Lajos Irvine showed up at Steph Turner's diner at eight in the morning, as Bardasano had instructed him to do, feeling distinctly unhappy with this assignment. His unhappiness stemmed from two factors.
First, he disliked—intensely—getting orders that were vague to the point of being oatmeal.
Check out the diner and see if you can spot anything suspicious. Let me know right away on my private com if anything turns up. While you're doing that, I'll be putting McBryde through the wringer to find out what the hell he thinks he's doing.
Wonderful. And Bardasano was supposed to be some sort of star-line genius! She might as well have told him to hang out at the playground and tell her if he spotted any of the kids acting in an unruly manner. What—specifically—did she want him to look for? Who knew?
Something about McBryde's activities must have rattled her more than he'd thought they would. Oh, having it come at her cold probably accounted for some of that, and Irvine supposed having a peon of his own lowly rank crash her security just as she was sitting down to breakfast probably hadn't helped. Maybe she just wasn't a morning person?
His lips quirked slightly at the thought, even now, but the temptation to smile faded quickly. At least some confusion had to be inevitable when a junior agent jumped the queue the way he had, but this struck him as more than just the inevitable bureaucratic confusion of something the size and complexity of Alighnment Security. By all accounts he'd ever heard, Bardasano was normally as sharp as a razor, yet no impartial observer would have reached that conclusion based on the instructions she'd given him.
The second source of his unhappiness, and an even greater one, was shuffling along the street about a hundred meters behind him. In addition to giving him vague instructions, Bardasano had also insisted on saddling Lajos with what she called "backup." Three people from one of her "special units"—whatever the hell that meant—who'd be there to provide him with whatever force he might need.
Wonderful. Irvine was a spy, not some sort of stupid HD "action hero." He collected information, was what he did. If Bardasano wanted him to do his job, he'd be able to do it a lot better working on his own with no backup at all—much less "backup" whose fieldcraft was so rusty that probably the mutts in the street knew the three clowns following him were official muscle. And if, on the contrary, she wanted to crack down on whoever was at the diner this morning, then why the hell did she insist on dragging Lajos into the business at all?
He wasn't even carrying a weapon. If for no other reason, because he was legally as well as genetically a seccy, and seccies were forbidden to possess firearms of any kind. Even having a knife whose blade was longer than six centimeters would get you arrested, if you were found with it.
Lajos made a silent vow that in the unlikely event violence did break out in Turner's place, his contribution to the cause of righteousness was going to be to duck under a table. Let Bardasano's "specialists" deal with it. They were the kind of people who swaggered to the bathroom.
Herlander Simões eyed the young man in front of him uncertainly. He'd probably never been this close to a seccy in his entire life, he realized. Even by the standards of star-lines raised in privilege, he'd led a cloistered life.
And now he was putting that life in the hands of one.
No, two. A big, tough-looking blonde woman emerged from the back of the van. She didn't look much like a seccy, though.
"Get in," she said. "I'll help you get tucked away in your crate."
The woman climbed into the crate with him. The crate itself hadn't been sealed yet.
"Now we wait," she said. "I'm Yana."
Jack would really have preferred to take care of all of this yesterday, yet he hadn't quite dared. In some ways, it might not be necessary at all, but he wasn't prepared to settle for "might not" at this point. There was too much data in his computer files, too much information about Simões, too much that might point an alert investigator in the right direction before Zilwicki and Cachat could get them off-planet and out of the system.
Even more important than wiping away any fingerprints he might inadvertently have left, though, was the need to create a diversion. He and Simões were both going to be missed, probably before they could get off-planet, and certainly before they could get out-system. McBryde was pretty sure he'd figured out which of the non-Mesan ships currently in the star system was Zilwicki and Cachat's chariot, and if he could figure it out, so could someone else. So, since they were going to be missed anyway, setting up a suitable school or two of red herrings seemed in order. And the best place to do that was from right here, in his office.
Jack was also pretty sure that Zilwicki and Cachat had their own plans for diversions, although he had no idea what they might be. Probably crude violence, since they didn't have the sort of cybernetic access he did. He hadn't asked, and if he had they probably wouldn't have told him—just as, if he'd been asked, he would have kept his own plans private. He hadn't even told Herlander what he planned to do.
He settled into place at his desk and entered his personal access code. The display winked to life, and, despite himself, he smiled as he pulled the chip from his pocket and snapped it into place.
Lajos had been seated for over two minutes and been handed a menu by the time his three backup people came into the diner. At least they could follow simple instructions. He figured enough time had elapsed that no one would connect his entrance with theirs. Turner's diner was busy this time of the day.
Most of the tables were taken, but there was an open booth against the wall across the restaurant from Irvine's table. Bardasano's three "specialists" slid into the seats.
Lajos had to fight not to wince. This went beyond rusty tradecraft. Hadn't these clowns gotten any training at all? Just for starters, the trio consisted of two men and a woman—and the woman was sitting across from the two men. That was probably a reflection of some pecking order of their own. But that gender configuration, although certainly not unheard of, was unusual enough to draw the attention of anyone who was really a professional at this business.
And . . . sure enough. From beneath lowered eyebrows, he saw the burly waiter turn away from the trio—he'd been about to bring them menus—and glance in the direction of the other guy Lajos was certain was a Ballroom agent.
That one was sitting on a stool at the front counter. Lajos couldn't see him without turning his head a little. He decided to risk it, since it wasn't likely—
He'd never been more astonished in his life. The guy was off the stool already and his hand—
Gun!
Irvine ducked under the table. By the time he got all the way down, the whole thing was over. In a state of shock, on his knees, he stared at the carnage across the room.
Anton knew what would happen the moment the three newcomers settled into their seats. Victor would have spotted them when they came in, just as instantly and surely as Zilwicki had. And he'd have drawn the same conclusion. One agent might simply be a spy. Three, especially acting in such obvious unison, meant the hammer was on its way down. Something had blown. Somehow, somewhere—who knew?—but it had definitely blown.
Cachat's philosophy in that situation was to shoot the hand holding the hammer before they got it all the way up. He'd only been waiting for that inevitable psychological moment when even the most experienced and hardened commando feels the comfort of his or her weight settling into a seat, and relaxes just that tiny little bit.
Giving Victor Cachat that "tiny little bit" was like giving a great white shark a "tiny little bite."
Anton didn't even try to join in. He was as far out of Cachat's league here as the Havenite was when it came to manipulating security software. He'd just get in his way. What he did do was activate the jamming device he carried with him. If the three people who'd come in had recorders, none of them would now operate.