“I sent it ahead on the first DropShip leaving for Terra, in the hands of Lieutenant Owain Jones, a combat officer of unimpeachable integrity, formerly aide to General Michael Griffin. General Griffin commands Northwind in my absence.”
“When did you send Lieutenant Jones?”
“February fifteenth. The Steel Wolves had left Northwind fewer than twelve hours before.”
Jonah rose and left the parlor for the pension’s front desk. He pushed the button on the antique call bell next to the guest register, and Madame Flambard emerged from the back office.
“Madame, would you locate Monsieur Horn and tell him that he is required in the guest parlor?”
“Of course.”
Jonah returned to his chair by the hearth. A few minutes later—during which Tara Campbell resumed her restless pacing—Burton Horn entered the room. The former GenDel employee was now wearing civilian clothing of a cut and color so ordinary and moderate as to be almost invisible.
“Reporting as ordered,” Horn said. “You’ve got some work for me?”
“Yes. A Northwind officer named Owain Jones arrived on Terra some time after fourteen March of this year,” Jonah said. “Find him.”
“Yes, sir. Once I find him, what do I do with him?”
“Bring him here. I’d like very much to speak with him—and so, unless I’m gravely mistaken, would his Countess.”
“Yes, Paladin.”
Horn gave Jonah a quick nod of respect, gave another nod—somewhat belatedly—to Tara Campbell, and left.
“That’s it?” Tara said.
“That’s as much as I can do right now,” Jonah said. “But if Horn succeeds in locating your missing officer—and the evidence—I should be able to do a good deal more.”
22
Geneva and Belgorod
Terra
Prefecture X
March 3134; local winter
Burton Horn hit the streets of Geneva as soon as he left the Pension Flambard, intent on the task of finding one man on the entire planet—a tough job, though not impossible for someone who’d learned his trade with GenDel. The most important thing on his side was that the man was a stranger, with a known starting point. Strangers make ripples. Horn was going to find the ripples.
The communications listings didn’t have an entry for an Owain Jones of Northwind—innumerable entries for that name in old Wales, but those could be ruled out, at least for now. Nor did the Office of Social Information carry listings for transient offworlders. Furthermore, the Genevan emergency records showed that nobody answering to the name of Owain Jones had checked in at any hospital or aid booth.
Horn left the communications grid office. So much for official help. His next stop would be his old pals at GenDel.
“Horn!” David Ashe said when he walked in the door. “I heard that you quit.”
“I went on leave, that’s all,” Horn said. “Got a temp gig that pays pretty well. How’ve things been here?”
“Not too bad. Every day gets me one day closer to retirement. What can I do for you?”
“Can you find out for me the names, dates, and locations of any civilian DropShips that arrived on Terra from Northwind, or that arrived having made connections with a vessel from Northwind, since fourteen March of this year?”
“Right into the proprietary data banks, eh?” said Ashe. “Why not just go to the ports and ask the cargo masters? That’s actually legal.”
“Chatting up cargo masters takes time, and time’s what I don’t have. My boss wants results.”
“He’s not my boss. Sounds like a personal problem to me.”
Horn regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “Want a bit of spare cash?”
“From the temporary gig?”
“Sort of,” Horn said. “The info I’m after isn’t anything that’s illegal to have, and you know I can get it in other ways.”
“You mean we could help each other out?” Ashe’s nondescript GenDel features took on a calculating expression. “Why didn’t I know you were a crook when you worked here?”
“I try to keep my worse impulses in check,” Horn said, straight-faced. “Now how about it?”
“Okay, but you have to make it worth my while. Tell me who your boss is.”
“It’s no secret. Jonah Levin.”
“Okay,” said Ashe. “That and a spot of cash, and we can do business.”
Horn pushed a pile of currency across the desk. Ashe picked it up and whistled. “Not too careful of your expense account, are you?”
“He’s a Paladin,” Horn said. “He’s got a budget big enough to handle it. Results is what it’s all about. Now I’d like to see some.”
“You got it.” Ashe pushed some keys on his terminal. A moment later the printer whirred, and a sheet of flimsy drifted into the output tray. “Here you go. Four vessels, all from within ten parsecs of Northwind, since fourteen March.”
Horn took the sheet, glanced at it, folded it, and put it into his inner pocket. Only one bingo—a ship giving its journey’s point of origin as Northwind itself. He’d look at all four of them, but that one was going to be the first on his list. He stood to go.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” Ashe said as Horn left. “Next time your boss wants to throw away good money, let me know.”
“I’ll do that,” said Horn, and let the door swing shut behind him.
David Ashe waited a moment, until he was certain Horn was out of earshot. Then he turned to his communications console, picked up the handset, and punched in a code. When the line opened he said, “You wanted to know if anyone got curious about Northwind? Well, a guy was just in here…”
Horn took a shuttle-hop to Belgorod DropPort, where the direct ship from Northwind had grounded. When he had reached the center city transit hub, he paused and took a deep breath, orienting himself to his surroundings.
“Now, if I were Lieutenant Owain Jones, fresh from Northwind with vital information, where would I be?”
The streets, busy with traffic and pedestrians, did not reply.
“Think,” he told himself. “You’ve just arrived by DropShip at a city you don’t know on a planet that you’ve never visited. You have a mission. What do you do?”
He drifted with the foot traffic toward the east, not caring where he was going. He considered a cup of coffee. That would be nice.
A combat officer would want a cup of coffee, too, he thought. And a man newly arrived would want a place to stay. A hotel? That would be a place to start.
Someone was drifting with him, Horn realized. A tall man, but not so tall as to be freakish, and plainly dressed just as Horn himself was plainly dressed. And moving just as unpurpose-fully as Horn himself was moving.
Horn crossed the street and reversed his direction. By the time he had made it halfway up the next block, the man whom he suspected of following him had crossed the street and reversed direction as well.
I didn’t ask for this, Horn thought. It was, however, all part of the job.
Ahead on his right was a breakfast café. He walked in, and without a word walked briskly through the dining area, through the kitchen, and out the emergency door to the garbage-can-lined service alley in the back.
He continued along the alley to its end, turned right, and right again, bringing him to the street he had just left. His shadow was still there, standing in front of a store near the café, window-shopping. Horn contemplated walking up and accosting the man on the open street to ask him who he worked for. He decided against it—there wasn’t enough privacy to make it worth his while—and turned away.