"Smith, Kristine - [Kilian 2] - Rules of Conflict" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Kristine)

No one cuts into my head. Ever. He left the cubicle maze of the doc tech bullpen and walked down the hall to the vend alcove. He bought a cup of tea, striking the beverage dispenser with a timed series of thumps the techs had discovered made it disgorge an extra mouthful into the cup. Since he was the alcove's only visitor, he had his pick of tables. He chose one in the corner, farthest from the entry.
He activated his handheld and pulled up the file he had unfortunately found many reasons to update over the past weeks. In one column, he had listed all the documents that had gone missing, in the other, the ones that had eventually turned up. He sorted, ran a discard, and examined the few items that still remained outstanding.
The roster. Shipping records. Death certificates. The roster and records belonged to the CSS Kensington, the flagship of the group that executed the evacuation of Rauta Sheraa Base.
And the death certificates? Ebben. Unser. Fitzhugh. Cal-dor. Three officers and a Spacer First Class, who died during the evacuation.
Sam stared at the small display and tried to divine a pattern from the list of documents. Like flecks in stone, they seemed anarchic, unconnected. But he sensed history, just as he would if he studied the stone. If he subjected the stone to elemental analysis and investigated the site at which he'd found it, he would know how it formed, and why. So, too, with these documentsЧthey could be broken down, as well. Every entry had another piece of paper to back it up, and when he had uncovered those pieces, well, then he'd know, wouldn't he? He never liked to conclude ahead of his data.
44 Kristine Smith
At the beginning, it was enough to know that sufficient reason existed for the data to be collected.
He sipped his tea, heavily creamed and sugared to obscure the bitterness. Not like at his old stomping grounds on Banda. The university. There, they knew how to make tea.
"And I knew how to drink it." He recalled overhearing a shopkeeper brag to another customer one day as he made his purchases. No one in Halmahera knows tea like Simyam BaruЧ
Sam paused, then checked the nameplate on his handheld. Duong. First name Sam, rhymes with Mom.
"My name is Sam Duong." But pictures formed in his imagination again. He saw himself encased in ice, then heard the hissing crackles as fissures formed in the block. Water dripped as the melting progressed, revealing who he truly was. Another man, who hated hospitals, too.
Again, not something he remembered. Something he knew.
CHAPTER 5
Evan stood before his shallow bank of roses and inventoried the status of each bush in turn. "The Creme Caramel's looking good." He dictated the observation into his handheld as he hefted a branch laden with butterscotch blooms. "Tell your Dr. Banquo she knows her fertilizer."
Banquo... Banquo. Evan paused, his finger pressed against the handheld touchpad, as the names cascaded in his head. Banquo ... Mako. Mako ... Pierce. "It's been over two weeks, Quino. I just wondered if you'd scrounged anything about Colonel Pierce. The more I think about that name, the more familiar it sounds." That was a lie, but he'd had lots of time to ponder the colonel's snub, and the more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. Information flitted throughout military bases at speedЧhe wondered if Pierce knew something, something that made him feel he didn't need to hide his dislike for his fallen minister. Perhaps the Service had reopened its investigation of Jani's transport explosion. Perhaps it had found a witness, someone who had stumbled past the comroom just as Evan had contacted the fuel depot where the transport was hangared. Saw him enter the comcode. Heard him say the words.
Do it.
He grunted in pain, and looked down to find he had gripped the Creme's branch too hard, driving the thorns into his hand. He hunted through his pockets for a clean dispo,
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46 Kristine Smith
dabbed at the welling beads of blood, and moved on to the next shrub. "I'm not sure about this Wolfshead Westminster. It's still washed-out rust instead of bright orange, but I don't know what you expect. It's a cold-weather hybrid that thrives by waterside, and we're only in the middle of the hottest, driest summer in thirty years." He flicked off the device and shoved it in his pocket. "Report's over for the day, Quino. You want to see how your goddamn roses are doing, drive up here and check them yourself."
His knee ached less than it had for weeksЧa walk seemed in order. He strode to the end of the garden, then turned and paced alongside the two-meter-tall hedge that defined his boundary with the neighbor who he'd been told worked for Commerce Purchasing. Then he made a balance beam of the edge of his patio and finished the traverse by walking along the latticed polywood fence that formed the barrier between him and the neighbor who he'd been told slaved for the Commonwealth Mint. He knew better, of course. Prime Minister's Intelligence, both of them. He'd have bet his last bottle.
When he cut by the garden and stood again at the spot at which he had started, he checked his timepiece. "Elapsed time for inspection of the van Reuter fencesЧseventy-two seconds." And he had even walked slowly this time.
How do people live like this? Cheek by jowl. Sounds of their lives commingled into one vast blare. Everyone knowing their business and them knowing everyone else's, without one minute's privacy or peace. They all must have developed a zoo-animal mentality, he decided, living their lives as their instincts compelled them without caring who saw what.
"Sir!"
Evan turned. Halvor, his aide, stood on the patio, looking befuddled as usual. "Yes?"
The young man hesitated. "You have ... a visitor, sir."
Evan trudged up the shallow incline toward the house he thought of as his Elba. "Quino isn't supposed to stop by until tomorrow."
Halvor's face, smooth and rounded as an overgrown baby's, flushed pink. "It's not Mr. Loiaza, sir."
RULES OF CONFLICT 47
"Well, who is it?" Halvor told him.
Evan took care to follow his aide at a carefully calculated distance. Too close, and he'd seem anxious. Too far, and he'd seem apprehensive. Stay calm... stay calm.
After the glaring brightness of the outdoors, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light of the sitting room. He didn't register the figure standing in front of the curtained window until it spoke.
"Hello, Evan." John Shroud stood with his back to him, his attention focused on the view of the rear yard. "You're due for a medical checkup. Compassionate visitation, the Jo'burg Convention calls it. Guess who drew the short straw?"
Evan motioned for the flustered Halvor to leave the room. He sank into his favorite lounge chair and waited for the hushed click that indicated the door had closed. "You expect me to believe you flew in from Seattle just to check my vitals?"
, "You're an ex-Cabinet Minister, Evan. You rate Big Three attention."
"Bullshit."
Shroud turned slowly. "As you wish." He had employed his albinism like a fashion accessory, as usual. Today, he resembled a polished marble of a medieval monk. He'd brushed his stark white hair forward and had dressed in ivory from head to toe, the collar of his jacket draping like a cowl. His height, thinness, and long face reinforced the image, as did his blanched skin, drawn tight across cheekbone and brow. Disturbing, no matter how often you'd seen him. The ambassador from the Other Side.
/ should have expected this. Evan wished he'd had the sense to prepare, but except for a quick swig prior to tending his roses, he'd had nothing to drink that morning. As ever, abstinence proved a mistake. He always felt more in control with a half liter of bourbon warming his insides. "What really brings you to Chicago, John?" As if he couldn't guess.
"It's been raining for two solid weeks back home."
48 Kristine Smith
Shroud's bass voice rumbled like a knell. "I need sunshine, even if all I can do is look." He strolled to the sofa and sat down. "Besides, I don't often get the chance to visit the capital." He stretched out his long, thin legs and crossed them at the ankles, then looked around the room, sharp eyes taking in the cramped dimensions, the shabby furniture, before coming to rest on Evan. "Cozy," he said, with a ghost of a smile.
Evan responded in kind. "I think so."
"Quite a change from the old Family estate."
"Quite."
"Smaller."
"Yes."
"A woman's presence, of course, is what makes a home." Shroud's smile withered. "I never had the opportunity to offer my condolences. Lyssa's death came as a shock to us all."
Evan tensed at the sound of his dead wife's name. "Thank you."
"I spoke with Anais last evening, at one of Vandy's interminable dinner parties. Milla's staying with her for the summer. Lyssa's aunt and mother together again, after so many years. Sad how it takes such tragedy to reunite sisters." Shroud shook his head. "Anais had a great deal to say about Lyssa's death. I think she used it as a shield to avoid discussing that idiotic food-transport screwup she helped engineer that upset the idomeni so, but then Family gossip has always been more riveting than idomeni food philosophies."
'Transporting foodstuffs in sight of their embassy was incredibly stupid." Evan leapt at the chance to dismantle Anais's diplomatic blunder. He was starved for news from the capital. Besides, he didn't want to discuss Lyssa's death. "I understand the idomeni almost packed up and returned home?"