Both destinations would give ample opportunity for Gistar to divert a ship and load it with sufficient currency to purchase high-margin cargos. Both ships were far enough from the jump point for Kim to tightbeam them the motherload of information he was about to brilliantly stumble over, but close enough to it to ensure that all ships that would be involved in Stewart’s little dance would be close to their respective jump points and therefore would move very, very quickly to reach their commercial targets.
The hapless Epetar crews would arrive at planet after planet to find no waiting goods. They would then be in position to make deals they thought would minimize their losses, all the while being systematically and subtly skinned. Stewart’s grin was feral. Ain’t payback a bitch?
It would all look so closely timed as to have been planned in advance by Gistar — drawing suspicion away from the organization that had such a firm hold on the loyalties of his wife. Stewart didn’t give a flying fuck about the Bane Sidhe, but providing cover for his wife — and by extension his kids — was something else. He’d never want her to turn traitor on them, but God dammit he wished she’d just quit the fucking job. They wouldn’t dare touch her if she was in the custody of the Tong, as his wife. They needed the organizational relationship too much, and she’d be no threat to them, anyway. It wasn’t like they didn’t have other dormant assets. The Tong’s patronage certainly covered him from misunderstandings with the Bane Sidhe, if they were to become aware of his identity and continued survival today. Cally O’Neal Stewart would become just one more female operative on the inactive list. She didn’t see it that way, which did maybe say a few things about where he rated on her list of priorities.
If, somehow, his analysis of the Darhel situation was wrong, in any major particular, he would probably find himself beginning a new job on the graveyard shift of the bar that served the station’s dock workers. If he was right, as he was almost certain he was, he was about to make the organization a great deal of money. More importantly, he was about to enable the organization to subtly and thoroughly screw a Darhel business group while keeping it totally ignorant of the fact that it was being royally and deliberately fucked. The money would please his superiors. The honor restored, by avenging a very personal debt the Tong owed to the Darhel, would mean infinitely more. The Tong had been scrupulously careful never to speak of their knowledge of the events in the war, and how much they had pieced together of the part the Darhel played in it, anywhere where an electronic eye or ear might overhear it. They had quite meticulously avoided ever putting anything at all in writing, much less onto any electronic device. They had quite deliberately played fat, dumb and happy. And they had waited. Finally, there was an opportunity. It was worth a bit of risk to potentially avenge the deaths of billions of their people. Hell, it was worth the risk to avenge China alone.
The Tong had not originally been his people, of course. But when Stewart joined something, he joined.
Cally had to fight to stay awake on the drive into Charleston Tuesday morning. Granpa had been infernally cheerful when he woke her up at six. Unfortunately, strong coffee tasted wonderful, but might as well have been water for all the good the caffeine did her. Her nannites scavenged it and destroyed it almost before it hit her bloodstream. Provigil-C worked, but not if she wanted to sleep on the plane, and boy, did she want to sleep on the plane. There was too much to do once she got into base. She’d never have time to recover. She really ought to go through her pitch for Michelle’s mission before she had to present it. There were a lot of things she ought to do. And she did them. Usually. Mostly. Sort of. Granpa had been a bad influence.
Keiran had the small, gray jet ready to preflight when they arrived — it had taken all of Granpa’s persuasion to keep Lucille from sporting at least red stripes and her name.
Their company ID’s, under a very sincere front corporation, allowed them to enter the charter gate at any time of the day or night without further screening. Despite the official “terrorism” that DAG existed to combat, nobody was hijacking or blowing up airplanes anymore. Why try that kind of political action? All you had to do if you didn’t like living under an existing government was punch out a case or so of sten guns, stock up on ammo, and take off for parts unknown. Oh, there were political malcontents, of course. They just had a dearth of the personality types willing to go out and die for them. Cally never thought of the Bane Sidhe as terrorists, and would have argued vehemently that they were not. After all, they never, ever tried to be noticed, and they never, ever tried to frighten anyone at all. Oh, they sought political change. But very subtly, and with a careful eye towards the long haul. Personally, she was more impatient. It was one of the reasons she had chosen her particular profession. That, and some unusually high scores on the basic occupational specialization aptitude profile. Tactical patience came easily. Strategic patience was harder for her. It was only Aelool’s assurance that endgame was ninety percent probable, for better or worse, within her own grandchildren’s generation that made it possible for her to keep going, year in and year out.
Once she and Granpa had secured their bikes in the hangar, they stepped out onto the gray tarmac, under the heavy fall cloud cover. Kieran was in the cockpit preflighting Lucille, and Cally loaded her backpack onto the plane. From the boxes in back, she wasn’t the only one supplementing income with a little tax-free transshipment of trade goods. She nodded approvingly, until she saw their pilot reach back over his shoulder to press something that looked suspiciously like a wad of bills into Granpa’s hand.
“Granpa!” She knew she sounded shocked.
“What? Like you don’t?” He didn’t even turn around, pocketing the cash, hand coming back out with a well-worn tobacco pouch.
“You could have at least cut me in,” she huffed.
“Oh. Sorry. Thought you were getting some unhealthy scruples in your old age,” he said. “Besides, no offense, and I’m all for sharing the wealth, but what were you going to trade that I’m not already getting direct?”
“Well, for one thing, a few of the hospitals could certainly use some high grade opium. You know how bare bones they are for most drugs. They’ve got good enough lab guys to do most of the chemistry on site. We’ve got enough non-immunes that the base hospital wouldn’t turn up their noses, either. Our guys could even do the final chemistry for whole shipments. Better to rope them in to do the reselling, anyway.”
“And you’d have a source I don’t know about? Tell me you’re not involved in any way I’d disapprove of.” He seldom took that flat tone with her.
“I have no part in profiting from putting a monkey on anyone’s back, not even tangentially, if that’s what you mean. Not anything you’d disapprove of, Granpa? You’d disapprove more if I wasn’t.” She smiled wryly.
He stared at her searchingly a moment before nodding. “We’ll talk quantities later,” he said. “And where the hell is Tommy?” He stepped to the door of the plane and looked out across the endless gray field as if he could make the other man appear by scowling.