The only explanation the memo to the head of the Tong included was that there was an explanation, of course, and that it was a matter of the utmost discretion. Stewart never pumped his wife for information. For one thing, most of it would be irrelevant to what he did now. For another, he loathed traitors and would not have married Cally if he had believed for even a moment that she could be turned against her people. But the Bane Sidhe tended to attract good operational minds, not good businesspeople. He was sure she had no idea how much she had let slip by naming the size of her windfall. He wouldn’t have asked if he had even for a moment suspected the crucial information he’d been able to derive from it. But done was done. Knowing the percentage commission, the value of trade goods, and knowing the approximate discount you lost off the market price fencing stolen goods even if you were a good negotiator — on matters of price, his wife was likely a poor one — there was really only one thing she could have stolen. She also had to have really gotten scalped on the deal. It was unusual for a Darhel to have that much code-key wealth on hand. Class Nine Code Keys were the ultimate form of negotiable wealth, usually only traded between Darhel Clan-Corps. You couldn’t just use them; they were the master keys to make the master keys to make the keys that created nannites.
He was surprised she’d been able to fence them at all. He assumed it was through some remaining link to the other Bane Sidhe group. Come to think of it, the difficulty explained the pathetically low price she got.
She was a lot smarter than she’d pretended to be under her cover as Captain Sinda Makepeace when they first met, but Cally had, through no fault of her own, attended schools that placed a low priority on market economics, and had nothing like his own early environmental exposure to the realities of commerce. He had been a gang leader — a financially and socially successful one — before he and his men had gotten drafted into the war. His formative experiences had made the Tong a very good fit, once the United States Constitution that he’d once sworn to preserve, protect, and defend had, despite his best efforts, become a meaningless piece of paper. His wife’s grandfather, also the father of his old CO, Iron Mike O’Neal, was a canny old smuggler. Passing that skill set on, along with the keen eye that allowed one to assess the worth of almost anything at a glance, had not been Papa O’Neal’s priority in the beautiful assassin’s formative years. Reclusive and deadly, she had been his perfect warrior child: cute as a puppy, with a bite like a cobra.
Unsurprisingly for a cute puppy, his wife had grown up to be one icy bitch. Together, they’d woken and thawed each other’s hearts seven years ago on Titan Base. He loved her, he knew she loved him — but he never quite forgot the deadly killer concealed behind those beautiful, cornflower-blue eyes. Top operator, yes. Experienced at fencing stolen goods, no.
The only thing that matched her probable area of operations, the necessary portability, and the time period, would have been the price of a cargo of trade ships, ready to leave Titan Base. By the timing, it had to be the cargo slated for the Epetar Group — which fit with Manager Pardal’s presence on Earth. Without the high-level nanogenerator code keys that served as real-money currency among the Darhel groups, the Epetar Group would not be able to pay for its shipments. Rather than arriving at a planet to attempt to pick up a cargo with no money, something the factor who owned the cargo would never allow, Epetar’s freighters would wait until currency arrived by fast boat and then depart. Making them late for every port on their circuit.
At 0800 local, when the rest of the home office staff arrived, he would take his PDA with a carefully produced analysis on the screen with him and “forget” it at the water cooler. With any luck, the man in the cubicle next to it, a known Darhel plant for the Gistar Group, would pick it up and see the file. The man was stupid, and slack in his electronic hygiene. Stewart had already put a small tag on him to detect and copy his transmissions up the chain to his masters. The Tong valued more than Stewart’s business talents. His years in Fleet Strike Counterintelligence after the war and before meeting his wife and becoming officially dead, had substantially enhanced the Tong’s internal security. Half a dozen identified spies were now reporting primarily what the leadership chose to let them see.
Reporting this kind of material to a huge, hardball, corporate entity via a Tong plant would have been suicidal, if he’d been dealing with humans. Humans would put their heads together and notice that the Tong had had the information and had connections with the factors screwing Epetar along its trade routes. The trails were covered, but human intuition just might connect the dots. It paid to know the alien mind. Putting the pieces together, even long after the fact, would require having someone who had all the pieces. Which would mean someone at Gistar would have to share the information about how they knew of Epetar’s loss. Sharing did not make up a major part of the Darhel personality. Humans from a rival corporation, in the same situation, would almost certainly look into it. Gistar couldn’t care two beans about Epetar’s losses, unless the existence of outside involvement was very blatant. The Darhel were not stupid. They were very, very smart. Probably smarter than humans. But they weren’t invulnerable, if you could keep the left hand from knowing what the right hand was doing.
If Kim reported Epetar’s misfortune to his bosses at Gistar, Stewart would know. If the man somehow missed the opportunity to peruse Stewart’s PDA — and he’d carefully made sure anything else important was well locked down — he’d have to find some other way to feed him the information. The faster it got to Gistar, the better. It was crucial that the other Darhel group be in a position to snap up Epetar’s cargoes. He’d chosen Gistar out of several Darhel groups with operations in the Sol System because it seemed to have the best cash flow and the best distribution of ships, for his purposes. Gistar routinely stocked portions of its cash reserves on board the commercial couriers that waited on site at most major jump points, ready to be dispatched with urgent information — for a steep fee. Any outgoing Gistar freighter could, again for a fee, rendezvous with a courier ship prior to jump and pick up code key currency to remedy misfortunes or take advantage of opportunities. Gistar had a freighter load of monazite sands, molybdenum, and various asteroid extracts bound from the Sol System to Adenast, with its major space dock facility and building slips. They had a courier load of Tchpth scientists bound on a return trip to Barwhon after installing some rather exotic equipment in their asteroid extraction facilities.