"Ye're intendin't to force us inta th' path ae righteousness frae somebody's namesake? Nae. Nae. I' this all collapses, an' Ah'm morally cert it shall, thae'll nae gie us a wee home back in Mantis. Morally corrupted, we are, we are.
"Ah'll nae adjust't' ae world where y' need more on ae villain than enow't' authorize the usual." Alex drew a thumb across his throat.
"If you're through, Laird Kilgour. We are now sworn officers of a legitimate court," Sten said, grinning. "While the lawyers are dicin' and slicin', we have to go out and get some concrete evidence for them to chew over when they get tired of talking about whether the Magna Carta's bridge-building ban might pertain."
"Ah'm noo through. But Ah'll shut m' trap."
The three of them studied the screen projections.
"I've been fine-combing," Sten started. "Trying to read—or at least read a summary of—everything that's appeared on the privy council, from its establishment to the assassination. I've got another team doing the same thing to the present, looking for possible ancillary crimes.
"But let's start with two specific crimes of blood," he said. "First is the murder of Volmer. Why was he iced? We know a pro hit him on an open contract. The contract was let by a crime boss, now dead. The assassin is gone, too. Right?"
"So Chief Haines told me."
"Do you think she was holding out on you?"
"No." All three men were relaxing. This was very familiar to them—the standard plotting session any Mantis Team went through before they opened a mission. The fact that it concerned regicide and high treason was another issue entirely.
"Is she worth talking to again?"
"Probably."
"So somebody's going to Prime," Sten said. "Volmer, one of the privy council, gets killed. Why? Was he passing on the conspiracy against the Emperor? Was he trying a power grab on his own?"
"W nae hae that enow't' guess."
"No. Input: Just before his murder, the privy council met—on Earth. It's the only time that I can find them meeting away from Prime. At least from the public fiche."
"We need to verify that."
"A visit to Prime, once more," Sten agreed. "I'm not sure we'll find any dirt looking at Volmer's death. But it's worth checking.
"Now. The biggie. The Emperor is taken out by one crazed assassin. Chapelle. A nut-case. Is there any chance that he was a lone lunatic? And that the privy council, already conspiring toward takeover someday, seized the opportunity?"
"Negative," Mahoney said flatly. "They moved too quick. And they're not that bright. Except for maybe Kyes."
"Agreed. I ran through your notes, Ian. You had Chapelle's life day by day—and then he disappeared a month or so before he showed up with a gun. Error on your part? Did you have to get out of town before you found those pieces?"
"Negative again. He vanished. All I had is that he'd been seen in company—twice—with that guy who looked rich and way out of... oh for the love of God!" Mahoney exclaimed in sudden exasperation, realizing something.
"It nae hurts," Kilgour said, looking interested, "t' rechew the evidence. Continue on, frae love ae God, Fleet Marshal."
"Rich guy. Control, of course. Which I already thought, not being a total dummy. But I never ran the MO. Crooks use the same modus operandi. So do I, so do you, so does the thug there who isn't pouring. I think it's acceptable to add alk to the equation. My mind's starting to work."
"Ah." Sten got it, and went to pour Mahoney his requested drink.
"Exactly. Ignore the preliminary drakh for the moment, which would have been: Sullamora ran the wet work end of the conspiracy. Died in the blast. Burble, burble, who cares about whether it was an accident or not. The interesting fact is that Tanz Sullamora was too good to ever meet with somebody who's going to pull the trigger. So there had to be a cutout.
"Control. Projected profile. Please record this."
Sten snapped on a recorder.
"Intelligence professional. Established—clean, classic operation. To find or create a psychopath, steer him in the correct direction, and put him in the right place with the right weapon. Chapelle would have had no connection to the organization itself, nor to any high-level person in that conspiracy."
"Ah'll gie thae," Alex said. Both Sten and Kilgour had their Professional Skeptic hats on. Nothing was true, everything was false—the only way to penetrate any kind of apparat.
"I knew that way back when. Control was always who I wanted. Didn't think things through enough. Problem with having spent the last few years runnin' so'jers instead of spooks like you two clowns.
"Anyway. Professional. First I looked at the Empire. Mercury, Mantis, and ex-both. Nothing."
"Verified... or are you being sentimental and protecting the Old Boy's Network?"
"The Emperor," Mahoney said harshly, "was a friend of mine. Erase that from the recording. I didn't fudge on that one."
"Thae's many espionage pros out there hae naught't'do with th' Empire, an' ne'er hae," Kilgour said.
"Exactly. Now. Back to the MO. Little trick of the trade. You want to run a safehouse, run a drop, have a team on standby—or anything else nefarious. You don't find a warehouse in the slum, unless you're an amateur or a criminal. Find yourself a nice, rich, bohemian, if possible, neighborhood, where nobody knows or cares who's coming or going, and pride themselves on minding their own business."
"Ah. Rich man—Control—shows up in the slum. Blows in Chapelle's ear, who always thought he was meant for greatness. Disappears him—still on Prime, of course," Sten reasoned. "Control built him, taught him, armed him... in a nice, safe, rich mansion in a nice, safe, rich suburb. Prime again."
"Clot Prime," Mahoney said. "Read my lips and listen to what I just said. MO, MO, MO. We all reuse something that works. Rich... rich... rich. How many pros use that as a working tool? Can't be that many, can there?"
"It's a big clottin' universe," Sten said. "But no. We're in a little tiny subculture here."
"I already thought of some names."
"Fine. You got it, Ian. You're in motion. Question-curiosity—how will you get him to sing? If you find him?"
Mahoney sneered.
"Sorry," Sten said. "I'm telling my grandmother how to suck eggs. Shut the recorder off. Back to my line of reasoning, such as it is:
"If I were running the conspiracy, I'd want to have the fewest number of meetings possible. I've got one probably established now—the conference on Earth before Volmer was killed. Was there a second or third meeting? More? It seems to me that Sullamora would have informed everyone when he had his ducks—Chapelle, Control, possible opportunity, et cetera—in a row.
"The meeting would not be in an official place. Fear of bugs, of course. Now, I'm making a big jump. None of the privy council-types trust each other."
"Nae a jump. Thae'd be even greater clots than thae be if they did."
"So this meeting, if it occurred, might be on neutral but very clean turf. Question: Did the privy council have any meetings like that?"
"Some lad's headed twa Prime," Alex said. "Suggestion. Amateur plotters clean a'ter themselves. But ne'er think ae then puttin' in ae false trail. Meetin' ae Earth? How wae it arranged? Nae spontaneity, a' course. So Ah'll—pardon, whoe'er goes't' Prime—look for paperwork. I' there's naught, thae was a conspiracy meetin', aye?
"Same wi' any other meetin' a'fore th' Emp' gies slaughtered, pardon, sir."
"Good," Sten agreed. "That's a way in. Anyone else have any sudden flashes? We can leave the backup team in place looking for Sins After the Bang."
"Ah'll pack," Alex said, finishing his drink.
"You will," Sten agreed. "But not for Prime. I'm the one."
"Y're known an' a desir'd target, lad. Dinnae be playin' there."