18
Meknez, Gadira II
There is nothing quite so unlovely as a mining town, Otto Bleindel reflected. The Dremish agent gazed over the dusty boulevards and ugly refineries of Meknez from the fiftieth-floor lobby of the Najmah Tower. Tanjeer was located in the planet’s fertile equatorial belt—warm and humid throughout the year, but pleasant enough with its orange and olive groves and well-watered gardens. Meknez, on the other hand, was carved out of the true desert fifteen hundred kilometers to the south. With the Bitter Sea too small to exert much in the way of a moderating influence on its climate, Meknez was brutally hot and dry for most of the year. Even the offworlder-friendly business district and the small cluster of diverse neighborhoods around the university looked dreary and dirty.
The luxurious décor of the sky lobby in which he stood could not make up for the eyesore outside the windows. Najmah Tower—the nerve center of the el-Fasi mercantile empire—did, however, offer an excellent view of the port facilities from which he’d escaped just a few short hours before. From his vantage he could easily make out the boxy hull of Oristani Caravan alongside the pier, the white arrowhead shapes of the Aquilan shuttles, and the cordon of local police vehicles surrounding the area. He had no idea how the Aquilans had pinpointed the largest and most important arms shipment the Security Bureau had routed into this backwater planet to date, or how they had managed to keep his allies in the Gadiran security establishment from learning about their discovery and warning him that they were moving in on the Cygnan freighter. Thanks to their unexpected interference, everything he’d done on this remote planet was now in danger of unraveling. Bleindel’s mouth tightened as he gazed down at the distant scene, leaning on a cane he’d found in a secondhand store. He’d gotten away, but not without a little reminder of how close it had been.
The answer to unexpected developments, he reminded himself, is flexible planning. The fact that so few people seemed to be capable of dealing effectively with the unfolding of events in unanticipated ways had always puzzled him. No one could expect all possible outcomes, of course, but simply building plans that offered lots of redundancy and kept important assets in reserve could go a very long way toward mitigating what would otherwise be disasters. No doubt this loss was painful, but after a few hours of evaluating the impact of the raid and considering alternatives, he’d come to realize that this did not have to be a disaster.
“Bey Salem will see you now,” the secretary announced from behind him. Bleindel turned around and limped across the reception area at the young woman’s invitation. Her sleeveless dress, a little immodest by Gadiran standards, might have passed without remark in any Coalition-power city if not for the old-fashioned comm headset she wore. Like a number of wealthy Gadiran men, el-Fasi liked to surround himself with beautiful women, and had evolved certain private tastes he did not indulge in public.
“Thank you,” he told her, and entered el-Fasi’s cavernous private office. The rampart of gold-tinted windows to his left looked out over the mountains, something of an improvement over the refineries and port visible from the waiting room. A tiny artificial brook wandered through the room, and a variety of abstract paintings decorated the walls. Most Gadirans honored the old Quranist aversion to depicting the human form in artwork, and the bey decorated his office accordingly.
Bey Salem stood up and came around his desk to greet him. “Mr. Bleindel!” he said. “I was not expecting you.”
“I hope you will forgive the intrusion,” said Bleindel. “In light of the morning’s events, we need to update our plans.”
“I assume you refer to the Aquilan sailors who currently occupy one of the piers in my port,” the bey said with a sour expression.
“I do,” Bleindel replied. “We need to accelerate our timetable.”
Salem el-Fasi looked doubtful. “Let us discuss it over coffee.” He pressed a button on his desk, and spoke. “Zineb? Coffee for Mr. Bleindel, please. Bring something to eat, too.” He moved to a pair of couches by the window, and motioned for Bleindel to join him.
“Thank you,” Bleindel answered. He was in fact hungry, since the morning hadn’t allowed him any opportunity for breakfast.
Bey Salem frowned as he took note of Bleindel’s cane and his limp. “Are you injured, Mr. Bleindel?”
“I was in your warehouse when the Aquilans landed, and I found myself in the line of fire. Fortunately the cab door of a transport took most of the impact, but I still ended up with a mag dart in my calf.” It was a testament to the thoroughness of Bleindel’s preparations that weeks ago he’d anticipated that he might need to drop out of sight and set up a bolt-hole in Meknez. He’d prepared similar hiding places in half a dozen spots around the planet, not knowing if he would ever need them. And, naturally, he’d stocked his bolt-holes with basic medical supplies. Of course, he hadn’t planned on getting shot, but the fact that he’d anticipated the unexpected meant that he could tend to the mag-carbine dart in his left leg, stop the bleeding, disinfect and bandage the wound, then get going again in less than an hour.
“God is merciful! Should I call for my physician?”
Bleindel shook his head. “It’s not serious—I was able to bandage it myself. I will have it looked at later, but today I have no time to waste. Bey Salem, are your household troops in place for the Casbah operation?”
“Some of them are. I know that Tanjeer Nomad is already in position, and I think Nador Prosperity is only a few hours from docking—I would have to consult with Colonel Idhari to determine his exact state of readiness. I have also secured the allegiance of two division commanders in the Royal Guard. Why do you ask?”
“Because I think you’ll need to launch Casbah twenty-four hours from now. Possibly sooner.”
“Within the day?” Bey Salem’s eyes widened in surprise. “I did not expect to move for another week or more. Many of my troops are in the wrong place!”
“That was the original plan, yes. The discovery of Oristani Caravan’s cargo means that we need to move immediately.” Bleindel nodded in the direction of the piers a few kilometers distant. “Between the Aquilans and the Royal Guard, they’ll trace the distribution network for previous arms shipments in a matter of hours. We can’t give them the time to figure out the nature of your involvement. I have already contacted Alonzo Khouri in Tanjeer; he is massing his followers even as we speak. By noon, the capital will be in flames.”
Zineb, the bey’s secretary, entered with a soft knock, carrying a silver tray with a coffee service and a selection of pastries and fruit. The two men waited as she set the tray down on the low table between the two couches. “Please hold my calls until Mr. Bleindel and I are finished,” Bey Salem told her.
“Of course, Bey Salem,” she replied, and quietly retreated.
The bey returned his attention to Bleindel. “You will excuse me if I am not terribly confident in coffeehouse revolutionaries. I was under the impression that Khouri would remove Sultan Rashid from office ten days ago. The fact that Rashid remains alive after those idiots riddled his transport group with your missiles troubles me. Either your missiles are defective, or you’re working with complete incompetents.”
“I assure you, there’s nothing wrong with the ZG-4s we provided to Khouri. They are twenty years old, true, but each missile was tested for operability when they were uncased. I know, because I oversaw the testing myself.” Bleindel shifted in his seat, stretching out his injured leg. He’d allowed himself only the minimal necessary dose of painkillers, and he was paying the price already. “As far as the personnel involved, I had the opportunity to work with the people I wanted to, and they performed well.”