Contemplating this confession made him feel a little sick, but not as sick as going all the way back to Miles-san empty-handed as well as three days late. He stared harder at the map, trying to memorize the streets and turns.
“I know where we’re going now,” he said to Mina, trying to sound confident and big-brotherly. “Come on.”
After the WhiteChrys groundcar dropped them all off again at the consulate, Roic followed m’lord upstairs and watched him down two headache tabs and several glasses of water. Returning to the entry hall, m’lord stuck his head into the room Roic thought of as the parlor, where Raven Durona had been left to cool his heels, and said, “Debriefing downstairs again, I think.”
Raven nodded and unfolded himself to tag along. There had been little conversation on the way home; Aida had still been escorting, m’lord had settled into himself heavy-eyed, Vorlynkin had stared out the canopy with a set jaw, Roic considered himself an observer, and Raven had been disinclined to buck the obvious trend. They arrived downstairs at the door to the tight-room to discover it closed and locked.
M’lord hit the intercom. “Vorlynkin? Are you in there? Open up.”
“Just a moment, m’lord,” Vorlynkin’s voice came from the speaker. The moment turned into several minutes, while m’lord tapped his foot and Raven sat on the nearby step and yawned.
“Reminds me of a house with only one bathroom when the relatives have come to visit,” remarked Roic, as the wait stretched.
M’lord cast him a dry look. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never lived in a house with only one bathroom.” Roic returned him an ironic head-tilt.
At length, the doorseal popped, the vaultlike door swung open, and the consul admitted them. His eyes seemed electric blue, and he was breathing fast, as though he had been running. “You’re too late,” he announced.
M’lord’s brows rose. “Not a first. What for this time?”
A muscle jumped by Vorlynkin’s scowling mouth. “I just sent a full report of what I witnessed by tight-beam to General Allegre at ImpSec HQ, Barrayar. I never thought I’d live to see a Vorkosigan sell himself for money. My career may be slagged, but so will yours, my Lord Auditor.”
“Ah, excellent. That’s done.” M’lord kicked the door shut; it sealed with a sigh that seemed insufficiently dramatic for Vorlynkin’s mood.
“What?” Vorlynkin’s fists clenched.
“Not that every man doesn’t have his price,” m’lord went on amiably. “As I’m sure Wing-san would agree. I was more afraid that if he didn’t come up to scratch today, I’d have that whole parade at the conference to do over again.”
If the consul didn’t stop inhaling, he was going to pop a lung, Roic thought. He put in peaceably, “Stop baiting the poor fellow, m’lord.” Now that you have what you want, anyway. Roic didn’t want to have to wrestle the man to the floor if he went for m’lord’s throat, which he seemed on the verge of doing. Was that old phrase about being mad enough to spit nails supposed to apply to, like, roofing nails, or fingernails? Around m’lord, Roic had never been sure.
M’lord added a trifle impatiently, “Men like Wing don’t go around throwing their money at potential opponents at random, Vorlynkin. First they have to figure out that the target is bribable. I did my best to help him decide. Have a seat, Consul, Doctor. It’s time we talked.”
Vorlynkin’s mouth, which had opened to emit some hot remark, sagged. “Lord Vorkosigan—is this a sting?”
“It is now.” M’lord pulled out a station chair and plunked into it. “We weren’t sure at first, which is why they sent me—I could be bait and trap at the same time, saving the Imperium on jumpship fares if nothing else.”
Vorlynkin sank more slowly into a chair opposite; Roic breathed easier. The consul glanced in dismay at the secured comconsole. “M’lord—I sent the report.”
“Don’t apologize. Your next official visitor might really be on the take, after all. I don’t intend to apologize to you, either, if it makes you feel any better. I’ve seen our diplomatic personnel bought out before. I had to make sure.”
“You were… testing me?” That disturbing heat in Vorlynkin’s eyes, which had started to fade, flared once more.
“Why do you suppose I hauled you along today and let you see all this?”
Vorlynkin’s hands clenched on his knees, but slowly eased again. “I see. Very efficient.”
“Do try to keep up.” M’lord added more kindly, “It won’t be easy; this case has baffled a few ImpSec analysts.” He turned to Raven. “So, what did you learn of interest during the time you had with Storrs?”
Raven’s mouth twisted in doubt. “I’m not sure I learned anything new. Their cryofreezing program seems perfectly legitimate—nothing wrong with their procedures from a technical standpoint. I asked to see a revival, but Storrs said there weren’t any scheduled today, which by then didn’t surprise me. He did show me the revival facilities. They looked quite adequate. He angled to find out if I would be interested in employment with WhiteChrys, and tried to find out my current pay rate. I said my main interests lay with cryorevival, as it’s more medically challenging. He said he’d pass that along, although he didn’t say who to. We came back and joined your show in progress, where you’d finished the dogs and were on to the ponies. Eh.” Raven shrugged.
Vorlynkin blinked. “Lord Vorkosigan, is Dr. Durona your agent?”
“Civilian contract consultant,” m’lord clarified, “being paid out of my case budget. Are you still collecting your Durona Group salary simultaneously, Raven?”
Raven smirked. “That’s personal information.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. So don’t hesitate to use Dr. Durona on double shifts, if needed.”
Raven grinned and rose to prod the automatic beverage maker, strategically positioned near the secured comconsole and its satellite console. It coughed up something coffee-ish, judging by the smell. Raven picked up the cup and gestured politely toward his chair; Roic waved him back to it and took up a position propping the wall with his arms crossed, in a pose copied from a certain former ImpSec chief.
“To bring you up to speed, Vorlynkin,” m’lord went on. “WhiteChrys was vetted and cleared by ImpSec when its advance teams first scouted Komarr eighteen months ago, but ImpSec was looking for connections with military espionage and the like. Their business plan passed the local Komarran commissions, and they were in. No one would have given them a second look for years, if it hadn’t been for some good old-fashioned nepotism.
“Within the last few months, as the flagship facility we saw in Wing’s vid was nearing completion, WhiteChrys began collecting contracts on future customers. Not unnaturally, they targeted Solstice upper-class elderly women’s clubs. At the same time, another sales team made some limited strategic stock offerings to certain wealthy and influential Komarrans, to give the local powers-that-be a stake in the future success of their operations. I expect the two sales teams didn’t compare hit lists, nor realize that some wealthy old ladies are retired Komarran traders who can read a balance sheet to a gnat’s eyebrow.
“And one of those little old ladies looked at the two proposals before her and said, ‘This smells, but I don’t see how,’ so she took it to her beloved great-niece, who said, ‘You’re right, Auntie, this smells, but I don’t see how,’ who took the problem in turn to her devoted husband, better known as Emperor Gregor Vorbarra. Who handed it to his loyal Imperial Auditor, saying, and I quote, ‘Here, Miles, you’re better at diving into the privy and coming up with the gold ring than anyone I know. Have a go.’ And I said, ‘Thank you, Sire,’ and took ship for Kibou-daini.”