It would be a while before the man realized that he’d been shaken. Horn could use that time.
The pursuit had given him information as well. It showed that someone in Belgorod was taking real interest in a matter that should have been of no interest to anyone.
Lieutenant Owain Jones had met with misfortune, of that much Horn was now sure. Time to pick up the trail.
He found a pawnshop on a nearby street corner—the sign saidHONEST IGOR’S in five languages and three alphabets—and ducked inside. The pawnshop counter had a bulletproof plastic window in front of it. On an impulse, Horn rapped on the window.
“Hey,” he said.
The man behind the counter—Honest Igor, presumably—turned around to face him. “What do you want?”
Horn slipped a twenty-stone note through the slot in the counter window. “Local knowledge,” he said. “You look like a man who has some.”
“A little,” said Igor. “The people who come in here, they tell me things sometimes. And if I don’t know it, I can hook you up with someone who does.”
“That’s what I figured,” Horn said. “What I want to know is, where do the taxi drivers who service the DropPort hang when they’re not working?”
“For that, I’ll have to ask around. If it’s a particular driver that you’re after—”
“I’m looking to talk with a driver who might have picked up a fare from Northwind sometime around the fourteenth.”
“Gotcha,” said Igor. “I’ll ask around. Where can I reach you?”
Horn handed over a business card with the number of a call-forwarding service. “These people can reach me.” He slid another twenty through the slot. “There’s more where that came from if I hear from you, and the same for the taxi driver when I talk to him.”
“Gotcha, tovarich.”
Horn nodded. “See you around.”
He left the pawnshop and hit the street again. Maybe the pawnshop owner would come through, and maybe not. In the meantime, he needed to check the hotels.
23
Belgorod
Terra
Prefecture X
March 3134; local winter
Aweary afternoon’s work spent going through hotel guest registers sufficed to let Burton Horn know that Owain Jones hadn’t checked into any of the respectable establishments in Belgorod. It remained possible that the Lieutenant had chosen to stay at one of the port’s less-than-respectable establishments, but Horn considered that an unlikely choice for a military man with a vital mission.
A military man, Horn thought. He’d look for food, for a place to sleep… and for a place to report in. Not necessarily in that order.
But to whom would he report? To the Exarch in person? The Countess of Northwind might have assumed something like that, when she sent Jones ahead with the evidence, but the Exarch was too high in the chain of command for a mere Lieutenant to think about reporting to him directly. He’d be looking for… the Northwind Interests Section, that was it. Horn grabbed a cab and did the same.
Once he’d reached the building that housed the local representatives of The Republic’s member governments, he employed Paladin Jonah Levin’s name without hesitation in order to gain entry. That got him as far as a bored bureaucrat in a natty suit who invited him to sit at a desk.
“I have an inquiry from Paladin Levin,” Horn said.
“This is most irregular,” the man replied. “The Paladin has every right to request aid from any Republic body. However, that request ought to come through official channels. Most irregular,” he repeated, steepling his fingers in front of his shirt. “What is the nature of the Paladin’s request?”
“The Paladin would like to know if the chargé received a visitor from Northwind at any time since fourteen March of this year.”
“I can tell you that directly,” the bureaucrat replied. “He did not. Nor is the chargé able to assist you now. With the recent arrival of an army from Northwind, he is very busy.”
“The Paladin understands,” Horn said. “He doesn’t want the chargé disturbed, either.”
“Then there’s nothing more I can do for you,” said the bureaucrat. “Good day, sir.”
“Perhaps one small thing,” Horn said. “May I see the call logs for fifteen March?”
“Out of the question,” the other man said firmly.
“I understand… perhaps you could look at them yourself, and answer me one question. A simple yes or no.”
The bureaucrat hesitated. “Perhaps.”
“Paladin Levin will be pleased,” Horn assured him. “The question is this: Did the Northwind Interests Section receive any prank calls on or just after fourteen March?”
“Let me see.” He called up the logs on his desk screen and perused the listings without bothering to show them to Horn. “Yes,” he said at last. “There was one.”
“When did it come in?”
“I’m afraid that I’ve already exceeded my warrant,” the bureaucrat said. He stood and offered his hand. “May I show you out?”
“I know the way,” Horn said, standing also.
As he stood, he glanced casually at the desk screen. One line was highlighted in yellow. Thirty-second call, abandoned before connection. Pay phone. Number identified as a restaurant and bar. Time, twenty-two minutes before three in the afternoon. That would be about right for someone who’d just gotten in at the DropPort and was looking for lunch.
The address of the bar, unfortunately, wasn’t on the screen. Nor was the text of the call.
Back on the street, Horn checked in with his answering service. No messages. Belgorod was a DropPort, which meant that there were probably half a thousand licensed bars in the city. He’d need a way to narrow them down. With no guarantee that he’d come any closer to Lieutenant Owain Jones if he did.
While Horn was turning the problem over in his mind, a car pulled up to the sidewalk next to him. The car’s back door opened and a man inside said, “Get in.”
Horn took an automatic step away. “Thanks, I don’t need a ride.”
“I said, get in.” The speaker had a needle-gun.
Screw that, Horn said to himself. Aloud, he said, “Sorry, tovarich, I don’t have the time.”
He spun, kicking the door closed fast enough to break a wrist on anyone who might have been holding it open, and sprinted into the open door of the nearest shop.
The store sold hats. Horn tried one on, examining himself in the mirror and watching the front door at the same time. Sooner or later, someone would get tired of waiting and come in after him.
A salesman approached. “May I help you, sir?”
Horn removed the hat he’d been trying on and looked at it. “Yes. Do you have this style in dark brown?”
“A moment.” The salesman vanished.
Horn took the opportunity to check his answering service again. This time the service operator said, “Yes, there’s been a call. The man wouldn’t identify himself, said you’d know. He left a number.”
Horn copied it.
“Thanks.”
“Here’s a brown hat, sir,” the salesman said. “We have several in various shades of brown, and a similar style in charcoal gray. Would you care to see it?”
“Charcoal gray? Yes, please.”
As soon as the salesman had gone away again, Horn called the number he’d gotten from his answering service. Honest Igor from the pawnshop answered.
“Thought it might be you,” Igor said. “Found you a driver who picked up a fare at the DropPort. He remembers the guy.”
“Can you put me in touch with him?”
“I know how.”
“Great. Have him and his cab meet me in front of”—Horn checked the name on the shop’s hatboxes—“the Abelard Hat Shop as soon as he can get here.”