Starfist: Hangfire (15 page)

"My name is Welbourne Brock," he said, sticking out his hand and shaking with the three Marines. To that point the trio had only nodded occasionally at Nast's men, not sure how much contact they were allowed with them. "Want to join us at poker? My partner," he nodded toward where the game had stalled, "is gonna get some shut-eye. Six hands should be interesting."

Pasquin remembered that Nast had told him not to use the Havanagas money if he played cards, so that must mean if he used his own money it'd be okay. "Why not?" he asked the others, and they nodded eagerly. Introductions were made all around as they took their seats. "Are you guys from the Bureau of Investigation, or whatever it's called?" Pasquin asked.

"Nah," Brock answered. "Mr. Nast recruited us from all over the Confederation. Nast personally interceded with our departments to spring each of us for this mission. Most of us have seen service in the army or the Marines. Now we're just beat cops with training in special weapons and tactics. I'm from the Fairfax County, Virginia, PD, for instance."

"Hey!" Dean exclaimed. "We were on a troop ship named Fairfax County! Remember, guys?

Whatever happened that they named a starship after the place where you live, I wonder?"

Brock shrugged. "Not much ever happened there. Oh, back during the First American Civil War there was some activity. That's where Mosby, the Confederate Ranger, pulled off one of his most famous and daring raids. Captured a Union general right in town and got clean away." The Marines looked at him blankly. "Never heard of that, huh?" Brock shrugged. "I'm a First American Civil War buff, you know? I have one of those detector machines that gives you a three-dimensional image of what's buried in the ground? In my off-duty time I go out and dig up relics. You ought to see my collection of bullets and buckles and buttons, hundreds of years old..." He shrugged again, seeing that his guests apparently were not interested in his hobby. "Well, we don't even know yet what we're supposed to do or where," he continued, bringing himself back to the present. "All we know is that it's absolutely top secret and after we leave Renner's World, Nast is going to brief us. How 'bout you Marines? You're going under deep cover, aren't you?" Brock said, more a statement than a question. They did not answer. "Been there, done that." Brock sighed. "This whole operation, all the secrecy, breathes of a really important undercover job."

"That's what it is," Nast said, laying a hand on Brock's shoulder. He had come up on them without being noticed. "Don't take these lads for too much, Welbourne," he went on. "Pasquin, don't forget, first thing after chow." He laughed at that. Their compartment was so small a man could throw a spitball from one bulkhead to the other.

"How'd he sneak up on us like that?" one of the officers asked after Nast had returned to his corner.

"Well, I guess that's one reason he's still alive," Pasquin said. Brock, realizing the corporal knew more about Nast than he was letting on, looked up at him sharply. "Deal 'em!" Pasquin shouted, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

He lost.

"All these guys here"—Nast indicated the other men in the crowded compartment outside his privacy screen—"I recruited because I can't trust anyone in the Ministry of Justice. It's been penetrated by the Havanagas mob." He told them briefly about the attempted assassination of him and Long. "They know something is up." He told them about the agents he'd lost on Havanagas. "I have two still there. One is your contact. The other," he smiled, "is my ace in the hole, and nobody knows the person's identity but me. If things go according to plan, you never will either."

"All right, in brief, here's the situation on Havanagas. Some years ago two of the biggest crime families in the Confederation pooled their resources and literally took over the planet they now call Havanagas.

Those were the Draya and Ferris families. They did it by degrees, moving in slowly, buying up and developing real estate, buying local officials. Before the original inhabitants were aware of it, the families owned everything. Many of the people who live there now are employees of these two families, as are the descendants of the original settlers, and for the most part their businesses are legitimate. But Havanagas is merely a secure base these families use to run their enterprises throughout Human Space.

They are into everything and they are everywhere. Oh, there's been resistance to the takeover, but the mob rules by crushing opposition ruthlessly. Still, there's a tiny resistance movement on Havanagas, but I'm not into politics and the resistance won't count in any of this."

"Anyway, the mob's made Havanagas a keyword in tourism and entertainment. That's legit. I don't want to interfere with that. But I do want to shut these families down by taking their leaders. I can get the evidence I need to stick them away forever, but I've got to get it off Havanagas. That's where you guys come in."

"Why not just snatch them and send them off to Darkside, like you did with those—ah hell, you know what I mean." Claypoole was referring to the pirates they captured on Avionia.

"I will," Nast answered. "But I've got to have the evidence to back me up on it."

"Why do you need us to get it?" Pasquin asked.

"My remaining agents have survived so far because they've never made any direct attempt to contact me or get anything off the planet."

"Then how do you know they've got anything you need?" Pasquin asked.

Nast smiled and nodded at the corporal. "I knew you were a sharp one, Pasquin. Well, one has managed to contact me using a very roundabout method, so I know what I need is in their hands. But I'm telling you, the families believe in security, and their security works on Havanagas. Nobody gets off the planet without a full-body scan. The same for their luggage. Be surprised how many towels and ashtrays the tourists try to steal in a year. But you three should be beyond suspicion."

"I trust you, sir, but what if we're compromised? What if something goes wrong? Something unforeseen?" Dean asked.

Nast shrugged. "I won't dukshit around: they'll kill you." He told them about Special Agent Woods.

"But that won't happen to you."

"Jezu!" Dean shuddered. "We went up against those raptors on Wanderjahr!"

"Yeah," Claypoole said, "but they weren't hamstrung. Put me in the ring with one of them, and swish!"

He made as if brandishing a blade. Dean looked at him unbelievingly.

"They get me in there," Pasquin said, "and I'm pullin' a Woods myself."

"They won't get you," Nast emphasized. "And if things do go bad, I won't be far away."

"Uh, how far away would that be, sir?" Pasquin asked.

"A matter of minutes. I've selected a landing site not too far from Placetas, where I can set up a secure base. We've got a stealth suite that should defeat any electronic detection system they have on Havanagas."

"How far is that?" Pasquin asked.

"You don't need to know." Nast smiled tightly. "The less you know about what I'm up to the better. If things go bad and you are taken, they will torture you. If they apply the full suite of horrors, you'll tell them everything. But I emphasize again, they aren't going to get you."

"How will we contact you, sir?" Claypoole asked.

Nast handed each man an electronic bookreader.

"Bookreaders?" Dean exclaimed. He looked at Nast and shook his head. "I don't understand, Mr.

Nast."

"Look in the index. What books do you have on them?"

"Well, there's—ah! The Soldier's Prize, and wow!
Knives in the Night
! Two military classics! I've read both of them several times, Mr. Nast!" Claypoole exclaimed happily.

"Okay. Open Knives and find the words chieu hoi." They did. "Now, highlight that word and open the thesaurus." Immediately a high-pitched pinging noise sounded in the tiny space. Nast took a tiny device out of his pocket and shut the pinging off. "This is a radio receiver. Those," he pointed to the readers,

"are transmitters. If for some reason the transmissions are monitored, it won't make any difference because we'll be coming in too fast for them to react, even if they figure out what the signal means, and they won't, I assure you. We will be monitoring this one around the clock. Clever, eh?"

"So it'll be just some minutes before you arrive?" Dean looked dubious.

"Ten or fifteen at the most." Seeing the anxious looks on the Marines' faces, Nast went on quickly,

"Hey! You guys can do that standing on your heads! The message comes in you've got the evidence, my guys swoop down on your location and I pick you up. I home in on the readers, you see?"

"Yeah, yeah," Pasquin said quickly. "It'll work just fine."

"Oh, boy, are we in the shit!" Claypoole sighed as soon as they were back in their corner with the privacy screens up.

"It could be worse," Dean offered. "Hey, we're going to Havanagas, we got plenty of money, and we got three full days on the ground there before we contact this guy, Lovat Culloden, Chief of Security for the city of—"

"Placetas," Claypoole said. Placetas was the main port of entry for Havanagas. Tourists went through customs there before moving on to one of the ten fantasy worlds of their choice in other cities situated throughout the planet. Placetas served as the seat of what government there was on Havanagas. While not a theme world itself, in Placetas every kind of vice and pleasure known to man was available. Many tourists never had to leave it.

"And don't forget, we got a neat trip on the Ben Gay from Renner's World to Havanagas! One of the finest luxury starships in all of Human Space, and we're ridin' free of charge," Dean reminded them. Their tickets showed them booked from Thorsfinni's World to New Serengeti and from there to Renner's World, the last stop before Havanagas. The trip from Renner's World would take about a week.

"So on the third day in Placetas we meet this guy, Culloden, at the Free Library. Who in the name of the Seven Hells ever heard of a whorehouse with a goddamn library—a real library—in it? Marines in a whorehouse, I can see that, but a freaking library?" Pasquin laughed.

"We go in drunk, Raoul," Dean reminded him. "We sort of wander in at sixteen hours on the third day and raise some hell. We send the message and fifteen minutes later Nast picks us up and we go back to 34th FIST having gotten laid seventeen times and our bank accounts overflowing!"

"Oh, it's brilliant, freaking brilliant," Claypoole exclaimed. "It's so complicated and screwed up it can't help but work perfectly. No, I'm not kidding. Who'd ever believe it was a setup and we're the drop-off for the data Nast needs to hang everybody? I bet if you told one of them Draya or Whatsit Family screws the whole plan, he'd just laugh in your face."

"I know, I know, I know," Pasquin said. "Culloden's been showing up there on a regular basis, sampling the ‘books,’ looking for a prearranged contact with the right code word."

"‘Whores, fours, and one-eyed jacks!’" Claypoole shouted "Whoever thought that one up? Ideal for a place where gambling is a prime activity. I wannabe the one to say it!"

"He shakes us down," Pasquin continued, "gives us the crystals, and we call in the cops. I think you're right, Rock. This plan is so far out it'll actually work!" He laughed and slapped Claypoole on the shoulder. "But for right now, I'm gonna find Welbourne and try to get some of my money back."

He did.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Brigadier Sturgeon stood in his rented room looking ruefully at the small collection of garments he'd brought to Earth. Two sets of dress reds, one of dress whites, in the event he had to attend some formal function, and a set of garrison utilities. No civilian clothes, certainly nothing suitable for a fishing expedition. He shrugged off his threatening anxiety and concentrated on his wardrobe. Maybe he could get away with wearing his utilities. He'd have to come up with a heavy coat of some sort; his dress reds topcoat wasn't designed for wear in the wild. Hell, he thought, if he had to go out and buy a coat, he might as well buy a complete boonies outfit. He started to reach for his topcoat when his comm unit beeped. Who could that be? he wondered. Hardly anybody knew where he was.

It was the B-and-B's matron. A deliveryman was at the door with a package for him. The brigadier's signature was required.

A moment later he was downstairs, signing for a package the size of a valise. The address label said it was from Frederico's of Minneapolis.

"What's Frederico's?" he asked the matron when the delivery man was gone.

She looked at the label. "Oh, it's a very fine clothing store, sir. I believe they have the contract to clothe Marine officers." She looked at him blandly. "You weren't expecting it?"

"I wasn't expecting anything," he said, and returned to his room with the parcel.

A note was inside the package:

I know you're equipped for evenings at the Flag Club, but

you probably don't have anything to wear on the Snake

River. Please accept these with the compliments of the

Marine Corps.

Aguinaldo

Under the note were three shirts, two pair of trousers, three pair of cushion-soled socks, a pair of heavy, watertight boots, and a thigh-length coat. The shirts and trousers were cold-weather/all-weather, rated to zero degrees Celsius. The garments were all lightweight; they automatically compensated for the ambient air temperature, and could be comfortably worn inside a heated structure or keep their wearer warm without a coat in temperatures just cold enough to freeze water. The coat would keep him warm in arctic conditions.

Sturgeon smiled and shook his head, then reread the note. "...compliments of the Marine Corps," it said. General Aguinaldo must have a slush fund he could tap. Just as well he hadn't had to buy them himself, Sturgeon thought, since he wouldn't be able to take them back to Thorsfinni's World with him, and anything he bought would be money into the void. He looked at the garments again. Good quality, all of them. Hmm. Maybe he could find a way to ship them back that wouldn't cost more than the price of the garments.

A car came at 1700 hours. General Aguinaldo wasn't in it.