"There was a disturbance just off of Route One-nineteen yesterday afternoon," Reger said when they were seated in his office, its soundproofing holding most of the noise outside at bay. "A group of smug-runners on their way to a drop stopped to check out a camouflaged car and were crunched for their curiosity. One of them got away with the car while losing his own, this after Security somehow got mixed up in it. The runner aborted the planned pickup and ditched the car as soon as he could, but not before grabbing the stuff in the trunk." Reaching into his middle drawer, Reger withdrew a small three-pointed shuriken and handed it across the desk. "One of yours?"
Lathe nodded, picking it up for closer examination. "It's a nonstandard shape we teach them to carry as an emergency push-knife. How did you get hold of it?"
Reger smiled grimly. "As I said, the guys were runners. They work for someone I know in south Denver."
"Who was kind enough to volunteer the information and the shuriken?"
Reger shrugged. "We traded." He didn't elaborate.
"So where is Caine now?"
"We don't actually know. I've sent a description of their new car to my people, so ideally we'd have him in a day or two. Of course, since Security may also have an ident on the car, your friends might ditch the thing as fast as they can."
"Which brings us back to square one," Lathe said with a grimace.
"It might." Reger paused. "There's one other item that you might find interesting. Before the runner ditched the car, he gave it a quick once-over... and in the process found out it was marked."
"Um."
Reger gave him a keen look. "That's all you can say? 'Um'? That means Security's been on to Caine since before he got that car, possibly since he landed here."
"Security's been on to us before." Lathe shrugged. "Their usual problem is that they'd rather have information than bodies, and to get it they have to let us run relatively loose."
"There are a whole spectrum of drugs—"
"None of which is especially effective against the psychor training we give our people," Lathe told him. "Let me worry about Security; you worry about finding Caine. And I'd like to get the rest of his equipment back from your runner friend, too, if I can."
"That should be possible." Reger had a sour look on his face. "You know, Comsquare, you strike me as someone who might well be playing two of the corners of this triangle. If you are, be advised right now that I have no intention of being pulled into whatever mess you're trying to make."
"Our deal is perfectly well defined," Lathe said coolly. "You find Caine; we redo your defenses. To be perfectly honest, I don't trust you all that far, either."
Reger smiled thinly. "As long as we understand each other."
"Good. Then I'd like to have that description of Caine's new car, and then go see my other man, Hawking."
Reger handed over a piece of paper. "Hawking's out on the perimeter looking over the sensor line," he said. "You want a guide?"
"No, I'll find him," Lathe said, getting to his feet. "Just make sure your guards know I'm going to be out there. I don't want to have to hurt anyone."
Reger nodded. He was speaking into his intercom as Lathe left.
He found Hawking sitting in the lower branches of a gnarled tree, drilling holes into the trunk. "You building him a full sensor wedge?" he asked as Hawking dropped back to the ground.
"More or less," the other said. "I can see how the local blackcollar force got in before—the primaryline tolerances allow for slow-foot infiltration. I'm setting up a sequential-event trigger system to try and plug that hole."
"Sounds good."
"And you were right about the raid being recent," Hawking continued. "Jensen found some shuriken and flechette marks under a fresh topcoating in the walls near Reger's bedroom when he was tearing everything up."
Lathe glanced back in the direction of the house. "What exactly is Jensen building back there, anyway?"
"A full-fledged death-house gauntlet," Hawking said, shaking his head. "Hidden escape doors, scudnet drop ceiling panels—the works. His idea, incidentally, not Reger's. And if you ask me, he's just a little too enthusiastic about the whole project."
Lathe pursed his lips. "He's had that hard edge ever since Argent. I'm hoping it'll fade with time, but for now we'll just have to keep an eye on him."
"Yeah." Hawking rubbed his chin. "Did you find the local blackcollars, by the way?"
"Their contact man, yes. We're allegedly meeting their doyen tonight."
"You don't sound thrilled by the prospect."
Lathe grimaced. "It looks very much like they've turned their backs completely on the war. I don't know if we can rekindle them enough to get any help. And if not... well, we'll just have to make do with Reger."
"I'm not sure how far Reger wants to get into the war, either."
"He is beginning to wonder whether we're worth the risk of bringing Security down on him," Lathe agreed soberly. "I suppose that means we'll just have to keep raising the ante on him."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm sure we can find a way to keep his interest."
"Well, don't push him too hard," Hawking warned. "Beneath that mild exterior there's a tough old man."
"But also a smart one who recognizes a good deal when he hears one. If we need more help from him I'll be sure it's genuinely worth his while."
"A good philosophy," Hawking said dryly. "Remember it when you talk to the other blackcollars tonight."
"Right. I'll be in touch. And keep an eye on Jensen."
—
"Ridiculous." Quinn snorted, tossing the paper aside.
Galway took a deep breath, all his preparation for the general's expected reaction threatening to evaporate before the surge of anger within him. "It's from your own agent—your own loyaltyconditioned agent—at the Shandygaff—"
"I can read," Quinn cut him off harshly. "I also know that anyone can walk into a bar wearing a dragonhead ring. Doesn't even prove they were blackcollars, let alone Lathe and Skyler."
"The descriptions fit," Galway persisted. "And as for them not being blackcollars, don't you think this Kanai would've taken violent exception to their right to wear those rings?"
"Kanai wouldn't lift a finger if the guy had money and a job for him," Quinn said with contempt.
Underestimating Denver's blackcollars. A shiver went up Galway's spine as he remembered what that attitude had once cost him. "It would be easy enough to settle the question," he told Quinn. "Call your agent in and ask for identification of my photos."
"No," Quinn said flatly. "Bringing agents in can jeopardize their anonymity, and someone in that good a position is too valuable to risk. Ditto for calling or sending the photos over by messenger. I don't want any of my men even to go near the Shandygaff."
"That's absurd," Galway snapped, fed up in spite of himself. "Don't you send men in even occasionally to check out the bar?"
Quinn turned an icy glare onto the prefect. "No, we don't," he said. "The Shandygaff polices itself, and we keep our hands strictly off."
"So that the criminal bosses can meet and make their deals in comfort?" Galway snorted.
"And can settle their business with words instead of open warfare on the streets. I warned you once that you don't understand how things are done in Denver, Galway. Now I suggest you quit trying to meddle and content yourself with providing information on Caine—when you're asked for it."
Galway clamped his teeth tightly over the retort that wanted to come out. "As you wish," he said stiffly. Turning, he stalked out of Quinn's office. It's out of my hands, he told himself as he headed down the hall to his own cubicle. Whatever happens is on Quinn's head alone.
Except that there was no guarantee the Ryqril would see it that way.
And then Plinry would suffer.
Damn it all. No, he couldn't leave Quinn to sink or swim on his own... but fortunately he didn't have to. Security men were barred from the Shandygaff, fine—but Galway wasn't technically a Security man in this jurisdiction. And a private citizen could go anywhere he damn well pleased.