Engaging the Enemy Page 8

  “Want some help?” the man asked.

  “Please,” Grace said.

  He stepped past her with his own net and skillfully slid it under the fish without damaging it. “Release or dinner?”

  She thought about it a moment. She enjoyed Beckmann trout, but the fish, big as it was, would not feed the whole family. “Release,” she said.

  “Do you want to, or shall I?”

  “I’ll do it.” She laid down her rod. He held the fish properly, firmly but without damage, the fins folded down; she removed her barbless hook from the bony jaw and stuck it in her vest. “My release.”

  “Of course.”

  He held the fish until she had lifted the net, then stepped back. Grace carried the fish—a good heavy one, but she wasn’t going to weigh it—to deeper water. She loved this part, the feel of the fish in her hands, its quivering impatience to be free. The fish gaped, gills working, then it flexed and she opened her hands. It fled upstream, back to its home under that log.

  “Very nice work,” the man said now. “Beautifully played, and on a barbless hook, too.”

  “Thanks for your help,” she said. And with a nod to his tackle some yards away, “A wet-fly man, I see.”

  “And you’re a dry-fly…takes a light touch, that.” After a pause, he went on. “You are aware this is private water?”

  “We’re leasing Brookings Manor up the hill there; our privileges run from the lake to Bender’s Bridge.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…I’m leasing Greyfalls Cottage; guest rights go from that point”—he nodded to it—“downstream a kilometer. My name’s Anders MacRobert, by the way.”

  “I’m Grace Lane Vatta,” Grace said. “Would you like a sandwich? I brought some in my creel.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  They sat on another of the granite boulders near the river, where the rush of water would frustrate any hidden listening devices in the trees twenty meters away; Grace handed him a wrapped sandwich and unwrapped another for herself. He handed her a bottle from his creel.

  “We have a problem in Spaceforce,” he said, looking out across the river. His lips barely moved.

  Grace resisted the temptation to glance around, and took a bite of her own sandwich. “I’d agree. Do you know what?”

  “It’s related to the privateer program,” he said. “Do you know about that?”

  “That Slotter Key uses privateers instead of a real space navy, yes. That certain officers function both in the official Spaceforce and as advisers on privateers, yes.”

  “Your niece Ky has a letter of marque,” MacRobert said.

  Grace felt the blood draining from her face. “She what?”

  “She has a letter of marque. It’s all official, though it’s not quite…usual.”

  “I…should think not.” Grace had not expected to be surprised at whatever MacRobert wanted to tell her; this, she admitted to herself, was definitely a surprise. “The government’s turned on us—”

  “This is from before,” MacRobert said. “It was issued before the attacks on Vatta—which, by the way, I certainly didn’t anticipate.”

  “Did her father know? Her uncle?” Vatta officially, she was thinking. “It’s been against our policy to accept letters of marque.”

  “I know that,” MacRobert said. He ate the rest of the sandwich without speaking; Grace waited him out. “The thing is,” he said finally, “I knew something was wrong about what happened to Ky in the Academy. The cadet who caused the trouble wasn’t really the type. Someone had to put him up to it. I had this feeling—something was more wrong than anyone knew—and I knew she was out in space somewhere with no idea what had happened or why, and she was on an unarmed little tradeship. She might need help. So I…arranged it.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone at Vatta,” Grace said.

  “No. Nor a few other places.”

  “But the government had to know…someone signs those things. They’ll rescind it…”

  “I don’t think so.” He took a long swallow from his bottle. “She’s not exactly on their records…well, not on all the records. She has a valid letter of marque, yes. Duly signed by all the right people.” He paused again. Grace wanted to strangle the rest out of him, but suspected that wouldn’t work. She took a sip from her own bottle. “There are different kinds of letters of marque,” MacRobert went on. “Some are more specific than others, limiting that captain’s actions. Some are more general. Some are…special. Hers is special.”

  “How did you get it to her?”

  “Courier to Lastway. Knew she was going there. I sent a letter, too, and if she followed my instructions she has some useful weaponry, as well.”

  Unexpectedly, Grace felt a surge of raw anger. “You just made her more of a target,” she said. “There’s no way she can fight effectively with that old crate she’s in, and now you’ve given our enemies even more reason to go after her.”

  He did not react to her anger; he might have been the granite boulder they sat on. “She’ll make a better privateer than regular officer, actually,” he said. “I think she’s better off.”

  “As if you had the right to make that decision,” Grace said. “She’s not your family.”

  “No. But I watched her for the years she was at the Academy. Intelligent, quick, capable, and if I’m not mistaken the true killer instinct.”

  Grace felt her stomach clench. “I hope not,” she said.

  He turned to her. “Why?” Then, seeing something in her face, his expression changed. “Oh. You’ve—of course, I know something of your history.”

  “She’s alone,” Grace said, hating the hoarseness of emotion in her voice. “It’s going to be a shock to her if…when she finds that in herself. Stella doesn’t have it: she can kill, but she hates it so much that she’s never tempted. If Ky—”

  “She had four years of military discipline,” MacRobert said. “That will help her more than you know.”

  “I suppose.” Grace folded the sandwich wrapping into a tight cube and put it back in her creel. “So—what did you expect of her as a privateer?”

  MacRobert frowned at the river. “I thought, since she had more military training than most captains, that she could pick up information for us in places where known privateers hear nothing. I was sure something was coming, something big, and hoped she could find out what it was.”

  “You could have just asked her to spy for you without tempting her to try privateering.”

  “I could, yes. But that would have required setting up lines of communication specific to spying. Privateers can report directly to local consuls; I…have access to those reports.”

  “Why do I feel you are more than a master sergeant of cadets?” Grace asked the sky.

  “We should get back to fishing,” MacRobert said. “Just in case.”

  “You’re right,” Grace said. “Meet you on the river tomorrow?”

  “Certainly. You know my habits, I’m sure. At least, I hope it was you camped over there across the river. Very discreet. I’m sure you were there days before I happened to notice it.”

  “I hope so, too,” Grace said. “Good fishing to you.”

  “And to you,” he said.

  Grace worked her way back upstream against the current, forbore to bother the big trout under the log, and went after the much smaller ones well upstream, frolicking in clouds of midges.

  When she got back to the house, the grocery truck was there; the delivery driver had another story to tell about idiot tourists. Someone had overturned a boat in the lake in a particularly stupid way, and there was another case of bluetick fever who had walked into the clinic thinking he just had a headache.

  “What about the children?” Helen asked. “They’re outside all morning, at least—”

  “You use repellent on ’em, right?” the driver asked. “The good stuff, in the blue bottles?” Helen nodded. “They’ll be fine. Check ’em over every evening—”

  “W
e do that,” Grace said. “Bathtime.”

  “Well, then. Shouldn’t be a problem. But if one of ’em complains of a bad headache, get ’em to the clinic. This tourist must not have used the right repellent and lay down someplace where sheep had been; the medic—he’s my brother-in-law—said there were tick bites all over him and a couple of ticks on his back.”

  “Will he be all right?” Helen asked.

  “Probably,” the delivery man said. “But he won’t be out of the clinic for at least ten days, Sam said.”

  “That’s too bad,” Grace said. Helen looked at her sharply; Grace said nothing more.

  _______

  Grace was in bed reading one of the old books that had been in the house when they came when Helen knocked on her door. The book was a mystery, which she didn’t ordinarily like, since she could nearly always figure out who the criminal was by page fifteen, but this one was old enough to be interesting for its historical data. “Come in,” she said.

  “You put those ticks out there,” Helen said.

  “Out where?” Grace asked.

  “Wherever—how did you know where he’d be?”

  “There are four good places to hide from the house while watching it, and be unseen from the road,” Grace said, without looking up from her book. “I put a good-sized jar of blueticks in each, yes.”

  “So—you made him sick.”

  “I hoped to, yes.”

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  Grace laid the book facedown on her chest and looked at Helen. “Bother me to give tick fever to someone working with those who killed your husband, Jo, Gerry and Myris, and all the hundreds of others? Not a bit.”

  “You knew someone would be watching us—you figured out where—are there more?”

  “Not that I know of, no. That fellow had someone on night shift for a few days, but for the last while it’s been just the one, in daytime.”

  “You knew this and didn’t tell me? The children—”

  “He wasn’t after the children, Helen, or I’d have taken him out. He was watching us, reporting to someone else, and that someone might have done something—sent assassins or whatever. But I’d have known that in time to protect you.”

  Helen’s mouth was still open slightly. “You…Stavros always said not to underestimate you. How do you know things?”

  Grace smiled. “People talk to old ladies. I listen very well. And although your daughter and Gerry’s both thought of me as a stuffy, priggish old harridan, Stella soon discovered my secret.”

  “Which is?” Helen said.

  “I have no morals,” Grace said. Helen’s face changed. Grace made a bet with herself what Helen would say next.

  “You don’t mean—you do mean that,” Helen said, her tone changing midstream.

  “Yes. I had them once, or at least a semblance of them. I was quite conventional as a girl, which is what passes for morals with most people.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?” Helen asked, tension in every line of her body.

  “Several reasons.” Grace pushed herself up in the bed and laid the book down beside her. “Our family is under attack. We’re living together, and thus mutually dependent. You need to know what I’m capable of.”

  “You can kill, I know that,” Helen said. “That doesn’t bother me, and I don’t see that it means you have no morals.”

  “It doesn’t,” Grace agreed. “But you were shocked that I planted ticks to make a spy sick, that I didn’t care whether he lived or died. Right?”

  “Yes…” Helen drew the word out, clearly thinking. “Now that I’ve heard your reasons, I’d agree it was the right thing to do—”

  “Which is something else you have to understand about me, Helen. I don’t really care whether you agree or not. I’m going to do what I think is best, regardless. And I won’t always give reasons. I may not always have reasons; I may be working on instinct.”

  Helen’s mouth opened and shut again. “I…suppose I should be glad you’re on our side.”

  “Yes, you should,” Grace said. “If we’re to get through this, my skills will be necessary. In fact, I have some things to teach you.”

  Helen stiffened; her chin came out. “For instance?” she said.

  “How to make fruitcake,” Grace said, picking up her book. “And why,” she added, focusing on the page again. “Good night, Helen.”

  She didn’t look up to see Helen’s expression; she waited until she heard the gentle thump of the door closing, then put the book aside and turned out the light. When the glow of Helen’s light on the ivy outside the window ceased, Grace waited another half hour, then padded barefoot over to the window and extended a whisker microphone to Helen’s window. Only the sound of someone sleeping; Helen didn’t exactly snore, but she did make a soft sound that would probably have been a snore if she’d been heavier.

  Without turning on a light, Grace retrieved her clothes from under her pillows and changed into a black bodysuit meant for climbing. Thin, flexible climbing shoes on her feet; the headlamp on her head. She had insisted on the room with the trellis…now she slid over the windowsill and eased down the trellis to the top of the first-floor windows, where she had left open a transom in the library. For ventilation, she’d told Helen, and shown Helen the alarm sensor that would pick up anything the size of a cat that managed to find a way in.

  Now she tapped the control panel Helen had not seen, a hand span from the window frame, hidden in ivy. The alarm system went dormant. The transom let her in; the bookcases that framed the window made it easy to find a way to the floor. She had scouted this route when looking at properties to lease. Once on the floor, she reset the alarm system to ignore her but remain alert to everything else. That much was easy; this was not the first night she had crept downstairs to continue what she considered her mission, finding the guilty and making their lives miserable.

  The real difficulty came with establishing an untraceable connection to her taps into the presidential palace. She’d had neither the time nor the means to prepare this house for that kind of work, and the prior owners had been boringly straightforward. She had her field kit—tucked behind a row of old legal texts—and now she pulled that out, still working by feel.

  The library had three rooms, two with windows and one interior. The windowless room had apparently been used both for the rarer books—old hardcopy works—and accounting. It contained a desk, several primitive safes, and a communications console as well as sealed, dust-proof bookcases. Grace moved into this room, closed the doors on either side, and switched on her headlamp. Now she could hook into the console and begin the task of foxing her signals.

  She had two main objectives tonight. She wanted to pay the President another little visit, and she wanted to find out just what kind of “special” letter of marque Ky had been sent. She began, however, with a secondary objective, contacting her agents around the planet. So far they had not been able to identify which district she was calling from, but she checked that first every time.

  According to the Commercial Code, the contents of a privateer’s holds belonged to the privateer. However, special tariffs were usually imposed on privateer imports, and easily identifiable articles might trigger legal action by the original consignors or their insurance companies. Ky looked over their inventory—as best they knew it, with some holds still unaired—and tried to decide what would bring the most profit and the least suspicion.

  “Two bales of Engen currency…is that any good?” she asked Rafe.

  His brows went up as he looked at the inventory and then the sample Lee had brought forward. “I wonder where he got that. It’s real, it’s not counterfeit, it’s not dependent on the financial ansibles being up, and nobody can prove who it belongs to, other than you.”

  “But we’re not in Engen, or near it…”

  “No, but it’s a recognized currency. My guess would be that most of the currency dealers will give you seventy percent of the face value.”
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  Ky was going to argue the unfairness of this, but realized that it was found money anyway. “Have you calculated the value?”

  “The bales are labeled as ten million each. Whether they really contain that—” He shrugged.

  Fourteen million. Maybe. It would surely be a start, more than enough to air up the ship at least. “I’ll call Crown & Spears,” Ky said. Within a few minutes she had confirmed that the bank would indeed take a sizable deposit of Engen currency at 72.1 percent of face value. “We’ll deliver it ourselves,” Ky said. “And then go on to the ISC local office.”

  “Too conspicuous,” Rafe said. “Use one of the bonded delivery services; the bank should hold it for inspection until we get there.”

  Martin nodded. “He’s right, Captain. It’s not just robbery that’s a concern, but assault. Best decide on some other merchandise, and have the delivery company handle it all; that’ll be safer.”

  It took another couple of hours to find consignees for some of Osman’s other more respectable merchandise, a bale of Hurriganese furs, second quality, and three five-hundred-liter cases of dried milk replacement for orphaned calves, and then arrange for pickup by one of the bonded delivery companies.

  By then Martin had already detected that the first attempt to penetrate their security system had come less than five hours after they docked.

  “You expect that sort of thing,” Martin said, showing Ky the log. “Place like this, particularly. There’ll be people who want hooks into our system just to learn something, as well as access to the ship or personnel.”

  “The ones who attacked Vatta?”

  “Not necessarily. I’m sure those are around as well, but I’d expect others who just routinely try to infiltrate all ships’ systems.”

  Ky chewed her lip a moment. “We need to know if it’s just thieves and rascals or a serious threat—”