Shadowrun 44 - Drops of Corruption Page 4

“It can bring in a nuyen or two,” Bannickburn said.

  “For damn sure,” Bailey replied. “And it’s close to us. It’s real close, sitting in the hull of a ship right here in Tacoma, on the waterfront. So you can see we have a nice business opportunity sitting in front of us.”

  “I can see that, yes.”

  “But most opportunities like this don’t come without a hitch.” Bailey spread his arms. “Hey, let’s face it, if making this kind of money was easy, everyone would be rich, right? So there are hitches. Hitch number one is the waterfront. It’s . . . what is it, James?”

  “It’s a problem area,” Shivers said.

  Bailey slapped his hand on his desk. “Exactly! It’s a problem area. We need to get our merchandise through there clean and unencumbered, without losing a good portion of our profit margin, if you understand what I’m saying.”

  It wasn’t difficult to understand. “Problem area” meant “teeming with government security and organized crime muscle.” “Clean and unencumbered” meant “keep anyone else, including Customs inspectors, from seeing the goods, because they might decide to take some for themselves.” Or, if the officials were on the more honest side of the law, they might levy a large duty against such a rare imported item, thereby making Bailey lose “a good portion of our profit margin.”

  What it boiled down to was, Bailey wanted to smuggle some talismans through the docks. If Bannickburn really wanted to figure it out, he could probably guess what line of business Bailey was in, as a fairly narrow range of organizations got involved in such activities. If Jackie were there, she’d make him review that list immediately. On his own, though, he decided to hear Bailey out without burdening himself by thinking too much.

  “This is all to say—what? You need a courier?”

  “No, no, no. We have a courier. We need someone to carry the courier’s coffee.”

  Bannickburn looked at Shivers, who was rolling his eyes. Kross was impassive. Bailey’s oval face held a hint of a smile, but, as far as Bannickburn had seen, he always wore that expression.

  “So . . .” Bannickburn started.

  Bailey laughed. No one else in the room even smiled. “Relax, relax, I’m joking. Look, James told me you’ve hit some rough times, but who hasn’t? I know a little bit about who you were—who you are—and I wouldn’t humiliate you by offering pissant work. No, what I need is your particular set of skills, some knowledge of magic, which James assures me you have. We’ve got a lot of resources, my associates and I, but mages . . . well, we have a chronic shortfall in that area. Not that I need a mage per se for this, but I need someone who knows his stuff, because here’s the thing—for every real piece of Blood Ice on the market, there are a thousand fakes. I need someone who can tell me exactly what’s in this crate before my people go to the effort of moving it. Simple enough?”

  So far, yes, it had been simple enough. Any hesitation Bannickburn had about the job vanished when Bailey got down to terms. The sum he was offering for a simple identification job indicated that Bailey thought he could set a new record price with this shipment of Blood Ice.

  Bannickburn felt a small trace of guilt about misleading Bailey. More than once, Bailey had referred to Bannickburn’s “abilities,” and the elf knew he was talking about more than just a simple knowledge of talismans. But Bannickburn didn’t bother correcting him. He had told James some of the story of Valinscarl and the Stinklands, but not the whole thing. It was quite possible that James, and therefore Bailey, thought Bannickburn had kept some of his powers. And Bannickburn was guilty of letting them believe that, since there was no way he was going to tell them how far he had fallen. The tactic seemed to work—he hadn’t said anything, and he’d gotten the job. Dishonesty pays, he’d learned several times, even if it leaves a small bitter taste in the mouth.

  Now he was on his way to the docks, with Kross along to show him the way and even provide a little conversation. In most of his experience, Bannickburn had found that spending any time with an ork meant enduring a lot of silence, but Kross was polished, courteous, and surprisingly refined.

  “The ’45 is much better than the ’44. Subtler,” Kross said.

  “I’d heard the ’45 varied greatly by region.”

  “What year doesn’t? However, for particular areas— Belgium comes to mind—the ’45 is the equal of any year in the past half century.”

  “And you don’t deep-fry them?”

  Kross widened his eyes in horror. “Never! Destroys the nuances of the flavor! Just bludgeons it. No, locusts are best stir-fried, lightly, in olive oil. Truly a delicacy.” “So I’ve heard, so I’ve heard,” Bannickburn said, lying with a straight face. “Perhaps I’ll have the chance to try them someday.”

  “I’d recommend the Big Rhino. Touristy sometimes, but top-notch when it comes to insects.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  His nose was full of the smell of salt and seaweed. In his short time in Seattle, Bannickburn had already discovered what a joy the docks were to walk in. Security from every AAA and a number of the smaller corps patrolled the area, but they spent as much time keeping an eye on each other as they did on any outsiders. They walked along the corp-controlled docks, while Lone Star and other private security forces patrolled the government docks with a swagger completely out of proportion to their actual influence. Sailors loitered on nearly every corner, leaving empty bottles as a testament to their presence. When the security troopers weren’t watching each other, they were keeping an eye out for any drunken sailors who thought it might be funny to throw a bottle at something. The sailors found that sort of thing amusing fairly frequently.

  In the middle of all this walked a number of people who looked guilty, and an equal number of people striving to look innocent. Bannickburn imagined that, at some past point in time, the people who looked guilty were probably innocent of everything (except poor genetic inheritance), while the people who looked innocent were undoubtedly guilty of something. But then the criminals had figured this pattern out and started deliberately looking guilty, which, ironically enough, deflected attention away from them.

  But the security patrols caught on to that act soon enough, causing the guilty parties to try to look innocent again. These days, Bannickburn figured, the docks held a healthy mix of guilty people who looked guilty, guilty people who looked innocent, innocent people who looked guilty, and innocent people who looked innocent. One could spend a long, entertaining afternoon trying to decide who was what.

  The spring sun, not the most common sight in Seattle, gave a certain luster to the decades of grime coating the warehouses. Rusted cranes creaked as broad pallets of cargo swung back and forth. Some of the cargo was worthless—boxes and boxes of sand shipped by merchants working some arcane financial scam far beyond Bannickburn’s understanding. Much of the cargo was mundane, while a small portion of it was highly illegal. One single crate, on a ship called the Juniper, held what Bannickburn and Kross were looking for.

  Kross had grown silent and had fastened the top two buttons of his charcoal suit jacket, which Bannickburn supposed meant he was ready for business. Bannickburn stroked his sideburns to make sure they were presentable.

  The Juniper lay ahead, a relatively small freighter that looked like it was built for speed. Black mold and barnacles clung to the chipped white paint on the narrow prow.

  Two groups stood on the dock. One wore Lone Star uniforms and looked serious and patient, ready to wait as long as they needed to until someone nearby committed a crime. The second group, positioned closer to the ship and dressed in clothes whose chief purpose was to provide fabric on which they could wipe their hands, appeared equally determined to do nothing until the first group dispersed.

  Bannickburn started working on ways to talk his way past either group, but both of them parted for Kross before he could say a word. The workers looked relieved, while security looked indifferent. One Lone Star officer even offered a hesitant nod to the ork. It wasn’t retu
rned.

  “So far, so good,” Bannickburn said as they boarded the Juniper.

  “Not really,” Kross grunted. “I’d prefer that no one was here. But que sera, sera. At least some of them are our people.”

  Bannickburn felt certain Kross wasn’t referring to the Lone Stars.

  Two armed guards stood on the foredeck, in gray uniforms with Russian military insignia prominent on their shoulders. That meant Kross and Bannickburn had just entered Yamatetsu territory. Bannickburn wondered if the megacorp was cooperating in this venture somehow, or if the guards were being used as unwitting dupes. Oh well, he thought. Not my concern—at least, not yet.

  Kross walked firmly toward the guards. “Ensign Teskiev, please. Allan Kross to see him.”

  The guards made a point of standing motionless for a moment, silently appraising the two visitors. Then one of them walked through a metal doorway, while the other raised his Steyr assault rifle and leveled it at Kross, obviously deciding he represented the more significant threat. Bannickburn bristled.

  A few moments later the guard returned with an unshaven, tank top-wearing man in tow. The sailor chewed on an apple.

  “Mr. Kross,” the sailor said, spitting out small chunks. “I’m glad you could come by, but I’m afraid there has been a problem. Some people”—he made a vague gesture toward the people clustered on the dock—“have convinced themselves that some of our cargo might be illegal, and have planted themselves on the dock to keep an eye on us. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Kross frowned. “I can’t say I’m happy about this, of course.”

  “Of course. I understand your disappointment. Perhaps if we spoke in the officers’ mess for a time, we could discuss the matter in further detail and greater comfort.”

  “Gracious of you. Please, lead the way.”

  Bannickburn waited patiently for the sailor’s little floor show to finish. While he understood the value of creating deniability as well as the next runner, he wished the sailor could just bark an order to the guards to let the strangers through and forget they ever saw them. But such authority wasn’t always easy to find.

  Ensign Teskiev nodded at the security guards, who stepped aside but made a point of arranging their faces in the most intimidating possible expressions. The one with the Steyr kept it raised. Bannickburn grinned widely at both of them as he passed.

  A short walk led to the officers’ mess, which was nothing more than two card tables surrounded by eight metal folding chairs. The unpadded feet scraped loudly on the corrugated floor as the three men pulled the chairs back and sat down.

  “I don’t see any goods in this room,” Kross said. Apparently, Bannickburn thought, the ork’s graciousness and manners did not extend to small talk.

  “Patience, my friend. Patience.”

  Bannickburn thought of a few conversation starters as the moments ticked by—“So, Siberia still cold?” or, “How many pieces will your superiors carve you into if word of this little operation gets out?”—but he decided not to use any of them.

  Soon, the door to the room opened, and a short woman in a ridiculously white uniform, complete with a flat cap, carried in a covered tray. Small wisps of mist spilled out from under the cover.

  “Enjoy,” she said as she placed the tray on the table in front of them, then turned smartly and walked out the door.

  Teskiev removed the cover from the tray. The mist, as it turned out, was not steam from hot food but rather chilled air spilling out. A thin layer of frost covered the tray as soon as it was exposed to the open air. In the middle sat four diamonds of ice, each with a spot of red in the center.

  “We must leave the items on the tray as much as possible,” Teskiev said. “To maintain their core temperature. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” Kross said. “I assume these are not all the crystals on board?”

  “No, just a sample. A random sample, naturally.”

  “Fine.” Kross glanced at Bannickburn. “It’s your turn now.”

  Back in the Scotsprawl, when he had his powers, the whole operation would have taken a few seconds, and Bannickburn wouldn’t have needed to touch the items. Now, he had to be slower, more methodical. But something with the amount of power Blood Ice was supposed to hold still should be relatively easy to spot.

  “I was told equipment would be supplied,” Bannickburn said.

  “Yes, yes. Don’t worry, our kitchen staff is more than just one person.”

  Sure enough, in a few moments a half dozen more white-suited people entered and unloaded five carts’ worth of equipment. Soon, a limited but functional magic shop existed in the officers’ mess.

  Teskiev stood. “You have three and a half hours until the room must be cleared for dinner. I wish you luck.”

  “Three and a half...” Bannickburn sputtered. “These things take time, you know.”

  “Then I will not distract you any more with my presence.” Teskiev walked briskly away, followed by the six kitchen staffers.

  “All right. Start doing whatever it is you do. Is there anything I can do to help?” Kross asked.

  Bannickburn looked over all the equipment—the knobs, the dials, the magnets, the electrodes—and decided he didn’t want anyone else in the world touching it.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. Kross nodded, folded his arms, and stood near the door to the mess in a sort of watchful coma.

  The next two hours were bliss. Bannickburn was in his element, and he was being paid to be there. He knew exactly what to look for, how to measure it, and he could stop every few moments to peer through the frosted ice and glimpse the single red spatter inside each crystal. He thought of the things he could do with a talisman of this power, and didn’t bother putting his thoughts into the past tense.

  At the two-hour mark, he knew. In his gut, he knew. But thoroughness compelled him to complete the testing, because even though he knew, he couldn’t feel it. His mind told him what it was, but to his touch, it was nothing more than cold water. And he had to get this right. The number of guns he’d seen in Bailey’s office convinced him of at least that much. One more hour of work would serve as confirmation.

  After that hour passed, Bannickburn turned to Kross. “They’re genuine,” he said. “All of them.” He wanted to pick them up, squeeze them in his hand, let the water and blood mix on his skin, certain that he couldn’t hold power of that magnitude without feeling something. But, since Kross would probably rip his arm off the second he wrapped his hand around the crystals, he refrained.

  Kross nodded, needing no time to recover from his near slumber. “Good,” he said. “I’ll call Teskiev.”

  Bannickburn expected him to use an intercom, or at least stick his head out the door, but Kross had a simpler idea. He slapped the wall near the door four times, and the echo of the banging metal shook Bannickburn’s teeth. He figured either Teskiev would come quickly, or the vibrations of the blow would shatter the ship and sink them into the bay.

  Luckily, Teskiev came first. “Were your results satisfactory?”

  “Quite,” Kross said. “We’ll take the whole shipment.”

  Belowdecks, two metal briefcases sat on top of one crate next to a second, open crate. Guards—at least a dozen of them—lined the walls of the large hold. Every last one of them had the brim of his cap pulled low, shadowing his eyes. They all looked incapable of any expression except grim determination.

  “Do you have the mold for these guys on board, or is it kept back in Russia?” Bannickburn asked. He received no response.

  “Would you like to inspect the briefcases?” Teskiev asked, and Kross nodded once.

  Bannickburn left the job to him, as he knew little about what the briefcases were supposed to do and how they were supposed to do it. Kross, though, seemed as familiar with them as Bannickburn had been with the analytical equipment in the mess, and the job was done quickly.

  “They seem excellent. Thank you.” He reached into a hidden, buttoned poc
ket of his vest and pulled out three credsticks, tossing them one at a time to Teskiev. “For the ice. And for the briefcases,” he said. “Both coded to your captain. And this one is coded to you. As a token of our gratitude.”

  Teskiev bowed his head slightly, but remained expressionless. Kross, though, wasn’t looking for gratitude. He turned to the crates.

  “Come here,” he said, and Bannickburn, assuming he was the one being addressed, stepped forward.

  Kross reached into the open crate and pulled out a square box, no more than a quarter of a meter on each side.

  “Caviar,” he said. “Excellent stuff, really. We need to pull it out.”

  “Perhaps you would like a case? As a token of our esteem?” Teskiev said.

  “That’s very generous of you,” Kross said. “Thank you.” But he was careful, Bannickburn noted, to keep his face as neutral as Teskiev’s. Kross put one box to the side, then stacked the others by the crate. Bannickburn joined him in pulling them out.

  Once the boxes were out, Bannickburn and Kross removed a few large armfuls of packing material. It was cold, chilled by the refrigerated walls of the crate.

  The bottom of the crate was a crude fake. It looked like the bottom of a crate, but any casual inspection would show that the false bottom was a good decimeter or two higher than it should be. However, it had done the job.

  Kross and Bannickburn reached in together. They had to feel around to find a grip, but eventually Bannickburn felt four spots of spongy wood that looked exactly like the rest of the bottom. By squeezing it down, he could get a grip. Kross was waiting for him.

  They pulled it up. Air whooshed into the bottom of the crate, swirling the mist below the false bottom. A metal case sat below, filling almost the entire base. It had two handles, one on each side of the case’s top. Again, Bannickburn and Kross pulled it out. Bannick-burn’s back gave a twinge, but he wasn’t about to let anyone in the room see the slightest trace of pain on his face.

  They set it next to the caviar, undid four clasps, and opened it. More whooshing air, more swirling mist.