The Wind After Time: Book One of the Shadow Warrior Trilogy (9 page)

“What’s the best theory?”

“Their murder squad is going on the assumption that one of Penruddock’s old partners in corruption was holding a grudge and waited until now to settle it.”

“Ten years after the war, after he retires? That’s thin.”

“That’s all they’ve got.”

“What about the triggermen?”

“Import talent. There was a freighter that landed two days earlier, had an open exit clearance, and lifted twelve minutes after the first reports of gunfire came in. No guns, no gunnies, no aircraft found so far, so everything must’ve gotten back aboard that ship.”

“What registry?”

“Micked. The ship came in with recognition numbers from a Halliday Line freighter that we have a positive location for on the other side of the galaxy. As for its papers,” Cisco went on, “Mandodari isn’t too particular about who lands there these days.”

“A pretty goddamned pro touch on somebody who’s been retired as long as the judge has. If he was telling me the truth,” Wolfe said.

“Okay. There’s another theory. Khodyan had friends who are doing paybacks.”

Wolfe snorted and didn’t bother answering.

“It didn’t fly for me, either,” Cisco agreed. “Try another one. His wife. Any angles there? Word is she led a pretty spectacular life.”

“No,” Wolfe said. “It has to be the Lumina.” He leaned forward. “Cisco.
Who else is in the field? I’ve got to know!
”

Cisco shook his head. “I don’t know. I swear, Joshua, I’m not lying to you.”

His gaze was bland, sincere.

• • •

“Are we screened?” The on-screen Ben Greet glanced around as if he could somehow see any taps.

“Now, Ben, that’s your problem, not mine. I can guarantee the com link is sealed on this end. I’m using the Sector Marshal’s own set.”

Wolfe was lying. He was linked to Platte on one of Cisco’s secure coms.

“What do you need, Joshua? You didn’t leave any loose ends here when you left, did you? I don’t have the … the things you gave me anymore.”

“Not interested in those. What I want to know is everything you have on Sutro. The fence that was going to meet Innokenty Khodyan.”

The pickup was good enough for Wolfe to see sweat bead the resort owner’s forehead.

“Joshua, I swear, I don’t know anything at all. And even if I did, you know I couldn’t tell you anything. I’ve got to stay known as a man who can keep it buttoned.”

“Ben, talk to me. I don’t want to have to come all the way to Platte and have this conversation again.”

Wolfe let the silence linger and held Greet’s eyes. The man winced as if he’d been struck.

“All right. I’ve met him four times. Big man. Might have been a fighter once. Let himself get sloppy. He told me once he was going to get back in shape as soon as he had the energy. Black hair, don’t remember the color of his eyes; he had a beard this last time, black, going gray. I’d guess he’s in his early fifties.

“He speaks like he has a bit of education but sometimes slips into street talk. Generally travels with half a dozen guards. He has his own ship. I don’t know where it’s registered.”

“Is Sutro his real name?”

“It’s the only one I’ve ever heard him use. He or any of his … clients.”

“Where’s he out of?”

Greet’s expression slipped for an instant, and the complacency showed. “Now, that I don’t know, and I haven’t inquired. Joshua, I know what the most idle curiosity can cost, remember?”

“What happened when he arrived this last time?”

“Now, that is interesting,” Greet said, a note of animation coming into his voice. “He ported where you did, about a day later, had his own lifter, and came straight on in without notification.

“He found out about you — don’t look at me that way. I said I didn’t know who you were, just some kind of FI warrant hunter. Anyway, he heard the news and flitted like a stripe-assed ape within the hour. He seemed really unhappy, too.”

“Go back to the other times you met him. Does he illicit buy anything, or is it just jewelry?”

“He’ll deal in anything that’s high-dollar and easily transportable. I’ve known him to handle art, minerals, company certificates. He’s clean, slick, pays twenty-five percent of the legal price, which is better than most I’ve heard he gets away with it by preselling what he buys — or else being the go-between for commissioned ‘work.’ ”

Wolfe found that interesting, but his face showed nothing. “What about his pleasures? Whores? Drugs? Liquor?”

“He’ll tumble a dox as long as he can pretend he’s not paying for it directly. He drinks a bit. No drugs. His main vice is gambling. That’s one reason he likes Yoruba, because my games are straight.”

“How does he pay his bills? Or do you comp him like you did me?”

“Of course not. He pays his way like any other member of the profession. Hold on. I’ll call his account up.”

Greet stepped off-screen, was gone for some minutes, then came back. “Uses a standard debit card on a draw account.”

“What bank?”

“Numbered only.”

“Give it to me.”

“Joshua …”

“Come on, Greet.”

Greet heaved a reluctant sigh. “You’re recording this, I know. Here it comes.”

His off-screen hand tapped a keyboard, and numbers scrolled across Joshua’s screen.

“I’ll save you some work, Joshua. But please don’t ask me about Sutro, not ever again. And I don’t think you’d better come back to Yoruba.”

Joshua didn’t respond.

“The card was issued on some planet called Rialto. I don’t know anything about it at all. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Thanks, Ben. I’ll leave you in peace. For now. But one thing. Don’t even think about tipping Sutro. He’s a maybe, but I’m certain.”

Joshua touched the sensor. The connection must have blanked on Greet’s end first, because before the image broke up, Joshua saw the fat man’s face pucker in a frenzy of rage as he spit into the pickup.

• • •

The great house teetered in its abandon like an archaic top hat that had been set upon by mice and small boys. It was back from the road, closed off by a sagging and rusted razor-wire fence. There was a large, new stainless-steel cylinder sticking up out of the ground that was the input side of a pneumatic delivery system.

The gate sagged on its hinges. Wolfe eased through and went up the cracked and overgrown walk. Grass grew thick around the main building, and the trees were long unpruned, broken branches caressing the ground. It had gotten worse since the last time Joshua had been there.

The house looked tired, gray, as if its date with demolition contractors had been broken and never remade, and now it just waited, knowing time could do no more, and the final collapse would be welcome.

Wolfe touched a com sensor. It was ten minutes before the box crackled.

“Go away.” The voice sounded as cracked and old as the house it came from.

“Mister Davout? This is Joshua Wolfe. I need some help.”

Another long silence.

“Wolfe? Commander Wolfe?”

Joshua took a deep breath. “That’s right.”

“I’m sorry. Very sorry. There’s been some young vandals. I didn’t mean to be rude. Come right in.”

There was a
clack
as the door auto-unlocked and swung open.

Wolfe smelled damp, decay, rot and entered. The house’s central hallway was stacked with neatly bundled and tied newscoms reaching high over Wolfe’s head. The door to a front room stood open. It was almost full of boxes. Wolfe looked into one. It held unopened music-fiche shipping containers.

“I’m upstairs, Commander. Be careful. I’ve added some new precautions.”

Wolfe went down the hall toward the stairs. Another room he passed was stacked high with the gadgets of the moment from the last ten years in their original packaging.

His stomach churned as he caught the reek from the kitchen. It had been a long time since it had seen a scrub unit or, for that matter, cooked a meal. He saw a sink stacked high with dishes, green and black mold spilling over the stainless basins toward the floor. To one side were row after row of freezer units and, beside them, the interior outlet of the pneumo-tube.

The stairs were a tunnel of baled papers arching close overhead, and Wolfe had to turn sideways to go up them. He moved very slowly, hearing the creak of the uncertain bales and seeing every now and then bright steel wire carefully laid where the careless would be certain to step and bring tons of paper tumbling down.

He didn’t look in any of the rooms on the second floor but went up to the top floor.

That had once been a single room, probably a conservatory, since there were double-panel glass squares overhead that had been sloppily painted black. The room had been divided and divided again by more baled papers, except those papers came from the huge, if elderly, superspeed printer.

Waiting was a small man who, like his house, smelled of decay. He wore a tattered set of coveralls and slippers.

“You’re not in uniform,” Davout said in relief.

Wolfe frowned in puzzlement.

“If you had any bad news about my brother,” the little man explained, “you would have come in uniform. And there would have been a doctor or priest. That’s the way they always do it.”

Davout’s brother had been a civilian com tech on a world that had been one of the first seized by the Al’ar when the war had started. Like Joshua’s parents, he’d been interned. But unlike them, there’d been no confirmation as to his fate. It had merely been missing … missing … missing, presumed dead … and then, when all the prison worlds had been fine-combed, the flat report:
DECEASED.

Davout had never believed any of the reports, and so he’d kept everything from the day he’d heard of his brother’s capture, sure that one day, one hour, the man would stride up the walk and want to know what had happened while he was away.

“So how is the war going? Never mind. You don’t have to tell me. Well, well enough, or else I wouldn’t be able to reach out to as many worlds as I can. Sit down, Commander, sit down. I’ll make tea.”

Davout picked up a stack of microfiches from a rickety chair, looked about helplessly for a place to put them, and finally set them on the floor. Joshua sat awkwardly. Davout left the cubicle they were in and went into another, where Joshua could see a tiny heating plate and micro-oven. Another cubicle beside it held a chemical toilet that from the smell Davout had forgotten to recycle for a while.

All that was in the paper-walled cubicle was the chair Wolfe sat in, a second torn office chair, a stained canvas cot, and the console that had brought him there. It was an amazing assemblage of electronics, none appearing less than five years old, most still anodized in various mil-spec shades of dullness.

“You know, Commander,” Davout’s voice came. “When this war ends, I think we should consider war crimes trials for the Al’ar. I mean, it’s just not right for them to treat people the way they do.

“Don’t you agree?”

Joshua made a noncommittal noise, almost felt like crying. Once, three years before, he’d tried to tell Davout, tried to show him. The little man had stared as if Wolfe had begun speaking in a completely unknown tongue. He’d waited until Wolfe had stammered into silence, then had continued their conversation where Wolfe had so rudely interrupted it.

Davout came out, cautiously balancing two mismatched dirty cups holding a dark substance.

“If you want milk or sugar, I’ll have to go below-stairs,” he said. “I don’t partake, as you know, so I keep forgetting my manners and keep some on hand.”

“That’s fine, Mister Davout.”

“So what brings you this time? You know, I don’t ever think I’ve really thanked you for what you’re doing for me. I mean, I know who you work for …” Davout looked cagily at Wolfe through thick, tangled eyebrows. “You don’t need to tell me. I’ve read about you intelligence operatives. I’m glad you trust me enough to help with your projects. It keeps me from … thinking too much. About things.

“I just hope I’m doing my share to win the war.”

Wolfe coughed, clearing his throat. “This time it should be easy, Mister Davout.”

“Go ahead.” Davout picked up a v-helmet and held it ready. “Oh, I’ve forgotten to tell you something. I’ve made a new acquisition.” He pointed to a second helmet half-hidden behind a pile of paper. “If you want to ride along, you’re welcome.”

Wolfe set the cup down, walked over, and got the helmet. It was even older than the one Davout held and, like the little man’s, had been extensively modified, the jerry-rigged modifications e-taped or glued in place.

Wolfe pulled out the rubber bands that retracted the headphones, put the helmet on, and slid the black visor over his face. He started as something crawled across his throat, then realized it was the helmet’s microphone.

“There we are,” Davout’s voice came. “Now, what do we need?”

“A planet named Rialto. I don’t know where it is, what it is. But I need to find out something about its banks.”

“Ah.”

The universe spun around Wolfe, a whirl of figures, starcharts, stardrive blur that could only be a latent personal memory, more figures. Wolfe’s stomach came up, and he pulled the helmet off.

Davout must have sensed something, because he turned from his place at the console and lifted his own visor. “Is something the matter?”

“It’s been too long since I did this,” Joshua said truthfully. “A little vertigo.”

“Oh.” Davout was disappointed. “It’s always better to have someone along. It’s sort of like — like having a friend. But never mind. Let me see what there is to see.”

• • •

“Now, here we are. Rialto, more or less Earth type — ah hah, I can see why you mentioned banks. I read: ‘Rialto’s biggest source of income is its banks. They are privately chartered, but with the full encouragement of the government behind them, and all transactions are completely secret, as are depositors and all other financial data. All attempts by Federation law enforcement have failed to secure any degree of cooperation, and all known attempts to penetrate the so-called golden veil of Rialto have failed; hence, the planet is a well-known monetary sanctuary for criminals, tax evaders, and others who prefer that their financial business remain secret.’ Mercy. How can they do something like that? Don’t they know there’s a war on?”