Shadow of Victory - eARC (36 page)

“In some ways, yes,” Weng conceded. “But there’s no evidence of that. That’s what I keep coming back to. Nyhus isn’t just suggesting the possibility, or even the probability, that it could be the Manties. He’s telling Ukhtomskoy his sources say it is the Manties.”

“And if he’s telling Ukhtomskoy that, then Adão doesn’t have much choice but to kick it up to MacArtney,” Väinöla said slowly.

“Exactly. Sir, can I ask if you’ve heard anything about this coming back down the chain?”

“You can ask, and the answer is that I haven’t. Which, I presume, answers my second question. The one about the reason you’re bringing it to my attention.”

“Yes, Sir. I don’t know what’s happening here, but Lupe and I both think there’s a hell of a lot more going on under the surface than we know about. I don’t want you—us—getting blindsided by it. And if you’ll pardon my saying so, if Ukhtomskoy really has passed this up to Permanent Undersecretary MacArtney, you should have heard something coming back down-chain.”

“Yes, I should have.” Väinöla’s tone was grim. “If nothing else, they should be asking for a crosscheck from us, shouldn’t they?”

“Yes, Sir, they should.”

Weng’s eyes were somber, and Väinöla grimaced. He could think of several reasons that might not have happened, but none of them were good. And he knew exactly what the lieutenant colonel carefully wasn’t saying.

In his considered opinion, his immediate superior, General Toinette Mabley, the Gendarmerie’s commanding officer, hadn’t been the best choice for her job…and not just because one Noritoshi Väinöla could have been promoted into it, instead. Mabley wasn’t the smartest person he’d ever met, and he knew she’d been a compromise choice resulting from intense negotiations between Nathan MacArtney, Omosupe Quartermain, and Taketomo Kunimichi. Interior, Commerce, and Defense all had legitimate interests in the Office of Frontier Security, but those interests often conflicted, and none of them had been willing to sign off on someone who would favor one of the other department’s interests over their own. For that matter, none of them had been willing to accept a nominee who’d make waves for his or her department. And so, rather than competence which might prove…unruly, they’d chosen mediocrity. Mabley liked things just the way they were, and she would dutifully follow any order—or even any pointed suggestion—one of her political masters threw her way.

So the question, he thought bleakly, is whether MacArtney’s just quietly kept any reports from Ukhtomskoy to himself, or whether he’s told Mabley to sit on anything that might challenge those reports? Or, for that matter, if Mabley’s decided all on her own not to share Nyhus’ suspicions with those of us who might have been expected to confirm—or deny—them?

And what do I do now that Zhing-hwan’s brought this sack of snakes to my attention? I can’t go to Mabley and tell her an OFS intelligence section CO’s deliberately falsifying information for his superiors. First, because there’s no proof he is; second, because that could spark exactly the kind of turf war somebody like Mabley really, really hates; and third, because for all I know, MacArtney—or any of the other Mandarins, for that matter—could just as easily be in the pocket of whoever’s doing this.

He glowered down into his coffee cup, grappling with possibilities and consequences, and wondered just how the hell he was supposed to handle this one.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Brilliant sunlight poured down from a polished sky dotted with isolated, almost painfully white clouds. The temperature was a sweltering thirty-four degrees, but a brisk breeze helped, stretching the brightly colored pennants on the staffs which ringed Jankulovski Stadium into briskly popping, starched stiffness. The stadium’s high, stepped seating completely enclosed the football pitch, protecting it from the breeze’s worst effects (and cutting it off from most of the cooling effect, unfortunately), but it was still affecting play, especially the goalies’ punts. Given the heat, it wasn’t too surprising drink vendors were doing excellent business, and Chotěbořian beer had always been good. And strong. It was evident that at least a few spectators had already overindulged in it, as a matter of fact, but Sokol’s security people—many of them off-duty city police—had the situation in hand and people were actually behaving themselves quite well, under the circumstances.

That wasn’t always the case at a heavily attended football game on Chotěboř, and despite the heat, the stadium was packed. It was standing room only—and scalpers had made respectable fortunes selling tickets, including quite a few to seats that didn’t actually exist—as the Benešov Dragons squared off against the Modřany Sabres in one of the most anticipated games of the year. Nor had the game disappointed the fans to this point. There were 38,000 seats in Jankulovski…and not one of them was unoccupied as the Dragons’ right winger faked outside, then reversed to cut inside the Sabres’ left center back. The entire audience came to its feet as he crossed the ball with a perfect pass to Petr Bednář, the highest scoring active player in the Kumang System. Bednář took the ball with his left foot, drove past the Sabres’ right center back, and then crossed his dominant right foot behind his left in a perfectly timed rabona kick that caught the Sabres’ keeper charging to his right. It was beautifully executed, and the ball sliced into the upper right corner of the net for Bednář’s five hundred and fifth career goal.

“Yes!” Daniel Kápička surged to his feet in the president’s box, both clenched fists raised over his head. “Yes! God, that was beautiful!”

“Yes, it was,” Adam Šiml agreed a bit more calmly. He’d risen from his own seat, if only to get a better view over the sea of heads between him and the pitch, and now he shook his own head as he settled back down again. “I remember when Petr first started playing with one of the local Sokol teams. He was only a boy—what? about twelve, I think—and he liked gutsy, flashy plays even then. Fortunately, he had the athleticism to pull them off! Did you see that bicycle kick goal he scored against the Ravens last week?”

“I certainly did! And speaking of fortunate things, it’s fortunate Sokol gave him the opportunity to develop that athleticism. You’ve done that for an awful lot of players over the years, Adam. I don’t know where football would be without you people,” Kápička said warmly, settling back down in the comfortably upholstered seat.

The sliding crystoplast panels at the front of the box could have been closed to produce a bubble of air-conditioned coolness, but Šiml hadn’t even contemplated suggesting it. Minister for Public Safety Kápička had been a punishing soccer player in his youth, a box-to-box midfielder who’d thrived on the position’s demand for stamina and relentless hard work. He’d played at both lower school and college levels, although he’d never quite made the cut for one of the professional teams. Not as a starter with one of the teams that was regularly in contention, anyway, and he wasn’t the sort to settle for “second-best” at anything. But he was still an avid fan. He wanted to be able to feel the crowd’s excitement physically in the waves of sound as the packed stadium cheered, whistled, and applauded, and he wore a huge smile as he listened to it now.

The truth was, Šiml reflected as he sipped from his own beer stein, that there were quite a lot of things about Daniel Kápička he actually respected. He was ambitious, he worked hard, and he demanded the same from his subordinates. He was also scrupulous about rewarding those who met his expectations, loyal to those he considered friends, and generous on a personal level, sometimes even at the expense of the ambition which was his driving force. Unfortunately, he was also perfectly happy to cooperate with the transstellars exploiting the Kumang System. Worse, he’d made Jan Cabrnoch’s security forces even more powerful, driven by both that personal ambition and his conviction that only Public Safety stood between order and anarchy.

And he was one of Sokol’s enthusiastic boosters, as well. Šiml had no doubt he’d been absolutely sincere in the praise he’d just offered, and he was maintaining his own support for the organization—so far, at least—despite a certain awkwardness where Cabrnoch was concerned.

Or, rather, where Cabrnoch’s feelings for Sokol’s executive director were concerned.

I wonder how much longer Daniel can keep that up? I’m sure this is a political calculation he’d like to ignore, but I doubt he’ll be able to pull that off mu
ch longer. I’m sure Žďárská’s giving him an earful about me, anyway!

Or possibly not, now that he thought about it. Zuzana Žďárská wasn’t actually stupid. In fact, she had a pretty good mind, on those occasions when she chose to exercise it. But her natural default was “blunt object” mode, and because that normally worked for the System President’s chief of staff, she’d gotten out of the habit of practice where more subtle approaches might have been indicated.

In this case, though, she might actually have decided a modicum of caution was in order. She had to realize—and Šiml was positive
Kápička
had realized quite some time ago—that Karl-Heinz Sabatino had become Adam Šiml’s newest Best Friend Forever. Neither of them—nor Cabrnoch, for that matter—could possibly believe that was because Sabatino had suddenly developed a late-blooming passion for Chotěbořian athletic organizations. And it was damn sure that Kápička and Minister of the Treasury Ludmila Kovářová had a pretty good idea of how much of Sabatino’s generous support wasn’t going into new stadiums, equipment, or personnel costs.

That must be particularly galling for Žďárská, he thought cheerfully, since Treasury had become her go-to agency for dealing with Cabrnoch’s real or perceived political rivals or enemies.

Kovářová was a very good economic technician. Unfortunately, like everyone else in the Cabrnoch Administration, she considered graft one of the perks of her office and was perfectly prepared to screw over the citizens of Chotěboř in order to open the taps of her personal wealth. She was also prepared to adopt a “purer than the driven snow” public attitude when her often creative accountants discovered one of her political opponents had been abusing the public’s trust with shady economic deals or by evading his or her legitimate tax burden. That normally made her a perfect tool for Žďárská, but no Chotěbořian was stupid enough to go after anyone Sabatino had decided to support.

That’s got to really frost all three of them, he reflected with profound satisfaction. And as long as they’re stymied, Daniel can go right on enjoying my invitations to share the presidential box at games like this one. If they’re crass enough to point out that I’m not exactly Cabrnoch’s favorite person, he can always point out that he’s staying close enough to keep an eye on me until they figure out what Sabatino has in mind. And as soon as he drops Sabatino’s name, they’re going to pull in their horns.

He leaned back, nursing his beer, and smiled.

* * *

“Hell of a game,” Šiml said, several hours later.

He and Zdeněk Vilušínský sat on the veranda of Vilušínský’s sprawling “farmhouse”—someone from one of the poorer parts of town might have called it a mansion, despite its antiquity—nursing chilled tumblers of vodka. The temperature had dropped nearly seven degrees out here in the country, and the night air was actually close to chill. The starscape glittered overhead, and the sound of wind in the trees, insects, and the lonely, haunting whistle of a výr šedý, the most proficient of Chotěboř’s nocturnal avian predators, provided a welcoming stillness after an exceedingly busy day.

“Hell of a game,” he repeated, shaking his head. Despite Bednář’s spectacular goal, the Sabres had won 3–2 on a penalty kick with less than fifteen seconds on the clock. “Went right down to the wire.” He sipped vodka. “And Daniel was so happy about my generosity in sharing my box that he insisted on treating me to a five-course banquet at Koš Chleba to pay me back.” He raised his free hand to his lips and kissed the back of his thumb. “Magnificent! I wonder what the little people had for dinner?”

Vilušínský chuckled, but he also shook his own head rather more seriously.

“I’m glad you had a good time. And you can damned well take me to Koš Chleba, next time I’m in the capital! But don’t get too carried away. He’s a long way from stupid, and if he figures out what you really have in mind, he probably won’t bother taking it to Cabrnoch or Žďárská. He’ll go straight to Sabatino.”

“I know.” Šiml tipped back his chair, stretching out his legs and resting his heels on the veranda’s railing while the fitful breeze stirred his hair. “And I also know Jan and Zuzana have to be getting nervous by now. It doesn’t matter to them that I’ve been careful to avoid any overtly political moves, either. Sabatino’s doing that for me, whether I want him to or not.”

“Do you think he really sees you as an alternative to Cabrnoch?” Vilušínský seemed torn between hope and cynicism.

“Frankly, I’m not sure he knows whether or not he does.” Šiml sipped more vodka. “I suspect he started the entire thing as more of an insurance policy than anything else. He could’ve been thinking about simply setting me up as a sort of façade opposition—a popular face for a ‘legitimate political process’ that might divert some of the growing unhappiness. If he figures he’s turned me into a suitably pliable sock puppet, though, he really may decide to go ahead and pull the plug on Jan. Honestly, that would be the best possible outcome from our perspective, wouldn’t it?”

“It could be. It could also get you killed, Adam.” Vilušínský’s tone was very serious now. “It could get you killed by Cabrnoch—or your good friend Kápička, or even Siminetti—if they thought there was a way to fob off Sabatino with some sort of plausible deniability. For that matter, they might go ahead even without deniability, on the theory that Sabatino couldn’t afford to replace them if he no longer had someone—like you—waiting in the wings.”

Šiml nodded soberly, but Vilušínský wasn’t finished.

“And even assuming that didn’t happen, assuming Sabatino went ahead and supported a regime change that put you into the presidency, what happens if—or when—he figures out what you really have in mind? Or Verner does?”

“Probably something unpleasantly permanent,” Šiml conceded. “And Karl-Heinz and OFS have their hooks deep enough into Public Safety they could certainly engineer a tragic assassination or even a ‘spontaneous coup.’ Unless, of course, there was another armed, organized group that could spark—you should pardon the verb—a counter-coup in favor of the legitimately elected president.”

“That’s a pretty significant ‘unless,’” Vilušínský pointed out. “And that assumes Kápička doesn’t figure out what we’re doing or Cabrnoch doesn’t decide to swat you first. Or, for that matter, that Sabatino doesn’t realize how you’re really spending all those funds you’re transferring out-system! Somehow, I don’t think pulse rifles are the sort of ‘retirement account’ he wants you investing in.”

“Probably not, but it’s not very damned likely he’ll find out about that part, especially with Pastera handling my investment portfolio and Martin keeping an eye on things from the shipping end. It was very generous of him to suggest I avail myself of Michal’s services, don’t you think?”

This time, Vilušínský laughed out loud. Too many Chotěbořians found themselves working for their transstellar landlords or those landlords’ cronies, since that was really the only game in town. In Michal Pastera’s case, he’d sought employment in Kovářová’s Treasury Department right out of college, and—like any good, ambitious servant of the people—jumped ship to the private sector at the earliest possible moment. Over the past several T-years, he’d worked his way up to a senior position in Frogmore-Wellington's caretaking operation in Kumang. Frogmore-Wellington and Iwahara’s investment in Kumang might be tiny by transstellar standards; in absolute terms, an enormous amount of money went in and out, and someone had to handle the equivalent of the giant corporations’ interstellar petty cash purchases.

That was what Michal Pastera did for Karl-Heinz Sabatino…who had no idea he’d gone to work for Kovářová in the first place on the orders of his Jiskra cell leader.

Martin Holeček, on the other hand, was a core-worlder who’d come to Kumang as a freight supervisor for Iwahara Interstellar. But he’d lived in Kumang for over ten T-years, and he’d married a local girl.

Taťána Holečková had suffered a certain degree of harassment over her decision to marry him. In fact, some of her longtime friends had turned their backs on her for of it. She’d found that painful, but it had also helped her with Public Safety and Iwahara’s local security staff. She was one of the collaborators who’d cast their lots with the Cabrnoch Administration and the transstellars, and her occasional clash with estranged friends bolstered that impression.

In fact, however, appearances could be deceiving. Táňa loved her husband deeply, despite his employer, but the
komáři
had claimed over half of her family. She was fiercely protective of its surviving members, and two of her younger cousins had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when antigovernment/anti-transstellar leaflets were being handed out. Neither of the boys had been involved; they’d simply been there when the Chotěboř Public Safety Force decided a message needed to be sent. Both of them had survived, but one of them had suffered traumatic brain injury…which, of course, the CPSF blamed on those vicious, antisocial, anarchist leaflet-printers, who’d provoked the violence by wantonly attacking the champions of justice and public order.