Hell, what death? What had he to do with the Dendarii, or the Oserans, after all? Oser was right, it had been a scam, and the only wonder was how long it had taken the man to wake to the fact. Miles could see no immediate need to reinvolve himself with the Dendarii at all. In fact, he could be well rid of a dangerous political embarrassment. Let Oser have them, they'd been his in the first place anyway.
I have three sworn liege-people in that fleet. My own personal body politic.
How
easy
it had been to slip back into being Naismith. . . .
Anyway, activating Naismith wasn't Miles's decision. It was Captain Ungari's.
Ungari was the first to point this out, when he returned later and Overholt briefed him. A controlled man, his fury showed by subtle signs, a sharpening of the voice, deeper lines of tension around the eyes and mouth. "You violated your cover. You
never
break cover. It's the first rule of survival in this business."
"Sir, may I respectfully submit, I didn't blow it," Miles replied steadily. "Chodak did. He seemed to realize it, too, he's not stupid. He apologized as best he could." Chodak indeed might be subtler than first glance would indicate, for at this point, he had an in with both sides in the putative Dendarii command schism, whoever came out on top. Calculation or chance? Chodak was either smart or lucky, in either case he could be a useful addition to Miles's side. . . .
What side, huh? Ungari isn't going to let me near the Dendarii after this.
Ungari frowned at the vid-plate, which had just replayed the recording of Miles's interview with the mercenary. "It sounds more and more like the Naismith cover may be too dangerous to activate at all. If your Oser's little palace coup is anything like what this fellow indicates, Illyan's fantasy of you simply ordering the Dendarii to get lost is straight out the air lock. I thought it sounded too easy." Ungari paced the wardroom, tapping his right fist into his left palm. "Well, we may still get some use out of Victor Rotha. Much as I'd like to confine you to quarters—"
Strange, how many of his superiors said that.
"—Liga wants to see Rotha again this evening. Maybe to place an order for some of our fictitious cargo. String it out—I want you to get past him to the next level of his organization. His boss, or his boss's boss."
"Who owns Liga, do you suspect?"
Ungari stopped pacing, and turned his hands palm-out. "The Cetagandans? Jackson's Whole? Any one of half a dozen others? ImpSec is spread thin out here. But if it were proved Liga's criminal organization are Cetagandan puppets, it could be worth sending a full-time agent to penetrate their ranks. So find out! Hint at more goodies in your bag. Take bribes. Blend in. And move it along. I'm almost finished here, and Illyan particularly wants to know when Aslund Station will be fully operational as a defensive base."
Miles punched the door chime of the hostel room. His chin tic'd up. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. Overholt glanced up and down the empty corridor.
The door hissed open. Miles blinked in astonishment.
"Ah, Mr. Rotha." The light cool voice belonged to the brief blonde he'd seen in the concourse that morning. Her jumpsuit was now skin-fitting red silk with a downcurving neckline, a glittering red ruff rising from the back of the neck to frame her sculptured head, and high-heeled red suede boots. She favored him with a high-voltage smile.
"I'm sorry," said Miles automatically. "I must be in the wrong place."
"Not at all." A slim hand opened in an expansive, welcoming gesture. "You're right on time."
"I had an appointment with a Mr. Liga, here."
"Yes, and I've taken over the appointment. Do come in. My name is Livia Nu."
Well, she couldn't possibly be carrying any concealed weapons. Miles stepped within, and was unsurprised to see her bodyguard, idling in one corner of the hostel room. The man nodded to Overholt, who nodded back, both wary as two cats. And where was the third man? Not here, evidently.
She drifted to a liquid-filled settee, and arranged herself upon it.
"Are you, uh, Mr. Liga's supervisor?" Miles asked. No, Liga had denied knowing who she was. . . .
She hesitated fractionally. "In a sense, yes."
One of them was lying—no, not necessarily. If she were indeed high in Liga's organization, he would not have identified her to Rotha. Damn.
"—but you may think of me as a procurement agent."
God. Pol Six really was hip-deep in spies. "For whom?"
"Ah," she smiled. "One of the advantages of dealing with small suppliers is always their no-questions-asked policy. One of the few advantages."
"No-questions-asked is House Fell's slogan, I believe. They have the advantage of a fixed and secure base. I've learned to be cautious about selling arms to people who might be shooting at me in the near future."
Her blue eyes widened. "Who would want to shoot at you?"
"Misguided folk," Miles tossed off. Ye gods. He was not in control of this conversation. He exchanged a harried look with Overholt, who was being out-blanded by his counterpart.
"We must chat." She patted the cushion beside her invitingly. "Do sit down, Victor. Ah," she nodded to her bodyguard, "why don't you wait outside."
Miles seated himself on the edge of the settee, trying to guess the woman's age. Her complexion was smooth and white. Only the skin of her eyelids was soft and faintly puckered. Miles thought of Ungari's orders—take bribes, blend in. . . . "Perhaps you should wait outside also," he said to Overholt.
Overholt looked torn, but of the two, he clearly wanted more to keep an eye on the large armed man. He nodded, apparently in acquiescence, actually in approval, and followed her man out.
Miles smiled in what he hoped was a friendly way. She looked positively seductive. Miles eased cautiously back in the cushions, and tried to look seduceable. A veritable espionage fantasy encounter, of the sort Ungari had told him never happened. Maybe they just never happened to Ungari, eh?
My, what sharp teeth you have, miss.
Her hand went to her cleavage—a riveting gesture—and withdrew a tiny, familiar vid disk. She leaned over to insert it in the vid player on the low table before them, and it took Miles a moment to shift his attention to the vid. The little glittering soldier-figure went through its stylized gestures once again. Ha. So, she really was Liga's supervisor. Very good, he was getting somewhere now.
"This is really remarkable, Victor. How did you come by it?"
"A happy accident."
"How many can you supply?"
"A strictly limited number. Say, fifty. I'm not a manufacturer. Liga did mention the price?"
"I thought it high."
"If you can find another supplier who offers these for less, I will be happy to match his price and knock off ten percent." Miles managed to bow sitting down.
She made a faint amused sound, down in her throat. "The volume offered is too low."
"There are several ways you could profit from even a small number of these, if you got into the trade early enough. Such as selling working models to interested governments. I mean to have a share of that profit, before the market is saturated and the price drops. You could too."
"Why don't you? Sell them directly to governments, that is."
"What makes you think I haven't?" Miles smiled. "But—consider my routes out of this area. I came in past Barrayar and Pol. I must exit via either Jackson's Whole or the Cetagandan Empire. Unfortunately, through either route I run a high risk of being relieved of this particular cargo without any compensation whatsoever." For that matter, where had Barrayar obtained its working model of the shield-suit? Was there a real Victor Rotha, and where was he now? Where
had
Illyan gotten their ship?
"So, you carry them with you?"
"I didn't say that."
"Hm." She smiled. "Can you deliver one tonight?"
"What size?"
"Small." One long-nailed finger traced a line down her body, from breast to thigh, to indicate exactly how small.
Miles sighed mournfully. "Unfortunately, these were sized for the average-to-large combat soldier. Cutting one down is a considerable technical challenge—one which I am in fact still working on myself."
"How thoughtless of the manufacturer."
"I entirely agree, Citizen Nu."
She looked at him more carefully. Did her smile grow slightly more genuine?
"Anyway, I prefer to sell them in wholesale lots. If your organization isn't financially up to it—"
"An arrangement might yet be made."
"Promptly, I trust. I'll be moving on soon."
She murmured absently, "Perhaps not . . ." then looked up with a quick frown. "What's your next stop?"
Ungari had to file a public flight plan anyway. "Aslund."
"Hm . . . yes, we must come to some arrangement. Absolutely."
Were those blue flickers what were called bedroom eyes? The effect was lulling, almost hypnotic.
I finally meet a woman who's barely taller than I am, and I don't even know which side she's on.
He of all men ought not to mistake short for weak or helpless.
"Can I meet your boss?"
"Who?" Her brows lowered.
"The man I saw you both with this morning."
". . . oh. So, you've already seen him."
"Set me up a meeting. Let's do serious business. Betan dollars, remember."
"Pleasure before business, surely." Her breath puffed against his ear, a faint spicy fog.
Was she trying to soften him up? What
for?
Ungari had said, don't break cover. Surely it would be in character for Victor Rotha to take all he could get. Plus ten percent. "You don't have to do this," he managed to choke out. His heart was beating entirely too fast.
"I don't do
everything
for business reasons," she purred.
Why, indeed, should she bother to seduce a sleazy little gun runner? What pleasure was in it for her? What was in it
besides
pleasure for her?
Maybe she likes me.
Miles winced, picturing himself offering that explanation to Ungari. Her arm circled his neck. His hand, unwilled, rose to stroke the fine pelt of her hair. A highly aesthetic tactile experience, just as he'd imagined . . .
Her hand tightened. In pure nervous reflex, Miles leapt to his feet.
And stood there feeling like an idiot. It had been a caress, not incipient strangulation. The angle was all wrong for attack leverage.
She flung herself back in the seat, slim arm stretching along the top of the cushions. "Victor!" Her voice was amused, her brow arched. "I wasn't going to bite your neck."
His face was hot. "I-have-to-go-now." He cleared his throat to bring his voice back down to its lower register. His hand swooped to pluck the vid disk from the player. Her hand leapt toward it, then fell back languidly, pretending disinterest. Miles hit the door comm.
Overholt was there at once, in the sliding door aperture. Miles's gut eased. If his bodyguard had been gone, Miles would have known this at once for some kind of setup. Too late, of course.
"Maybe later," Miles gabbled. "After you've taken delivery. We could get together." Delivery of a nonexistent cargo? What was he saying?
She shook her head in disbelief. Her laugh followed him down the corridor. It had a brittle edge.
Miles lurched awake when the lights snapped on in his cabin. Ungari, fully dressed, was in the doorway. Behind him their jump pilot, wearing only his underwear and a sleep-stunned expression, jittered uncertainly.
"Dress later," Ungari snarled to the pilot. "Just get us free of the dock and run us out beyond the ten-thousand-kilometer limit. I'll be up to help set course in a few minutes." He added half to himself, "As soon as I know where the devil we're going.
Move.
"
The pilot fled. Ungari strode to Miles's bedside. "Vorkosigan, what the hell happened in that hostel room?"
Miles squeezed his eyes against the glares of both the lights and Ungari, and suppressed an impulse to hide under the covers from both. "Ha?" His mouth was dry with sleep.
"I've just gotten an advance warning—bare minutes' advance warning—of an arrest order being put out by Pol Six civil security for Victor Rotha."
"But I never touched the lady!" Miles protested, dizzied.
"Liga's body was found murdered in your meeting room."
"What!"
"The security lab has just finished timing it—to about when you met. Were to meet. The arrest order will be on the net in minutes, and we'll be locked in here."
"But I didn't. I never even saw Liga, only his boss, Livia Nu. I mean—if I'd done any such thing, I'd have reported it to you immediately, sir!"
"Thank you," said Ungari dryly. "I'm glad to know that." His voice harshened. "You're being framed, of course."
"Who—" Yes. There could have been another, grimmer way for Livia Nu to have relieved Liga of that top secret vid disk. But if she wasn't Liga's superior, or even a member of his Polian criminal organization at all, who was she? "We need to know more, sir! This could be the start of something."
"This could be the
end
of our mission. Damn! And now we can't retreat back through Pol to Barrayar. Cut off. Where next?" Ungari paced, evidently thinking aloud. "I want to go to Aslund. Its extradition treaty with Pol has broken down at present, but . . . then there are your mercenary complications. Now that they've connected Rotha to Naismith. Thanks to your carelessness."
"From what Chodak said, I don't think Admiral Naismith would exactly be welcomed back with open arms," Miles agreed reluctantly.
"Jackson's Whole's consortium station has no extradition treaty with anyone. This cover's gone completely sour. Rotha and Naismith, both useless. It has to be the Consortium. I'll ditch this ship there, go underground, and double back to Aslund on my own."
"What about me, sir?"
"You and Overholt will have to split off and take the long way home."
Home. Home in disgrace. "Sir . . . running away looks bad. Suppose we sat tight, and cleared Rotha of the charges? We wouldn't be cut off anymore, and Rotha would still be a viable cover. It's possible we're being hustled into doing just this, cutting and running."