Backshot Page 9

  “Ah, those drips at CIO are always trying to dip their oars into the water,” General Blankenship snorted.

  “As far as I can tell, there’s no threat to us from this Frankfurter guy, er, I mean Lavager, isn’t that his name?”

  “Well,” the CNO interjected, “it’s high time we invaded somebody, otherwise the fleets are likely to get rusty. The last time we had a full-scale combined operation was that operation on Diamunde.”

  Aguinaldo snorted, “Yeah, and on that operation the army general in command proved incompetent. No offense, General,” he added in an aside to Blankenship. “And the admiral in overall command was so stupid he couldn’t even spit unless he had a senior chief standing by to shove a rag in his mouth. It was my Marines who had to save everybody on that one and I’m against another bloodbath like that.” He didn’t mention that it wasn’t until he, a lieutenant general at the time and in command of the Marine forces in the command, was placed in command of ground operations that the Diamunde campaign turned around and the Confederation forces began winning. “I agree with the army on this one,” Aguinaldo said.

  “Besides, we’ve got a lot of fish to fry as it is, and you gentlemen all know what I mean. We can’t be sending an expedition to this place without a compelling reason, and I don’t think the intelligence that CIO has gathered on events there is all that compelling.”

  “Lavager, from what I can tell, is what the early Americans would have referred to as a ‘hot dog,’

  gentlemen,” Admiral Porter said. “In the slang of the day that meant anyone who was exceptionally capable, outstanding in his field, et cetera. Well,” he wiped his lips, “J. Murchison Adams claims to have fresh intel that will change our minds, thus this emergency meeting with the President. Before we go over there, cigars, anyone?” They all rose to follow Admiral Porter into the lounge. On the way out the door he turned to Aguinaldo. “Andy, you mention eating dog. Ever eat a kwangduk? Well, I did once, when I was an ensign on the CNSS James Aspby . Didn’t know what it was at the time, of course. Damned thing was pretty tasty, actually. We were on liberty on . . .”

  Office of the Director, CIO

  “So they think we’re ‘drips,’ do they?” J. Murchison Adams laughed and shook his head. First Class Sibuco had wasted no time making his report after the chairman and his party had moved from his private mess into the lounge. Adams had trusted agents in almost every government office and all had his direct number to call when they had information that might be of importance. “Human intelligence, Palmer, that’s always the most reliable! Hang all these technical devices anyway.” He changed the subject. “How long before Sibuco’s enlistment is up? We can’t afford to lose him over there.” He arose from the table, finished the glass of La Gran Chateau-du-Vichy ’42, and reached for his tunic.

  “We’ll increase his stipend out of our agent fund, Jay, boost his pay up to the equivalent of a navy full commander. That’ll keep him around a while longer, I’m sure.” In former years the CIO had recruited agents from among young people who wanted to serve the Confederation; now they were recruited from those who wanted to be served by the Confederation.

  “Palmer, let us make haste! Madam President awaits our imminent arrival and we await the presentation of the late Gus Gustafferson’s report. Ah, fortuitous indeed, my dear Palmer, that someone murdered him, because that act is the final nail in Jorge Liberec Lavager’s long overdue coffin!” He shrugged into his tunic. “Damn, Palmer, when are we going to get someone on the inside in Chang-Sturdevant’s office, eh?”

  Office of the President, Fargo

  “You,” Madam Chang-Sturdevant addressed a scoop of rich chocolate ice cream, “are my one indulgence.” She smiled and put a spoonful into her mouth. “Marcus, a world without ice cream is a world without a soul.”

  “Speaking of things without souls, Suelee, we meet in twenty minutes with Adams and his deputy. They really think they’re on to something this time, otherwise why did they ask for the Combined Chiefs to be present, as well as the AG and ‘anyone else you deem interested in affairs on Atlas.’ They’re about to make an announcement, is what it is.”

  “Your ice cream, Marcus, you haven’t touched it!”

  “Ah,” Marcus regarded his melting scoop of strawberry, “no appetite, I guess. Look, the news is full of Gustafferson’s murder. You know how the media is, they report the massacre of a million souls with total equanimity but let one of their own get killed and they go into a mourning frenzy. GNN’s been broadcasting Gustafferson’s face and biography all over Human Space. There’ll be a call for an inquiry in the Senate, you can bet on it. If it develops that Lavager had anything to do with it, and you can be sure the CIO is going to leak that to the media, there’ll be a call for a full-scale invasion of the planet. It’s happened before, you know? ‘Remember the Maine!’ and all that. Well, I have pretty good information of my own that the late media maven Gus Gustafferson was one of CIO’s agents. I really think we’re going to have to take CIO’s views on Atlas seriously this time, and we should be prepared to consider their request for—”

  “Your ice cream? If you won’t, Marcus, then—?”

  “Help yourself, Madam President.” He nodded indulgently. Chang-Sturdevant scooped the strawberry into her own bowl. “All these carbohydrates will ruin my girlish figure, Marcus. I’m really disappointed that you aren’t protecting me from them.”

  “Well, madam, the fact of the matter is, the fatter you get the more I like it, because the more of you I see the better.”

  “Marcus, I’ll give you precisely one hour to stop flattering me like that!” Chang-Sturdevant laughed. She finished her—and Marcus’s—ice cream and wiped her lips. She stood. “Well, Marcus, let us go into the lion’s den and see what the beasts have cooked up for us.” Berentus bowed deeply and gestured toward the door. Before going out Chang-Sturdevant paused and turned to her Minister of War. “Marcus, do you know why I love luxury food like ice cream so much?” Marcus shook his head. “Because when I was a girl, growing up, you know what we had to eat most meals? Hot dogs and boiled potatoes, Marcus, that’s what the Changs ate. And now that I’m President of the Confederation of Human Worlds, I am never again going to eat that slop!”

  Office of the Chief of Staff, CIO

  “Anya, my dear! Come in, come in! Please have a seat.” Somervell Amesbury stood, a beaming smile on his face, gesturing toward an empty chair. “I have some extraordinarily good news for you!”

  Anya took the offered seat.

  “How long have you been with us at the headquarters now, Anya, ten years?”

  “It’ll be ten years this summer, sir. I’ve been with CIO for a little over twenty years.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve been reviewing your performance appraisals recently, Anya. You’ve never fallen below ‘Exceeds’ in all your Critical Elements. A record you can be proud of.” “Exceeds” was the highest rating a CIO employee could get on their efficiency reports. “You’re a grade twelve, Step—” He fumbled with her personnel record.

  “Step ten, sir.”

  “Ah. Yes.” There were fifteen grades in the general schedule for CIO employees. “Steps,” there were ten of them, were within-grade pay increases similar to the longevity pay military personnel received, and Step Ten was the highest within-grade pay increase authorized. Grades higher than fifteen were classified as “Senior Executive Service,” the equivalent in pay and protocol to general or flag officers in the military systems. The Director and the Deputy CIO were political appointments, confirmed by the Confederation Senate; the CIO Chief of Staff and the various Directorate heads at the headquarters and certain station chiefs were Senior Executive Service appointments filled by career civil service personnel. “Well, it’s time you stepped up. We have a thirteen position coming open and I’ve recommended you to fill it.” A grade thirteen was the equivalent in pay and protocol to a lieutenant commander in the military service. Anya smiled. “Where, sir?”

  “Um
, the R-76 Quadrant Desk. You know that Hammond Means is retiring, don’t you? Today’s his last day. Will you accept the position? You’d be senior analyst on that desk, Anya, and if you do as good a job there as you’ve done in your present position, I see a directorship in your future, perhaps even station chief somewhere, if you wish to go back into the field.”

  “I’m very honored, sir, but—”

  “But what?” Amesbury knew what was coming.

  “Well, there’s a lot going on just now regarding Atlas and I thought with my experience I might be more valuable to you on that desk. I saw the dispatch that just came through. Can’t I stay in my present job until the business there is resolved?”

  Amesbury cursed to himself. The director hadn’t wanted any of the analysts to see that message. “I appreciate your concern, Anya.” He smiled benevolently. “You’re a true professional and that’s the reason we’re transferring you to R-76.” It was not lost on Anya that now she was being ordered to accept the new position. “The director has decided to handle the Atlas case personally,” Amesbury continued. “No reflection on you or your colleagues, of course. You start in R-76 tomorrow morning. Take the rest of the day off.” He rose and extended his hand. “Congratulations, Anya.”

  Anya took Amesbury’s hand. “Thank you, sir.” She knew it would do her no good to argue. She also knew she was being offered the plum assignment to keep her quiet. The director was about to pull something. What Anya Smiler did not know was what she would do about it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Office of the President, New Granum, Union of Margelan, Atlas

  Jorge Lavager stared intently at the Army Chief of Staff. “I want you to tell me, General Ollwelen, that you had nothing to do with this,” he said, in a deceptively quiet voice. Ollwelen knew that when his friend talked that way he was consumed with ice-cold anger. Lavager shoved a set of 2-D images across the table. Ollwelen recoiled. They were of the badly beaten body of Gus Gustafferson, the GNN correspondent and CIO agent.

  “I swear to God, Jorge, on my honor as an officer, that I had nothing to do with this!” Ollwelen croaked.

  “I didn’t say to kill him, I said to ‘get rid of him,’ General,” Lavager gritted.

  “Y-Yessir!” Ollwelen stuttered. “I spoke to your public affairs minister, Jorge, after what you said at dinner, and told him it was your desire to declare G-Gustafferson persona non grata and deport him. I swear! You can ask the minister.”

  “What about this Paragussa out at the Cabbage Patch? I suppose that was an accident?”

  “Goddamnit, sir, I’ve told you once and I won’t tell you again, I had nothing to do with either of those deaths! Gustafferson was the victim of a mugging and Paragussa met with an unfortunate accident. Now if you really believe I had those guys murdered, Jorge—” Ollwelen’s face had turned red and his eyes flashed with anger.

  Lavager raised a hand. He believed his old friend. “Locker, who was the English king who had the Archbishop of Canterbury assassinated?”

  Ollwelen thought for a moment, “Henry II, I believe.” He slumped in his seat and passed a hand over his forehead.

  “Yes. He just happened to wish out loud in the presence of some henchmen that he wanted someone to rid him of the Archbishop and the fools went out and murdered the old boy, thinking they were doing the king a great service. Henry had to do penance for his loose talk, didn’t he? Well,” Lavager sighed, “this,”

  he gestured at the grisly images, “will be blamed on me. You can count on it.”

  “Well, I don’t see how—”

  “You don’t? That’s why I know you didn’t order it, because nobody could be so dense they could possibly miss the implications! Look. Gustafferson was an agent of the CIO, Paragussa was a source, they met just minutes before Gustafferson was murdered, and next day Paragussa was found dead out at the lab.”

  “Um.” Ollwelen swallowed nervously. “Well, we’re presenting Gustafferson’s murder as a simple robbery gone wrong, and so far the media hasn’t picked up on Paragussa’s death.”

  “Yes? Are you sure? Nobody robs a person and then beats him into an unrecognizable pulp. And the media doesn’t matter here, you’d better believe the CIO knows all about Paragussa too.” Lavager ran a hand nervously across his own forehead. “How much did Paragussa know?”

  “Not much, I’m sure. Everything’s so compartmented at the Cabbage Patch that no one person knows everything except the director and a handful of others, all of whom have been thoroughly checked and are under constant surveillance. He could only speculate.”

  “Wars have started over speculations too many times to count. How much could he have speculated, Locker?”

  Ollwelen shrugged. “He might have been able to make some shrewd guesses, Jorge, but as to what we’re really up to out there, no, he could not have figured it out. He might have concluded we’re building some kind of powerful weapon but—”

  Lavager thought for a moment. Something was not right here. He did not believe Gustafferson was the victim of a robbery any more than he believed Paragussa met with an accident. But if his people didn’t commit the murders, then who did? Was he being set up? Why? By whom? He shook his head.

  “ ‘Building some kind of powerful weapon’ you said? That’s all Gustafferson would have needed for a great story. Everybody’s wondering what we’re doing out there, chief among them the Central Intelligence Organization. Now their spy and his informant are dead. Voilá! We had them murdered to shut them up. And once people begin to believe that, then why did we shut them up, they’ll ask? Yes,” he nodded, “we’re working on something really big out at the Cabbage Patch and it isn’t a new brand of fertilizer, it’s some kind of damned doomsday weapon, that’s what they’ll all conclude. I mean after all, nobody’s going to believe anyone killed that little muckraker over something small, Locker; in very high places they’ll be thinking he was killed to hide something.”

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

  Madam Chang-Sturdevant recoiled in horror at the images of Gus Gustafferson’s mutilated corpse.

  “Do we really have to see this?” Marcus Berentus snorted, gesturing at the gruesome images before them.

  Privately, J. Murchison Adams was very pleased with the graphic display of the murdered agent’s body and the effect it was having on the President. The images were creating just the atmosphere he wanted.

  “Umpf,” Attorney General Long grunted. He’d seen worse in his long career in law enforcement. “This guy didn’t die in a mugging, you can bet your ass on it.”

  “Madam, I do sincerely regret that I must show you this horror, but after you’ve heard Mr. Gustafferson’s report, you will see that all is not well on Atlas and we must do something about it.”

  “Gustafferson was working for you?” Commandant of the Marine Corps Aguinaldo asked. “Mr. Adams, isn’t that a little damaging for the image of your agency as an objective intelligence agency, recruiting members of the media as agents?” Aguinaldo grinned. Everyone knew GNN’s reporting was just about the most biased in the galaxy. Adams’s lip twitched in the tightest smile as he nodded affably at Aguinaldo. “General, we get our intelligence any way we can. Besides, who ever believed the media isn’t above a little spying of their own? Surely no intelligent person believes they’re above bias. Gustafferson didn’t have an unbiased bone in his body, but he was a damned fine agent.”

  “He doesn’t have an unbroken bone in his body, either, judging from those pictures,” Long commented sourly.

  “I was wondering when someone was going to get him,” said Army Chief of Staff General Blankenship. The President threw him a sharp glance, his ears reddened, and he slumped disconsolately down into his seat.

  “Gentlemen! No more of these remarks, please. Now, Jay, get on with your presentation,” the President said sharply.

  “Madam President, you’ve seen the pictures. The New Granum police are handling the in
vestigation of Gustafferson’s murder as a mugging gone wrong. But we have incontrovertible evidence it was a planned execution. He was executed because he knew too much about Jorge Lavager’s plans and Lavager had him murdered. I beg you to listen to a recording of Gustafferson’s report made shortly before he was killed. It arrived only yesterday via Beamspace drone.”

  “Is this going to make me lose my lunch, Adams?” Chang-Sturdevant asked sourly.

  “It is very upsetting, Madam President, but no, it’s nothing like—like—the images. But please, everyone listen carefully.”

  For the next few moments Gus Gustafferson’s voice, along with that of the CIO station chief on Atlas, filled the Cabinet Room. When the transcript was done everyone just sat there quietly for a long moment. Chang-Sturdevant broke the silence at last. “All right, gentlemen, what do we do about this?”

  “Ma’am.” Admiral Porter sat up straight in his chair. “We have come prepared with a plan to put a stop to these shenanigans—”

  “They’re hardly ‘shenanigans,’ Admiral,” Chang-Sturdevant interjected.

  “I mean these hideous plans of Lavager’s,” Porter went on quickly. “We favor an immediate and direct response, Madam President. We have a corps-sized army unit standing by, and the ships to get it to Atlas within a few days. We’ll swoop right down on New Granum and put a screeching halt to Lavager’s government. Turn him over to the AG for the administration of justice. My staff has prepared the following brief, ma’am, which I would like to present—”

  Chang-Sturdevant held up a hand. “Mr. Berentus, when was the last time the Confederation mounted an invasion force against a member world?”

  “Diamunde, ma’am,” Berentus answered immediately.

  “Diamunde. Yes, that was several years ago, wasn’t it, Admiral Porter?” It was obvious to all that she considered the chairman’s plan for an invasion of Atlas little more than his looking for an opportunity to exercise military force, something admirals and generals loved to do, like surgeons who’d gladly perform a major operation to correct a hangnail just because they just loved to cut on people. Besides, a successful planetary invasion would “wet down” Admiral Porter’s recent promotion from Chief of Naval Operations to Chairman of the Combined Chiefs. “General Aguinaldo, are you in favor of this invasion plan?”