Star Risk - 02 Scoundrel Worlds (29 page)

Reynard, interestingly enough, didn't deny that the current "classes"�men and women of a certain age�might well be called into the service.

The Masked Ones, so far, had played little part in the campaign, only attacking a few Independent rallies, and those were quickly broken up by the Independent's own security.

The theory around the mansion was a bit different�that the Masked Ones and the DIB operatives undercover with them had taken such a beating they were still stumbling around in shock, licking their wounds.

The holo ads seemed about equally split. Normally the Universalists, since they were the party of the rich, could blanket the frequencies. But with Reynard calling for increased military presence, a number of defense contractors changed sides, knowing on which side their weapons systems would be buttered.

Also, Fra Diavolo's propaganda machinery was in full swing, and his followers were requested to give a bit to the Independents.

Naturally, Montrois's police kept a carefully neutral stance, or so they claimed.

"Wittgenstein with a bubble pipe," Grok said. "I'm glad we run our government differently. There seems to be no logic on either side, no talk of peace talks with Torguth. It's either ignore them or start shooting."

"How do your people run a government?" Riss asked.

"We discuss things thoroughly, make sure everyone is in agreement, and then whoever seems to want a position is free to take it."

Riss shuddered. "That sounds too much like a dictatorship. It wouldn't work for humans, since we don't seem to be able to agree about anything for longer than a week or so without somebody bringing out the rubber clubs for persuasion."

"I have heard it said," von Baldur put in, "that democracy is the worst form of government, and its only virtue is it is better than all the others that have been devised."

Grok snorted.

The voice asked for M'chel Riss. There was no picture. Riss took the call.

The voice, clearly feeding through an alteration device, said: "I heard you are interested in the doings of Division Leader Caranis, of Strategic Intelligence."

"We are."

"Twelve kilometers beyond Tuletia, on the S'kaski Road is the Montpelier Inn. Tonight, at eight. Be early."

The com cleared.

"And who was that?" King asked curiously.

"Either a trap," Riss said. "Or one of Diavolo's little footsoldiers doing what his master asked him."

"Who'll you take for backup?"

Riss shook her head. "Don't know. I'll have one of the patrol ships in a high orbit, for certain. On the ground� if Caranis is going to be there� he's seen Grok and von Baldur, and I don't want to think about what would happen if our Chas went bester with a busted leg. Maybe one of our rent-a-goons?"

"I'll go," King said.

Riss considered for half a second. "Surely. Why not. We could both do with an evening in the country."

The Montpelier had been somebody's elaborate country manse, tastefully converted into a restaurant, clearly intended for the wealthy, judging from the expensive lims and lifters parked in its tree-thick grounds. There was no sign of Caranis's Sikorski-Bentley.

Riss landed their lifter, pointing it out for a clear, fast takeoff. It was just 7:30.

"Good place for an ambush," Riss said, as they sauntered up the steps.

Both women were dressed formally, if a little on the sensual side. It was Riss's theory that the more she could get men reacting through their gonads, the better chance she'd have. Riss wore a black skirt with a cream blouse, and a black jacket. King had formal pajamas on, in green and white. Both women wore flats, for ease in running if they had to, and carried a pair of guns hidden in various places.

"Ours or theirs?" King asked.

"Either one," Riss said.

"I think," Jasmine said, "maybe you've been around the military too long."

Riss thought about it. "There's no maybe to that," she sighed. "Wouldn't it be nice to come here, and not be thinking �boy, that tree could put up a couple of snipers, and I'd emplace my mortars over there,' and so on and so forth. And we can't even go and get drunk."

King patted her shoulder. "Later there's time for almost everything."

They were greeted at the door, escorted to the bar, since they deliberately didn't have reservations, where they asked for a window seat.

Riss ordered a very light liqueur with sparkling water, King a glass of wine. Both nursed their drinks, made idle chit-chat. Five minutes before eight, a long, black lim grounded.

The driver and one man got out. The driver looked about warily, while the other man came into the inn, looked around, and evidently saw nothing to worry about. He went back to the lim, and a third man got out. He was older, very tall, with a shock of white hair. The man came into the inn, looked in at the bar.

Riss and King gave him friendly smiles. He raised his eyebrows in interest, smiled back broadly, went into the dining room.

Two minutes later, a Sikorski-Bentley landed. Again, two men got out, cased the inn, went back to the lifter.

King had to suppress a case of the giggles. "These people really trust each other," she whispered.

Division Leader Caranis got out. He was dressed casually, but expensively. He came into the inn, didn't look in the bar, went into the restaurant and sat down with the older man.

One bodyguard covered the back of the restaurant, one just inside, the third the front entrance.

King and Riss decided it was time for dinner. The dining room, in mid-week, was only about half-full. The women were seated, by preference, across the room from Caranis and the older man.

Both men had three drinks apiece before ordering dinner. The two women finished theirs, and ordered. The men ordered sparkling wine, and the older man poured lavishly.

"Don't we wish," King said through motionless lips, an invaluable trick, "we had a bug on that table?" Riss nodded, laughed as if her friend had told a very funny joke, and they ordered. Riss was thinking hard about what to do next.

Halfway through the meal the older man burped politely, and got up to use the restroom.

Riss had it. She waited a minute, excused herself to Jasmine, and went for the other restroom herself. She went in and waited, listening.

She downrated the bodyguard at the door. He should've been dogging his client, waiting outside the restroom. But maybe the older man didn't think he was in any particular danger.

She heard the fresher flush, came out, as if in a hurry, and bumped hard into the older man. She stumbled, went to her knees, and the man was bending over her.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes� yes�" M'chel said. "I just feel clumsy."

He helped her to her feet, and she smiled at the man, a warm, inviting smile.

"I should buy you a drink," she said, "for banging into you."

"No, no," the man said. "I think I should buy you� and your friend� one. Do you come here often?"

"Every now and then," Riss purred. "When there's the promise of good company. Sometimes with my friend, sometimes alone."

"Ah," the man said. "I'd certainly like to join you in the bar for an after-dinner drink, but I'm here on business."

"Perhaps we could make it another time," Riss said. She dug in her tiny cocktail purse, careful not to expose her small gun, took out a business card.

It read:

Mandy Daves, Recreational Therapist.

Under that was one of the com lines into the mansion that was answered only with "Hello."

The man looked at Riss, licked his lips without realizing it, reached inside his suit, gave her a card: Lesnowth Almahara, chief executive officer, Chetwynd Industries.

"We should think about giving each other a call," M'chel said. "I do prefer older men� they have so much more to talk about."

Almahara smiled back, a bit hungrily, and the two returned to their meals.

"Got him," King said. "Chetwynd Industries is a major defense builder� one of the bidders on the Belfort Orbital Defense System."

"You satisfied?" Riss asked Goodnight.

"A nice quiet little dinner," Goodnight said dreamily. "And, no doubt, a discreet envelope passed to the head of Strategic Intelligence over the dessert, to make sure he stays happy.

"Now that's somebody to have on the pad," he continued. "The head of Ha would know anything and everything proposed for defense spending, and, no doubt, the bid ceiling, and who else will be bidding. Including, maybe, that orbital system for the Belfort Worlds.

"Our Caranis," he said, and now a bit of disappointment came, "is no better than a common crook, not a big time spy. Hardly worth worrying about. And I was wrong. It's L'Pellerin all the way."

"Umm-hmm," Riss said.

"So why aren't you gloating more about not only being right, but getting the bastard cold?"

"Because," M'chel Riss said, "I'm looking over Jasmine's shoulder, staring at the good Almahara's itinerary, and an announcement of a Traditional Event, according to the Pacifist, and suddenly I think I've got a good way to nail L'Pellerin.

"Good and final, putting him dead at the crossroads with a stake in his heart. Not to mention publicly exposed. Assuming, of course, I'm still as sneaky as I used to be."

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FIFTY-THREE � ^ � From an advertisement, discreetly placed in several of Torguth's business holos:

Interested Investors Get in at the beginnings of a mammoth profit-maker. Major investments are now sought for work in a new solar system, soon to be open for full exploitation, for those seriously interested in Torguth's future growth. Areas of potential development include light and heavy mineral works, agricultural, and heavy and light manufacturing. A docile workforce and working conditions designed for the serious entrepreneur are guaranteed, without interference. This opportunity fully approved by Governmental agencies. For more information, contact�

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FIFTY-FOUR � ^ � The trap for L'Pellerin would have to be carefully set and sprung.

It involved a rather strange gathering called the Artists' Ball, which was not a ball, nor were any artists, unless they came from the very rich, ever invited. Perhaps they had been, in the early days of Dampier, but no more. Instead, the Ball was a five-day-long gathering of Dampier's hierarchy. There were no media, no "outsiders," certainly no social critics invited.

The Artists' Ball was held on a secluded island of southern Montrois. There were cabins small and large, dining halls, conference rooms big and small, plus all the recreational facilities anyone could want. The staff was specially hired for the five days, and flown in. Certainly the staff was either superbly professional or equally attractive and handsome.

A handful of journalists and populists had tried to infiltrate the Ball over the years, and uniformly had been caught by the island's heavy security and escorted back to the mainland, not infrequently with thick ears.

There had been rumors about the Ball for over a century: This was where the Dampier System's future was planned; This was where the rich divided up their spoils, and agreed not to step on each others' toes; This was where conglomerates were formed and dissolved.

Most of these were true.

There were other stories: No one ever brought his or her legal mate; Anyone leaking to the media about anything that happened was liable to end up without a career or worse; There had been at least two hushed-up murders; Some industrialists had gone bankrupt after rounds of high-stakes gambling; There were orgies every night.

Annually, the Artists' Ball was derided by the leftish holos as a rich degenerates' playground, and every year the suites of the wealthy and powerful were vacant for those five days.

Two days before the Ball, M'chel went to Reynard, meeting him in his party's campaign headquarters, where Reynard had a party-leader-size office, decorated as a successful pol's sanctum should be.

First, she told him their suspicions�near certainty�about L'Pellerin.

The man was honestly shocked. "He has too much power," Reynard said, "and has been known to misuse it. I told you once he was crooked, but I never, ever, thought he was a traitor. No wonder he was so quick to condemn poor Sufyerd. I was right, I was right, but gods, what a price this is going to cost."

M'chel added that L'Pellerin was also the single head of the Masked Ones. Reynard's hands were trembling. He sat down behind his desk abruptly.

"Can I get you something?" Riss asked.

"Yes� yes. A brandy. There's a decanter in that sideboard."

M'chel held back a grin. Things were going much, much better than she'd planned. She went to the sideboard, fumbled for the decanter, and poured Reynard a snifter. Riss brought it back, and he drained it.

"What are we going to do? What are we going to do? If I accuse him now� that'll be a debacle. A disaster. There are stories, reliable stories, that he has private information on most politicians that could destroy them. If he's fighting for his life, I have no doubt that he would make sure that information is disseminated. We do not need, in these parlous times, a disaster of this size."

Riss declined to ask if L'Pellerin had anything on Reynard himself.

"Don't worry," Riss said. "At least, don't worry too much. Star Risk has a way, I'm fairly sure, of defusing the situation. But I need your help." Riss explained what she needed.

Reynard nodded jerkily. "That's not much� and yes, I'm certain I can ensure L'Pellerin attends the Artists' Ball, even at this short notice, though he's loudly denounced it from time to time.

"And the second thing you need� again, that isn't a problem, particularly with the current situation with Torguth.

"But� to speak frankly, my dear Riss, I don't think I should attend this Ball. I hate saying that, for it makes me sound most cowardly, but this election will be close run, at least at this point, and I� or rather the Independents� can't risk any problems."

M'chel, privately thinking that Reynard did, indeed, come across as a coward, assured him that Star Risk could also make sure he wouldn't be able to attend the Ball, and there would be no questions raised about the convenience of Reynard's absence. That had already been thought of and taken care of.