Sensing that the ambassador still required some additional persuasion, the operative said, “I will need to rendezvous with my transport this evening. If you will agree to accompany me, we can have you back in Federation space within days.”
Something resembling a half-smile crossed Spock’s face. “I trust, Rukath, that you aren’t prepared to use force to return me to Earth.”
The operative gestured toward D’Tan, whom he knew still stood—disruptor in hand—only a short distance behind him. “I am obviously in no position to force you to do anything, Mr. Ambassador. I had hoped you would agree to come to Earth voluntarily.”
Spock very slowly shook his head. “I am pleased that the council has finally come to understand the necessity of the cause of reunification. But I cannot afford to abandon my work on Romulus, even temporarily. Especially now, while tensions between the Romulan Senate and one of the key Reman military factions continue to escalate.”
The operative recalled yesterday’s update about this very subject in his daily intelligence briefing. The mysterious Shinzon, the Reman faction’s young leader, had led a number of successful military engagements against Dominion forces during the war. His sudden prominence in Romulan politics could cause unpredictable swings in the delicate balance of power within a senate now evenly divided on issues of war and peace.
“You wouldn’t be away from Romulus for very long, sir,” the operative said quietly.
“The local political landscape is far too volatile for me to leave now. In addition to the unpredictability of the Reman faction, there are rumors of unrest on Kevatras and other Romulan vassal worlds. I dare not leave Romulus now, even for a short time.”
The operative decided that the time had come to risk goading the ambassador into cooperating. “Has your unification movement progressed so little over the past decade that you remain completely indispensable to it even now?”
But clearly Spock wasn’t taking the bait. Sidestepping the question, he said, “I must also consider two other possibilities. One is that you actually area Tal Shiar agent. The other is that the Federation Council’s agenda is not truly as you have described it.”
Despite this disappointing response, the operative still wasn’t ready to accept failure. Taking a single step closer to Spock, he said, “Then I offer you access to my mind. I invite you to know what I know.”
Spock’s right eyebrow climbed skyward yet again. Then, after casting a reproving glance in D’Tan’s general direction, the ambassador approached the operative. The operative closed his eyes, felt the steady, relentless pressure of the ambassador’s fingers against his temples. Vibrant colors and orderly shapes began placing themselves in elegant arrangements across his mind’s eye. It was a tantalizing glimpse into an extraordinarily powerful and well-organized mind.
And then it came: a frissonof recognition. After all these years, hedoes remember me.
“I believe you,” Spock said, a moment after withdrawing his hand and breaking the mind-touch.
The operative’s eyes opened, and he blinked away a momentary feeling of disorientation as the ambassador stepped away from him. “Then come with me back to the Federation.”
Another shake of Spock’s head. “I regret that I cannot.”
“But you said you believed me.”
“My faith in your sincerity is not the issue.”
“Then what isthe issue, other than Romulan politics?”
Spock’s gaze narrowed as though he were beginning to lose patience with a willfully obtuse child. “Federationpolitics.”
It was the operative’s turn to raise an eyebrow in surprise. “I don’t understand, Mr. Ambassador.”
“The Federation president has just resigned. One of the two contenders to replace him can be charitably described as a political reactionary who wishes to adopt an aggressive posture toward former Dominion War allies. I find it difficult to believe that such a president would support the Unification movement on Romulus.”
The operative needed no further explanation: Spock was clearly talking about Special Emissary Arafel Pagro of Ktar. And given candidate Pagro’s already well-publicized anti-Klingon predilections, it was a safe assumption that he wouldn’t support any peace initiatives on Romulus.
“The results of the special election are not yet completely tabulated,” the operative said. “Governor Bacco of Cestus III may yet emerge as the winner.”
Spock nodded. “In that event, I will consider returning to Earth for a brief meeting with President Bacco and the council. Provided, of course, that Romulan-Reman affairs permit it.”
At a wordless signal from the ambassador, D’Tan and the rest of Spock’s retinue surrounded their leader. “Live long and prosper,” Spock said, holding his right hand aloft in the traditional split-fingered Vulcan salute.
“Peace and long life,” the operative replied, using his left hand to mirror Spock’s ritual gesture.
Then the group spirited the ambassador away, vanishing with him around a darkened turning of the rough-hewn cavern walls.
The operative stood alone in the dim, rocky chamber, listening to the distant echoes of dripping water and his own frustrated sigh. Moving silently, he retraced his steps, recovered his disruptor from where D’Tan had forced him to discard it, and began his lonely ascent back to the cobbled streets of the ira’sihaer,Ki Baratan’s ancient casbah.
He paused to take an afternoon meal in a shabby-looking inn built of gray-and-ocher bricks that appeared as old as time itself. Although his vegetarian order caused the servers to eye him with some suspicion, he was far too preoccupied with mentally preparing his official Starfleet Intelligence report to care.
Following the meal—Romulan cooks, the operative noted, did not seem to have the faintest notion of how to prepare vegetables—he booked himself into a private room on the inn’s relatively secluded third floor. Once he’d settled in and run a tricorder scan for surveillance devices, he discreetly recorded his report, then used the transmitter mounted in his wrist chron to send it as an encrypted “burst” transmission that lasted only a minuscule fraction of a second. The chance that even the much-feared Tal Shiar would intercept it, much less decode it, were infinitesimally small.
Minutes later, he heard raised voices outside the window, at street level. For a moment he wondered if the Romulan authorities had indeed intercepted his transmission.
But one look out the concrete window casement told him that the people shouting on the streets weren’t Tal Shiar, or even Romulan military personnel. A dozen people, all of them apparently civilians, were running from the direction of the Romulan Hall of State. He could hear little coherency in their cries, other than a few general references to death and murder.
Curious, he left his room and descended to the main lobby, and from there proceeded to the ancient cobbled street. Still more civilians were joining the steadily growing throng, adding to the noise, chaos, and general tumult. An increasing number of uniformed police and helmeted military uhlans began to appear among the frantic crowd as it surged down the street, away from the official state buildings. In the background of the low skyline of Ki Baratan’s Government Quarter, the graceful dome of the Hall of State arced skyward, dominating the horizon like the perpetually sun-scorched face of Remus. A trio of fierce-looking mogaiwheeled through the thermals high above the dome, making dirgelike shrieks as they circled on nearly motionless wings. The operative briefly wondered whether the carnivorous birds had sniffed out live prey or carrion.
A young woman ran along the sidewalk, nearly knocking him into an elderly man as she passed. Her jade-flushed face was contorted with panic and near hysteria. “They’ve murdered the Senate!” she cried, repeating the phrase incessantly.