Backshot Page 7

  They smoked in silence for a while, savoring the cigar’s easy draw, the rich, full-bodied earthiness of the tobacco in its oil-saturated dark-brown wrapper—a truly classic smoke, the crowning achievement of a company that had been making crowning achievements for five hundred years. At last Locksley said, “Jorge, a matter of business?”

  Lavager nodded his assent. He reached for and took a long draft from his beer schooner.

  “We’ve got to increase security about what’s going on out at the Spondu facility.”

  Lavager looked inquiringly at Locksley. “We already have a full platoon of infantry assigned to security out there. Why do we need more?”

  “Top secret research facilities always require tight security, you know that, Jorge. But yes, we need to tighten things up out there and everywhere else, especially everywhere else—and that means right inside your own government.” He paused for a moment and then came to what was really on his mind, “Gustafferson’s been snooping around out there. He knows it used to be a weapons research facility.”

  Lavager groaned at the mention of the correspondent’s name. “Can’t I enjoy a meal without someone bringing up that fool’s name? And we all know what the Cabbage Patch is today, what it used to be doesn’t matter.”

  “To Gustafferson, it does,” Ollwelen said. When Lavager didn’t respond to that he continued, “Gutsy may be a lot of things, but he’s no fool. Besides, New Granum is swarming with agents from the Solanums, Oleania, Satevina, and the Confederation’s CIO. Everyone knows we’re up to something out there and they’re all snooping around. But of all of the snoopers, Gustafferson’s the most dangerous. You know how he’ll manufacture news if he can’t get anything legitimate. Look at the scandal he caused on Willis’s Venue over that case of alleged child abuse in the school system, and I don’t think you’ve forgotten how he was the willing press agent for the mob on Havanagas with all the puff pieces he wrote about the place before the Confederation cleaned it up. If Gustafferson smells even a whiff of what we’re doing out at the Cabbage Patch, the whole operation will be exposed and everything we’re planning to do will be compromised. We can’t afford that, Jorge. You ought to have him shot. You’d do everyone a favor if you did.”

  Lavager snorted and waved a hand. “Well, I’m not going to have the bastard executed, if that’s what you’re driving at, Locker. How does such a phony stay in business?”

  Locksley drank some beer. “I guess he stays in business because muck sells, and he’s the biggest muckracker in Human Space. You know, he’s like a lot of these media people, he rushes in, scrapes together a sensational story with no depth, and rushes out to go screw up someone else. The public only has a ten-second attention span anyway, so before the slipshod reporting is exposed, they’re absorbed in the next scandal and they lose track of the ones that came before.”

  “Do you think someone in my cabinet, or one of the scientists out at the Cabbage Patch, is leaking information?”

  “Yes. I’ve got army security on the job. We’ve been tailing Gustafferson. We don’t think any of our people are talking to the other members of the League of Nations; they’re not traitors in that sense. But we think with all the money Gustafferson has to toss around he’s been able to get some disaffected souls to talk. Nobody quite on the inside of the operation, but we think he’s gotten enough information to know there’s a story out at Spondu. And something else, Jorge.”

  Lavager raised an eyebrow. “Somehow, old friend, I don’t think I’m going to like this ‘something else’ very much.”

  “We’re convinced Gustafferson is really a deep cover intelligence agent for the Central Intelligence Organization, using his reporting career, sensational as it is, as his cover. It’s a perfect arrangement.”

  Lavager looked steadily at his old friend for a very long moment. “Then get rid of him,” he said at last.

  Traveler’s Roost, Kraken Interstellar Starport, New Granum Terminus

  Every metropolis has its seamy side and that was as true of New Granum as anywhere else in Human Space. That seamy side was the New Granum planetside terminus for Kraken Interstellar Starport, which serviced the capital and the other cities and regions that composed the Union of Margelan. The tourist or businessman visiting Atlas via New Granum saw only the sparkling facilities of the port and remained in them only long enough to make connection with transit to their hotels. But the crews of transient vessels and the human flotsam of the spacelanes that always drift into planetside terminals needed someplace to call home, even if only for a few hours, and that place was a district of flophouses, bars, cutthroat casinos, and other low-rent establishments that weren’t particular about their clientele. The district was known unofficially as “Downside.” Besides, men on long voyages don’t turn into plaster saints. The law enforcement community of New Granum understood that and for the most part didn’t interfere with the goings-on in Downside.

  “I don’t know why you insisted we should meet in this, this, place.” The pudgy little man sniffed and looked around the bar disdainfully. “We could’ve met uptown, in a nice restaurant.”

  It hadn’t required much effort to discover that this little man had some bad habits that required a steady infusion of cash. That was all that Gus Gustafferson needed to get him into the Traveler’s Roost at Downside.

  “It’s important nobody see us together, Ronald,” Gustafferson said calmly, as if he were talking to a petulant child, because that was just what Dr. Ronald Paragussa looked like, an overgrown six-year-old.

  “I can’t take a chance on getting scooped, and you, of course, might get in serious trouble if you were seen talking to me. So we meet here.” Gustafferson smiled. “Besides, this place has atmosphere, don’t you agree?” For Downside, the Traveler’s Roost was almost respectable, a place where spacefarers came to eat and drink and be on their way—to the rooms upstairs where whores and stimulants were discreetly available, or back to their ships.

  “Y-You mentioned—?” Paragussa rubbed two fingers together.

  “Ah, yes, doctor, I did mention—” Gustafferson also rubbed his fingers together, and with the other hand passed Paragussa a small chip. “Pop this into your reader. And remember, I absolutely guarantee your anonymity, as I do all my sources, the real ones and the ones I make up.”

  Paragussa’s eyes widened when he saw the figure GNN was offering him through its reporter for the information they wanted. He smiled and relaxed. “What is it you wish to know, sir?”

  “You are a scientist. You work at the secret facility at Spondu. But you’re a well-known agronomist, and the Spondu facility is thought to be a weapons research center. What does a man in your specialty do at a freaking weapons lab? I smell a story here, doctor.”

  “Well. I specialize in synthetic fertilizers, particularly the process known as hydroscopy—the absorption of water. It’s my job to develop fertilizers that do not absorb water.”

  Gustafferson wondered if this fool was putting him on. Fertilizer? “What the hell is a fertilizer man doing in a weapons lab?”

  Paragussa shrugged. “There are a number of experiments being conducted at the Cabbage Patch—”

  “The Cabbage Patch you say?” Gustafferson laughed. “That’s the name of the facility?” He shook his head, amused. “Someone must have a sense of humor.” When Paragussa looked confused, he added, “It’s an old children’s tale. Once upon a time young children were told that babies were found in cabbage patches. The name, Ronald, is a sardonic admission that the ‘Cabbage Patch’ is a cover for something else.”

  The agronomist looked at the reporter as though he was being put on, then continued, ignoring the business about “cabbage patch” being an obvious cover. “The nature of the activities at the Cabbage Patch is a closely guarded secret. Everyone’s work is compartmentalized. Only the director and a few government officials, presumably, know the whole picture, where all this research is directed. My part of the project is very small, and frankly I do n
ot know how it fits in with what the other scientists are doing out there. That’s a normal security precaution at any top secret facility. Have to guard against espionage and curious reporters and all that, you know.” He snickered. Gustafferson nodded his understanding. “Fertilizers?” he mused. “You can make a bomb out of that stuff, can’t you?”

  Paragussa laughed. “Yes, with the proper mixture of ammonium nitrate, explosives, fusing. But to make a bomb of any significance,” he held out his hands, “you’d need literally thousands and thousands of kilos of fertilizer and then how’d you transport something so huge to its target, and who’d resort to such a thing given the kinds of weapons we have today?” He shook his head. “No, we’re not building a bomb out there.” He laughed again.

  “So what are you doing?”

  “I have a theory.” Paragussa held up the chip and smiled.

  “All right, Ronald, I’ll triple the figure if you can find out for me. But before I’ll give one more decicredit, you give me something, right now.”

  “Very well,” Paragussa leaned across the table and whispered, “I believe we’re developing a fungoid strain that, once released, will have a devastating effect on all varieties of food crops, wipe them out.” He leaned back, a smug expression on his face. “You see,” he continued, “people can fight armies, resist invasions, win wars—but how do you fight starvation?”

  “With food!” Gustafferson snapped back, sitting up straight in his chair. “With food! Destroy a society’s food production and the power that can feed the people rules the world! So that’s what Lavager is up to. Mohammed’s uncircumcised prick!” He slapped the table and heads turned in their direction. His eyes flicked around, and he leaned forward to whisper, “It’s brilliant! Hell, Atlas is already a breadbasket. If Lavager could destroy crop production on other worlds, they’d naturally turn to Atlas for relief. The next thing you know, he’s dictating their foreign policy, like the old Arab oil sheiks did to the North Americans back in the twenty-first century. And once they find out what’s going on, what are they going to do?

  Bomb Atlas? Destroy their source of food? Ronald,” Gustafferson snapped his fingers, “I need confirmation. Can you get that for me? If you can, why GNN will gladly quadruple the figure on that chip.”

  “I think so.”

  “Good! How long will it take?”

  “Umm, a week, maybe ten days? I’ll have to do some discreet snooping of my own.”

  “We’ll meet back here in a week, then. Excuse me now, Ronald, I have a prelim to file.” Gustafferson went to the nearest communications terminal, chuckling to himself about the irony of the name of the Spondu facility, and placed the chip he’d used to surreptitiously record his conversation with Paragussa into the transmit slot. He punched in a number at the Confederation embassy. Now his controller would know what was up. Gustafferson almost laughed out loud. He’d scored two huge scoops in less than fifteen minutes, the vital intelligence the CIO needed, and a story that once it broke would earn him a Hillary, the most prestigious award an investigative reporter could hope for. Outside it was dark and raining slightly. Gustafferson hunched his shoulders against the drizzle. A damp wind sighed between the buildings. The street was empty and dimly lit. Off in the near distance the bright lights of the port glowed warmly. He started walking in that direction.

  His badly beaten body was found in an alley several days later. Dr. Ronald Paragussa never got his money. He met with a fatal accident at the facility called the “Cabbage Patch,” something to do with breathing too much ammonia.

  Somebody had just made a serious mistake.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Office of the President of the Confederation of Human Worlds, Fargo, Earth

  “I always get sick to my stomach when we meet with those bastards,” Madam President Chang-Sturdevant complained to her Minister of War, who had heard it before.

  “I presume you’re referring to our illustrious CIO director and his deputy? Steel yourself, Madam,”

  Marcus Berentus said, grinning. “Actually, I knew Adams’s parents. Very decent people, I must say. Old money, blue blood. Did I ever tell you I once dated his younger sister? I was in pilot training at the time and our base was near their summer home on—”

  “Well, Marcus,” Chang-Sturdevant interrupted him, “I’ve never trusted those two. Never. Thirty years ago, when I was on the intelligence oversight committee, they ran the CIO a lot differently. I should have removed Adams when I came into office. Not only is his intelligence faulty—how come they never knew what was going on on Kingdom, with this—what was his name?”

  “De Tomas, Madam—”

  “Dominic de Tomas, thank you. But I don’t trust them because they have their own agenda, Marcus. Take it from someone who’s spent her whole life in politics, private agendas lead to disaster.”

  “I may not have been in politics my entire life, Suelee,” Berentus said softly, “but my time in the army taught me about private agendas.”

  Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant stopped with her hand halfway to her head and stared at him for a moment. As long as they’d known each other, and as close and trusted an advisor as Berentus was, this was the first time he’d ever called her by the name used by her family and closest friends. She shook herself, and ran her hand along the single, thick lock of gray hair that lay at the center of her coiffure. That single gray lock had started a fashion craze among well-to-do ladies since Chang-Sturdevant had been in office.

  “Private agendas are what’s given me this gray hair, Marcus,” she said with no acknowledgment of the slight intimacy of his use of her first name. She brushed her hair into place and adjusted her blouse. Despite her years, she was still a very handsome woman. And somewhat younger than Marcus. “Adams asked for a private interview with me, Marcus, but I’m not that stupid. I invited you, the Chairman of the Combined Chiefs, and the Attorney General. I’m not going into the snake pit without my charmers.”

  “Umm. The AG will ensure a lively discussion; he despises the CIO people.” Hugyens Long, known as “Chief,” because of his long years as a policeman, was also known for his directness and acerbity and the fact that even though he was Attorney General for the Confederation of Human Worlds, he was not a lawyer. Chang-Sturdevant considered Long one of her wisest appointments, and along with Berentus, he was one of her most trusted advisers.

  “Well, let’s go, Marcus.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  They headed for the door leading from Chang-Sturdevant’s private office to the conference room where her cabinet usually met. Just before the door, she stopped and turned to Berentus. “Marcus, about Adams’s sister. What ever came of your date with her?”

  “Nothing. I took her home well before the witching hour. Never saw her again. I shipped out the following week. I understand she married well, as all the Adamses did. But her parents were very decent to me.”

  “Umpf. Well, let’s hear what J. Murchison Adams and Palmer Quincy Lowell have to tell us that’s so damned important. I tell you this, Marcus, when blood stains their hands it’s red, not blue.”

  Chang-Sturdevant’s parents had run a laundry. The four men stood as the President entered the conference chamber. “Jay! Palmer!” Chang-Sturdevant greeted the CIO director and his deputy warmly, as if they were friends and welcome guests. Chang-Sturdevant was a consummate politician, after all. “Chief,” she nodded respectfully at Hugyens Long. “Admiral Porter,” she addressed the recently elevated Chairman of the Combined Chiefs, who stood at attention until she indicated everyone should be seated.

  “Seems to me, Madam President,” Long said, easing his bulk into his chair, “that every goddamned time I come down here to see you it snows. Remember the last time? I came here with Nast about the Havanagas operation. Some sonofabitch tried to kill us downstairs in the plaza. It snowed so hard that day that—”

  “Yaass,” J. Murchison Adams drawled, casting a disparaging glance at Long. “We actually had to take underground tr
ansport to get here, Madam President. I’d have asked for a postponement except that what we have to tell you is just too important to be delayed by the weather.”

  “They’re saying it’s the worst storm in a century,” Admiral Porter said. “I had to call a starship to get over here.” Long grinned but nobody else seemed to have caught the joke.

  “Well, let’s get down to business, gentlemen. I don’t want to sit around here until the snow melts.”

  Chang-Sturdevant indicated Adams should proceed. An image of Atlas as seen from orbit flashed onto the screens in the consoles in front of each participant. Palmer Quincy Lowell explained the background of events on Atlas, emphasizing its strategic position along the spacelanes that connected many different worlds to the Confederation. He explained who Lavager was, what he had done, how under his influence the rival nations on Atlas had formed a League of Nations.

  “Someone assassinated his wife?” Berentus interjected.

  “Yes, very unfortunate accident. The assassin was after Lavager.” Adams shrugged; to him, Annie Lavager’s death was inconsequential. Long grimaced.

  “That daughter, she’s his only child?” Chang-Sturdevant asked. Candace Lavager’s image floated on the screens. “Beautiful child,” she murmured. “So aside from conquering worlds, he’s raising this daughter on his own. I wouldn’t think he’d have time for conquests with a teenage girl on his hands.”

  “Who tried to kill him?” Long asked.

  “Well, there are many disaffected groups on Atlas,” Lowell answered, plainly annoyed by these questions, which he considered off the point. “Jorge Lavager is,” he rushed on, “by all accounts, an intelligent, capable, and ruthless opponent. One of our best analysts even knows him,” he concluded.

  “Then why isn’t he here with us, if this guy, Lavager, is so dangerous?” Chang-Sturdevant asked.