It appeared that the Ramanthian diplomat remembered her, and Kay Wilmot felt a rush of pleasure as she hurried to reintroduce herself. “My name is Kay Wilmot. I am assistant undersecretary for foreign affairs reporting to Vice President Jakov. The pleasure is mutual.”
“A promotion!” Orno said heartily. “And well deserved, too.”
“Please have a seat,” Wilmot said, as she gestured toward a Ramanthian-style saddle chair. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you any refreshments, but the Confederacy’s embassy isn’t aware of my presence, and while they have been helpful, the Thrakies feel it’s necessary to maintain a certain distance.”
“I understand,” Orno said. “We live in complicated times.”
Once both of them were seated, Wilmot took the fi?rst step in what promised to be some delicate negotiations by placing a portable scrambler on the surface of the table in front of her. It generated a humming noise, which was accompanied by a green light. Two doors down the hall a pair of Thraki intelligence agents swore as the feed they had been monitoring was reduced to a roar of static. But, effective though the device was, the scrambler had no effect on the photosensitive fabric from which the Ramanthian’s loose-fi?tting robe had been made. Or the storage device woven into the garment’s shimmery fabric. “No offense, Ambassador,” Wilmot said. “But could I inquire as to the general nature of your present assignment?”
Orno couldn’t tell the truth, not if the Wilmot creature was to take him seriously, so he lied. “At the moment I’m serving her majesty as a special envoy to the Thraki people. More than that I’m not allowed to say.”
“Of course,” the human responded understandingly. “I hope you will forgive my directness, but there’s a rather sensitive matter on which we could use your help, although it falls well outside the realm of your normal duties. And, were you to act on our behalf, we would require complete confi?dentiality.”
The fi?rst emotion that Orno experienced was a crushing sense of disappointment. Rather than ask him to broker a peace deal, or something similar to that, the human was clearly paving the way for some sort of illicit business deal. Not what he had hoped for but well worth his consideration. Especially if he could use the funds to smuggle the Egg Orno off Hive. It wouldn’t do to reveal the extent of his need however—so the ex-diplomat took a moment to posture. “My fi?rst loyalty is to the Queen,” Orno said sternly. “Everything else is secondary.”
“Of course,” the human replied soothingly. “I know that. But what if it was possible to serve the Ramanthian empire and bank half a million Thraki credits at the same time? Wouldn’t that be an attractive proposition?”
Orno pretended to consider the matter. “Well, yes,” he said reluctantly. “If both things were possible, then yes, it would.”
“That’s what I thought,” Wilmot said confi?dently. “So, I have your word? Whatever I tell you stays between us?”
“You have my word,” the Ramanthian replied stoutly.
“Good,” the offi?cial said importantly. “Because what I’m about to confi?de in you may change the course of history.”
The Ramanthian was skeptical but careful to keep his doubts to himself. “To use one of your expressions, I’m all ears,” the ex-diplomat said reassuringly.
“The situation is this,” Wilmot explained. “While on his way to visit the Clone Hegemony, President Nankool was captured by Ramanthian military forces and sent to Jericho, where he and his companions will be used as slave labor.”
“That’s absurd!” Orno responded scornfully. “First, because my government would take Nankool to a planet other than Jericho, and second because his capture would have been announced by now.”
“Not if the Ramanthians on Jericho were unaware of the president’s true identity,” Wilmot countered. “And we know they aren’t aware of the fact that he’s there, because we have an intelligence agent on Jericho, and he sent us pictures of Nankool trudging through the jungle. Images that arrived on Algeron fi?ve days ago.”
Orno clicked his right pincer. “You came to the wrong person,” he said sternly. “A rescue would be impossible, even if I were willing to assist such a scheme, which I am not.” The statement wasn’t entirely true, especially if he could raise the ante, and maximize the size of his reward.
“No, you misunderstood,” Wilmot responded gently.
“I’m not here to seek help with a rescue mission—I’m here to make sure that Nankool and his companions are buried on Jericho.”
It took a moment for Orno to process what the human was saying. But then, as the full import of Wilmot’s statement started to dawn on him, the fugitive’s antennae tilted forward. “You report to Vice President Jakov?”
“Yes,” Wilmot agreed soberly. “I do.”
“Soon to be President Jakov?”
“With your help. . . . Yes.”
“It is a clever plan,” Orno admitted. “A very clever plan. But why contact me? My duties have nothing to do with Jericho.”
“If you say so,” Wilmot agreed politely. “But, according to the reports I’ve read, you are close friends with Commandant Yama Mutuu. Is that correct?”
Orno didn’t have friends as such, but he did have a wide circle of cronies, some of whom remained loyal in spite of his disgrace. Was Mutuu among them? There was no way to be certain, but yes, Orno thought the odds were fairly good. And, given the old geezer’s delusions of grandeur, he would be easy to manipulate. In fact, assuming Orno provided Mutuu with the right sort of story, the royal would kill Nankool for nothing! Which would allow the fugitive to pocket the entire fee. “It would take money,” the Ramanthian lied. “One million for myself and half a million for Mutuu.”
The price was steep, but well within the amount that Wilmot was authorized to spend, so the assistant undersecretary nodded. “I will give you half up front—and half on proof of death. And not just Nankool. The others must die as well.”
The Ramanthian nodded. “You want all of the witnesses dead.”
“Exactly. . . . And one more thing,” Wilmot said coldly.
“No action is to be taken against our intelligence agent. I want him to witness the executions and report the slaughter to Algeron. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good,” Wilmot said cheerfully as she reached out to reclaim her scrambler. “If you would be so kind as to wait in your vehicle, the fi?rst payment will arrive there within the next fi?fteen minutes. Proof of death should be delivered to the address that will be included along with the cash. The second payment will be forthcoming within one standard day. Do you have any questions? No? Well, it has been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“And you,” Orno replied, his heart fi?lled with hope. Because here, in his hour of greatest need, was a way out. With the Egg Orno at his side, and a million-plus credits to grease the way, the two of them could disappear.
“One last question,” Wilmot said coolly, as the Ramanthian rose to leave. “Our intelligence people believe you were the one who planted the bomb on the Friendship. Are they correct?”
There was a long moment of silence as the coconspirators stared into each other’s eyes. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Orno answered. “Yes,” the Ramanthian replied. “It was my fi?nest moment.” And with that, the ex-ambassador left the room.
ABOARD THE EPSILON INDI, IN ORBIT AROUND THE PLANET ALGERON,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The jungle foliage was thick. Too thick to see properly. But thanks to the fact that each member of Santana’s platoon was represented by a symbol projected onto the inside surface of his visor, the cavalry offi?cer knew exactly where they were relative to him and the Trooper II he was riding.