Backshot (15 page)

“So what’d you think?” Gossner asked.

“Give me a set of chameleons, and maybe,” Dwan answered. She didn’t look totally sure of herself when she said it.

“We don’t have a set of chameleons. Even if we did, the maser we have isn’t chameleoned, we’d have to find another way to get it in without anybody noticing and raising an alarm.” He looked up at nowhere in particular for a moment’s thought, then turned his face back to hers. “Even without chameleons, you could get into the gardens and hide well enough that nobody would know you were there.”

She grimaced. “There’re a couple other problems with doing it there.”

Gossner didn’t ask, he was pretty sure he knew what one of the other problems was. He was right.

“Did you look at the windows in his office? There was something off about the way they reflected light. I think they’re reinforced with something. They’re probably resistant to projectiles. I don’t doubt they’d also deflect microwaves.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they could resist a sustained burst from a plasma assault gun—at least for long enough for anybody inside to get out of the line of fire.”

Dwan nodded.

“So what’s the other problem you see?”

She grimaced again. “I’d have to do it when Lavager is entering or leaving the building, and that would make it a tough kill. He’s sure to be surrounded by guards and aides when he goes out, which might make it hard to get a good sight picture on him.”

Gossner raised an eyebrow. Bella Dwan was admitting to the possibility she couldn’t get a good sight picture?

“More important, he’ll be moving. That’ll make getting a three-quarter-second lock on him very difficult, if not impossible, even for me.”

Gossner didn’t even need to think about it. “So we scratch doing it in the government district. We’ll have to check out the Presidential Residence; maybe that’ll be easier.”

“Is he giving a speech someplace any time soon? If he’s standing on a stage out in the open, that would be easiest.”

“We can find out. Still hungry?”

“Yeah.” She said it without enthusiasm.

“Hey, we don’t know yet, we may not have to do it.”

“Maybe not,” she said softly. “But I want to.”

Gossner gave her an encouraging squeeze—he didn’t dare think of his gesture as comforting.

“Thank you,” she murmured. They got up and left the park, heading down Center Boulevard, the main thoroughfare in New Granum’s entertainment and dining district—where, by chance, they happened on Jorge Liberec Lavager’s favorite restaurant, right there on Center Boulevard, not far from the hotel where they were staying.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ramuncho’s Restaurant, New Granum, Union of Margelan, Atlas

A few blocks from the park, they stopped in front of a discreet sign that bore the name “Ramuncho’s Restaurant” and looked at the menu mounted on an easel next to the entrance.

“Are those local dishes, or did the printer have a bad case of speaking in tongues when he programmed it?” Dwan asked.

“At this point, your guess is as good as mine,” Gossner replied. They’d only been on Atlas for two days and hadn’t yet experimented with the local cuisine. At Pauke Falls they’d simply pointed at 2-D pictures of the food they ordered, and otherwise had eaten at their hotel, which served more or less standard Confederation fare that could be found in nearly every chain hotel in Human Space.

“Do you want to go in and find out?” she asked.

“One reason I signed up was to go to strange places, eat strange foods, and meet strange people,” he said softly.

“And kill them,” she added even more softly. Gossner’s eyebrows twitched up. “That too.” He glanced around, but no one was close enough to have overheard.

The interior of Ramuncho’s was muted: dim lighting, green-on-green damasked wallpaper above dark wood wainscotting; thick, sound-absorbing carpet covered the floor; folding screens placed here and there that could be opened to provide a modicum of privacy. A diminutive and graceful fluted flower vase with blossoms neither of them recognized stood on every table. The task light centered on each table was so soft that even the snow white cloths that covered them seemed muted. The maître d’ gave them a moment to look, then was happy to seat them without a reservation; it was past the lunch rush and many tables were available. He began ushering them to a table to one side of the main dining room, though not against the wall.

“Oh, could we have that table, please?” Dwan smiled sweetly. He looked where she pointed, a table with a discreet “reserved” sign in front of the windows onto the street, and cocked his head for a moment’s thought before saying firmly, “Most certainly, madame.”

“I bet a lot of famous people walk past these windows,” Dwan gushed.

“They assuredly do,” the maître d’ confirmed. “And come in, as well. Why, at this very table,” he said as he held a chair out for her, “our President, the great Jorge Liberec Lavager, sometimes dines.” He deftly removed the “reserved” sign.

“Really?” Dwan squealed, eyes wide.

“Sometimes. Ramuncho’s is his favorite restaurant, you know, though most often when he comes he dines in a private room in the back.”

“Do you, do you think he’ll come in today?” Dwan said so rapidly her words ran into each other.

“Could I meet him?”

“Ah, but no, madame. I had to pause before allowing you this table, as I had to remember whether he was in New Granum at this time. But I remembered that a member of his staff called to say he wouldn’t be dining here today as he is away on government business. The President must often go to other parts of the country, you understand.”

“So you’re saying,” Gossner said with casual-seeming interest, “that you normally keep this table reserved for him?”

“Indeed, sir.” The maître d’ nodded. “As well as the private room he often uses.”

“Really!” It didn’t seem possible, but Dwan’s eyes opened even wider. “That’s amazing.” The words came out in an awed whisper.

“The President eats here often enough to have both a table and a private room reserved for him,”

Gossner said, sounding impressed.

“It’s true, madame and sir. We at Ramuncho’s are quite proud of having our President’s patronage.”

“I believe it.”

A moment later the maître d’ left them. A human rather than robot waiter took their drink orders and left them with menus. They sat at adjoining sides of the table rather than opposite each other. Dwan leaned toward Gossner and her eyes flicked toward the maître d’, who was back at his podium.

“How do you think he manages that?” she whispered.

“Manages what?”

“To be officious and obsequious at the same time.”

Gossner managed to look at her with a straight face. Sometimes the Queen of Killers surprised him, and that was the second time of the day. Who would have thought Bella Dwan even
knew
the word obsequious, much less was able to use it correctly?

“I think they program that into maître d’s at the factory,” he finally whispered back. She giggled and returned her attention to the menu. Damn, but her giggle sounded downright girlish. If Gossner hadn’t known her so well he would have thought . . . No, it wasn’t possible for the Queen of Killers to turn human just because she was on an independent assignment, away from other Marines. One leaf of the menu had the standard fare found throughout Human Space, the facing leaf was local dishes, presumably made from native foodstuffs. Suddenly, Dwan leaned in again, her eyes glittering. “What do you think ‘Alborda Tag Bika Here’ is?”

“Where?” Gossner searched his menu, narrowed his search when she said, “Halfway down the local menu,” and found it. He shook his head. “I have no idea, there’s no description.”

She leaned close and said under light giggles, “It looks like somebody who doesn’t know the language tried to write ‘false large bull balls’ in Hungarian.”

Gossner couldn’t manage a straight face this time, he had to blink in surprise. “Hungarian?”

“You know, Hungarian. The old European language? From Earth?”

“I know what Hungarian was.”

She smiled sweetly. “But you didn’t think I did.”

“I’m surprised you can read it.”

She grinned impishly. “I can do a
lot
of things you don’t know about.” She wiggled on her seat, as though pleased at scoring a point.

He twitched his eyebrows—that wiggle reminded him too much of her twitching bottom as she headed for the water closet that morning—and said “I guess so,” then returned to the common foods on his menu. After a moment he said, “It’s probably not a good idea to order the reindeer steak here.”

“Oh? Why not?” Dwan looked honestly interested. They spoke in soft voices so they couldn’t be overheard by the staff.

“It’s a Thorsfinni’s World dish. This far from Thorsfinni’s World, there’s no telling what kind of meat they might use. For all we know, it’d turn out to be a cut of kwangduk.” He shuddered.

“Have you ever had kwangduk?”

He nodded. “Once. In a stew. It’s not an experience I care to repeat.”

She laughed lightly and whispered, “And here I thought you were a tough Marine.”

He grunted, then continued examining the menu. After another moment, he said, “We’re on a strange world with its own cuisine, what am I doing looking at the items I could get anywhere? I’m going to just ask the waiter to recommend something made from local ingredients.” He shook his head. “They’ve got ‘Grande Milho Bolo’ listed as an entrée. I think that’s Portuguese, and it sounds more like a dessert than an entrée.”

Dwan gave him a gracious nod. “I’m surprised you can recognize Portuguese. I think asking for the waiter’s advice is an excellent idea.”

“I’ve been around,” Gossner muttered, and started to look for the waiter; the waiter was at his elbow before his head made more than a quarter turn.

“Yes sir, are you ready to order?”

“Listen,” Gossner said, stifling his surprise that the waiter could reach him so quickly without him noticing his approach, “everything on the menu sounds so good that I don’t know what to order.” He stopped and shook his head. “No, they don’t. My wife and I,” he put a possessive hand on Dwan’s; she turned her hand palm up and interlaced her fingers between his, “we just got here and really don’t have any idea of what the local foods are. But we want to try them. What do you recommend?”

“Oh, sir and madame! May I recommend—” The waiter began spouting words in no language Gossner knew, but he recognized the “dalman” in the description of appetizers, “rambuck” and “lambhawk,” and the word “sauce” somewhere in the middle, and the final description concluded with, “—to perfection.”

The waiter looked at them with proud expectation. Gossner and Dwan exchanged a glance, she gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He turned to the waiter and said, “Thank you, that sounds—very interesting. We’ll start with the dalman appetizer, and share the rambuck and lambhawk entrées.” He also ordered a half-bottle of a local vintage.

“You will be delighted, sir and madame.” The waiter took the menus, dipped his head and shoulders in a bow, and glided away to place their order. Once he was gone, the sniper and her team leader leaned in close enough their shoulders touched and their heads nearly did as well, and looked at Center Boulevard, the buildings across the way, and the byways between the buildings. Gossner didn’t say anything at first, he was still a bit shaken by the way the waiter had appeared as soon as he began to look for him. He wanted to be
very
careful of what he said in the vicinity of people who could move that stealthily. Dwan picked up on his unease and touched the corner of her brow to his.

“Listeners?” she asked in the soft voice combat troops develop that is clearer than a whisper, but doesn’t travel as far.

“Possible,” Gossner said back.

She left her head where it was, they’d look more natural if they were in intimate contact while not speaking than if they sat silent while not close. They studied everything they could see without turning their heads, committing everything to memory—a sniper’s memory. The waiter came back with a trio of dishes and, with a flourish, placed one in front of each of them. One held two shelled arthropoids, the dalmans, and another a sauce neither of them recognized. The waiter showed them how to crack the dalman shells and pluck the meat from them. The third dish, he demonstrated, was for the empty shells. They’d barely had time to finish the dalmans when the entrées arrived, delivered by four waiters; one controlled the cart, two placed empty plates in front of them, then set plates with the food within easy reach of both, the fourth opened a bottle of wine and poured for Gossner to approve, then filled both their glasses. Gossner said, “Thank you,” and the quartet bowed themselves away. Neither Gossner nor Dwan had any idea what it was they were eating, but both enjoyed it tremendously.

“Thank you, Mother Corps,” Gossner murmured when they were finished. Dwan cocked an eyebrow and gave him a simpering smirk. “Already?” Then she turned to the original waiter who was approaching with the dessert tray. Gossner groaned when he saw the tray; he hadn’t considered the possibility of dessert while he was eating most of the two entrées served to them. Even so, he managed to eat a slice of pie filled with some local fruit that vaguely reminded him of apples, while Dwan had something that looked fatally chocolate.

“
Now
you can thank Mother Corps,” Dwan said softly when they finished their desserts and coffee and the bill had been presented.

Gossner looked at the total and nearly blanched. He could never afford prices like that on his own income, and he hoped the Marine Corps’s accountants didn’t challange this particular expense too vigorously. He paid, including an appropriate gratuity, with one of the creds they had been given to cover expenses.

On the way back to their hotel, Dwan said, “When we get back to our room, it’ll be
your
turn to strip down to your skivvies and take a nap while
I
watch.”

Gossner tightened up and stared straight ahead, not daring to speak or even look at her. She laughed aloud at his discomfort.

Room 1007, New Granum DeLuxe Inn

The first thing they did when they got back to the hotel was to scan for observation devices. When they didn’t find any, Dwan checked for messages from the
Admiral Nelson
while Gossner lay down for a nap, but he didn’t strip to his skivvies. Dwan giggled at him once—damn, but if he didn’t know who that giggle came from—then reverted to the professional she was. The
Admiral Nelson
had no messages for them. He’d eaten enough that he didn’t feel like going out again right away when Dwan woke him after a short nap, but she had other ideas.

“Up and at ’em,” she said, poking him in the ribs when he rolled over after her first attempt to make him get up.

“I rank you,” he mumbled, “you don’t tell me when to get up.”

“Do you remember what I told that customs agent at Kraken Interstellar when we got here?” she asked.

“What?”

“I said I was going shopping. We’ve got all those creds, and I intend to spend my share of them on things other than fine dining.”

“So go shopping.” He snuggled more comfortably into his pillow.

“Ivo,” she said sweetly, “do you know what a newlywed husband’s job is when his new bride goes shopping?”

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“Pack animal. Now get up and come to lug and tote for me. It’ll look very suspicious if anybody notices a brand new bride shopping without her hubby to carry for her.”

Gossner groaned, but he knew she was right. He rolled over and sat up. “Yes, dear. Give me a minute to wash the sleep out of my eyes.”

She looked at her wrist. “One minute. I’m timing you.”

“I never would have guessed you’d turn into a nag as soon as you got married,” he grumbled as he made his way to the water closet.