He himself got away with two minor wounds – scratches, really; the numb arm was a bigger problem, but it was the least of the baron’s current worries. After all, he had a few remedies from Haladdin’s medkit with him. So what’s the situation? Four ‘skuas’ have disappeared without a trace: they won’t be missed for two or three hours, but this timing advantage is all he has. Pretty soon the entire Gondorian spy force will start hunting him, along with – and this was much worse – the local police. Corrupted as they are, they know their business second to none; in less than two hours their informants will let them know that the performance at the Seahorse Tavern was given by none other than their old friend Baron Tangorn, whereupon they’ll immediately stake out the port and start combing the city closer to evening. In spy slang his position is known as ‘leper with a bell’: he has no right to either call on his old agents for help (his pre-war information on that network may very well be at the Gondorian station), or to appeal to the Umbarian Secret Service (they will only cover him if he admits to being Faramir’s man, which is flatly impossible). The saddest thing is that he had lost all possibility of contact with the Mordorian network here – the only people who could have helped him reach Elandar. To make a long story short, he failed his task and is now marked for death; that none of it is his personal fault is totally irrelevant – Haladdin’s mission will now never be completed.
So now he has no agents, no contacts, no safe houses; what does he have? He has money – lots of money, over four hundred dungans in six caches – plus the well-hidden mithril coat that Haladdin gave him to sell in case he could not locate Sharya-Rana’s gold. He has a couple of reserve hideouts from the old times, which will be dug up in a couple of days at most; he has some old connections in the underworld, which could be stale. That seems to be it… He doesn’t even have the Slumber-maker – the sword is still at Alviss’ house, and returning to either Jasper Street or the Happy Anchor is absolutely out of the question.
By the time the gondolier let him off near the harbor warehouses, it was clear to him that the only sane tactic in such overwhelmingly appalling circumstances was to bluff without restraint – to mount an attack rather than crawl into a hidey-hole.
Chapter 42
Umbar, 12 Seashore Street
June 4, 3019
Mongoose walked unhurriedly down the embassy’s corridors. The worse and more dangerous a situation is, the more deliberate, unhurried, and polite must the commander be (at least in public); to judge by the serene smile firmly plastered to Mongoose’s face, the situation was the worst it could possibly be.
He found the chief of station, Captain Marandil, in his office.
“Hail, Captain! I’m Lieutenant Mongoose, here’s my badge. I am carrying out a top-secret assignment here in Umbar. Regretfully, I’m having some problems…”
Marandil did not even stop gazing at his nails; it was obvious that some invisible shred of skin on his left pinkie was of much more interest to him than some visitor’s problems. Just then the door banged open, and a burly guy almost seven feet tall pushed the lieutenant aside most unceremoniously:
“Time to start, boss! The girl’s first class!”
“You guys must’ve gotten yours dipped already,” the captain grumbled good-naturedly.
“No way, sir! The boss gets first dibs, we regular folks follow… but the lady’s already undressed and waiting impatiently.”
“Let’s go, then, before she gets a chill!”
The big man guffawed; the captain started getting out from behind the table, but caught Mongoose’s look. Something in that look suddenly made him feel that he had to explain: “She’s from last night’s catch, a Mordorian agent! The bitch’ll wind up in the canal anyway…”
Mongoose was already dispassionately studying the kitschy ornaments on the ceiling (rather tasteless stuff, really); he was genuinely concerned that the overwhelming fury he felt was about to spill out through his eyes. Sure, spying is a cruel business; sure, a third-degree interrogation is, well, an interrogation in the third degree; sure, the ‘girl’ should have understood the risks before she got into these games, that’s all fair and by the book… What was not by the book was how these two colleagues of his behaved – like they were not in His Majesty’s service, but rather… Actually, to hell with them all – so far, at least, straightening out the resident spies was not within Task Force Féanor’s ambit. The lieutenant addressed Marandil again in such a gently persuasive tone that any competent person would have immediately guessed how serious he was:
“My apologies, Captain, but my business brooks no delay, believe me. I’m sure that your subordinates can handle this job adequately without you.”
The big guy positively bent over with laughter, and then drawled, encouraged by his boss’s sneer: “Forget it, Lieutenant! You know how they say: three out of four problems solve themselves, and the fourth is unsolvable. Better come with us to the basement – the cutie’ll service you first, you being a guest and all. She’ll lick you or you can lick her…” Marandil surreptitiously enjoyed this put-down of the visitor from the capital. Of course, he’ll have to assist, but first let the man understand that here, in Umbar, he’s nobody, and his name is nothing …
“How are you standing in front of a superior officer?” Mongoose inquired in a flat voice, looking Marandil’s henchman up and down, lingering on the tips of his boots a bit.
“What’s wrong with how I’m standing? I’m not falling over, right?”
“That’s an idea,” the lieutenant said thoughtfully and moved forward in a light dancelike move. He was a foot shorter and half as wide as his opponent, so the big man struck carefully to avoid accidentally killing him with his melon of a fist. He struck and froze in amazement: Mongoose did not even dodge the blow or move back – he simply disappeared into thin air. The man stood gaping until someone tapped his shoulder from behind – and he actually turned around, the fool…
Mongoose stepped over the prostrated body – fastidiously, as if it was a pile of manure – stopped in front of Marandil, who involuntarily retreated behind the table, panic clearly visible in his eyes, and said drily:
“Your subordinates can barely keep their feet. Are you starving them or something?”
“Hey, you’re cool, Lieutenant!” the other managed to say. “Don’t be offended; I just wanted to see you in action…”
“I figured as much. Have you seen enough?”
“Are you maybe one of those, what’s their name – nin’yokve?”
“That’s a different technique, albeit based on the same principle. Back to business. Regarding fun in the basement – I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, perhaps even skip it. Tell your people to start without you. Oh, and let them remove this impudent youth.”
Mongoose turned down both wine and coffee and got straight to business.
“Yesterday your people tried apprehending Baron Tangorn at the Seahorse Tavern. What does this mean? Have you forgotten that Ithilien is a vassal of the Crown of Gondor?”
“We had no idea it was Tangorn! He gave Mordorian recognition signals, so my boys thought he was their courier.”
“Aha!” Mongoose closed his eyes for a second. “This changes things. So he is undoubtedly tied to Mordor. Well, he’s useless to them now, too.”