Dark Run (27 page)

This was when so many people would blow it, that agonising moment where the mark was
so near
and yet not quite in the right place for the game to proceed, an unexpected delay which preyed on the nerves. This was when some would betray themselves, either unconsciously through an unintended movement or noise or by deliberately making their move before the correct time, an act borne of frustration. Rourke didn’t move and didn’t breathe; there was no way she should be detected, and there was no reason to panic. What was the woman doing? It didn’t matter, not to her. All that mattered was that Císa r˘ was not yet in the right place, and so Tamara Rourke would wait.

A grunt of effort from the hallway, a faint slithering sound, a muffled thump of something being dropped on carpet. Rourke frowned ever so slightly, but then the noise was repeated.
Boots. Taking off her boots. Now, where will she go?

This was the first unpredictable element, no matter how confident she’d hoped to sound to Jenna. The front door opened onto a hallway at right angles with the main bedroom and the bathroom at one end and the second bedroom – now an office – at the other. In order to access the kitchen and diner Císa r˘ would have to come through the doorway almost directly in front of her, into the living room; that was the gamble Rourke had taken. Despite the doubtlessly harrowing day she’d just had, AnnaMarie Císa r˘ was unlikely to turn in straight away, and would surely not head straight for her office; she’d just come from work, after all. She might stop into the bathroom, true, but that would only be a brief delay. No, most likely was that this hardworked and currently highly stressed politician would head straight for the kitchen to make herself a coffee, perhaps with a dash of something alcoholic, and possibly prepare a meal . . .

The faint noise of stockinged feet on carpet, a shadow suddenly growing in the patch of light thrown into the living room’s dark interior. Rourke forced herself not to tense, waited as still as darkness behind the door, saw the back of the woman’s head appear,
five feet seven inches barefoot, one hundred and twenty to twenty-five pounds, blonde dye over a natural auburn and last coloured one week to ten days ago,
watched her take another step,
unlikely to be trained in martial arts judging by musculature on arms and legs, slight limp in left leg possibly caused by blister
, and thumbed the safety button on the handgun she’d found in the top drawer of Císa r˘
’
s bedside cabinet with an audible buzz.

‘Please do not raise your voice,’ she said firmly. Arming the gun was a showy move straight out of the holos, but it was a recognisable noise which would register with anyone who had a familiarity with firearms. Císa r˘ froze in place, hands slightly raised from her sides and fingers extended.

‘Are you from the Free Systems?’ Her voice was hoarse and the accent of her native land was strong, at least in this moment of stress.

‘Not at all,’ Rourke replied. ‘I wish you no harm, and I apologise for the manner of this intrusion, but my presence here must remain a secret and that wouldn’t be likely to happen had you attacked me or screamed. Please, Ms Císa r˘, by all means turn around.’

Císa r˘ turned in place, carefully, bringing her face into Rourke’s view. The thin lines of her eyebrows showed the rich auburn of her natural colour, her eyes were green and largely unlined,
but dark-rimmed from lack of sleep, which the expensive make-up hasn’t fully concealed,
her cheekbones high and her cheeks smooth,
probably taken Boost a time or two, as the cut of her clothes and the seniority of her office don’t quite match the youthfulness of her face; a little vain, then.

Císa r˘
’
s eyes flickered to her own handgun, which was held loosely in Rourke’s gloved hand and pointing at the floor. ‘So you would not have shot me?’

‘I simply needed to get your attention, Minister,’ Rourke admitted. She did not, however, put the gun down.

‘What do you want?’ Císa r˘
’
s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Rourke could see the thoughts running through her mind, that Rourke could have already robbed the apartment or harmed her had she wished to . . . at least, that’s what Rourke
thought
the other woman was thinking. This was why she normally left such negotiations and manipulations to Drift; the man could read people’s moods as easily as she could spot a feinted punch or a concealed weapon. He relied on her to get them out of trouble when it started, and she relied on him to make sure it never started in the first place. After all their years of working together so smoothly she still couldn’t quite believe he was . . .

Focus, Tamara.

‘I want to help you,’ she said to the minister’s frown. ‘My employers have come into possession of the name and current location of the man who was behind the explosion in the North Sea.’

Císa r˘
’
s eyes widened. ‘What?! Who? Where?’ Then her eyes narrowed once more. ‘Who are you, and who are your employers?’

Rourke raised her ungloved left hand. It had been so long since she’d activated the electat that she’d almost thought her palm would remain blank when she’d tried to show it to Drift, but his horror-tinged expression of shock had quickly reassured her that it had worked. She gave her left hand the same mental prod now, and watched as surprise crept over the other woman’s face.

‘The GIA.’ Císa r˘
’
s nostrils flared in anger. ‘The USNA think they can simply send an agent into
my apartment
?’

‘With respect, Minister, there are very few places we
don’t
get sent over the course of our careers,’ Rourke replied levelly. ‘The reason I am here waiting for you is because we cannot be seen to be directly involved in this affair.’

‘When is the Galactic Intelligence Agency ever seen to be directly involved in
anything
?’ Císa r˘ snorted.

‘Exactly.’ Rourke allowed herself a small, tight smile.
Now give her the freebie, before she gets too angry.
‘We know that the man who sent that bomb was a former employee of your government.’

‘Impossible!’ Císa r˘ snapped.

‘Nicolas Kelsier?’ Rourke asked.

Confusion clouded Císa r˘
’
s expression. ‘Kelsier? I don’t . . . he was . . .’

‘—fired,’ Rourke finished for her, ‘for corruption. After skimming off quite a large amount of money, or so it seems, which he’s used to finance this spiteful attempt at revenge.’

‘How do you know this?’ Císa r˘ demanded. Rourke smirked as smugly as she could. It didn’t come easily.

‘We . . . “picked up” the ship which botched the bombing. It seems the captain was unaware of what he’d been called on to deliver, but he was very clear on who had hired him: his old employer, Nicolas Kelsier. This captain was one of your old privateers.’

‘Privateers?’ Císa r˘
’
s face went blank. ‘I don’t know what you—’

‘Let’s not be coy, Minister,’ Rourke snapped, ‘do you really think the GIA wasn’t aware of Kelsier’s private pirate fleet? We might accept protestations of ignorance from a junior undersecretary perhaps, or the Minister for Education, but the Minister for Defence? You might not be a part of ETRA, but your departments work hand-in-hand.’

Císa r˘
’
s gaze shifted, not meeting Rourke’s eyes. ‘That was before I was in office.’

‘We don’t care,’ Rourke said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘The point is that you know what I’m talking about. Do you see the delicacy of the situation now? We have a pirate, a man who may well have committed offences against
our
shipping as well as the Federation of African States, who has the nav records and data trails to suggest he really was hired by Nicolas Kelsier to deliver a nuclear device into Amsterdam.’

‘Then with the greatest respect to your agency,’ Císa r˘ said, the tone of her voice indicating a certain sarcasm, ‘why do you care?’

Rourke took a deep breath. ‘Because we believe Nicolas Kelsier may be partially funded by or even fully involved with Free System separatists, and that is a far greater priority for us than one pirate.’

Go on. Swallow the lie.

She and Drift had debated this fiercely. Her GIA electat was the only even vaguely credible form of authority they had, but even that wouldn’t persuade anyone of importance in the USNA to do what they needed. The Europans were the nation least likely to automatically arrest Drift if the truth of his former identity got out, and the fact was that they might need to throw as much truth as they had at this in order to get the lies to stick, but no one would believe that the GIA were throwing a bone to another government with no angle for themselves. In the end, the Free Systems were the only viable patsy.

All the colonised systems in the galaxy had been claimed by one of the governmental conglomerates from Old Earth, and it was those conglomerates which set the laws and, crucially, levied taxes. Predictably, however, this empire-building hadn’t gone unchallenged, and when certain systems had enough of sending percentages of their GDP back to Old Earth, they’d staged local variations of the Boston Tea Party. Rourke herself had played a small part in the series of events which had culminated with the Yangtze System throwing off the yoke of Red Star rule, but the GIA had stopped laughing when USNA systems started rebelling as well.

At that point it had become a giant exercise in galactic hypocrisy, as every conglomerate tried its best to quietly prevent cessation from its own ranks while vocally supporting the rights of everyone else’s subject systems to break away in the interests of democracy. Some of the Free Systems were war zones, others were fully independent, many were somewhere in between with the citizens fighting among themselves and bombing each other when they couldn’t agree on whether to stay or break away. However, some freedom fighters inevitably decided that the best way to ‘send a message’ was to hit a prominent government target elsewhere . . . and the USNA had taken several of these hits in the last few years.

‘Separatists?’ Císa r˘ either couldn’t or didn’t bother to hide the grimace which twisted her lips. Her first thought upon hearing a gun armed behind her had been of the Free Systems, which boded well.

‘So we believe,’ Rourke lied. ‘If Kelsier is working as a mercenary, using the resources he stockpiled when stealing from your government to complete jobs for others, he is as big a potential threat to us as he is to you. However, even our authority has limits; we could never mobilise even a small amount of USNA troops after this man on the testimony of a former Europan pirate who was involved in a bombing attempt on another government’s territory. You would have a rather stronger case.’

‘That’s what you’re suggesting?’ Císa r˘ looked incredulous. ‘That I should authorise
military action
against a former employee of my government based on second- or third-hand intelligence?’

‘A small, discreet action only,’ Rourke assured her, ‘the USNA has—’

‘The USNA has a history of shooting first and finding out the truth second,’ Císa r˘ spat, then raised her eyebrows mockingly. ‘Well? I imagine you may be recording this conversation, but my remarks are as deniable as your government infiltrating my
home
. Give me the surveillance data, give me the interrogation transcripts – with the screams edited out, if you please, I know how you work – and give me this ‘captain’ himself, with his ship and his logs. Then, and only then, will I decide whether or not I have a case with which I can pursue further action.’

Rourke felt the growing void in her chest and tried to ignore it. They’d been banking on Císa r˘
’
s desperation to produce something, gambling that she would jump at a chance to show a result in the aftermath of the largest terrorism scare to hit the Europan Commonwealth in living memory. ‘With respect, Minister, my agency cannot simply—’

‘Your agency works with lies and misdirection, and shows no respect to
anyone
,’ Císa r˘ declared forcefully. She pointed a slightly quivering finger – from anger rather than fear, if Rourke was any judge – at the flat’s front door. ‘Put my gun down and get out of my home. You needn’t fear that I will shoot you in the back with it; I value my career as minister too much for that, which is precisely why I will be ignoring this poorly concealed attempt to get us to do your dirty work for you.
If
you have hard evidence of a connection between any individual and this bombing attempt, then your superiors may submit them to us through the usual channels. Now get out.’

Rourke debated arguing further but decided against it. Even Drift couldn’t have salvaged this mess, although the odds were good that he wouldn’t have let it get this bad in the first place. Then again, perhaps the web of bullshit she’d been trying to spin had simply been too tenuous in the first place. She placed the gun on the table beside her without a word and moved to the front door, pressing the release button with her gloved thumb and pulling it open. Only once she was halfway through did she take the gun’s magazine from her coat pocket and drop it on the doormat with a mocking tip of her hat to the Minister for Defence.

She reached the ground floor in less than twenty seconds (her old instructor had used to say that only two sorts of people were intelligent enough to realise that sliding down bannisters was quicker than using stairs: children and agents), wrenched open the front door and ran out into the rain, which had settled down from its thunderous beginnings into the kind of solid drenching which could keep up its steady precipitation through the night and well into the next day. She headed south-east for the nearest rail station as fast as she could, hoping that Císa r˘ would decide the paperwork involved with arranging the detention of a GIA agent simply wasn’t worth it. As she ran, she activated her comm.

+Go.+
Drift sounded like he’d recovered a little from whatever had been causing him problems earlier, but he clearly wasn’t in the mood for chatting. Which was good; perhaps for once he’d adhere to proper communications protocol.

‘No deal,’ Rourke said, trying not to puff as she turned a corner. ‘It’s up to the girl now.’