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  At the end of their hour, the pasha stood and shook their hands again. “This has been a fascinating discussion,” he said. “I hope that you will be able to join me later this week for our hospital benefit. It’s a worthy cause, and I know that our guests will be delighted if some of Decisive’s officers could attend.”

  “We would be honored, Your Excellency,” Darrow replied. “Thank you for your time, and the fine meal.”

  “Think nothing of it,” the pasha replied, walking them to the door. “Jahid, will you please show our guests out?”

  Sikander and his companions followed Saif back through the palace to the landing platform. The Zerzuran official had the guards there call for the Aquilans’ flyer, wished them a good afternoon, and returned inside while they waited for their flyer to be brought up.

  When he was certain the pasha’s attendants weren’t in earshot, Sikander turned to Eric Darrow. “What in the world was all that about Gadira, Mr. Darrow?”

  “I don’t know, Commander. I’ve never seen Marid Pasha warm up to someone quite like that. I can only guess that your reputation has preceded you.”

  “It might have been a veiled suggestion,” Nola Okoye pointed out. “A way for the pasha to signal that he knows what happened at Gadira and he would be pleased by a similar development here?”

  “With all due respect, Ms. Okoye, I doubt that very much,” said Sikander. “I saw what happened in Gadira, and I cannot imagine how anybody would want that.”

  “Are you certain? I admit that I’m not intimately familiar with how the Gadira crisis unfolded, but is it possible there is some part of the story that provides a parallel here?”

  Sikander thought hard, trying to find some analogy and falling short. He shook his head, giving up in frustration, but Michael Girard cleared his throat. “We helped Ranya el-Nasir to retain her throne by deterring Dremish aggression,” he offered. “She represented systemic reform, cultural moderation, even a certain degree of autonomy from foreign influence. Maybe the pasha is saying that he has similar aims.”

  “Keep going, Lieutenant,” Darrow said to Girard. “I think you might be onto something.”

  A new flyer approached the palace and set down not far away; Sikander supposed that their own vehicle had been held up for a minute or two to make room for the arriving party. He composed himself to wait a little longer, watching the new arrival while Michael Girard struggled to explain the Gadira affair of eight years past to Darrow and Okoye. A long-legged woman with hair of burnished copper climbed out of the new flyer, rather daringly dressed for an afternoon appointment at the palace, followed by a fit, good-looking man with sandy hair and sharp features, his eyes shaded from the bright day by fashionable sunglasses.

  Otto Bleindel.

  “I don’t believe it,” Sikander snarled, momentarily stunned. “What is he doing here?”

  The anger in his tone silenced the debate behind him; everybody else turned to see what had his attention. Darvesh moved smoothly to the front of the little group, suddenly at Sikander’s side and ready to interpose himself against any threat. “What?” Darrow asked sharply. “What is it?”

  “That’s Hanne Vogt,” Okoye said. “I don’t know the gentleman with her.”

  “He’s a Dremish intelligence agent named Otto Bleindel,” Sikander said. “We’ve crossed paths before—on Gadira, no less. The last time I saw him, he tried to run me down with a truck.”

  The Dremish envoys started toward the palace from their flyer, and realized that they were the object of Sikander’s attention. Annoyance flickered across Hanne Vogt’s face, but Bleindel actually met Sikander’s eyes and smiled. “Now, this is a surprise,” he said in Standard Anglic. “I wonder if Marid Pasha is having a laugh at our expense.”

  Vogt gave Bleindel a stern look, then nodded to Darrow. “Commissioner Darrow. What a coincidence to see you here.”

  “Special Envoy Vogt,” Darrow replied, nodding as well. “Imagine my surprise.”

  Sikander took a half step forward, fists clenched at his side. Otto Bleindel had more or less single-handedly stoked the Caidist rebellion on Gadira into a planetary civil war, causing thousands of deaths. The Dremish agent was still wanted on that planet; Ranya el-Nasir’s security forces would happily extradite him from whatever system or world he happened to be captured on. “You have much to answer for, Mr. Bleindel,” he said.

  Bleindel did not flinch, but he did glance over at the Caliphate soldiers standing guard by the palace entrance. “I see you haven’t forgotten me, Mr. North. I have to say that I’m a little flattered. Unfortunately, whatever you have in mind, this wouldn’t seem to be the time or place. We are guests of Marid Pasha, just as you are.”

  Darvesh set a cautionary hand on Sikander’s shoulder. “He is right, Nawabzada,” he murmured softly. “This is neutral ground. We have no authority here.”

  “Eric, Nola, I would love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid I have an appointment,” Vogt said to the Aquilan diplomats. “I am sure we’ll see more of each other soon. Otto?”

  “Coming,” Bleindel replied. He offered Sikander a sardonic bow, and then followed Vogt into the palace. Sikander stood and stared after the Dremish envoys until they disappeared from view. Behind him, the flyer Vogt and Bleindel had arrived in lifted off and headed for the palace’s parking area. The consulate’s flyer appeared just behind it, taking its place on the palace landing pad.

  “You are full of surprises today, Commander North,” Darrow observed as they boarded their flyer. “What exactly is your history with this Bleindel?”

  “He’s a professional provocateur: terrorist, saboteur, assassin, a specialist in the sort of operations the Dremish government denies. If he’s here in Zerzura, you can expect that the Empire of Dremark is up to no good.”

  “It’s no secret that Dremark is paying a lot more attention to the Caliphate these days,” Okoye observed. “Dremish companies are competing for some of the same markets and government contracts that our own companies have their eyes on, certainly. But we haven’t seen anything to suggest that the Dremish are doing anything in Zerzura other than cultivating a relationship with an influential governor, which is more or less what we’re doing.”

  “Then perhaps we’re not looking in the right places,” Sikander told her.

  Okoye frowned, but allowed Sikander’s remark to pass. Darrow cleared his throat after an awkward moment. “Well, I think that your friend Bleindel was right about one thing: Our little meeting on the landing pad was no accident. Marid Pasha wanted us—and the Dremish too, I suppose—to see that there’s another player in the game. He hopes to incite a bidding war, and that means we’d better take another look at our aid package and incentives to make sure our case is compelling. There goes my afternoon.”

  “Drop me off at the transit center, if you don’t mind,” Sikander said. “I think I’ll return to the ship. Mr. Girard, Dr. Ruiz, feel free to take the rest of the day off and see the town, if you like. There’s nothing on our official schedule until tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Carla Ruiz said. “I think I’ll do that. Come on, Michael, you can show me around.”

  “Okay, but we are not doing the sea-level tour,” Girard said to her.

  * * *

  Sikander paid little attention to the flight back up to Dahar High Port. He spent the rest of the afternoon brooding over the significance of Bleindel’s presence in Zerzura and what sort of underhanded scheme the Dremish agent might be working on. He even spent an hour retrieving various official reports about the Gadira incident to remind himself of exactly how Otto Bleindel had been involved in that crisis. Unfortunately, the best information came from the various investigations conducted after the event by the Gadiran intelligence services, and the Aquilan reports stored in Decisive’s info assistant cited only a handful of those. I probably know more about Otto Bleindel’s role in the Gadira trouble than anybody within a hundred light-years, he realized. And I only met the man twice.

>   Shortly before the dinner hour, he was interrupted by a call from the ship’s quarterdeck. “Captain? This is Sublieutenant Haynes, officer of the deck. Sir, a Ms. Elena Pavon is here to see you.”

  Sikander glanced at the comm panel. “I don’t believe that I know anyone by that name. What does Ms. Pavon want with me?”

  “She says that she represents Pegasus-Pavon Shipping, sir. She’d like to talk to you about pirates.”

  Carmela Día’s shipping line, Sikander recalled. He didn’t really want to set aside what he was doing, but if the matron of a Zerzuran shipping line had gone to the effort of coming up to Dahar High Port to see him, he couldn’t very well put her off. Show the flag, he reminded himself. “Oh, one of those Pavons. Very well. Have the messenger show her up to my cabin, please.”

  “Aye, sir,” Haynes replied. “They’re on their way.”

  “Darvesh, please put on some tea and coffee,” Sikander said to his valet. He took a moment to tidy up the various reports and folders sitting open on his desk while Darvesh busied himself with preparing a tray of refreshments.

  A few minutes later, the messenger of the watch knocked on his door. “Ms. Pavon, Captain,” he said, and stood aside to let his guest enter. Sikander came around the corner of his desk ready to greet the matron of the Pavon line, only to be startled by the discovery that Elena Pavon was strikingly beautiful: tall and athletic, with a graceful neck and a perfect oval face, not much older than thirty or so. She wore a black pencil skirt and a bold red blouse, and her wavy hair was as dark as midnight.

  She marched into the cabin and fixed her gaze—challenging and confident, with eyes of a warm brown hue—on him. “Good afternoon. I am Elena Pavon, regional director of the Pegasus-Pavon line,” she said. “You are the commanding officer?”

  “I am,” Sikander said, recovering his balance. He liked to think that it took more than a pretty face to impress him, but he really had expected that an important shipping line executive would be comfortably middle-aged and rather more businesslike in her attire. “Commander Sikander Singh North, Commonwealth Navy. What can I do for you, Ms. Pavon?”

  “I wanted to thank you for recovering Carmela Día. She represents a substantial investment for my family, and we had all but written her off as a complete loss. Can you tell me anything about what happened to our ship?”

  “Please, have a seat,” Sikander said, nodding toward the cabin’s sitting area. “Would you care for some coffee or tea?”

  “No, thank you.” She took a seat on the small couch, and simply waited for him to go on.

  Direct, too, Sikander added to his observations about his guest. It struck him as refreshing after the circuitous conversation with Marid Pasha and his advisors. “We don’t know for certain where Carmela Día was attacked,” he began. “We found her abandoned in the outer reaches of the Bursa system, with no sign of her attackers nearby.” He went on to describe the condition of the ship and the crew, skipping over the more gruesome details—whether Elena Pavon wanted to know more about that or not, he didn’t care to dwell on that part of the story.

  “Thank you, Commander North,” she said when he finished, her face fixed in a steely scowl as she digested the details Sikander had chosen to include.

  “I wish we could have done more, but the perpetrators were long gone by the time we discovered the wreck.” Sikander poured himself a cup of coffee from the service Darvesh had set out for them; Elena changed her mind, and took one too. “I’m surprised that you heard about Decisive’s part in the business so quickly. We only arrived yesterday.”

  “Our office in Bursa dispatched a courier to notify me when your Sublieutenant Worth brought in our ship. I learned about Carmela Día’s recovery a few days ago.”

  Sikander nodded—that made sense. Zoe Worth had continued into port while Decisive was on its way to Tunis, so a courier departing from Bursa soon after her arrival would have had a significant head start on him. But it said something about Elena Pavon that her company had offices in multiple star systems and that she was important enough to have a courier dispatched to notify her of Carmela Día’s recovery. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Finding the bastards who killed a Pegasus-Pavon crew and blowing them out of space would be a good start,” the shipping executive said, sighing in frustration. “Someone has to do something about this outrageous situation, Commander. These attacks are ruining businesses that depend on interstellar commerce throughout the sector. It has to stop.”

  “I agree, Ms. Pavon, and I assure you that the Aquilan Commonwealth would be happy to help. But we need more patrols and more intelligence. Our squadron at Neda can only keep two or three ships on station in Zerzura at a time, and that’s not enough to adequately cover the sector’s systems. If we had some leads to follow we might be able to strike directly at the pirates or their bases, but so far they’ve left us little to work with.”

  “I might be able to help with that,” Elena Pavon said. “I have agents watching markets in every system within fifty light-years to find out who’s selling our cargo. When I learn who robbed us and killed our employees—and I will, I promise you—I intend to send you that information so that you can take the appropriate action on it.”

  “Not the Zerzuran authorities?”

  “They’re useless,” Pavon said. “In fact, they’re worse than useless—they’re probably corrupt. It’s the only explanation for the success the pirates have had in this sector.”

  Sikander considered Elena Pavon’s claim. That might explain Amelia Fraser’s observation about the pirates’ apparent familiarity with Pleiades Squadron’s patrol schedules. Or it could represent the work of Otto Bleindel, he realized. Arranging for the pasha’s officials to overlook pirate attacks certainly seemed like the sort of operation the Dremish agent might be engaged in. Sikander couldn’t imagine what the Dremish would have to gain from abetting piracy in Zerzura, but he wouldn’t put it past them.

  “That’s a serious charge, Ms. Pavon,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I am afraid I can’t rule it out, although I can think of a couple of other explanations for Zerzura’s problem with pirates. I promise you this, though: If you provide me with actionable intelligence about the people behind Carmela Día’s attack or any other acts of piracy in this region, the Commonwealth Navy will deal with them—sternly.”

  “Excellent.” Pavon stood, and smoothed her skirt. “I will let you know when I learn something. And I would appreciate it if you did the same for me, Captain. Good afternoon.”

  “Of course.” A little taken aback by the sudden conclusion to the discussion, Sikander rose as well to see her out. Evidently Elena Pavon was not in the habit of wasting much time after she’d said what she had to say. “Darvesh can show you back down to the quarterdeck. Good afternoon, Ms. Pavon.”

  9

  SMS Polarstern, Dahar System

  “Vashaoth Teh is beginning her warp transit,” Leutnant Martin Holm reported to Otto Bleindel in Polarstern’s comfortable passenger lounge. The big, stoop-shouldered officer served in the Imperial Survey Service, the science and research organization of the Dremark Empire, but he also held a rank in the Imperial Security Bureau, as did every other officer in Polarstern’s permanent crew. In public Martin Holm played the part of a conscientious mariner who happily conveyed various scientific missions and monitoring equipment to wherever they needed to go, but in the privacy of the survey ship’s VIP quarters there was no need for any pretense. “The package is secured aboard Launch Dora, Senior Agent. Captain Fischer says that we can depart anytime.”

  “Excellent,” Bleindel replied. He rose from the comfortable chair where he’d been reading while he waited for the Velaran cruiser to leave, and slipped his dataslate into his coat pocket. “In that event, I would like to get under way at once.”

  “Yes, sir. I will notify the launch crew.” Holm saluted and withdrew.

  “Be careful, Otto,” Hanne Vogt said, standing to see him
off. “I know there’s no need to state the obvious, but I will anyway: If conditions in Meliya don’t match your requirements, abort the operation. After our little encounter with the Aquilans at the palace yesterday, I find that I’m concerned with the amount of Commonwealth interest in this region. Eric Darrow wouldn’t be here if Aquila wasn’t serious about finding Marid Pasha’s price.”

  “Caution is my middle name. I didn’t survive so long in this career by trying to do things when I wasn’t sure how they would turn out.” He offered her a precise half bow. Their working relationship was predicated on two things: respect for each other’s competence in their chosen fields, and—at least in Otto’s case—unbending resolve to keep things strictly unemotional. In another setting, Hanne Vogt was someone he would have liked to get to know quite a lot more intimately, but Otto Bleindel never mixed business with pleasure. He’d always felt that one needed to be absolutely clear-minded in his line of work.

  “Commander North’s reaction upon seeing you yesterday suggests otherwise,” Vogt drily observed. “He seemed familiar with your work, which means that something didn’t turn out the way you planned in your previous interaction with him.”

  “I will see you in a few days,” Bleindel replied, choosing to let the diplomat’s remark pass. He shouldered a small traveling bag, and headed down to the hangar bay to join the rest of his picked team—Martin Holm and two specialists from Polarstern’s crew—aboard a launch. The moment the hatch closed behind them, he filed Vogt’s concerns away and gave them no more attention. In his judgment she had good reason to worry about Aquila’s Zerzuran diplomacy, but that was her job, not his. He had a mission to carry out, and simple professionalism demanded that he give the task at hand his complete attention.

  At Dahar High Port, Bleindel and his small crew transferred their equipment from Polarstern’s launch to a storage facility just long enough to change their clothing and assume the new identities he’d prepared for them before hiring an orbital skiff to ferry them over to the warp courier Asfoor. Couriers made their money by carrying news and time-sensitive business information from system to system, but many of the tiny ships also offered passage to individuals who needed to get somewhere fast and didn’t care about traveling in comfort. In the case of Asfoor, the passenger accommodations consisted of two cramped cabins with two bunks each and a cargo compartment not much bigger than the kitchen in Bleindel’s apartment back home.