only an independent and uninterested source can be objective, and therefore by law the DSD only collects information but does not participate in related political or military decision- making and bears no responsibility for the results of those decisions; it is nothing but a measuring device that is categorically barred from interfering with the reality it measures. This separation of duties is truly wise. Otherwise, intelligence services either placate the powerful by telling them what they want to hear or get out of control, which leads to such niceties as gathering compromising information on its own citizens, provocations, or irresponsible sabotage abroad; all of the above is justified by carefully selected information).
Therefore, from a legal standpoint, everything that went on that summer evening in a certain undistinguished mansion where the meeting between DSD Director Almandin, his Vice- Director in charge of domestic operations and agent networks Jacuzzi, and Admiral Carnero’s chief of staff Flag Captain Makarioni took place (which required all parties to overcome the eternal mutual dislike between the ‘spooks’ and the ‘grunts’ common to all worlds), had a very definite name: traitorous conspiracy. Not that any of them lusted for power, not at all – it was just that the spies clearly foresaw the consequences of their small prosperous country’s absorption by greedy despotic Gondor, and could not follow their cowardly ‘top officials.’
“How’s your chief’s health, Flag Captain?”
“Quite satisfactory. The stiletto only bruised the lung, and as for the rumors that the Admiral is at death’s door, that’s our work. His Excellency has no doubts that in two weeks he’ll be on his feet and nothing will keep him from personally leading Operation Sirocco.”
“As for us, we have bad news, Flag Captain. Our people report from Pelargir that Aragorn had radically speeded up the preparations of the invasion fleet. They estimate that it will be fully ready in about five weeks…”
“Thunder and devils! That’s the same time as ours!”
“Precisely. I don’t have to tell you that during the last few days before deployment an army or a fleet is totally helpless, like a shedding lobster. They’re getting ready in Pelargir, we – in Barangar, practically head-to-head; the advantage will be a day or two, and the one who gains those few days will be the one to catch the other unprepared in his home port. The difference is that they’re preparing for war openly, whereas we’re hiding our work from our own government and have to waste two-thirds of our resources on secrecy and disinformation… Flag Captain, can you speed up the preparations in Barangar in any way?”
“Only at the cost of some secrecy… but we’ll have to risk it now, there’s no other way. So the most important thing now is to throw 12 Shore Street off the scent, but that’s your job, as I see it.”
After the sailor made his goodbyes, the DSD chief looked questioningly at his comrade. The spies made a funny pair – the portly, seemingly half-asleep Almandin and the lean Jacuzzi, swift as a barracuda. Over the years of working together they have learned to understand each other with not even a few words, but a few looks.
“Well?”
“I’ve gotten our materials on the Gondorian chief of station…”
“Captain of the Secret Guard Marandil; cover – second embassy secretary.”
“The same. An exceptional dirtbag, even compared to the rest of them… I wonder if they’ve shipped their worst dregs over here, to Umbar?”
“I don’t think so. These guys work the same way in Minas Tirith right now, except they dump the bodies into outhouses rather than the canals… Whatever. Stay focused.”
“All right. Marandil. A real bouquet of virtues, let me tell you…” “Have you decided to recruit him based on a flower from that bouquet?”
“Not exactly. Can’t get him on anything from his past, since Aragorn had pardoned all their sins. On the other hand, the present… first, he’s appallingly unprofessional; second, he has no spine and can’t handle pressure at all. Should he make a really big screw-up on which we can pressure him, he’s ours. Our task is to help him screw up.”
“All right, develop this angle. In the meantime, toss them some bone to deflect attention from Barangar Bay. Give them, say… oh, everything we have on Mordorian agents here.”
“What the hell would they want with it now?”
“Nothing, really, but as you’ve correctly pointed out, they’re appallingly unprofessional. Shark reflex: swallow first, then consider whether it was a good idea. Surely they will now eviscerate the Mordorian network, which nobody needs any more, and forget everything else. This will also count as a goodwill gesture from our side; it will give us some breathing room while you set a trap for Marandil.”
The thick DSD dossier on the Mordorian network in Umbar was delivered to 12 Shore Street that same evening, causing a condition approaching euphoria. Among other tips it contained the following: ‘Seahorse Tavern, 11 AM on odd Tuesdays; order a bottle of tequila with sliced lemon and sit at a table in the back left corner.’
Chapter 41
Umbar, Seahorse Tavern
June 3, 3019
It was a few minutes to eleven when Tangorn pushed open the door (crudely fashioned out of ship planking) and went down the slippery steps to the common hall that forever stank of smoke, stale sweat, and vomit. Few people were there this early, but of those present some were already well inebriated. A couple of waiters were unenthusiastically beating up a weeping bum in a corner: must have tried to leave without paying or else stole some trinket. Nobody paid any attention to the altercation – it was obvious that such performances were part of the service here. This Seahorse Tavern was some dive.
Nobody stared at the baron – his choice of disguise for the day (a gaudy player’s outfit) was perfect. Four dice-playing ‘skuas[2]’ (minor port thugs) with enormous golden rings on their tattooed hands openly tried to estimate Tangorn’s relative position in the underworld, but having apparently reached no agreement, went back to their game. Tangorn leaned casually on the bar and scanned the hall, leisurely pushing an oar-sized sandalwood toothpick around his mouth. Not that he expected to figure out whoever was on watch here (he had enough respect for his Mordorian colleagues), but why not try? Two sailors were drinking rum at the bar, Anfalasians by the sound of them, one older, the other still a teenager. “Where’d you come from, guys?” the baron inquired good-naturedly. The older man, as was to be
expected, looked through the landlubber and did not deign to answer, but the younger one could not resist the temptation to respond with the classic: “Horses come; we sail.” These two looked authentic.
Having thus satisfied the ‘talk with a sailor’ requirement, Tangorn imperiously tossed a Vendotenian gold nyanma on the bar: “Tequila, barman – but only the best!”
The barman, whose droopy moustache made him resemble a seal, sniggered: “We’ve only one kind, man – the best, same as the worst. Want some?”
