Read Soldier of Fortune: A Gideon Quinn Adventure (Fortune Chronicles Book 1) Online
Authors: Kathleen McClure
AT ABOUT THE
same time Gideon was sipping tea in the Ohmdahl’s flat, Fagin Ellison was cooling his heels in the outer lobby of the 9
th
precinct building.
The joint was crowded this morning, filled with citizens who were filled with complaints, all of them waiting for an available officer to take their statements.
Ellison wouldn’t have been waiting, except that DS Hama had insisted he should come to formally swear out a warrant against his alleged attacker, Gideon Quinn. Ellison had agreed, not because he had any desire to assist Nike’s police force but because to refuse would look suspicious.
Now here it was, well into the morning and his dodgers would be back at the hive, unsupervised and, Ellison was sure, helping themselves to a portion of the night’s takings (it’s what he’d have done) leaving him just enough to avoid a beating.
Bad enough Mia was running loose with that thrice-damned draco, he’d not lose an entire night’s take just so’s the constabulary could officially search for this Gideon bleedin’ Quinn.
Disgusted, he rose from the narrow slice of bench he’d managed to hang onto for the night (he hadn’t even made it to standing before it was taken by a bleary-eyed tram-conductor missing his coat) and stepped up to the arch leading to the foyer and sergeant’s desk. He was just about to scarp for the exit when he spied Mia, oddly in the company of a half-dozen coppers, including the one who had questioned him at the Elysium.
Odder still, she wasn’t being hauled in, but rather leaving the precinct building in their company, chatting easily with a youth on the taller side of medium height and, most damning of all, that bloody draco on her shoulder.
Ellison, staring after them, was shocked, not so much by her presence but by her attitude. Standing tall, hands moving expressively, her face open and relaxed in a way he’d never seen.
It never once occurred to him this was what happiness looked like.
What did occur to him, once he was able to see past the red haze, was that she was going somewhere
with
the coppers.
Not twenty seconds later, he was out the door, watching her climb on the back of DS Hama’s mag-cycle, while the youth straddled Officer Prudawe’s vehicle. All around them, officers was hopping on their rides, checking their weapons and all practically glowing with eager efficiency.
Ellison hated every bleedin’ one of ‘em.
As cycles hummed to quiet life, he glanced around and
oy!
Looked as if some honest citizen had left their Edsel Comet right in front of the station, mistakenly assuming their property would be safe in front of the coppers’ house.
What honest citizens never thought was how many criminals passed through the precinct on a daily basis — something the Comet’s owner learned when he finally finished his paperwork and came out to find his car had been stolen.
Again.
* * *
Clive Wendell was not a happy man. He’d a lump on the back of his head the size of an orange, his jaw ached and his guts felt like someone had used them for a punching bag which, in fact, someone had.
Wendell really wanted to see that someone again — to return the favor.
Unfortunately for Wendell, his crew was made up of “— a passel of morons what couldn’t find their own arses in a blackout!” he exclaimed, then winced because talking hurt his jaw. “One man,” he moaned, leaning his forehead on the bar in front of him, “one tall sodding bugger and not a one of my boys can find ‘im.”
“Hard luck, that,” the man on the other side of the bar commiserated, though not very enthusiastically.
The lack of enthusiasm was due mostly to the fact that the bartender, Martin Soong, was also the owner of A Fine Mess, which was Lower Cadbury’s last pub standing and, as such, also required to pay Wendell for the privilege of not being burned to the ground.
“It’ll go a lot harder on him,” Wendell said, raising his head to stare expectantly at his empty glass.
Martin took the hint and dug out the good stuff, which was only slightly less likely to eat a hole in one’s stomach lining than the not-so-good stuff, and poured. “Never seen the fella before, then?”
“Didn’t I say that?” Wendell tossed the liquor back and then coughed. “Bloody Keepers, man, why can’t you serve somethin’ less lethal?”
Because I can’t afford it
, Martin thought,
because all my profits go to making sure you and your lot don’t burn my joint and break my fingers
. “Inflation,” he said with a shrug.
“Swarmin’ economy’ll bleed us all t’death,” Wendell griped, downing the rest of the shot.
Martin, wisely, said nothing and poured another.
“I’ll tell you what, though,” Wendell said as he eyed the glass greedily, “I’ll be payin’ a visit to yon Doc Hama, I will. It was him yapping that brought the tall bugger, so’s maybe I get ‘im yappin’ again, the tall bugger’ll make another appearance. Only this time it’ll be me and my boys waitin.”
“And won’t that be fun,” Martin murmured.
“Whazzat?”
“Nothing,” Martin said, tipping another slosh into the glass. “Only, you do know Tiago Hama’s father is a cop?”
Wendell was apparently unimpressed — at least the pfffft-like noise he made sounded unimpressed. “What good are coppers in Lower Cadbury?”
What good, indeed
, Martin thought.
“Only law here,” Wendell continued, on a roll, “is mine.”
Maybe I could pack up shop and move,
Martin thought.
I hear Edsel’s nice this time of year.
“What?” Wendell started to stand.
“What?” Martin asked, afraid he’d used his outside voice, until he realized that Wendell wasn’t talking to him, but to the man who’d just walked in. “Hello?”
“Good day to you, Mr. Bartender,” Ulf Ohmdahl said. “But excuse me, for I am speaking to this piece of mastodon dropping here.”
Wendell started to stand, tiny eyes glittering with menace. “Are you talkin’ to me?”
“Did I not say this?” Ulf beamed. “For you, Mr. Wendell, I have a message from my good friend, Gideon Quinn.”
“And who the flamin’ turd is Gideon Quinn?”
Martin, with that uncanny instinct of bartenders from ancient Earth to modern Fortune, removed Wendell’s glass, the bottle, and any other incidental breakables from the bar.
“Gideon Quinn is,” here Ulf paused, his mighty forehead screwing up in thought, “ah yes, Gideon Quinn says to say, he is man who pounded your sorry ass into pavement early this morning, and if you know what is good for you, you will be taking yourself and your bottom feeding enforcers out of Lower Cadbury by sunsdown.”
“Know what’s good for
me
?” Wendell asked, visibly shocked.
Martin could understand this, as thus far no one had dared stand up to Wendell. Well, that one gal had, an ex-Corpsman, she’d been.
Her body had been found floating in the Avon the next day.
“So he says,” Ulf nodded.
“And does this Gideon Quinn say what’ll happen if I don’t
know what’s good for me
?”
“Wait, I must think” Ulf said, looking a bit troubled. “Ah,” he pointed a massive finger upwards as if remembering something, “yes. He says if you unwilling to take easy way, you should be going to 919 Penelope Street, at sixteen hundred hours, that is being two in the afternoon, for you civilians,” he added helpfully.
“I know what swarming sixteen hundred hours, is,” Wendell snarled with enough vehemence to let Martin know he was lying. Wendell had never enlisted, preferring to skulk in the shadows of Lower Cadbury to make war on those left behind.
“Then you will be prompt,” Ulf said with a smile. “Or, you will be gone, yes?”
“Yes,” Wendell said. “Wait, I mean no! No, I will not be gone from Cadbury. I’ll bleedin’ burn Cadbury to the ground before I leaves it.”
“Funny,” Ulf said, though now he was absolutely not smiling, “that is what Quinn says you would say.” He looked over to Martin. “Goodbye, Mr. Bartender.”
“Bye?” Martin said, half-raising the soiled bar rag at the departing Ulf, not entirely certain what had happened here.
“Two o’clock,” Wendell muttered, rising from the stool and heading for the door. “I’ll be ready
before
two o’clock. Me and my bottom feedin’ enforcers will take ‘im by surprise, and then we’ll see what’s good for me.”
Martin watched Wendell stalk — well, limp, really — out of the pub and decided it would be wise to close up shop for the day, if not the week, and visit his sister, who worked over t’the Avon docks.
He didn’t much like his sister, and she forever smelled of fish, but better a day in the company of old salmon breath than stay here and wait for whatever fallout fell out from Wendell’s visit to 919 Penelope Street.
SHORTLY AFTER THIRTEEN
o’clock, Nahmin knocked on the door of General Rand’s office.
“Come in,” Celia’s muffled voice called, and Nahmin entered.
Unlike the study, which had been designed for comfort, General Rand’s office was all Corps.
Everything — from the plain metal desk, with its teleph and typing machines, to the maps of Fortune pinned to the walls, to the radio station at the back of the room — was utilitarian, if not downright spare. The only nod to anything approaching luxury was the tea station behind the desk.
Nahmin, in his role as General Rand’s valet, had of course been in the room before, but in that guise had never shown the least interest in the inner workings of the Corps. Now, however, he allowed himself to study the maps, which marked with pins and bits of string the latest in troop locations, munitions caches and, most important of all, the crystal fields which had been the basis of the ongoing conflict between the Coalition and United Colonies.
A conflict the Colonies believed at an end.
He looked at Celia, already seated at the desk, which was set facing the door, digging through Rand’s files.
If the Colonies only knew, he thought. “Ma’am,” he said, “there was a teleph on the main house line, from the district precinct. They wanted to let you know Quinn is still at large.”
“Imagine my surprise,” she brushed a lock of hair from her cheek as she read through a file bearing the Eyes Only stamp.
“How long do you intend to give the police to take care of Quinn?” he asked.
She looked up. “You have doubts of the efficiency of Nike’s police force?”
“On the contrary, I have no doubts whatsoever that they will utterly fail to apprehend him.”
At that she laughed, and it was a credit to her talents that even that short sounding of amusement could send suggestive tremors all the way through to Nahmin’s cold, assassin’s core.
“You may be right,” she admitted, sliding a few papers from the Eyes Only file she held, and then returning the file itself to the drawer. “But even if they fail, Gideon’s criminal record and the evidence of his current crime will prevent his taking any effective action against us. Though I admit, I’d relish another confrontation.”
Nahmin didn’t think she meant the same sort of confrontation he’d have liked. “Assuming, that is, he is working alone,” he pointed out. “You’ll recall the general’s informant in Morton, the one who first alerted us to Quinn’s freedom?”
“Finch, yes. What about him?”
“Finch’s message indicated Quinn’s parole came from high up in the Corps, which indicates at least one member of the military believes there was more to the Nasa incident than previously suspected. Why else set a confessed traitor free?”
“Possible,” she allowed. “But even if they have suspicions, there is nothing for them to discover.” She slid another file from the desk drawer. “Jessup, whatever his faults, was meticulous about his work. There isn’t a shred of existing evidence that Jessup framed Gideon in Nasa, while everything points to Gideon as Jessup’s murderer.”
Nahmin had to admit it seemed quite rational when she said it.
Of course, that was Celia’s particular skill, and what had first brought her to the Midasian spy-master’s attention, her ability to make the unthinkable reasonable in the eyes of her marks.
It was that skill which had Colonial engineers placidly handing over mockups of the latest in weapons’ technology during an assignation, airship captains sharing flight plans over a glass of wine, and members of parliament agreeing to a treaty that provided the Coalition states unprecedented access to crystal during one of Celia’s cocktail parties.
Even Nahmin, accustomed to Celia’s prowess, had been surprised at the gullibility of politicians.
And it was this skill which had subsequently convinced Jessup Rand — a loyal command officer without a mark on his record — to subvert every oath he’d ever sworn in order to destroy Quinn.
Quinn, who was the only one of Celia’s marks she’d failed to turn, which was why — despite her formidable skills at manipulation — Nahmin was troubled over what Quinn might yet attempt.
Even as he thought this, the house bell clanged.
Nahmin looked at Celia. “Are we expecting anyone, ma’am?”
“No, but it is quite possible my sudden bereavement has reached the ears of the gentry.” She slid the last of the files back into the drawer and closed it. “Best answer it,” she said, stacking the papers she’d culled, which would in time be delivered to an antiquities dealer who served as her courier. “We shouldn’t disappoint the maudlin hordes.”
Nahmin gave the short bow suitable to a valet and departed the office while Celia began the transformation from efficient intelligencer to grieving widow. However, when he opened the door, it was no maudlin ristocrat waiting, but Rey and Ronan Pradesh, Celia’s pet twins.
“We found Quinn,” Rey said, elbowing her way past Nahmin, who found himself looking forward to the day Celia ordered the twins’ deaths.
“Not we, exactly,” Ronan corrected, showing more clarity of thought than he’d exhibited since Quinn dislocated his elbow, the night before.
“Then who has?” Celia asked from behind Nahmin. He stepped aside, allowing her to face the twins. Tears intended for a different audience were already drying on her cheeks. “Surely not the police.”
“The Ohmdahls,” Rey admitted.
“Do we know any Ohmdahls?” Celia asked Nahmin. “Are they on the social register?”
“No, Madame,” he said. “The Ohmdahls are the buffoo— the friends of the twins who helped us apprehend Quinn the first time.”
“How lovely,” Celia turned her attention to the pair. “And have they apprehended him for you, again?”
“Not this time,” Ronan said, as Rey appeared too angry to speak. “But Freya told us they spied him passing through their neighborhood. Being curious, she and Rolf followed him to some busted up warehouse in the old Riverside docks. She also said,” he added, “that he looked bad. Injured, maybe, or sick.”
“I suppose being shot while jumping from a window could do that,” Celia murmured, looking at Nahmin.
He took the cue. “How well do you know these Ohmdahls?”
The twins looked at each other, and shrugged. “Pretty well — well enough to know they’re not the quickest drones in the hive.”
Celia hummed. “Is it possible they only saw what Gideon wanted them to see?”
“I’d give it fifty-fifty odds,” Ronan said, after a considering beat.
“In that case, it would be a pity to disappoint him, don’t you think?” she said with a smile that went all the way to Nahmin’s toes.
“Should I fetch your coat, Madame?” he asked, recalling her desire for another confrontation.
“Sadly, I believe it best if I remain here, and available to the police.”
“We can take care of him,” Rey said, her eyes flashing. “It would be my greatest pleasure.”
Ronan looked less certain, but he didn’t dissent.
“Then I will leave him in your most capable hands,” Celia said, giving each a caress on the cheek, the simple touch nearly enough to melt them, Nahmin noted. “And after, we will celebrate, just the three of us, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” Rey murmured.
Whatever lucidity Ronan had gained seemed to have been lost again, and he merely nodded, dumbly.
Nahmin waited until the euphoric pair had departed before looking at his superior.
“Best follow them,” she said, all trace of the eager seductress gone, now. “Make absolutely certain it’s done.”
“Ma’am,” he nodded and then, because it was her, and he was only mortal, added, “and then
we
may celebrate?”
He took her smile for a promise but, unlike the twins, held no illusion that her promise meant more than what it was, payment for services rendered, and as easily forgotten as the stack of starbucks Madame Rand had paid for the previous night’s catering.