Branegate (14 page)

“Your assassins were careless, then,” said Khalid.

“But it’s not my doing. The priest was one of my moles in a cell headquartered near the palace. He called me a week ago to arrange a meeting, but didn’t show up. He had something important to tell me, and was killed for it. The other moles have heard nothing. This worries me, sire. I’m investigating it further; terrorist activities by the Lyraens might be planned to disturb our talks with Galena. The Lyraens are everywhere, even in the embassies. They’re replaced as fast as I can ferret them out.”

“When I’m sure you’ve identified all the cells I’ll make my move, Fedor. Their heads will decorate our streets on posts for all to see, and I expect that will be soon.”

Fedor shook his head. “It’s difficult. There is a central intelligence that coordinates the cells, and not even the Lyraens have a clue to its identity. I fear it’s not within the common people, but highly placed. We must find the head of the snake before striking at its tail. Please be patient with me.”

“I’m a patient man, Fedor,” said the ruler of all Gan.

“Of course, sire,” said his servant, and swallowed the rest of his tea in one gulp.

The Embassy of Galena was three blocks from the palace, the most prominent among its neighbors, a three-storied structure with many windows and a collanaded portico at the front entrance. A ten-foot steel bar fence surrounded the grounds of green grass and manicured flowerbeds and there was a gate with a guardhouse and two armed guards. Two other guards continually patrolled the periphery of the fenced area, their rifles slung casually, but their eyes alert.

A black limousine pulled up in front of the guardhouse and three men got out of it. Two of the men were young, but wore expensive business suits. The third was older, tall, with snow-white hair. The men presented their papers at the guardhouse, A call was made, and the guard opened the gate for them. They walked directly to the front entrance of the embassy, where another guard met them at the door and again checked their papers before letting them go inside.

They deposited their coats on a table in a high-ceilinged foyer, a broad, black-marble staircase winding up to the higher floors. An elderly butler appeared on the first landing of the stairs and gestured for them to follow him. They climbed two flights to a long hallway and were ushered into a dimly lit meeting room with a long table in dark polished wood, and a dozen chairs around it. A bottle of spring water and a goblet were at each place.

They sat down and waited silently for only a moment before another door opened and three other men came in to sit opposite them at the table. Two wore officers’ uniforms of the Galenan Marine Corps, and the third, middle-aged, wore a black suit. The older man spoke first.

“I hope you gentlemen had a pleasant trip.”

The two young men opposite him nodded politely without a word.

“No names are necessary, Azar. I don’t know these people. I’ve never seen them.”

“I understand, Mister Ambassador,” said Azar Khalil. “I provided their lodging last night, but assume you’ll keep them here until the operation is complete. This is the last of the team members.” He smiled, and ran the long fingers of one hand through his thick, white hair.

The ambassador made a phone call and a butler appeared. “This man will see you to your quarters, gentlemen.” He waved his hand in dismissal and the two young men went away with the butler. “Military assassins are sometimes necessary, but always disturbing. I’ve seen such cold, cold eyes before.” The ambassador sat down again and faced the man across from him.

Internally, the Galenan Ambassador to Gan shuddered. There was something predatory about Azar Khalil. Like the young ones who’d arrived with him it was mostly the eyes, so dark brown they were nearly black, and wide-spaced in a gaunt, bloodless face. “The team will be housed here. There will be no further contact between us until after the evacuation of the team. In the meantime, our people will quietly circulate stories verifying your importance in the economic initiatives being made. It should help to cement relations with your colleagues so they’ll back you when the time comes.”

“They support me now,” said Azar. “They depend on me.”

The ambassador’s heart skipped a beat. “Dependence can change. An ally one minute can be an enemy the next. We’re depending on you to restore friendship between Gan and Galena, and to run a democratic state here. Don’t think for one minute that what’s about to happen to an hereditary Emperor can’t happen to you.” His face flushed in embarrassment at his own directness, but it was a thing that needed to be said. “Even The Church won’t lift a finger to help you if you fail us.”

Azar blinked slowly. “Threats are not necessary, Mister Ambassador. I’ll not fail The Church, but enhance it. A democracy cannot function without a spiritual core for its people. The Church could not have existed without my support during increased oppression by the present regime. That oppression was a crime against the human spirit.” His voice raised in pitch with unusual passion for a man of his stature and influence.

“I agree,” said the ambassador, “but we want stability here, and a stop to the proliferation of weapons of destruction. The Galenan market will give you more profits than you have now, and with only a fifth of your weapons production.”

“I’ll devote many of my facilities to the reconstruction of Gan. There will be a home for every person. That is my promise. I know you don’t like me, Mister Ambassador. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the way I’ve made my fortune. I do not crave power or fortune; I already have those things. What I do crave is the opportunity to better the lives of people subjected to the long rule of a selfish ruler, and I will do that if I’m given the chance. That alone is my ambition.”

The black eyes narrowed, an intense stare the ambassador felt to the core of his soul. There was power in the man, and a will of steel. He would accomplish whatever he set out to do. But could he be controlled?

“When it comes to the election we can do no more than support a candidate who will make you seem desirable to the common people. We can do nothing obvious to help.”

“My organization is already in place, and a constitution is being written. We’ll be ready. Is there anything else?”

“No. My staff has prepared a small lunch for us. The economic ministry has sent along a gift of flowers which grow from seed to maturity in days, and there’s a list of Galenan industries you might consider for the new construction on Gan.”

Azar smiled. “I appreciate your hospitality, Mister Ambassador. You’re most kind.”

A butler arrived without a command and led them to a small dining room with linen-covered tables where they had a meal of fish with mustard sauce and accompanied by white rice and delicious tea smelling like flowers. And then there was a gift of real flowers, large, orange blooms shaped like teacups on thick stalks covered with razor-edged thorns covered with thin plastic for safety. Their scent was delicate, with a hint of cinnamon. Azar accepted them graciously, but declined to discuss business, and took with him the documents sent by the Economic Ministry of Galena.

Parting was friendly, though Azar knew the ambassador still harbored suspicions about him, but his good mood was shaken by what happened as he was getting back into his limousine. He’d been holding his flowery gift carefully, feeling their sharp points through the plastic wrap. As he leaned into the car his hand hit the top of the door, jolting the flowers from his grip. Instinctively he reached to grab them as they fell. His driver also reached for them, and they caught the flowers simultaneously, the driver pulling back as Azar gripped the stalks hard. Pain made him cry out as a thorn penetrated the wrapping and tore a horrible gash in the palm of his hand. Blood went everywhere, his clothes, the door, and the back seat of the car. His driver was near panic, and wanted to seek help in the embassy.

Azar forbade it. “I’ll not embarrass my host, and you’ll say nothing about this accident. Just clean up the car when I’m home.”

He wrapped his hand in a handkerchief and squeezed it hard. In a few minutes the handkerchief was soaked red in blood, but the pain was gone. The driver drove him home quickly, kept looking back, but Azar kept his hand down where he couldn’t see it. He ordered the man away and went inside the main house where a servant brought him water, bandages and gauze for his wound. By the time he washed it out the bleeding had stopped, and Azar thought he could see strands of undamaged tendon deep in the cavity. He wrapped it carefully, and retired to his study for work before and after a light dinner.

Bedtime was early, since he habitually arose before sunrise. He unwrapped his hand, then, and inspected the wound. The cavity was completely filled with new tissue, and the edges of it were sealing before his eyes. There would soon be a scar, but that would be gone by morning.

As he expected.

The underground church of the faithful had survived for years by its own wits, and intelligence provided by the external community. Money also arrived regularly to fund their operations, delivered to cell headquarters in neatly packed cardboard boxes filled with used, unmarked currency. Best efforts had failed to locate the source of the funds, or to identify the callers from unlisted numbers who regularly fed them intelligence, particularly on movements and plans of the Emperor’s secret police. They’d been saved by this intelligence on several occasions, and had learned to trust it. They’d also learned not to question the monies they received to keep The Church alive. It was clear their benefactors were wealthy, highly placed citizens who in a clandestine way were expressing their belief and faith in The Source. Pet names had been developed for them over the years, the most active caller a man they called Faith, a man who’d himself suggested the name as a token of his commitment to The Source of All Energies.

It was Faith who called near midnight only three weeks after Joseph had shot the traitor Abelius in the back of the head and become cell rector in his place. Joseph himself received the call.

“Ah, Joseph, I have something important for you. For your ears only, as a soldier of The Church.”

“I’m listening. No one is here with me at the moment.”

“Another traitor has been found in our midst. His capture offers us the opportunity to strike the first blow for our freedom.”

“A priest?”

“No, a worker, a mechanic servicing trucks for another cell in your area. He somehow learned the locations of several garages for our transportation and was caught setting up an information drop with our old friend Fedor Quraiwan. He’s only blocks from your location.”

“So why call me? Kill the man, and be done with it.”

“As you so efficiently did with your late colleague, a bit hastily perhaps. We missed an opportunity then to track down the location of Quraiwan’s intelligence center outside the palace and eliminate the man. Now we have another opportunity. My suggestion is we allow the man to make the drop and follow him or his contact to Quraiwan’s street headquarters. We know he routinely receives information before business hours in the morning. We thought he was using a cleaning establishment, but that has proven to be no longer true. This is a one-man operation, and requires a true Soldier of The Church.”

“Me,” said Joseph.

“That is correct. I’ll give you an address. If you leave now you’ll have time to interrogate the prisoner and go with him on the drop. If The Source is with you, Quraiwan will be dead before sunrise.”

“He’ll only be replaced.”

“That will not be so simple. The police will be in disarray for weeks. A revolution is coming, Joseph, and soon. You will fire the first shots in the war for our freedom.”

“A suggestion, or an order?”

There was a short pause, then, “If you wish, it is an order.”

Joseph felt the short hairs stir on the back of his neck. “Then give me the address.”

It was given, along with a signal for identity, and Joseph hung up without a reply. The coldness of the man’s voice was somehow gratifying, the willingness to kill for The Church, something he shared. He went to his room and selected a heavy caliber handgun, bulky, but balanced and vented to minimize recoil of the four-fifty-five caliber projectile.

It was after midnight when he exited to an alley through a side door of the garage. He dressed in workman’s clothes: heavy overalls, heavy coat and a cap with a bill down to his eyebrows. The garage of the other cell was only blocks away, and he was there in ten minutes, keeping to side streets and alleyways. Next to a baffle, pull-down door was an entrance marked “Office.” He knocked softly on it, put his ear to the door and knocked again.

“What?” came a muffled voice.

“Joseph. Faith called me.”

The door opened, and it was dark inside. Joseph stepped in with trust, for his weapon was not yet loaded and locked. “Keep going straight ahead,” said a voice.

A door opened, and there was bright light. A burly man motioned him through the doorway. It was an office, a desk heaped with papers, three chairs. Two men stood over a young kid sitting in one of the chairs. The kid took one look at Joseph and blanched white as a ghost. “No! I said I’d cooperate. I won’t give anything away. You promised!”

“Promised what?” said Joseph, and then the other men looked nervously at each other, eyes darting.

“He lives if he leads you to Quraiwan.”

“He’s a traitor,” said Joseph.

“They threatened my family. They said they’d kill them all if I didn’t cooperate,” whined the kid.

Can’t be more than fifteen, thought Joseph. “How’d they find out you’re in the underground?”

“I don’t
know
!” said the kid, and tears welled up in his eyes.

Joseph bit his lip. “You know where Quraiwan is?”

“No, but I make the drops and someone picks them up. I can tell you where it is and when and you can follow whoever makes the pick up.”

“You ever see the guy?”

“No.”

“So when’s the next drop?”

The kid looked at a clock on the wall. “Three hours; it’s at four. I have to be there exactly at four.” His breathing seemed to ease, now, as he calmed down.