Ivan frowned, puzzled—you never could tell about people, it was true, but nevertheless the man hadn’t seemed the type to defraud a restaurant. Upon closer inspection of the abandoned table, Ivan had another surprise. Customers who ran out on a bill seldom did so before finishing their meals, yet this fellow hadn’t so much as taken a bite of his main course. One corner of the fish had been cut away with the edge of a fork, but not eaten; it still lay untasted on the plate.
Another surprise came when he removed the white linen tablecloth and he found underneath it a data disc lying near the edge of the table, sparkling silver against the polished wood.
“That’s certainly odd,” he said to himself, and put the data disc away behind the bar. Maybe the man would come back later to look for it. If he did, he wasn’t getting it until he paid his bill.
Some ten minutes later, the communications console buzzed with the signal for an incoming call. Ivan shuffled over and picked up the handset.
“No,” he said in response to the voice on the other end. “No one here is waiting to speak with a person at the Northwind Interests Section. I’m sorry. Good-bye.”
16
Pension Flambard, 14 Rue Simon-Durand
Geneva, Terra
Prefecture X
March 3134; local winter
Jonah Levin ate his dinner in the small family-owned restaurant where he took most of his meals during his visits to Geneva, then returned to the pension and a night’s sleep untroubled by dreams. In the morning, after bathing and putting on the change of clothing he’d brought with him in the small bag, he settled down to a light breakfast of sweet rolls and coffee—brought to his room on a silver tray by Madame Flambard herself—and the early-edition tri-vid news.
Halfway through the economic report—heavy manufactured goods up, especially in the ’ Mech-production sectors, tourism down, interplanetary stock and bond markets uncertain—a knock sounded at the door of Jonah’s room. He switched off the tri-vid and got up to check the door. A quick glance through the security peephole showed him the GenDel messenger from Belgorod standing outside in the narrow hallway.
Jonah opened the door and gestured the man inside. “Come on in,” he said. “I’m glad to see that you didn’t have any trouble finding this place.”
The messenger looked, Jonah thought, a bit smug. “A street address in Geneva isn’t particularly challenging,” he said. “Not like a shack in the Amazon rain forest, or a DropShip somewhere in transit between Terra and the Rasal-hague Dominion.”
“I suppose you’ve done both of those,” Jonah said. “Do you have any news for me?”
“I have,” the messenger said. “Paladin Ezekiel Crow says, ‘Let’s get together, somewhere private. We have a lot to talk about.’ He also provides a private number to make contact.”
The messenger handed across a folded piece of paper. Jonah tucked it into his shirt pocket for later.
“Thank you,” he said to the messenger. “And my offer of employment is still open. Are you interested?”
“I am,” the messenger said.
“Excellent,” Jonah said. “Now—because we’re going to be working together for several weeks at least, you should probably tell me your name.”
“Burton Horn,” the messenger said. “But most people just call me Horn.”
“Well, then, Horn,” Jonah said. “Welcome to employment with The Republic of the Sphere.”
Jonah took out a sheet of the pension’s stationery from the communications console and began writing. He signed the note with his name and the pension’s address.
“Go to the nearest shopping arcade,” he said, “and buy yourself some plain business clothes. Give them this and tell them to put the cost onto my account. You can send your General Delivery uniform back to your former employer COD.”
Horn took the note. “Yes, Paladin.”
“Call me Jonah,” Jonah said. “We’re going to get to know each other too well for greater formality.”
“Jonah.” Horn nodded. “With your permission?”
Jonah made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go, go. But don’t take too long. We have a lot of work to do.”
As soon as Horn had left, Jonah turned back to the communications console and punched in the number that the messenger had given him. The ring at the other end trilled softly in his ear for a few seconds, then broke off.
“Yes? Who is this?” The voice on the other end of the connection had no planetary accent that Jonah could identify—not in the way that his own spoken English still carried traces of both Hesperus and Kervil—but the pitch and timbre of it were nevertheless familiar to him from previous dealings with Ezekiel Crow.
“Paladin Crow,” Jonah said. “This is Paladin Levin. You suggested that we should get together for a private conference, and I agree. The sooner the better, in fact. Where would be a good place for you?”
“Where are you now?” Crow asked.
“In Geneva,” Jonah said. “At the Pension Flambard.”
“I’m in Geneva as well—at the Hotel Duquesne,” Crow replied. “Shall we meet here?”
“That would work,” Jonah replied. He recognized the name as belonging to one of several grand establishments in which The Republic maintained suites of rooms for the convenience of Paladins and other visiting dignitaries. It was for such a place as the Hotel Duquesne, he suspected, that Madame Flambard had expected him to abandon the familiar comforts of her pension. “When would be a good time? I have no pressing appointments so far—I’ve only just arrived from Kervil—and my day is entirely at your disposal.”
“Let’s see… would two in the afternoon be convenient? The Duquesne serves excellent tea and pastries.”
“That would be fine,” Jonah said. He doubted if the pastries would be as good as Madame Flambard’s, but if every Paladin and Senator in The Republic knew about those, his own quiet refuge would surely be overrun.
“Then we will meet at that hour,” Crow said. “Until then, Paladin Levin.”
17
Hotel Duquesne
Geneva, Terra
Prefecture X
March 3134; local winter
Ezekiel Crow sat at the table in a windowed alcove of the dining room at the Hotel Duquesne, watching the vehicles and pedestrians on the busy street outside while he waited for the arrival of Jonah Levin. All things considered, he was not displeased with the way matters were progressing. Suvorov had come through with news of Lieutenant Owain Jones of Northwind, and the crime lord’s people had dealt with the man efficiently, as directed.
Now the evidence of what had happened on Northwind, like the evidence of what had happened on Liao, was gone. It had ceased to exist. Lieutenant Jones, who had carried the information to Terra, had likewise ceased to exist. The portfolio and its documents came to Ezekiel Crow; the courier, he never saw.
The documents in the case—Crow had looked them over briefly—appeared to be originals: orders, tapes, photographs. Taken all together, damning. Now they were ash. Suvorov did good work.
Not that Crow deluded himself for an instant that Suvorov was in any way trustworthy. The man was scum—he lived off the vices of others for no other purpose than his own enrichment—and the necessity of dealing with such a person only served to increase Crow’s resentment of his current plight. It was even possible that Suvorov had made copies of the material in the Northwind files. If so, then the crime lord was in a position to do serious harm at a later date.