Heather considered the question seriously. “I’d like to think not. But anything’s possible.”
Heather pressed the buzzer. “Paladin GioAvanti to speak with Paladin Mandela.”
Duncan continued, “What am I supposed to do while you’re talking with him?”
“Make small talk with his aide or his secretary or whoever else he may keep around the office who’s about your age. Keep your ears open.” She nodded toward his noteputer. “And make sure you keep checking those incoming messages.”
Duncan nodded seriously as the amplified and transmitted voice of a receptionist spoke from inside Mandela’s office. “Come in, Paladin GioAvanti.”
The door opened, and they entered the office suite. Soon Heather was in the inner office, where Otto Mandela claimed to be pleased to see her and willing to help her in whatever way he could.
“I’m glad you can spare me the time, Otto,” Heather said to Mandela. “You’ve been on Sheratan recently, right?”
“Yes. The election was a bit of a zoo, but nothing compared to what’s going on here.”
“Plenty of factions at work?”
“Every third house seemed like it was headquarters for some upstart group.”
“Did you hear anything about the Kittery Renaissance there?”
Otto sat straighter in his chair. “Not on Sheratan, no. But I’ve certainly heard of them.”
“What do you know about them?”
“Plenty, but that’s not what you’re asking me. You’re asking what I know about them that I may not have shared with everyone yet.”
Heather flashed one of her charming smiles. “Yes.”
“Paladin GioAvanti, please don’t take this the wrong way, but if I’ve been sitting on information, holding it from others, why should I give it to you now?”
Heather tapped her foot as a couple of options ran through her head. Then she decided.
“Can I show you something on your data screen?” she asked.
“Be my guest.”
Logging into her account, Heather played a piece of the riot video showing the Capellan sympathizer who instigated the whole thing. She looped it, and the woman flared into anger again and again and again.
Mandela watched it at least five times, his face blank. Finally he reached forward and stopped the playback.
“Norah,” he said.
Heather almost lunged toward him. “You know her name?”
“No. I know her alias. The person who shared that information with me had no idea what her real name was.”
“You’re sure?”
“We extracted everything that he knew,” Mandela said, with a fierce note Heather hadn’t heard in his voice before. “Believe me.”
“Who is she?”
“I wish I could tell you. We have nothing beyond her alias—no background, no world of origin, nothing. We don’t even know if anyone else in the group calls her Norah. But our source believed she was fairly high in the organization. If she’s here, on the street, they’re definitely moving toward something big.”
“How come this information isn’t in the file?”
Mandela eyed Heather warily. “Most of it is.”
“And the rest?”
“I held out.”
Heather’s toe started tapping on the floor. She had come to Mandela because she trusted him, yet now even he was acting suspiciously.
“Why would you hold out anything?”
“First, because this name is of little consequence. It’s an alias, and for all I know she changes it on a daily basis. Second”—Mandela’s words emerged slowly, as he chose each carefully—“often in these investigations it can be useful to know something no one else knows. Though of little consequence, these bits of information can prove useful in interrogations, or undercover infiltrations. It’s best to keep one or two things away from all other eyes to protect their confidentiality.”
“You don’t trust a classified file?”
“Have any Paladins ever given you reason to mistrust them?” he shot back.
She wanted to say “no,” but she couldn’t. “All right. Why tell me her name now?”
“As I said, these little pieces can be useful in interrogations, which I hope you will be conducting shortly. And I trust you more than I trust the file.”
“Thanks. So you say her presence means they’re moving toward something big. Any ideas on what that might be?”
Mandela stood, walked to a corner of his office, and began idly spinning a globe as he thought. The rhythmic thud of his hand on the resin was oddly soothing.
“They don’t want to destroy The Republic,” Mandela said, thinking out loud. “If they act against the government, it wouldn’t be to bring it down entirely; they would just want certain people out, making room for the people they felt they could trust, or who would further their goals.”
“Assassination?” A thought had struck Heather.
Mandela’s hand moved faster. “Maybe. In certain cases, they might find it necessary.”
“Victor?”
The spinning globe stopped as Mandela’s hand rested flat on it. Then he slowly began spinning it again.
“Not likely. A movement like Kittery depends on a certain degree of public support. Victor may not have shared their goals, but he was a legend—killing him could do them far more harm than good, in the long run.”
“How does staging a riot do anything good for their popular support?”
Otto gave the globe a final spin, then paced back to his chair. His gestures became more and more theatrical as the conversation progressed. There was a reason Mandela was assigned to watch elections so often, besides his honesty. He understood politics as well as any Paladin—with the possible exception of Anders Kessel.
“First, you have to remember that only a few of us know that Kittery had anything to do with this. They have made no effort to take credit for their effort—to the contrary, they’ve covered their tracks quite well. This is not supposed to be a riot of the Kittery Renaissance. It’s just supposed to be a random occurrence.”
“Increasing the tension in a city already near the boiling point.”
“Right!” said Mandela with a snap of his fingers. “Leading to either a popular uprising against the government—”
“—which, given the government’s vast technological advantage over the citizenry, is unlikely to succeed—”
“—or to a government crackdown.” Mandela paused before adding one more thought. “Or, with the election coming up, influencing us to choose an Exarch who will crack down on some of these elements.”
“They staged a riot to manipulate us?” Heather asked incredulously. “It’s not working too well.”
“They’re not done. This is a prelude. Whatever they have planned next is supposed to do the real work.”
“And what they’re planning is…”
Mandela, who had been wandering briskly around his office, abruptly stopped and slumped in his chair. “I have no idea.”
“If they’re trying to manipulate the election, who is it they want to win?”
Mandela smiled wanly. “Before I could take a stab at that, I’d need to know what they were up to.”
“Now for the truly difficult question. Is one of our number using the KR to get themselves elected?”
“No,” Mandela said firmly. But he shifted in his chair.
Heather, watching him squirm, remained silent.
“At least, I hope not,” Mandela finally said. “This is not our way, funding terrorists to do work that, all our lives, we’ve performed directly for ourselves. I know the Paladins well enough that I have difficulty believing any of them would be involved with this group. But in the current political climate, I cannot offer any guarantees.”
“Plus,” Heather added, “we have two Paladins who many of us don’t know very well.”
“Redburn appointed them, and I trust his judgment,” Mandela said. “But you’re right. We don’t know them.”