“I understand.”
“Also, tell your people to find a place well away from prying eyes where we can conduct live-fire training. I’ll need to instruct some of your fighters in the operation of the weapons.”
“Our fighters are quite skilled with rifles, I assure you.”
“Then they’ll love their new Cygnan mag rifles. And they’ll still need instruction on the heavier weaponry.”
“I will see to it,” Khouri promised.
“I’ll speak with you soon.” Bleindel drained his coffee, reached into his pocket and pulled out a few credits for the drink before leaving. When he reached the street, he took a ground taxi to a nearby shopping district, circling the stores several times to ensure he was not under observation before he walked over to his hotel. Attention to everyday precautions might someday spell the difference between life and death, after all. It always took time to do things right, but Otto Bleindel was nothing if not meticulous about his own survival.
The call came in the morning. Bleindel worked out the arrangements for the meeting, exercising all due care. Naturally, the insurgents had no reason to trust him, but they needed arms badly, and they recognized that they needed to take a chance that his offer might be genuine.
He spent the day making a show of attending to Dielkirk business in the capital, but three hours after sunset, he made his way over to the city’s port facility in a battered old ground van and drove up to a darkened warehouse. The huge bulk of a star freighter rested in the water alongside the pier. On more developed worlds, spaceships rarely landed on the surface and did all their cargo handling in orbit. Gadira simply didn’t have the orbital infrastructure for that, but as it turned out, basins suitable for large oceangoing transports worked well for spacegoing freighters, too. The existing cargo cranes and maglev rails meant that cargo containers could be quickly distributed through the planet’s ground transport systems instead of waiting for lighterage service in low orbit.
Bleindel got out. A modern lock secured the warehouse door. Keying the combination, he let himself in. The cargo containers and a pair of heavy ground transports waited inside the otherwise empty interior; no one normally used the place, which was why he’d appropriated it. Bey Salem’s mercantile empire included port facilities, ground- and water-transport lines, rail networks, and warehouses in half the cities on the planet. As it turned out, the best place to hide a container full of contraband arms was in the middle of a facility handling thousands of containers, especially one where the inspectors and police could easily be directed away from sensitive areas by el-Fasi’s managers.
A single dim light illuminated the cavernous interior of the building. Ahead of him, five men stood by one of the containers, apparently engaged in a vigorous debate. Bleindel quickened his pace. He recognized Alonzo Khouri and two men from the coffeehouse, but the others wore the plain uniforms of el-Fasi security guards. Khouri and his men seemed agitated, but the echo of their voices died away as they noted his approach.
“What seems to be the trouble?” Bleindel asked as he walked up to the group.
“Customs inspection,” Khouri said, nodding at the two security guards. “They wish to examine the cargo and assess the appropriate duties. I have explained that these arrangements are not needed in our case, but they insist.”
“We understand you wish to arrange private inspections instead of making use of the normal clearance procedures,” the older of the two security guards said to Bleindel. “We are of course happy to comply, but there is a special customs fee. Your drivers refused to pay the fee, so we’re going to have to open the containers and confirm the manifest.”
Bleindel studied the scene. The guards stood a short distance from Khouri and his fellows, pistols holstered at their hips in plain sight. Most likely they were simply freelancing, hoping to collect a decent bribe from an offworlder and his local hirelings clearly trying to dodge an inspection. After all, scores of watchmen worked in the cargo facility, and it was unlikely that they were all in on contraband operations. For whatever reason these two had not gotten the word to stay away from this particular warehouse—or they had received that message, and decided to exercise a little initiative and see if they could shake down some smugglers.
“Open the containers for the inspectors,” he told Khouri. The tall rebel stared at him in surprise for a moment, but Bleindel gave him a reassuring nod. “Go ahead. I don’t mind a reasonable fee.”
“As you wish,” Khouri replied. He turned and unlocked the heavy door at the end of the cargo unit.
The instant the two guards glanced at the container, Bleindel drew a mag pistol from his coat pocket, aimed deliberately, and fired. The weapon coughed once with a harsh, buzzing chirp as its internal coils hurled the dart out of its barrel. The younger guard’s head snapped sideways with a gruesome spray of blood and brain matter; he crumpled to the concrete floor.
The older guard gaped for half a second in astonishment before he went for his own firearm. He never got it out of the holster; Bleindel smoothly swung his weapon over and fired again, taking the second man in the throat. The guard spun half around, reaching for the gaping wound in his neck with clumsy fingers, and then he collapsed to the ground. The echoes of Bleindel’s two shots slowly died away.
The three insurgents stared at Bleindel, shocked. In the sudden silence, he calmly walked over to the second guard and made sure of him with one more shot to the head.
“God is merciful,” one of the other rebels murmured, his voice shaking. “This is bad, very bad. Those men will be missed, Sidi.”
“Not for another hour or two, and by then you’ll be well on your way,” Bleindel told him. He thought it over carefully for a moment, studying the bodies in their spreading pools of blood. “I think it’s very likely that no one knows that they are here. After all, would you tell your supervisor or your colleagues that you’re going to collect a bribe from someone?”
“Wouldn’t it have been better to simply pay them?” Khouri asked.
“The money is nothing. I do not want witnesses.” Bleindel looked around for security cams, and spotted one pointed at the vehicular door at the other end of the building. All the recorders in this warehouse were supposed to be turned off, but it might be for the best to make sure of that before they left. “Go ahead and put the bodies in the container. You can take the bodies with you and find a good spot to dump them outside the city.”
Khouri and his friends looked a little sick at the idea. Strange that they think nothing of taking up arms against their government, but they shrink from handling dead bodies, Bleindel reflected. It must be a cultural predilection. Well, it was a little more work he’d have to do before he left Tanjeer. Salem el-Fasi’s people might be helpful in making sure that no one became too curious about the missing guards and collecting any awkward security footage.
He noticed that the three Gadirans were still staring at the bodies on the floor. “Go on,” he urged Khouri. “It has to be done.”
Khouri nodded at the other two men, who picked up the bodies with distaste. “What next?” the tall rebel asked.
“I’d like to take a few minutes to talk about how you’re going to use these weapons to make this revolution of yours successful. I have some specific operations I think you should consider, now that you’ve got the firepower to execute them.” Bleindel glanced down on the floor, and frowned at the amount of blood pooled on the concrete. “But first, let’s see if we can find a mop.”