Shadow of Victory - eARC (23 page)

Exactly what this fellow wanted with a Włocławekan medical supply firm was something of a puzzle, however, and Nowak didn’t like puzzles. Especially not when the person at the heart of them seemed to be trolling for information.

All Nowak knew about him was that he represented the Oscar Williams Madison Foundation, a Solarian charitable organization well over three T-centuries old. On the face of it, somebody working for a charitable organization might be expected to spend time talking to the Sisters and their suppliers, but that would only have been true if the organization in question was really what it claimed to be, and OWMF hadn’t been that in a long time. Nowak himself knew very little about the foundation, but his friend Radosław Kot, who’d first noticed Mister Mwenge, had used his journalistic contacts to do a little research.

Kot’s well-honed suspicions had been roused when Mwenge arrived in a private Solarian-registry dispatch boat which appeared to be little more than a glorified—and luxurious—private yacht. He’d become even more suspicious when he discovered that the Biuro Bezpieczeństwa i Prawdy had given Mwenge only the most cursory of glances when he arrived. Indeed, the BBP had cleared him through customs with accelerated priority and he’d been met at the spaceport by a representative—admittedly, a fairly low-level one—of Hieronim Mazur’s Stowarzyszenie Eksporterów Owoców Morza. That had been more than enough for Kot to dig deeper, and he’d discovered that the Oscar Williams Madison Foundation was quite well known in certain circles. The original organization had long ago been co-opted by the Office of Frontier Security, and while it continued to raise a great deal of money for its ostensible projects, ninety percent of those donations went into staff, overhead, and its directors salaries. In addition, it was liberally subsidized by OFS and various corrupt transstellars in need of good publicity in the League, where OWMF spoke fulsomely of its own good works in the poor, benighted star systems of the Verge…and of how generously OFS and whatever transstellar was currently paying it contributed to its efforts there.

Given the protests which had raged through the capital for three weeks after the air bus shoot-down—and the savage crackdown which had followed—that was exactly the sort of favorable PR the Party needed just now. Personally, Nowak though Krzywicka and Pokriefke should be more focused on local opinion, but the
łowcy trufli
were always more worried about how opinion might affect business and tourism than about little things like blood in the streets.

That was probably enough to explain how Mwenge had breezed through security, and he was certain it explained the visits Mwenge had made to the Komisja Wolności i Sprawiedliwości Społecznej’s offices here in Lądowisko. Bjørn Kudzinowski’s “Freedom and Social Justice Commission” would be the logical agency to issue an off-world shill’s marching orders. But that didn’t explain the fact that he actually was contacting legitimate charitable entities here in Włocławek. Unless, of course, he hoped to use his contacts with them to dig for information on the local star system’s subversive elements.

And given how half the Projects took to the streets after the air traffic hack went viral, Pokriefke has to be a hell of a lot more worried about any organized subversives than she was before. I may despise her, but unlike Mazur’s, her brain actually works. Sometimes, at least.

Whatever else the stranger might be, however, Nowak had come to the conclusion he probably wasn’t an agent of the BBP or the BDK. They seldom operated solo—which was wise, given how uniformly beloved they were—and there was no sign of any backup at all for Mwenge. That didn’t rule out the possibility that he and his precious foundation were working for one of the
łowcy trufli
who’d gotten a sniff of the Krucjata Wolności Myśli’s existence and launched a private venture to smoke it out, however.

No, it doesn’t, Tomek, he told himself. But if that’s what he is, he’s being awfully subtle, and that’s not usually the hallmark of somebody working for Mazur or the other oligarchowie. “Subtle” isn’t in enormous demand when you’ve already got the courts in your pocket.

Mwenge moved on down the Mazowiecki Street pedestrian way, headed more or less towards Lądowisko Spaceport. If Nowak’s information was correct, he had a shuttle on one of the private pads, so he was probably headed back to his ship. That might—or might not—indicate that his business (whatever it was) in Włocławek had been completed.

The smart thing to do would be to just let him go his way while you go yours, Tomek, and you know it. The question is whether or not you’re going to do it.

He snorted at the thought, because it wasn’t really a question at all.

He tugged his hat brim a bit lower, shoved his hands deeper into the warmth of his jacket pockets, bent his head against the winter wind, and matched the off-worlder’s pace.

* * *

Damien Harahap considered the imagery projected onto the contact lens in his left eye. The tiny optical pickup hidden in one of his rather ornate belt’s ornamental silver conches gave him a hundred and sixty-degree view of the street behind him. It was a relatively simple bit of technology he’d found useful on many occasions.

The man ambling along behind him was a tallish, broad-shouldered fellow. He’d been there for the last four blocks, and he’d been waiting on one of the benches in the small park outside Szymański i Synowie when Harahap came back out. It was possible he’d simply had a hankering for fresh air. But given that the temperature was barely five degrees above freezing, it would have to be a greater than normal appetite for cold fresh air.

You, Damien Harahap, he told himself, are a suspicious, distrustful, and generally paranoid fellow.

He turned down a side street, moving away from the main thoroughfares and into a part of Lądowisko the Włocławek Bureau of Tourism really didn’t want visitors to see. He passed a burned out storefront and wondered how long it had been boarded up. Had it been a casualty of the recent riots? Or did its charred, forlorn squalor simply represent the norm for this neighborhood? There was no way to tell, but the fellow behind him followed past it without missing a step, and Harahap nodded to himself.

Now for the interesting part, he thought. This guy could be a BBP agent who’d like to ask you a few pointed questions, Madison Foundation credentials or no, given who you’ve been talking to for the last six days. If he’s not that, odds are he’s just an ordinary, garden-variety thug who’s noticed how much cash you’ve been flashing around. Then again, it’s always possible…

Actually, he was reasonably sure his shadow wasn’t with the Biuro Bezpieczeństwa i Prawdy. If he had been, he’d almost certainly have already flashed a badge and started putting those pointed questions quite some time ago. And he probably would’ve shown at least a modicum of courtesy when he did, given who “Dupong Mwenge” worked for. But it was also possible he hadn’t gotten the word on who “Mwenge” was, and the local regime’s enforcers seldom objected to making their presence visible as a warning to their fellow citizens. Besides, agents of something like the BBP tended to come in two flavors: the subtle, unobtrusive sort (rather like one Damien Harahap), or else the truncheon-wielding, head-breaking sort. This fellow didn’t fall neatly into either category.

Harahap’s eyes narrowed as he approached a gate in the decorative but battered fence to his left. The wilderness beyond the fence had probably been a pleasant little park once upon a time—Lądowisko’s original architects had tucked scores of small green spaces into the street grid of the capital’s older sections—but now winter-gaunt trees loomed over mazes of underbrush which had devoured playground equipment and what had been shaded walks.

It was the sort of place muggers dreamed of, and Harahap began to whistle tunelessly as he stepped through the open gate.

* * *

Now that’s an interesting development, Nowak thought. I think he must’ve spotted me. The question is why he’s so obligingly wandering into such a handy dark corner. Somehow I doubt it’s because he likes the color of my eyes.

He followed his quarry—if that was what Mwenge truly was—to the gate, then hesitated, conscientiously trying to think of some sort of BBP scenario that might make any sense. He couldn’t. If the czarne kurtki suspected he was part of something like the Krucjata Wolności Myśli, they’d invite him downtown for a chat by breaking down his door in the middle of the night. They certainly wouldn’t wave a mysterious off-worlder under his nose and expect him to fall into some kind of trap. Unless this was truly the first step in some convoluted attempt to infiltrate the KWM’s membership.

You really ought to ask Tomasz before you go charging off half-cocked, he told himself. You know you’re too inclined to act first and think second…or third. And it’s not like you’re the only one you could be putting at risk.

All of that was true, but he knew he wasn’t going to ask anyone. Partly because there was no time—not if he meant to take advantage of the opportunity Mwenge had so courteously provided. But there was another reason. If Mwenge turned out to be one of the BBP’s leg-breakers, Nowak would deal with him, one way or another. And if the Biuro ended up dealing with him, instead, at least he’d limit the damage to just himself.

Assuming the suicide protocols worked as promised, anyway.

He followed the other man into the park.

* * *

Harahap turned sideways, edging through a gap in the overgrown bank of some unpleasantly thorny native shrub which squeezed tightly on the rutted path. On the far side, he found a small, muddy pond, heavily grown with some sort of reed. A thin skim of ice reached out across the shallows to where a single, forlorn waterfowl floated disconsolately. It was, he thought, a fitting metaphor for the gray, sullen despair-flavored discontent all about him…except for the volcanic heat growing steadily hotter under that tide of dissatisfaction. Even making due allowance for the inherent stupidity of greed and a certain lack of imagination he found it extraordinary that none of the local security agencies seemed to grasp that the ice under their feet was as thin as the ice fringing the pond before him.

There was no ready exit from the pond’s cul-de-sac, however, and he shrugged. He would have preferred to have a bolthole if he needed one, but sometimes an agent simply had to play the hand he’d drawn. He moved a few meters closer to the pond, then turned and faced back the way he’d come, still whistling and with one hand in his right coat pocket.

* * *

Nowak had never spent any time in this particular park, since he had an aversion to beating off muggers. Now, unfortunately, Mwenge had given him the slip. He had to be somewhere along one of the paths, but he’d managed to get around the initial bend and disappear before Nowak rounded it in pursuit, and the Włocławekan had no idea how those paths were arranged.

He stood very still, listening. The normal city sounds were faint and muted by the ratty, once elegant tenements that rose like some decaying ceramacrete canyon around the park. The cold, cutting wind was broken into little more than an unpleasant breeze by the same tenements, and as he cocked his head he heard—very faintly—the sound of someone whistling.

This is getting ridiculous. Why didn’t he just leave a trail of breadcrumbs like the kids in that old story?!

Well, either it was an ambush after all or else this Mwenge really wanted to talk to him badly.

There was only one way to find out.

* * *

As the man tailing him pushed through the same prickly gap, Harahap revised his size estimate upward. The fellow had very broad shoulders, too, and he carried himself like someone who spent at least an hour or so every day in the gym. He also seemed unsurprised to find Harahap waiting for him. His expression never flickered as he used his left hand to disengage a thorn-edged branch from the right sleeve of his coat; his right hand, however, stayed as firmly in his coat pocket as Harahap’s own hand.

“I wondered when you’d be along,” the ex-gendarme said calmly as his right thumb disengaged the safety on the compact pulser in that pocket. “Welcome to my office.”

His left hand waved to take in their desolate surroundings, and the newcomer snorted in what seemed like genuine amusement.

“You wondered that, did you?” he said. “Well, I wondered why you were so obliging about showing me the way here.”

“Sometimes you have to be ‘obliging’ to get the people you’re interested in meeting to talk to you.”

“Really?” The other man tilted his head. “And what makes you think I might be that kind of people? As far as I can tell, all you’ve done for the last week is talk to the kind of people someone working for a charitable foundation—especially one like yours—ought to be talking to. Which isn’t at all the kind of people I am.”

“No,” Harahap conceded. “On the other hand, the people I do want to talk to would know what was going on with organizations like the Siostry Ubogich. And they’d probably get suspicious and come all over curious if someone from off-world started talking to those same organizations. Especially if that off-worlder let slip just how much he disapproved of the SEOM and the
łowcy trufli
.” He smiled thinly. “And, while we’re at it, I should probably point out that I’m none too fond of
Minister Bezpieczeństwa i Prawdy
Pokriefke, either.”

He pronounced the Polish better than most off-worlders, Nowak noticed. At the same time, his accent was additional proof he was an off-worlder. But…

“You may not realize it, Mister Mwenge, but that kind of talk can get someone in trouble here in the Włocławek. And for someone who’s not fond of
Mała
Justyna, her czarne kurtki were awfully quick to get you passed through security when you arrived. For that matter, Hieronim Mazur’s not in the habit of sending Stowarzyszenie representatives to greet his more trenchant off-world critics. Assuming they really are critics, of course.” He smiled thinly. “I’m sure you can understand my confusion here.”

Harahap smiled back as his earbug translated “
Mała
Justyna” into Standard English. “Little Justyna,” was it? That was one his intel reports had missed, and he wondered how. Somehow the nickname didn’t sound like a term of endearment.