Shadow of Victory - eARC (69 page)

Chapter Sixty-One

“I should be back in Lądowisko catching up on things,” Justyna Pokriefke grumbled as the air car swept across the Wiepolski Ocean. “I don’t have time to be gadding around to social occasions!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Szefie!” Gabriel Różycki scolded. “You’ve always got something to ‘catch up on.’ You could spend the next three years in the office and not change that. Besides, it’s been months since you stuck your nose outside the capital, and this is the biggest Dzień Przewodniczącego since the Agitacja! You need a break. And even if you didn’t, you need to be here.”

She looked at him balefully, but she also nodded. Różycki was thirty-seven T-years old, only about half her age, and improbably handsome with his blond hair and gray eyes. She knew there were rumors—very quiet rumors, considering who they were about—that he was considerably more than merely her assistant and closest aide. In fact, there was no basis to the rumors at all, although she’d sometimes considered exploring the possibility. Never very seriously, though. He was too smart—and too valuable—for her to risk destroying his utility to her. Besides, she’d come to think of him as the son she’d never had.

And in this instance, he was right…again.

She didn’t really like Tomasz Szponder. There was something about him, an air of superiority or possibly…disapproval. Something. Perhaps it was her sense that he was perfectly prepared to enjoy all his own privileges but sneered judgmentally down his nose at the woman who made sure he had them. Or maybe it was just the prestige his extraordinarily low Party number bestowed upon him. Despite her present position, Pokriefke wasn’t one of the Trzystu; her party number, unfortunately, was only 1,413—respectably low, but scarcely one of the “Three Hundred”—and perhaps that was what made her feel ill at ease around him. He’d never been anything but courteous to her, and he’d brought her more than a little useful information when his newsies turned up something he thought she should know about. But there was still that something.

Yet he was also a very powerful man: one of the foremost members of the Oligarchia, a personal friend—virtually an uncle—of the
Przewodniczący
, and one of the shrinking number of Trzystu. With all that behind him, Tomasz Szponder wasn’t a man anyone wanted for an enemy. He was considerably more popular with the RON’s rank and file than the majority of the current Party leadership, too, and his reputation for philanthropy made him far better liked and admired by lower class Włocławekans than the vast majority of his fellow oligarchs. And on today, especially, the fact that only six people in the entire Włocławek System, none of them still active in Party affairs, had lower Party numbers than his meant declining his invitation would have been…contraindicated. Besides, it was a foregone conclusion that with everyone who was anyone in the Ruch Odnowy Narodowej in attendance, all manner of alliance building and tweaking would take place over the vodka and canapés.

Maybe that’s why I’m feeling so sour. The truth is that I hate “social affairs” at the best of times, and this is going to be the grandmother of all social affairs!

Well, maybe it was, but Gabriel was right. Wherever she wanted to be, this was where she had to be, and she gazed out the window as the green and white, reef-fringed dot of Szafirowa Wyspa appeared against the dark blue water far below.

* * *

“Welcome, Szymon!” Tomasz Szponder said, shaking the
Przewodniczący
’s hand as the official limousine lifted away from the landing stage, bound for the parking garage at the rear of Prezent do Praksedá’s enormous chalet.

That parking garage rose three landscaped stories into the air, with another four levels buried underground, not a minor achievement on an island. Szponder’s great-great-great-grandfather had intended his estate for serious entertaining, and the current Szponder sometimes wondered if his ancestor had been inspired to outdo the ancient palace of Versailles on Old Terra. He’d have been certain that was what the old man had in mind if Teodozjusz Szponder had ever been off Włocławek. What mattered right now, however, was that there was room in that garage for literally hundreds of air cars. On the other hand, even its capacity was going to be seriously challenged today, which was one reason he’d convinced his guests to let him consolidate their security needs rather than piling dozens of additional vehicles into the available parking and servicing space.

“I think it’s wonderful of you to offer to host this Dzień Przewodniczącego celebration here on Szafirowa Wyspa,” Szymon Ziomkowski replied, gripping Szponder’ hand firmly. “I’ve always thought this was a remarkably beautiful place, and I know Wujek Włodzimierz loved it here. I remember him telling me once that one reason the language in the Karta Partii was so beautiful was that it was composed here, looking out over the Wiepolski. And he added that his host’s love for the language was another reason.”

“I’m honored to hear he said that,” Szponder said, and he meant it, despite what was about to happen. “Those were wonderful days, Szymon. We genuinely believed we could change the world.”

“And you succeeded, Mister Szponder!” a bright soprano voice said, and Szponder made himself smile at Klementyna Sokołowska, Ziomkowski’s personal aide and assistant.

Sokołowska was thirteen T-years younger than Ziomkowski, red-haired, blue-eyed, and quite attractive. She was also, Szponder suspected, considerably more intelligent than she chose to appear. Not surprisingly, since she’d been personally selected by Agnieszka Krzywicka as Ziomkowski’s watchdog. One of her jobs was to keep him convinced the RON was still the strong, forward-looking organization his uncle had intended it to be, and she’d been known to flatter him shamelessly in pursuit of that goal. Szponder was confident she’d have happily used her physical charms as another leash for her nominal boss, but for the fact that Szymon loved his wife dearly and would never dream of betraying her.

“No one succeeds completely, Ms. Sokołowska,” he said calmly. “It’s an imperfect universe. Włodzimierz understood that when we were drafting the Charter, although it’s true we sometimes come closer to success than others.”

“You always were a philosopher, Tomasz,” Izabela Ziomkowska said, following her husband down the landing stage stairs. He held out his hand to her, too, but she ignored it in favor of a firm hug and a peck on the cheek. “But I think Włodzimierz also said that even if we have to settle for less than perfection at any given moment, we’re always free to go right on pursuing it.”

“Indeed he did, Izabela,” Szponder said warmly. Izabela Ziomkowska was one of his favorite people, and if he suspected Sokołowska was smarter than she chose to appear, he knew Izabela was. In fact, he was rather counting on that.

“Szymon, why don’t you and Izabela—and Ms. Sokołowska, of course—head down to the Green Salon? That’s where the munchies have been laid out, and Grażyna’s holding the fort at that end while I manage the greeting line at this end. I’ll be along as soon as I finish my ‘Welcome to Szafirowa Wyspa’ duties.”

“Of course,” Ziomkowski said. “Try not to get stuck up here too long, though. It would be rude of us to begin the banquet without our host, but I warn you, I haven’t eaten a bite since breakfast.” He smiled broadly. “I’ve been saving room. I know what your kitchen staff’s capable of!”

“We’ll try not to disappoint you,” Szponder promised.

* * *

“Mazur isn’t going to make it,” Tomek Nowak murmured into Szponder’s ear as they started down the sweeping staircase into the Green Salon. Szponder cocked an eyebrow, working hard at keeping any dismay from his expression, and Nowak shrugged. “I think it’s legitimate. He was out at Piłsudski for some meeting. First it ran over, and now his shuttle’s developed engine trouble. He says he’s still coming, but he won’t get here before the deadline. And neither will Miternowski.”

“That’s…unfortunate,” Szponder murmured.

PiłsudskiStacja Kosmiczna Józefa Piłsudskiego was the Włocławek System’s primary industrial and freight platform. It was also the site of the Stowarzyszenie Eksporterów Owoców Morza’s off-world offices, and Hieronim Mazur spent quite a lot of time there. Szponder had hoped he’d be able to resist the temptation to just run by his Piłsudski office today of all days, but the one virtue Mazur possessed was that he was genuinely hard-working.

Damn it.

And to make bad worse, Asystent Pierwszego Sekretarza Partii Tymoteusz Miternowski, Krzywicka’s deputy, was traveling with him. Krzywicka had groomed Miternowski as her assistant because she was confident he’d go right on being her assistant, without developing any unfortunate notions about taking her job, instead. He was not, to say the least, noted for driving ambition or intestinal fortitude. Left to his own devices, having him elsewhere at the critical moment might not be disastrous. Left to Mazur’s prompting, however…

“How late will they actually be?” he asked as they neared the foot of the stairs.

“Sounds like at least several hours. He says he’ll try to get here before the fireworks, but he can’t guarantee it,” Nowak replied quietly, and Szponder muttered a quiet, fervent curse. The fireworks display wasn’t scheduled until after sundown, another eight hours away.

“Then we’ll just have to go ahead on schedule without them, I suppose,” he said, and produced a broad smile as he walked out into the crowded vastness of the Green Salon.

His wife, Grażyna, came to meet him, tucking her hand into his elbow as their guests realized he was there and turned to face him. The hand on his arm gripped a bit more tightly than usual, but that was the sole sign of uneasiness she displayed. He waited until the side conversations had faded into near silence, then raised his right hand in welcome.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” he said. “Thank all of you for coming. I hope you’ll find the trip’s been worth it. We have quite a few hours yet till sunset, when I trust the fireworks display will be suitably awe-inspiring, as promised. Fortunately, that gives us time for the banquet and the speechifying you all knew you’d have to put up with when you accepted the invitation. And Włocławekans can always use more time to dance!”

Laughter answered, along with a few humorous catcalls, and he smiled even more broadly in acknowledgment.

“So, if you’ll all accompany us, the weather’s cooperating and we’ve laid out the tables on the East Terrace. Mister
Przewodniczący
, if you and the Pierwszy Sekretarz will lead the way?”

“I imagine we can find the East Terrace,” Ziomkowski replied with a chuckle, and turned to Agnieszka Krzywicka.

Izabela Ziomkowska was twenty-seven centimeters shorter than her husband, but she was still forty centimeters taller than Krzywicka. Standing between the Ziomkowskis, the First Secretary looked even tinier than usual, but she smiled and took her place on Ziomkowski’s other side while Sokołowska brought up the rear, flanked by Ziomkowski’s personal security detail. The other guests—a veritable Who’s Who of Włocławek’s Oligarchia and the Ruch Odnowy Narodowej—shook out into order behind them and headed out the French doors to the shaded breeziness of the enormous East Terrace.

Long tables awaited them, covered with snow-white tablecloths, sparkling crystal, hand-glazed flatware, and table silver polished enough to use for mirrors. Discrete name cards marked each guest’s place, and live musicians played on the other side of the dance floor which had been erected just beyond the shading canopies.

Szponder watched his guests find their seats while the serving staff began collecting beverage orders, then glanced over his shoulder at Nowak and nodded casually. The younger man returned his nod, turned, and ambled casually back into the villa while Szponder escorted Grażyna to their own places at the center of the high table.

* * *

Grzegorz Zieliński swallowed another sip of iced mineral water and sternly suppressed an ignoble desire for something a little stronger. The possibility of anything untoward happening here, of all places, was about as minute as it could get, but the members of the
Przewodniczący’s
security detail took nothing for granted. The Departament Ochrony Przewodniczącego was rather strict about little things like drinking on duty.

He chuckled and set the glass back on the portable bar at his elbow. The DOP agents assigned to today’s festivities would eat after they were relieved, but at least as the detail’s senior agent he got to enjoy the canopies’ shade. Of course, that was a bit of a mixed blessing, since he also got to smell the delicious meal everyone else was enjoying.

He nodded to the bartender, then began another discrete sweep around the perimeter, and his smile faded. He knew Szafirowa Wyspa was one of the most secure locations on Włocławek, and he only had to glance upward to see the trio of armed air cars from Torczon Security Services, the security agency which had served the Szponder family for at least three generations. Torczon was the service of choice for at least two thirds of the Oligarchia, and Zieliński had felt relieved when Szponder informed the BBP Torczon would be handling security for the gala in order to reduce the vehicle congestion during the gala.

Despite that, something nibbled at Grzegorz Zieliński’s sense of comfort. He didn’t know what it was, yet he had the nagging sense that something wasn’t exactly where it was supposed to be. It was foolish, of course, but he couldn’t quite seem to shake it.

He was halfway through his sweep when Wincenty Małakowski’s voice came over his earbug.

“Grzegorz! There’s—”

The voice cut off and Zieliński stiffened.

“Wincenty?” he said sharply into his lapel mic. “Wincenty?!”

He was reaching for the panic button on his wrist com when he felt something cold touch the back of his neck. His head whipped around, and his eyes widened as Tomek Nowak smiled at him. There was something bright and glittery in Nowak’s hand, and Zieliński blinked, wondering why it was so hard to focus on it. He blinked again, and then his eyes widened. A hypo. That was a hypo gun. But why would Nowak be carrying a…

Zieliński’s brain stopped working. He stood there, eyes empty, and Nowak touched his shoulder gently.