Better to Beg Forgiveness (15 page)

The earthquake tremor aftershocks coursed through her for minutes, her entire body sensitized so even the cool air from the vents was a palpable touch.

It took five minutes to clean up and pack the gear in her private case while she pondered that all of them were performing some variation on the ritual, and would never discuss it.

Then she checked her weapons again and lay down for sleep.

Horace woke first. He was always like that. The tension of the pending operation would trigger some internal alarm several minutes before he planned to rise. He showered and dressed, and proceeded to the common room.

The servants were a great touch. Breakfast came up shortly, in variety. Horace limited himself to a piece of melon and a poached egg on toast sandwich. He never liked being full while operating. There were too many reasons not to have a full stomach when under stress.

Aramis came through next, grunted sleepily, and dropped for some push-ups. He wore trunks and a tight shirt. As soon as he was done, he plowed into a meal that showed he'd never heard the information Horace had. Ham, the sweet beans from around here, breads, jams, eggs, and potatoes. Well, he was twenty-two and could afford to be voracious. He'd be hungry again in an hour.

Slowly, the rest trickled in. Most ate then showered. Elke was clean, dressed in slacks and support tee, and simply threw her top on once done eating at the bar, though she hadn't spilled a crumb. Well, not "simply." She had her body armor, weapon and harness, light, radio, tool kit, armor, several flat pouches for explosives, her camera kit with the polarized glasses, and the capacitor chargers built into her shoes to power all that gear. She was fifteen kilos heavier once done, though she still was shapely enough and lean. All the compartments and pouches were shaped to her armor. He understood why the tailoring job she'd needed was such an issue.

All the while, Horace checked over his small kit. This time it was in a briefcase, to look unobtrusive. Other packing options included a backpack, a belt pack or pockets if needed. He counted trauma dressings, wound sealer, two pouches of emergency plasma, two more of hydrating fluid. Suture and splinting supplies, a medicomp that could read all vitals, defibrillate, seal a pneumothorax and time drug delivery, the appropriate needles and shunts for it and for delivering medications by hand, antivenin for insects, sedatives, stimulants, cold and fever medications, painkillers, hideously expensive nanobots that could help with trauma repair, scalpels . . . all modular and state of the art for this kind of work.

Jason sat on the couch, gear in front of him on the table. He had weapons, armor, radio, light, and lots of ammo, though his radio had an additional channel so he could split from Alex independently, and he had one kit with extraneous stuff and dressings. He also had a coder for locks and alarms and some old-fashioned breacher gear for breaking mechanical locks. He knew how to pick them, though he likely wouldn't. In this line of work, cutters or a wrecking bar were faster.

Alex had a briefcase, too. His was armored and contained additional computer gear and some extra goodies. He also had extra capacitors on top of the extras everyone else carried, and more maps, plus codes to let him call for backup from the military without wading through channels. They all had one emergency bypass for that. He had layered codes so he could call less than a total response.

Bart and Aramis were the muscle, so they had lots of ammo and heavier armor and just basic radios. Elke handed each a flat pack with another charge in it they could stick in their coats.

"Weather is going to be warm and humid," Horace advised them. "Hydrate now and bring a bottle."

"I figure to have water in the vehicles so we can refresh as we go," Jason said. "We can only carry small bladders under our suits."

"Good idea."

Alex was on the radio and turned. "Updates," he said. Everyone paid attention.

"We leave in two hours. We're driving, two vehicles, and there will be military escort to the three-kilometer line, so when we arrive we're 'civilian' for the news. The President is tied up with prep, so won't be joining us until we leave. He says he trusts us implicitly and will be ready. I am assigning him the code name
Dishwasher
for commo, and he's amused by that."

Everyone acknowledged and went back to eating and preparing. Horace was checking his sidearm when Elke came over and touched his shoulder. He looked up. Alex was with her.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Consultation."

"Of course. Do I need my bag?" He wondered if she were ill.

"No."

They moved to the corner of the room, to a table sliced of a local agate and set on sturdy, black wood. Like many Celadon products, it was good, but not quite good enough to justify export. Better marketing would make it exotic and rare, but that hadn't been done. So much like Cameroon and Liberia.

Elke placed her computer on the table, angled so it was hidden from the rest and from the camera that the military used to spy on their common room and didn't know they were aware of. So far, the AF had not mentioned any of their irregularities, nor had the Army, who presumably didn't know what the AF saw, or they would have complained.

"These are the President's vitals from last night," she said. There was an IR spectrum image of the room, taken at intervals, and one frame had Bishwanath in it, dressed in pajamas. His readings were . . . odd.

"Yes, he's medicated," Horace said. "I suspect for a stroke condition and possible liver disease. It looks to be controlled, but we'll have to make sure we have the appropriate medication on hand in case of emergency evacuation."

"I can reconnoiter his quarters and check my emplaced gear as I go," Elke offered.

"We can just ask Rahul. I expect he'll be willing."

"Both," she said. "He may be hiding information from his friend."

"I concur," Horace said. "It can be done tonight, or whenever is convenient."

Weapons cleaning, function checks, loading, observing each other so as not to "print" a weapon through clothing, even though everyone present would have to know they were armed, reviewing maps, routes, potential blockages and escapes, emergency procedures. The two hours before departure were filled with technical matters that most people wouldn't expect of "mercenaries" or "legbreakers" or even "bodyguards." Alex contacted Weilhung and White and got intel and satellite updates.

"I'm changing the planned route," he said.

"Why?" White asked on-screen.

"Because it means any planned trap won't work." Horace grinned from the couch next to him.

"And this is a more scenic route. That can be played in the press," Alex said.

"Good," White agreed. "He's visiting his people."

Weilhung sighed. "You realize I have many troops set up to guard the planned route?"

"I do, Major. Sorry. Is it that much of a problem?"

"Not for me or them, no," Weilhung said. "However, certain officers are going to scream."

"Aw, too bad." Alex was grinning now. "No need to say anything. You can move the troops as we go, they won't know why, which means no one else will know why."

"Yeah. Are you planning on telling me the actual route?" Weilhung asked.

Horace sensed tension. Did these two commanders trust each other? If not, how was it going to play out?

"Yes, I'll give you the route. Can you come up for a hard copy? And you also, White."

"I'll get both copies," she said. "It will take me a few minutes to clear my board."

"Understood. I'll have them here."

As he muted the audio and locked the camera, Alex looked at Horace and said, "And that'll delay things about until we leave," and winked.

"Don't we trust them, sir?" Horace asked seriously.

"I trust both of them implicitly," Alex said, also seriously, his face quite sober. "I have no reason to believe that everyone they deal with is trustworthy. White I imagine keeps everything locked tight and only shares it with her shift relief. Weilhung has to perforce share it with his subordinates. It trickles down from there to . . . who knows?"

"There are other snoops," Horace said, indicating the camera above with a flick of eyes only. "If Elke can read the President with her gear, so can others."

Alex looked disturbed.

"I keep forgetting how much surveillance goes on, even here. It's almost as bad as London, Chicago, or San Fran back on Earth."

"Assume everything is public," Horace advised.

The movement went well, as usual. They performed their dance through the palace and into the vehicles. Military vehicles led, limos in the middle, more military tailing. The new route was circuitous and led past the market, where some garbage was thrown.

A rotten cabbage thudded against the glass of the principal limo, and three EPs raised weapons, then holstered them again. Alex looked at Bishwanath, who shrugged.

Elke was jumpy. She wanted her shotgun, but it was stowed under her feet. This vehicle was well-armored, she reminded herself. No immediate danger.

The President said, "If they wish to express themselves thusly, I won't try to stop them. A few stains on my limousine just punctuate what our situation is like."

"It must be irritating, though," Shaman said.

"Enormously," Bishwanath agreed. But it anything, he sounded bored.

The route seemed to work. Nothing further happened. The chosen course into town paralleled and crossed the old one twice, and then looped around. Anyone trying to respond would not have much notice or time in which to do so.

The park in which the meeting was held could only charitably be called so. The grass was long, tufty, and choked by weeds. Several decorative paths were now broken and overgrown. The trees needed pruning, and several had snapped off in storms or been broken; it was hard to tell which. Elke saw trash, bare spots, areas that had obviously been campsites with fires until Dhe's goons had chased them out for this meeting.

"Oh, my," Elke said as the entourage pulled to the curb. Dhe's contingent was already set up and . . . 

There were no words. His supporters were behind a rope that was patrolled by police and local soldiers. A few real soldiers, Turks and Bulgarians from the insignia, reinforced them to give some semblance of professionalism. Dhe had his own guards, too. Well fed. Overly well fed. They could certainly wave guns around, and they wore bright red pantaloons, white socks, flowerpot-shaped hats, and blue shirts with piping and braid. They almost looked like some ancient army from early rifle days.

The crowd . . . people in rags, flowery princess outfits, working clothes, fine suits, and the tuxedo tights of the wealthy, all here to show support for a politician who "spoke for the poor."

In Elke's estimate, the jewelry and limos of three or four of the guests on the bleachers could double the standard of living of ninety percent of the crowd. So much for the "graduated tax" Dhe was fond of.

The rich few were not only ostentatious, they were strutting gay peacocks. The poor were gutter poor, and the other groups were every flake and freak one could imagine. This was the so-called "People's Progressive Party." They cared about the poor.

Mister Dhe was sitting, but did rise to meet Bishwanath. Elke quivered alert. The crowd was largely uncontrolled; Dhe's men were armed. She knew the Army and the Recon troops were in a perimeter behind that crowd and on the buildings nearby, but it was still an area full of threats. Her professional instinct was to move in closer to shield the principal from attack, but that had been ruled out for appearance. She could be reactive only.

"Checking crowd, no immediate threats, nothing but freaks," she said. They all slipped out of the vehicles as one. Elke and Shaman took the front as Bart and Aramis moved in from the sides, and Jason slipped in behind next to Alex.

"Confirm freaks," Aramis said. She could hear sotto voce and the radio both.

"Bad terrain, multiple potentials," Bart said. He was referring to threat positions that could be occupied.

"Solid readings," Shaman said, referring to Bishwanath's vitals. "Nothing additional."

"Freaks and scum," Jason said.

"Consulting with Mama. Potentials cleared, and will be recleared." Alex had to be going nuts at the rear, watching Bishwanath walk into a potential trap.

Nor was it a paranoid fear. Someone might take advantage of the open terrain, or try to frame Dhe, or Dhe might make it look like someone was trying to frame Dhe. You never knew.

The press were out, of course. They were privileged, and considered threat free, which was ludicrous, even if you considered their lies and carrion eating to be nonthreatening. Media was a very easy way to insert a spy or worse, which was why most governments were so leery of them, while being required to cater to them.

Bishwanath smiled broadly. Considering his comments about Dhe, that had to be a fine acting job. Elke watched him and watched her sector of the guests and the crowd. She felt her fingers twitching and restrained them. No weapons, no explosives. Not yet.

The cameras and "official" guests made it a jungle for an EP. The only good part was that Elke looked less like a fixture as she wandered around, past fractured trees and the human buzzards perched below them.

Dhe's guards had earbuds, too. There were also three Recon troops she recognized, checking the threat zones that had been reported. Elke snapped photos with her eyeglass setup, and nodded to her compatriots. Recon, at least. She didn't regard Dhe's thugs as anything other than targets she couldn't shoot yet. They were all style, if that revolting combo could be called "style," and no substance to speak of.

She couldn't avoid looking at Dhe because Bishwanath was next to him. What a disgusting creature. Pallid, a corpulent slug, obviously drunk out of his mind—she could smell the ketones fermenting out of his body from here—stuffed into a suit, and unable to speak a full sentence without drifting into incoherence that was quickly masked by the applause of his bootlickers.

But Bishwanath smiled and was relaxed, and acted as if they were long lost friends. He'd even hugged the man and kissed his cheeks. Elke shuddered.