“We can account for everybody here. Offworlders often patronize this particular shop, and discuss business here with Gadirans who deal with their companies.” Khouri smiled. “Hiding in plain sight attracts much less attention than trying to not be seen.”
“I am sure that your knowledge of the local conditions exceeds mine, Mr. Khouri. If you say we’re safe to talk here, then I believe you.”
“Safe enough,” Khouri replied. He leaned back in his chair, adopting a casual pose, but his eyes remained cold and intense. “I understand that you have come to Gadira to offer us help with our present situation. Excellent—we can use all the assistance we can get, especially since the khanza Montréalais are selling tanks to the sultan’s army now. But I need to know who you are and why you want to help us, Mr. Hardesty. If I am not satisfied with the answers, this café may not be all that safe after all.”
“A reasonable precaution,” Bleindel said. “Hardesty is not my name, of course.”
“That we knew already. Salem el-Fasi seems to be under the impression that you are a Dremish businessman named Bleindel.”
“A cover identity. Bey Salem deals with offworld interests, and I needed a plausible reason to come to Gadira, travel more or less freely, and meet lots of people.”
“Does el-Fasi know the true nature of your business on Gadira?”
“Not exactly. He does, however, know quite a lot about moving cargo to or from this planet, so he is useful as a conduit.” Bleindel sipped at his coffee. This was potentially tricky; he didn’t want Khouri and the caids he represented to become too curious about el-Fasi’s role in this whole business. “If I were you, I would not assume that Bey Salem’s assistance implies any particular zeal for your cause. He’s interested in getting paid, and we plan to pay him handsomely to ignore some shipments that will soon be arriving at his port facilities in Meknez.”
“Trust a bey to close his eyes and fill his pockets,” Khouri said with a sour look. “That is exactly the sort of corruption that must be rooted out.”
“In this case, Salem el-Fasi’s greed will prove very useful to both of us. There will be plenty of time to convince men like el-Fasi to mend their ways after your revolution succeeds.”
Khouri thought for a moment, then nodded. “Perhaps. So why are you interested in helping us, Mr. Hardesty?”
“I’m a mercenary, Mr. Khouri. My employers are devout and wealthy emirs in the Terran Caliphate who look for opportunities to support various Islamic movements throughout Coalition space. Important people in the Caliphate remember that Gadira was settled by the Faithful. They are offended by the influence secular powers such as Montréal hold over this world, and they want to see similarly devout men come to power here.” That, of course, was not remotely true, but Bleindel’s superiors in the Imperial Security Bureau had carefully arranged the necessary background elements if Gadira’s rebels were inclined to investigate more closely.
“Are you a Believer?” Khouri asked him.
“No, I am not. Your cause isn’t my cause, Mr. Khouri. But I am a professional, and my services have been retained to provide you with the very best assistance I can render.” Bleindel sipped his coffee again, allowing Khouri to digest that for a moment. He had considered the idea of posing as a fellow Quranist—after all, many Muslims throughout Coalition space came from non-Arabic phenotypes and cultures—but ultimately he’d settled on the mercenary approach as the simplest. In the first place, he’d been afraid that even with weeks and weeks of study, he might find himself unable to successfully pass himself off as a devoted follower of the Prophet. More importantly, he hadn’t wanted to. Quranism struck him as fundamentally irrational, obsolete, even in the rather moderate consensus that had emerged from the Martian schools a few centuries ago. “Is that a problem?”
“I am a revolutionary and a socialist.” Khouri smiled without humor. “Yes, I am also a Believer, but we are not interested in imposing some form of medieval law, Mr. Hardesty. We only want to protect our culture, and put an end to the offworld plundering of our economy.”
“What about the desert caids? Do they feel the same way?”
“They’re more concerned with the cultural questions, and less conscious of their economic interests. The fact that you are a mercenary and an infidel will trouble them.”
“The caids are, of course, free to decline my services. But I hope you’ll hear me out, and let me prove my reliability. I am being paid very well to help you, and I’m anxious to deliver on the contract.”
Khouri snorted. “I suppose a man working toward a large paycheck has a certain dedication to the task,” he admitted. “Very well, then. What sort of help can you provide us?”
No one nearby seemed to be listening closely, but Bleindel lowered his voice anyway. “I have a shipment of Cygnan mag rifles, antitank weapons, and antiair missiles. I can also offer my own personal expertise in how they should be employed.”
“The Kingdom of Cygnus is involved in this, too?” Khouri asked, frowning.
“No, it’s not—my apologies for the confusion. It just happens that my contacts can get their hands on Cygnan surplus weaponry, and that’s the best match for your needs.”
“How big of a shipment are you talking about?”
“Four full standard cargo containers.” Bleindel leaned close. “Two thousand rifles, two hundred disposable antitank missiles, and one hundred surface-to-air missile launchers. The arms lag a generation or so behind current leading-edge military tech, but they’re as good as anything Montréal shares with the sultanate, and far ahead of anything your people have employed so far. And they’re in-system now. I need to coordinate with your people to ensure they get into the right hands.”
The young revolutionary could not keep the surprise from his face. He simply stared at Bleindel for a long moment. “We can arrange continued support for the foreseeable future,” Bleindel added. “Shipments that size every three to six weeks, plus medical supplies, communications gear, some transport assets, maybe even a handful of combat flyers, although those will require special arrangements…” Bleindel noticed that Khouri was still staring at him. “Is there a problem, Mr. Khouri?”
It took a moment for Khouri to gather his thoughts. “Our mythology is full of tales of foolish men who accept gifts from jinn without asking the price,” he finally said. “Mag rifles and antitank weapons would be a great help to us, there is no point in denying it. But I must know who is aiding us, because this seems too good to be true.”
“Well, on a personal note, I hope to establish a profitable relationship with the revolutionary government that assumes power after defeating the sultanate and evicting the Montréalais. That is my price.” Bleindel leaned back again, and adopted a thoughtful expression. “Regarding the patrons who provide the Cygnan arms, I’ve been instructed to maintain their confidentiality. But I will be glad to convey to them any message you care to send. If you ask for more information about their identities they may choose to tell you more, but due to travel times, it will be five or six weeks before you get an answer.”
“You say that the arms are already in-system?”
“Mr. Khouri, they are currently about ten kilometers from where we are sitting. The sooner we can arrange delivery, the better. You may have a need for the antitank weaponry soon.”
Khouri’s eyebrows rose. “The containers are in Tanjeer? Very well, Mr. Hardesty. I will consult with my superiors and pass along your offer.”
“Excellent.” Bleindel handed Khouri a slim card. “This is my private contact information. It’s a secure channel. I will await contact from your people to coordinate the delivery.”