"Tell you what, Ivan..."
"All right, you two! Hand 'em over!"
The two men spun to face the source of the interruption. A youth was standing on the sidewalk behind them; he must have either followed them or been waiting in the bushes. His voice was firm, but the gun in his hand wavered as he tried to cover the two men.
"C'mon! Give!"
The boy's voice cracked.
"Steady fella, we're giving."
Fred reached for his wallet, taking care to move slowly. If the kid had a knife he might have tried taking him, but he had a healthy respect for guns, particularly when they were held by nervous amateurs.
"No."
All movement froze at the sound of Ivan's voice. "What'd you say, Mister?"
"Ivan, for God's sake..."
"I said, 'No!"'
He began to move toward the mugger.
"All my life I have been ordered around!"
"Stand back!"
"Ivan! Don't!"
Fred's mind was racing. He had to do something quickly.
"You have no right to..."
The gun exploded in a flash of light, the report deafening in the night.
Ivan lurched backward. Shit! Fred threw his wallet at the mugger's face. The boy instinctively flinched away, raising his hands, and Fred was on him.
There was no style or finesse to Fred's attack. He snared the boy's gun hand with one ham-like fist, grabbed his shirt with the other, picked him up, and slammed him to the pavement. The boy arched and let out a muffled scream from the pain of impact. The scream was cut short as Fred hammered him into unconsciousness with two blows from his fist.
Breathing heavily, he pried the gun from the boy's fist, rose, retreated a few steps, then turned to look for Ivan. He was lying where he fell, unmoving, a large pool of blood oozing from beneath his loose-jointed form. Fred scrambled crab-wise over to look at him. His eyes were open and unseeing.
Shit! So close! So damn close!
For a moment, Fred was filled with an urge to stand up and kick the unconscious mugger.
You son-of-a-bitch! You've ruined everything!
He was still swearing to himself two and a half hours later when he left the police station. It had taken him almost half an hour to flag down a cop, a glowing testimonial to police efficiency. Now the body had been carted away, the mugger was safely locked up, and Fred was left with nothing.
Shit! Of all the bad breaks! Just when Ivan was about to bust open! Now he'd have to start from scratch with another negotiator. Well, maybe not from scratch. C'mon, Fred. Think. You're supposed to be able to make an advantage out of anything, even a disaster like this. Think!
He ignored the hail of a taxi driver and started the long walk back to his hotel. He covered nearly eight blocks lost in thought, when suddenly an idea stopped him in his tracks. He stood there as he checked and rechecked the plan mentally, then looked around and ran back half a block to a pay phone.
He fumbled for some loose change, then fed a coin into the phone and hurriedly dialed a number.
"Mark? Fred here. I've got a hot assignment for you...I don't give a damn...Well, kick her ass out, this is important...All right, I want you to get down to the police station and bail out the mugger that just killed Ivan...That's right, Ivan Kramitz...Yes, he's dead...Look, I don't have time to explain now. Get down there and spring that mugger. I don't care how much it costs-spring him! And Mark, this time don't be too careful about covering your tracks...That's right. I said don't be...right, let them know you work for Communications...Look, I don't have time to explain now. Just do it."
He hung up the phone and sagged against the side of the phone booth. For several minutes he sat there, smiling. It was not a pretty smile.
"Before any business is transacted today, the negotiating team from Oil would like it read into the record that we are attending today's meeting under protest. We are both shocked and disappointed that Communications has insisted on convening today's meeting despite the death last night of one of our teammates. We only hope you will at least have the decency to keep today's business brief so that we might attend the funeral this afternoon."
A low growl of assent rose from the rest of the Oil team.
"We thank the First Negotiator of Oil for his comments. They will be duly noted in the records. The Chair now recognizes the Third Negotiator from Communications."
"Thank you, Mark." Fred rose to face the assemblage.
"May I assure you I will try to keep my proposal as brief as possible.
"Ivan's death last night was a serious blow to the Oil team. We share your grief and will miss him greatly. But, gentlemen, this should serve as another example of the hazards of war!"
There was a sudden stirring in the Oil team.
"Just as you pointed out in your one-for-one proposal that logistics is a real part of military strategy, so is assassination!"
"Are you trying to say you had Ivan killed?"
Fred smiled placidly at the interrupter.
"I have said no such thing. I merely point out that assassination of key personnel is as much or more a part of military tactics as moving boxes of ammo. Because of this, Communications proposes a conditional rider to your one-for-one proposaclass="underline" that in a similar effort to insure realistic combat, all key personnel of both corporations be required to wear kill-suits at all times and be subject to the same rules of combat as the mercenaries. If we want realism, let's go for realism throughout. If not, we junk both ideas. Gentlemen, the time has come to put up or shut up!"
10
The men and women of the force were kneeling in the traditional student's position, backs straight, hands open, and palms resting down on their thighs. To all appearances they were at ease, listening to the morning's instruction.
This morning, however, the assembly was different. This morning, the raised instructor's platform held a dozen chairs filled by various corporation dignitaries. More importantly, the subject at hand was not instruction, but rather the formal transfer of command from Kumo to Tidwell.
Tidwell was both nervous and bored. He was bored because he was always bored by long speeches, particularly if he was one of the main subjects under discussion. Yet there was still the nervousness born from the anticipation of directly addressing the troops for the first time as their commander.
The speech was in English, as were all the speeches and instructions. One of the prerequisites for the force was a fluent knowledge of English. That didn't make it any the less boring.
He grimaced and looked about the platform again. The corporation officials were sitting in Tweedledee and Tweedledum similarity, blank-faced and attentive. If nothing else in this stint of duty, he was going to try to learn some of the Oriental inscrutability. Depending on the Oriental, they viewed Westerners with distaste or amusement because of the ease with which their emotions could be read in their expressions and actions. The keynote of the Orient was control, and it started with oneself.
Craning his neck slightly, he snuck a glance at Clancy, standing in an easy parade rest behind him. There was the Western equivalent to the Oriental inscrutability: the military man. Back straight, eyes straight ahead, face expressionless. Behind the mask, Clancy's mind would be as busy and opinionated as ever, but from viewing him, Tidwell did not have the faintest idea what he was thinking. In fact, Tidwell realized, he himself was currently the most animated figure on the platform. Suddenly self-conscious, he started to face front again when his eyes fell on Kumo.
Kumo was resplendent in his ceremonial robes. Protruding from his sash, at an unlikely angle to the Western eyes, was a samurai sword. Tidwell had heard that the sword had been in Kumo's family for over fifteen generations.