glasses back up on his thin nose. “As I recall, the last time we met it was ‘Defoe.’ Working your way
through literary history?”

  Kovalic shrugged and swirled the liquor in his glass.

  Shuffling files with a violence that he clearly wished he could apply to his unwanted guest, Danzig frowned. “What do you want?”

  Kovalic glanced around, then circled his right forefinger in the air, a questioning look on his face.

  “Oh, I assure you it’s quite safe,” snapped Danzig. “This office is swept daily by CID counter-intelligence.”

  Frankly, Kovalic would have felt better if the room had been checked for listening devices by someone he trusted more—the catering staff, perhaps—but he nodded. “I suppose it’ll have to do.”

  Danzig sat down primly in his office chair and pulled it to his desk while unsuccessfully trying to hide his annoyance. “I presume you’re here on official business, and this isn’t just a social visit.”

  “I wasn’t aware that we had a social relationship.”

  Danzig leveled an icy glare in his direction. “After what happened on Haran, I ought to have you tossed out of here on your ear—or deported!”

  “For what it’s worth, I am sorry about that particular … incident, but I was just doing my job. Seems you managed to land on your feet.” He glanced around the room, taking in the furnishings and decorations.

  “Anyway,” Kovalic continued, “we both know it would take twenty hours for your fastest courier to make the round trip to Terra Nova for confirmation of my orders. Help me out and I’ll be gone in less than that.”

  Danzig snorted. “Fantastic. Maybe after whatever you have in mind this time, I can end up with a transfer to the embassy on Sevastapol. I hear the temperature gets above freezing at least a couple times a year.”

  Kovalic ignored the dig. “I’m looking for an operative by the name of Andrews.” They’d gotten Wallace’s work name from the termination order for the op; at least it had given them a place to start.

  The change of tack made Danzig blink, but he nodded. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I know of him.”

  Kovalic eyed him, waiting, then cleared his throat. “And?”

  Danzig crossed his arms. “I’m not prepared to disclose any further information without actual written orders.”

  Kovalic sighed in exasperation. “I don’t have written orders, Walter. And I know that you know that, so let’s not play this game. These are heightened circumstances.”

  “Oh, it’s always ‘heightened circumstances’ or ‘matters of galactic security’ with you lot,” said Danzig, his fingers forming twitching quotes around the phrases. “But you don’t stick around to see the consequences of your actions. That’s left for us to clean up.”

  Kovalic stared at him for a moment, then got to his feet and crossed to the desk. Danzig flinched as he reached over and plucked an object off the desk: a heavy paperweight in the shape of a silver orb with a flat bottom. Hefting it, Kovalic tossed it up and down a few times.

  “Well, let’s put it another way,” said Kovalic. “You don’t help me out, you won’t have to worry about ‘heightened circumstances’ or ‘matters of galactic security’ or even ‘being employed.’ In fact, in all likelihood, unless you help me out, this whole building and everyone in it is likely to be rendered unimportant.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said Danzig, his voice pitching up an octave. “Are you threatening me?”

  Kovalic sighed and snagged the paperweight in midair, only to place it gingerly back on the desk. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just saying that we’re looking down the barrel of what some in our line of work call a ‘fundamental destabilization event.’ You might be more familiar with its colloquial name: a shitstorm. It’s heading toward us at full speed, and it’s going to uproot anything standing in its way, including you and me. Got it?”

  Danzig’s fingers beat out a nervous rhythm on his thigh; Kovalic could almost hear the gears turning. “This is most irregular,” the station chief said. “Most irregular.” He sighed, and seemed to come to a decision that he could live with. “Fine. What do you want to know about Andrews?”

  Clasping his hands behinds his back, Kovalic inclined his head. “Whatever you’ve got.”

  “It isn’t much, I’m afraid. He came into the office a few months back with an op authorization. Strictly hush-hush, something about developing a local asset. Beyond that, he passed me a report every so often to send back in the diplomatic pouch.”

  “Did you read those reports?”

  Danzig eyed Kovalic sharply. “Of course not. They were above my clearance level,” he bridled. “If you examine the document receipts, you’ll find the cryptographic seals quite intact.”

  Kovalic gave a tight smile. He was sure the files would still be sealed, had they not been wiped with the rest of the records. Inconvenient though Danzig’s rule-abiding nature was, he couldn’t claim it wasn’t predictable. “When was the last time you received a communique from Andrews?”

  At that question, Danzig frowned in thought. “His reports were often irregularly spaced, but they usually came every couple of weeks. I’m not sure when the last one was.” He stood and crossed to an attractive lacquered armoire in the corner and swung open the door, revealing a military-grade safe, secured with a retinal scan and keypad.

  Opening the safe with the requisite scan and code, the station chief pulled out a notebook. Kovalic wandered toward the cabinet, surveying it with professional interest. A LaoChe 5000, unless he missed his guess—tough to crack, almost impossible to do so quietly. He’d seriously toyed with the idea of sidestepping Danzig altogether, which would have given him immense joy, but it was just as well he hadn’t: they definitely hadn’t packed the equipment needed to break that sucker open.

  “Does anybody else have authorization to open this safe?”

  “Only in the event that something happens to me,” said Danzig, closing the door to shield the contents from Kovalic inquisitive gaze. “There’s a dual-person override that requires both my assistant, Lawson, and the resident head of CID counter-intelligence to be present in order to open it. Any failed attempt results in the immediate destruction of the safe’s contents by micro-charge.” He squinted. “You’ll find we follow protocol to a ’T’ here, Mr. Fielding. We work inside the system, not around it.”

  Kovalic swallowed a laugh. “I’d expect no less.”

  Danzig traced his finger down the page. “My last logged contact with Andrews was four weeks ago.” He shook his head. “But a week or so after that I was notified that the op had been terminated.”

  That fit with the information the general had given them. “On whose authority?”

  “Some mid-level operations officer.” Danzig glanced down at the journal. “The codes checked out.”

  “And Andrews? Was there any note about what happened to him?”

  “Not specifically. I assume he made his way off-world. My involvement ended with the termination.”

  Kovalic paced the length of the room, then turned back toward Danzig. “And nothing about any of this struck you as suspicious, or strange?”

  Danzig blinked. “I don’t know what you’re asking, Mr. Fielding.”

  Of course he didn’t. That would require thinking outside the box in which Danzig had sealed himself no less securely than his safe. “Was there anything odd about Andrews’s op or the termination?”

  “Not that I noticed,” said Danzig, frowning. “Everything seemed to be by the book.”

  Kovalic leaned against the windowsill in contemplation. “It would be,” he muttered.

  Danzig’s patience had clearly worn threadbare. “What the hell is all this about?”

  “I wish I knew,” Kovalic admitted. “Did you have any contact information for Andrews? A way to reach him?”

  “Most of his communication was via dead drop, but emergency protocol dictates that there be some sort of backup, in case something were to happen.” Licking a finger, he reluctantly paged through the ledger. “Looks like he was renting a place over on K
elvin Boulevard.”

  He picked up a small square notepad and jotted down the address, then peeled off the top sheet and handed it to Kovalic. “Anything else I can help you with?” he asked, his voice tight.

  Kovalic glanced at the note, then folded it up and slipped it into a pocket. He leaned forward, staring out the window. The sun was nearly at the horizon now, the encroaching darkness escorted by a fleet of incoming clouds streaked with the reds and pinks of sunset.

  “I don’t suppose you happened to keep a copy of any of Andrews’s reports?”

  “Certainly not. The instructions stipulated no trail. All physical and electronic copies were destroyed after transmission.”

  “Great,” said Kovalic. “Everybody actually followed instructions for once.” He sighed. “Well, as long I’m here, maybe you could give me a quick overview of the situation on the ground.” He dropped into the chair on Danzig’s side of the desk. The leather squeaked as he leaned back.

  The gritting of Danzig’s teeth was almost audible. “Quiet, mostly. We’re far enough into Illyrican-controlled space that we’re largely insulated from external politics.”

  “What kind of presence does the Illyrican military have on-world?”

  “Modest. They’ve got a base, Westenfeldt, outside the capital city, but it’s mainly used as a spaceport for shuttling Illyrican personnel up to the orbital shipyards, or for intersystem travel.” Danzig pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, though?”

  “Nothing legitimate. The Caledonians are more than happy to sound off on all the nasty things they think the Illyricans are doing. This month alone I’ve heard about mind control drugs in the drinking water, a secret military base on one of Caledonia’s moons, and satellites that seek out and erase pornography.”

  Kovalic grunted. The usual—or, well, unusual, he supposed—conspiracy theories. “There’s always something. And, as I recall, there’s no love lost between the locals and the Illyricans. Even some sort of homegrown group, right?”