Hangfire Page 12

  "Anyway, the mob's made Havanagas a keyword in tourism and entertainment. That's legit. I don't want to interfere with that. But I do want to shut these families down by taking their leaders. I can get the evidence I need to stick them away forever, but I've got to get it off Havanagas. That's where you guys come in."

  "Why not just snatch them and send them off to Darkside, like you did with those—ah hell, you know what I mean." Claypoole was referring to the pirates they captured on Avionia.

  "I will," Nast answered. "But I've got to have the evidence to back me up on it."

  "Why do you need us to get it?" Pasquin asked.

  "My remaining agents have survived so far because they've never made any direct attempt to contact me or get anything off the planet."

  "Then how do you know they've got anything you need?" Pasquin asked.

  Nast smiled and nodded at the corporal. "I knew you were a sharp one, Pasquin. Well, one has managed to contact me using a very roundabout method, so I know what I need is in their hands. But I'm telling you, the families believe in security, and their security works on Havanagas. Nobody gets off the planet without a full-body scan. The same for their luggage. Be surprised how many towels and ashtrays the tourists try to steal in a year. But you three should be beyond suspicion."

  "I trust you, sir, but what if we're compromised? What if something goes wrong? Something unforeseen?" Dean asked.

  Nast shrugged. "I won't dukshit around: they'll kill you." He told them about Special Agent Woods. "But that won't happen to you."

  "Jezu!" Dean shuddered. "We went up against those raptors on Wanderjahr!"

  "Yeah," Claypoole said, "but they weren't hamstrung. Put me in the ring with one of them, and swish!" He made as if brandishing a blade. Dean looked at him unbelievingly.

  "They get me in there," Pasquin said, "and I'm pullin' a Woods myself."

  "They won't get you," Nast emphasized. "And if things do go bad, I won't be far away."

  "Uh, how far away would that be, sir?" Pasquin asked.

  "A matter of minutes. I've selected a landing site not too far from Placetas, where I can set up a secure base. We've got a stealth suite that should defeat any electronic detection system they have on Havanagas."

  "How far is that?" Pasquin asked.

  "You don't need to know." Nast smiled tightly. "The less you know about what I'm up to the better. If things go bad and you are taken, they will torture you. If they apply the full suite of horrors, you'll tell them everything. But I emphasize again, they aren't going to get you."

  "How will we contact you, sir?" Claypoole asked.

  Nast handed each man an electronic bookreader.

  "Bookreaders?" Dean exclaimed. He looked at Nast and shook his head. "I don't understand, Mr. Nast."

  "Look in the index. What books do you have on them?"

  "Well, there's—ah! The Soldier's Prize, and wow! Knives in the Night! Two military classics! I've read both of them several times, Mr. Nast!" Claypoole exclaimed happily.

  "Okay. Open Knives and find the words chieu hoi." They did. "Now, highlight that word and open the thesaurus." Immediately a high-pitched pinging noise sounded in the tiny space. Nast took a tiny device out of his pocket and shut the pinging off. "This is a radio receiver. Those," he pointed to the readers, "are transmitters. If for some reason the transmissions are monitored, it won't make any difference because we'll be coming in too fast for them to react, even if they figure out what the signal means, and they won't, I assure you. We will be monitoring this one around the clock. Clever, eh?"

  "So it'll be just some minutes before you arrive?" Dean looked dubious.

  "Ten or fifteen at the most." Seeing the anxious looks on the Marines' faces, Nast went on quickly, "Hey! You guys can do that standing on your heads! The message comes in you've got the evidence, my guys swoop down on your location and I pick you up. I home in on the readers, you see?"

  "Yeah, yeah," Pasquin said quickly. "It'll work just fine."

  "Oh, boy, are we in the shit!" Claypoole sighed as soon as they were back in their corner with the privacy screens up.

  "It could be worse," Dean offered. "Hey, we're going to Havanagas, we got plenty of money, and we got three full days on the ground there before we contact this guy, Lovat Culloden, Chief of Security for the city of—"

  "Placetas," Claypoole said. Placetas was the main port of entry for Havanagas. Tourists went through customs there before moving on to one of the ten fantasy worlds of their choice in other cities situated throughout the planet. Placetas served as the seat of what government there was on Havanagas. While not a theme world itself, in Placetas every kind of vice and pleasure known to man was available. Many tourists never had to leave it.

  "And don't forget, we got a neat trip on the Ben Gay from Renner's World to Havanagas! One of the finest luxury starships in all of Human Space, and we're ridin' free of charge," Dean reminded them. Their tickets showed them booked from Thorsfinni's World to New Serengeti and from there to Renner's World, the last stop before Havanagas. The trip from Renner's World would take about a week.

  "So on the third day in Placetas we meet this guy, Culloden, at the Free Library. Who in the name of the Seven Hells ever heard of a whorehouse with a goddamn library—a real library—in it? Marines in a whorehouse, I can see that, but a freaking library?" Pasquin laughed.

  "We go in drunk, Raoul," Dean reminded him. "We sort of wander in at sixteen hours on the third day and raise some hell. We send the message and fifteen minutes later Nast picks us up and we go back to 34th FIST having gotten laid seventeen times and our bank accounts overflowing!"

  "Oh, it's brilliant, freaking brilliant," Claypoole exclaimed. "It's so complicated and screwed up it can't help but work perfectly. No, I'm not kidding. Who'd ever believe it was a setup and we're the drop-off for the data Nast needs to hang everybody? I bet if you told one of them Draya or Whatsit Family screws the whole plan, he'd just laugh in your face."

  "I know, I know, I know," Pasquin said. "Culloden's been showing up there on a regular basis, sampling the ‘books,’ looking for a prearranged contact with the right code word."

  "‘Whores, fours, and one-eyed jacks!’" Claypoole shouted "Whoever thought that one up? Ideal for a place where gambling is a prime activity. I wannabe the one to say it!"

  "He shakes us down," Pasquin continued, "gives us the crystals, and we call in the cops. I think you're right, Rock. This plan is so far out it'll actually work!" He laughed and slapped Claypoole on the shoulder. "But for right now, I'm gonna find Welbourne and try to get some of my money back."

  He did.

  Chapter Eleven

  Brigadier Sturgeon stood in his rented room looking ruefully at the small collection of garments he'd brought to Earth. Two sets of dress reds, one of dress whites, in the event he had to attend some formal function, and a set of garrison utilities. No civilian clothes, certainly nothing suitable for a fishing expedition. He shrugged off his threatening anxiety and concentrated on his wardrobe. Maybe he could get away with wearing his utilities. He'd have to come up with a heavy coat of some sort; his dress reds topcoat wasn't designed for wear in the wild. Hell, he thought, if he had to go out and buy a coat, he might as well buy a complete boonies outfit. He started to reach for his topcoat when his comm unit beeped. Who could that be? he wondered. Hardly anybody knew where he was.

  It was the B-and-B's matron. A deliveryman was at the door with a package for him. The brigadier's signature was required.

  A moment later he was downstairs, signing for a package the size of a valise. The address label said it was from Frederico's of Minneapolis.

  "What's Frederico's?" he asked the matron when the delivery man was gone.

  She looked at the label. "Oh, it's a very fine clothing store, sir. I believe they have the contract to clothe Marine officers." She looked at him blandly. "You weren't expecting it?"

  "I wasn't expecting anything," he said, and returned to his room with the parc
el.

  A note was inside the package:

  I know you're equipped for evenings at the Flag Club, but you probably don't have anything to wear on the Snake River. Please accept these with the compliments of the Marine Corps.

  Aguinaldo

  Under the note were three shirts, two pair of trousers, three pair of cushion-soled socks, a pair of heavy, watertight boots, and a thigh-length coat. The shirts and trousers were cold-weather/all-weather, rated to zero degrees Celsius. The garments were all lightweight; they automatically compensated for the ambient air temperature, and could be comfortably worn inside a heated structure or keep their wearer warm without a coat in temperatures just cold enough to freeze water. The coat would keep him warm in arctic conditions.

  Sturgeon smiled and shook his head, then reread the note. "...compliments of the Marine Corps," it said. General Aguinaldo must have a slush fund he could tap. Just as well he hadn't had to buy them himself, Sturgeon thought, since he wouldn't be able to take them back to Thorsfinni's World with him, and anything he bought would be money into the void. He looked at the garments again. Good quality, all of them. Hmm. Maybe he could find a way to ship them back that wouldn't cost more than the price of the garments.

  A car came at 1700 hours. General Aguinaldo wasn't in it.

  "Sir," said the driver, a sergeant, "the Assistant Commandant said he'd meet you at the airport."

  It was a twenty minute drive to Coen Airfield, a smaller airport than Frazier International, which handled flights to North American destinations. The driver showed Sturgeon to the check-in counter, where a ticket was waiting for him, then left. Sturgeon wondered why they were flying civilian; surely there was a military installation somewhere near the Snake River, and the ACMC swung enough weight to get them a hop on a military aircraft making the flight between Train or Military Air Station at Fargo and whatever was in Idaho. Anxiety, pretty much forgotten the past couple of hours, stabbed at him again.

  Aguinaldo didn't arrive until boarding was called. When he did, he was already dressed for the wilderness. A corner of his mouth twitched upward when he saw Sturgeon in his reds. "I can't speak for you, Brigadier, but I'm off duty."

  Sturgeon fought embarrassment. "Sorry, sir. I figured Marine general officers traveling—"

  "In a civilian suborb, off on a weekend jaunt." Aguinaldo grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "No problem, Ted. You can change in Boise. My cabin may be rustic, but it's civilized enough to have a closet where you can hang your monkey suit."

  Miraculously, or so it seemed to Sturgeon, they had reserved seats together. Aguinaldo let him have the window seat—he'd made the trip often enough to have seen the landscape below many times, but it was a first for the FIST commander, and a commander always wants to observe the terrain. Not that he'd be able to see much of it; the suborb flew high, and nightfall would overtake them before Helena.

  They didn't talk about anything that remotely approached the reason Sturgeon made his unprecedented visit to Earth, or anything else of a military nature on the flight. Instead, Aguinaldo kept the conversation on the pleasures of the Snake and the joys of angling. He even avoided Fargo politics and the follies of high-ranking bureaucrats. His jovial rectitude served merely to increase the unease that had been nibbling at Sturgeon since their brief meeting at noon. Sturgeon didn't even try to observe the landscape they flew over.

  Aguinaldo kept up the light conversation during the two-hour drive in a rented car from the Boise airport to his cabin. He didn't have to try hard—Sturgeon was too involved in struggling with his anxiety to try to get the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps to talk about something else.

  They drove the last three kilometers to the cabin in silence. The last bit of road was roughly paved with gravel, and twisted and turned down a steep incline to the river. Half a kilometer beyond the bottom, with the rush of the river penetrating the soundproofing of the car, a shallow valley jutted a short distance into the mountainside. The "cabin," a one-and-a-half-story stone and log edifice, nestled against the side of the valley.

  "Home away from home," Aguinaldo said when he pulled the car up in front of the cabin. "With enough of the conveniences of home that you don't think you're on a combat operation."

  Inside the cabin Aguinaldo nodded, satisfied. At least one of the two calls he'd made from his car on the way to the Hexagon turned out the way he wanted. His wife hadn't been as understanding as he'd thought she'd be. She'd alternately screamed and cried about him missing the opera, and declared there was no point in her going to the opera without him. It wasn't that she wanted to see the Chang-Thorsdale work again; she'd seen it at least once too often herself. But many higher-highers, from both government and the military, were attending the opera that night, and she wanted him to be there to take the opportunity to further his career. Further his career! He had to snort at the idea. She wouldn't be mollified during the short time he'd had to talk to her. When he got home he'd have to do something nice to get back in her good graces.

  But the other call, yes, to the domestic maintenance company, that went well. The cabin was clean and already warmed, and a quick inspection showed it to be in good repair and properly stocked. He made the inspection under the guise of showing Sturgeon around. The ground floor rooms were large. The living room could easily accommodate fifteen or more people with seating, more than twice that if they stood about. Adjoining in the front of the cabin was a dining room that wasn't crowded by a table large enough to seat a dozen. Behind it was a kitchen.

  "Fully equipped and partly automated," Aguinaldo said. "We can punch up breakfast and a lunch to go, then do our own cooking with the fish we catch for dinner," he said proudly.

  The master bedroom, complete with its own bathroom, occupied the final corner of the floor. Another bathroom was under the staircase to the upper level, where there were two bedrooms, each with its own bath, and a half bath off the short corridor, "In case we're hosting a party and the one on the first floor is busy."

  They put their luggage, just one bag apiece, in their rooms, and had the kitchen make a quick dinner for them. Then Aguinaldo said, "Ted, I know it's still early, but it's been a long day and it gets late early up here. Besides, I want us to get an early start fishing tomorrow. So it's rack time for me." Aguinaldo held out his hand to shake, then went into the master bedroom and closed the door without another word.

  Sturgeon stood in the middle of the kitchen where they'd eaten at a small table and hung his head. He seemed no closer to knowing why his men weren't getting rotated than he had when he left Thorsfinni's World. The way Aguinaldo had been acting, they were on no more than a weekend fishing expedition. Was he to get no answers? He fought and knocked down his anxiety, then slowly made his way to the second floor. Once in the bedroom, he felt that it really did get late early up here and undressed and got into bed. He tossed and turned for what seemed like half the night, but the muted rumbling of the river eventually soothed him, and then he fell asleep.

  Sturgeon was jolted awake by the age-old barracks call, "Reveille, reveille, reveille! Drop your cocks and grab your socks!" bellowing up the stairway. He groaned as he brushed the covers off and rolled into a sitting position on the side of his bed. He felt the cold of the wood floor through the small rug under his feet. He turned bleary eyes toward the window, saw it was still dark outside, and groaned again.

  "You awake up there?" Aguinaldo shouted.

  "I'm awake," Sturgeon called back, his voice already strong.

  "Hit the head, I'll have breakfast ready in fifteen minutes."

  Sturgeon couldn't hold back a grin. Fifteen minutes, the amount of time he had for head calls in Boot Camp all those years ago. He wondered if he could still make a head call in fifteen minutes. A body in its late fifties took a lot longer to cleanse itself than a body in its early twenties did. And then he'd still have to get dressed.

  It took him nineteen minutes.

  Breakfast was on the table in the kitchen. A
plate with Canadian bacon and over-easy eggs, still steaming from the food servo, waited for him. A mug of hot coffee stood next to the plate, along with a glass of what could only be real orange juice.

  Aguinaldo was already digging in. He swallowed a mouthful with a gulp of coffee and said, "I can order up sourdough flapjacks with real maple syrup if you prefer."

  Sturgeon cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him. He'd encountered sourdough flapjacks and maple syrup in his American history studies, but had no idea anybody still made them. "Really?"

  "Really." Aguinaldo shoveled another forkful of breakfast into his mouth and masticated while looking a challenge at Sturgeon.

  The sight and smell of the food and coffee suddenly got to Sturgeon. His stomach rumbled and saliva flowed. Lunch and dinner the day before had been light. Abruptly, he was ravenous. "How about both?"

  Aguinaldo swallowed. "You got it." He turned to the servo and gave instructions.

  Both men wolfed, but the servo still served up two plates of flapjacks before they finished the first course. They ate in silence, relishing that the taste of the food was somehow much better than the same meal would have been in the city—or even in a flag mess on base.

  No sooner did they finish eating than the servo pinged and offered up a package and a large jug.

  "Lunch and enough coffee to last us until mid-afternoon," Aguinaldo said, standing. He handed the jug to Sturgeon and took the lunch parcel himself. "I've already got the fishing gear stowed in the car. It's warm enough that we won't need our coats until this evening. Let's march."

  A couple of kilometers upstream the river widened out and made a quiet pool amid a jumble of boulders. They got into their waders, took the rods Aguinaldo had ready, and their other gear, and waded into the water.

  Even as inexperienced as he was with fishing, Sturgeon thought Aguinaldo led them into a piece of river running too fast for fishing.