CHAPTER 51

“I still don’t understand… I mean, I don’t understand fully,” Fay admitted, seeing that her chief was in a great mood and thus predisposed to explain.

“He figured correctly: the gendarmes were sure to attract our attention – a captured uniform is standard cover – but their catch, provided the gendarmes were real, were much less likely to do so. So he became their catch. I don’t know how yet, but it’s not really important.

There are many ways… for example, he could come to Irapuato and spill half a mug of wine on one of them in the local tavern. They’d beat him up, of course (giving him an excuse to bandage his bloodied face), but then they’d take him into the city without hindrance, hiding him in the best possible hideout for a couple months; neither we nor Aragorn’s people would look for him in jail. That is, if he wants to lie low; otherwise he could contact one of his people – Alviss, say – through the criminals, and they’d buy him out in a day or two. Well, my plans don’t include letting him cool his heels in a jail cell.”

Following the gendarmes (who were, indeed, the ‘bandit hunters’ of Irapuato) at about fifty yards distance, Jacuzzi and his companion reached the harbor police station. The prisoners were divided at that point: four were herded on, while the team leader personally took Tangorn and the mountain man chained to him (Ras-Shua had already identified him as one Chekorello, Sarrakesh’s nephew twice removed) into the station. After waiting fifteen minutes for propriety’s sake, Jacuzzi went inside, too. When the guard attempted to stop two ragged beggars, he showed him a police commissar’s badge (he had plenty of badges on his person, from Admiralty flag captain’s to a customs inspector’s – the important part was not to mix them up) and drily ordered him to take them to the local chief.

“Commissar Rahmajanian,” he introduced himself once in the chief’s office. Its occupant, a mussed-looking fat man with hanging jowls who looked like a caricature of a police chief come alive, made a not-entirely-successful attempt to pry his expansive backside out of the chair and greet his visitor: “Senior Inspector Jezin. Have a seat, Commissar. How can I help you? Is the girl from your staff, by the way?”

“Certainly.” Fay’s disguise had not fooled Jezin for even a second. A bunch of clues had already led Jacuzzi to conclude that the chief was, on the one hand, sufficiently perceptive (which was not surprising, given that the harbor station was a real gold mine, with plenty of contenders for that plum post), and, on other hand, simple and straightforward: for example, his table sported an unopened bottle of Elvish wine, which would have cost him about three months’ salary in the Elfstone store on the Three Stars Embankment. Way too brazen, Jacuzzi thought sadly. Fortunately, keeping police noses clean was not part of DSD’s duties.

“About half an hour ago two arrested mountain men were supposed to be delivered here…” he began, but the Senior Inspector protested vigorously: “You’re mistaken, Commissar, no prisoner deliveries here for the past couple of hours!”

This was so unexpected that Jacuzzi tried to explain to the fat man that arguing was useless, since it all happened in his plain sight.

“You must’ve been hallucinating, Commissar,” the man answered impudently, signaling the guard at the door. “The Corporal here will attest: we have no mountain men detained here and never had!”

Jacuzzi shook his head sorrowfully: “We’re misunderstood here, girl.” This was a code phrase. The next moment Fay stabbed the corporal in the base of the neck, straight between the clavicles, with her suddenly steel-like index finger; a second later the thick office door was locked from the inside, cutting the Senior Inspector off from his subordinates in the corridor. Meanwhile, Jacuzzi intercepted Jezin’s hand, which was going towards the nearest weapon, and with a single twist of the wrist made him collapse into the chair, choking on a scream. Looking around, the Vice-Director of Operations broke off the Elvish bottle’s neck with the edge of his palm and dumped its precious contents on the policeman’s head and neck; once the man came to, Jacuzzi pulled him up by the collar and asked with all possible fondness: “Where’re the prisoners?”

The fat man shook and sweated, but remained silent. Having no time to spare – at any moment someone might start breaking down the door – Jacuzzi made his proposition short and to the point: “Ten seconds to think about it. Then I’ll start counting to five, breaking a finger at each count. On the count of six I’ll cut your throat with this razor. Look in my eyes – do I look like I’m joking?”

“You’re from the Secret Service, right?” the Senior Inspector mumbled mournfully, gray with terror. It was clear as day that he had not earned his stripes capturing criminals in the Kharmian Village slums.

“Six seconds gone. Well?”

“I’ll tell you everything I know! They ordered me to let them go…”

“Ordered?” Jacuzzi felt the floor drop out from under him; there was a revolting feeling of freefall in his stomach.

“They’re men of the King of Gondor, from his Secret Guard. They were on a secret mission in the Peninsula, but the mountain men figured them out and were about to execute them.

They managed to escape to Irapuato through the woods, made contact with the city gendarmes who’re looking for Uanako there, and ordered their commander to evacuate them to the city as prisoners… Here at the station they told me to get them some clothes and let them out by the back door. They also said,” the man cringed pitifully, “that if I told anyone about this, they’d find me anywhere, even in the Far West… I understand that legally the Secret Guard of Gondor has no authority here, but… you know?”

“What made you think that they’re Aragorn’s men?”

“One of them is obviously a Northerner from Gondor, and he presented a Secret Guard sergeant’s badge…”

“Sergeant Morimir or Sergeant Aravan…” Jacuzzi muttered, not recognizing his own voice.

What bout of insanity could have made him forget the badges Tangorn got from his raid on 4 Lamp Street?!

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Morimir! So you know these people?”

“Yes, better than I’d like to. When this Morimir changed clothes, have you noticed whether he had anything in his pockets?”

“Just money, nothing else.”

“How much?”

“About ten castamir s and change.”

“What kind of clothes did you give them?”

The Vice-Director for Operations nodded mechanically while Jezin described the rags he obligingly gave to his important guests in minute detail, paying only minimal attention – this information was nearly useless. Ten castamir s… He turned to Fay.

“Leave right now through the same exit they’ve used. Eruko’s store is to the left, towards the Ring Canal. It’s possible that they will buy new clothes there: it’s not cheap, but ten castamir s should be enough. If not, continue along the bank…”

“To the Flea Market?”

“Correct. Right now they badly need to change clothes, and soon – it’s our only chance.

Move.”

He sat down heavily on the low stone wall by the entrance to the police station and stretched out a hand without looking. Ras-Shua, sitting down by his side, immediately put a flask of rum in his hand; Jacuzzi took a couple of swigs and stared fixedly at the setting sun. His head was achingly empty. Sure, they’ll pick up Tangorn’s trail eventually, but that won’t save him: Almandin’s deadline is in an hour. He felt no animosity towards the baron: the man played by the rules.

“I got them, chief!” Suddenly, a beaming Fay appeared before him, looking happy and winded – apparently, she ran all the way. “They’ve changed at Eruko’s, just like you said, and then went straight into the Seamen Credit Bank next door!”

It could not be, but there it was. It looked like today Fate undertook a pointed demonstration of how little our efforts and skills mean compared to her whims. After all, he thought as he hurried after Fay towards the Seamen Bank (the girl had prudently engaged three street urchins to watch the place), after all it looks like I got away with a scare, whereas the baron is really unlucky today: he’s doing everything first-rate, good enough to include in the Operations Manual, and still…

By the time Tangorn and Chekorello left the bank, dressed now with understated luxury, the DSD’s finks have woven an unbreakable web around them. The friends embraced three times in the mountain fashion and then went their separate ways. The reason for the visit to the bank became clear as soon as one of the operatives, who had superb pick-pocketing skills, detected by touch that Chekorello was now “brimming with coin like a September trout with eggs.” Jacuzzi ordered everyone to forget the mountain man – let him go in peace– and concentrate on following Tangorn. Just then reinforcements showed up (an observation team), and the baron’s chances of escaping surveillance became nil: no lone individual can beat an organization, provided it is a halfway decent one.

Tangorn spent the next two hours cruising around the city expertly and flamboyantly –melting into market crowds, hiding out in empty echoing open-ended courtyards, suddenly jumping into gondolas for hire – but utterly failing to either lose or even spot the surveillance. Unlike the Gondorian spies, DSD professionals were of the highest caliber.

Only once did the Higher Powers warn Jacuzzi (who had calmed down and was now hanging back like a mobile headquarters of the operations) that he should not relax prematurely. Observers reported that the baron, having carefully checked his surroundings, had entered the Green Mackerel restaurant; should they follow him inside and risk detection or simply wait outside?

“Is the back of the restaurant covered?” Jacuzzi asked for formality’s sake. The operative paled and swallowed convulsively.

“Holy crap!” the Vice-Director roared, once again experiencing freefall in his stomach.

“Don’t you know that the damn Mackerel’s restroom window is large enough to push a boar through? I’ll fire the whole damn lot of you idiots!”

While saying that Jacuzzi had time to think that if Tangorn had indeed spotted them and had already ducked into that restroom, then he, at least, won’t be doing any firing… But the scare blew over: it turned out that the baron was having a proper dinner in a private room with two gentlemen, one of whom the operatives identified as the missing Junior Secretary Algali.