The Port Commissioner, Colonel Rudolf Drescher, seated himself behind a mahogany monstrosity of a desk. The other officer in the room, Hauptmann-Kommandant Angus MacPhail, remained standing, his face carefully blank, his only concession to comfort the fact that he leaned stiffly against the wall.
“Well, Mr. Watanabe, you talked your way past our guards,” said Drescher. “That’s impressive enough. What do you want?”
Drescher was a big man, big and soft around the middle, 120 kilos of muscle running to fat, all of it stuffed into a dress uniform. His dark hair was regulation, but only just.
This was a man who enjoyed the finer things in life. And although he was a Lyran officer, he was not a member of the Donegal Guard. He was a logistics expert, brought in to manage the Altaisian ports.
Exactly the kind of man Yamashita had hoped for.
Yamashita shrugged. “What does any man want? The chance to do a little business.”
MacPhail leaned forward. “And do ya expect us to believe ya have no loyalty to the Combine?”
Yamashita glanced at MacPhail.
Unlike Drescher he was a lean whip of a man who wore fatigues without any adornment at all, not even a regimental patch. Except for the subdued insignia that indicated his rank, the Kommandant was a cipher. This was the kind of man who traded in secrets.
Exactly the kind of man Yamashita had feared.
He met MacPhail’s eyes. “I don’t know what the war means to House Kurita or House Steiner, but to me all it means is a change in market conditions.” He glanced at Drescher. “One that brings opportunity.”
Drescher and MacPhail exchanged a look that spoke volumes.
These two men didn’t like each other.
“What did you have in mind?” Drescher asked softly.
“I can get things,” said Yamashita.
“Aye,” said MacPhail tightly. “Ore from the mining concerns. Equipment from the factories.”
“No.” Yamashita shook his head. “Nothing of military value. I’m talking about luxuries. Wine. Altaisian caviar. Spiced beef. Diamonds. Saltgrass.”
Drescher leaned forward. “In exchange for…”
“Offworld luxuries. We sell them here for a healthy markup and split the profits. I pay you in Altaisian luxuries that you turn around and sell offworld for another big profit. You win twice.”
Drescher sat back, his face suddenly blank. Yamashita could almost see the numbers percolating through the man’s brain. “Most interesting,” he said softly.
That was too much for MacPhail. “Gods, man,” he snapped. “This is a Combine citizen—”
“A former Combine citizen,” said Drescher. “Altais is now a protectorate of the Lyran Commonwealth.”
“Just so,” said Yamashita.
“Ya canna trust ‘im. Give me a few hours with ‘im, Colonel, and we’ll see just exactly what he is.”
Yamashita sat up a little straighter. If Drescher passed him into the Kommandant’s custody he was done. MacPhail was not a man he could keep secrets from. Yamashita knew this at some deep level, but he would not allow himself to really know it, would not reveal himself through fear.
I am just a simple businessman, he thought. One who cannot even tell the difference between a sergeant and a corporal. Crooked, hai, but in a way you can understand and exploit.
“What’s in the bag?” Drescher asked.
Yamashita reached down and pulled out a bottle of wine. “A gift.” He handed it over to Drescher. “A token of good will.”
The man studied the bottle with the gleam of avarice in his eyes. They had a deal. Yamashita could feel it.
“What happened to your finger?” MacPhail asked.
A shiver wriggled down Yamashita’s spine.
“What, this?” he said as coolly as he could. He held up his left hand, revealing a pinky that had been severed at the first joint. “An accident. I used to work in a factory. It happens.”
“Aye,” said MacPhail coldly. “Especially on this world.”
Drescher put the bottle of wine down and sat back in his chair, a new calculation plain on his face. “This is quite nice,” he said, not even looking at the wine, “but if we are to do business, I require more.”
Yamashita’s stomach clenched. He knew exactly what the colonel was suggesting. He wanted a name.
If Yamashita didn’t give him one, Drescher would turn him over to MacPhail to sweat one out of him. And if he did give him one he was a spy and so, again, MacPhail.
Either way he was a dead man. All because MacPhail noticed his finger.
“I am not a spy,” said Yamashita stiffly. “But I have done business on this world a long time. I know who the players are. Recently, some new names have surfaced, rather, ah, rapidly.”
“Oh,” said Drescher easily, “who in particular?”
“Sumiko Tawara,” said Yamashita. “Junshi Nomo. Charles Hanson.”
Tawara and Nomo were innocents. But not Hanson.
Hanson was a Tai-i in the service of the House Kurita’s feared Internal Security Force.
If the names were all valueless, Drescher would conclude Yamashita was an agent protecting his network. If the names were all ISF, Drescher would know Yamashita was an agent spooked into betraying his people. If there were a mix, Drescher might decide that “Watanabe” was just a businessman who’d noticed some things.
Drescher peered at Yamashita for a long moment and then he stood, leaned over the desk, and shook his hand. “Shall we drink to our deal?”
The wine was sweet and full-bodied with a note of ripe raspberries and a rich, leathery bouquet. Drescher seemed to enjoy it very much. MacPhail didn’t have any.
When Yamashita stepped out of the Commissioner’s office, he knew he was lucky to be leaving with his life. This was going to be a dangerous business.
Absentmindedly he pulled up his right sleeve to scratch an itch, revealing a dragon tattoo the color of sapphire coiled around his wrist.
• • •
After leaving the port, Yamashita caught a bus across town and transferred twice to lose any tail, stopped to eat at a Thai restaurant just to be sure, and then stopped at Body by M.
He slipped in the side door, strolling past a score of housewives in leotards doing aerobics to the driving beat of the latest jazzpop hit.
Yamashita hated to give
