Chez Berthelsen
City of Landing
Planet of Manticore
Manticore Binary System
May 8, 1906
the Earl of north hollow looked up from the remnants of a delicious meal he scarcely remembered tasting as the brown-haired, brown-eyed woman walked into the small, private dining room. Like everyone who could expect to get past Chez Berthelsen’s portals, she was well dressed and well groomed—in her case, in a sleekly understated business suit whose elegance went well with the slim briefcase clasped under her left arm.
Her name was Marie-Claire Doisneau, and she looked like precisely what she was: a highly paid, highly skilled attorney who represented a significant number of the City of Landing’s more prominent citizens.
Several of whom were also members of the organization known simply as “the Outfit.”
Milorad Livitnikov hadn’t wanted to help North Hollow locate her, but the earl had insisted, and when Livitnikov proved resistant, he’d pointed out that Honor Harrington wasn’t known for moderation where her enemies were concerned. If she knew Summervale had been hired to kill Paul Tankersley, then presumably she also knew Livitnikov had been a paid accessory, which gave him and the earl a certain commonality of interest where she was concerned.
North Hollow had actually considered recruiting Livitnikov for the job, or at least using him to recruit others with the necessary skill set. In the end, Livitnikov’s obvious nervousness where anything even remotely approaching Harrington’s orbit was concerned had decided him against it. The man was too likely to screw up by the numbers just because of how frightened of the bitch he was. Besides, his relationship with Summervale would make him an obvious suspect if something unfortunate were to happen to Harrington. Any investigators would have to look carefully in his direction, and there was no doubt in North Hollow’s mind that Livitnikov would turn the Crown’s evidence at the merest hint of an indictment.
But Livitnikov had possessed contacts with the Outfit. He might be unwilling to become involved personally, but he’d been prepared to quietly float North Hollow’s interest to the proper set of ears. Which was what had brought Doisneau to this meeting . . . finally.
It had taken far longer than North Hollow had wanted, but as much as Georgia Sakristos’ refusal to broker Harrington’s murder infuriated him, he’d been forced to admit she had a point about where suspicion would focus if anything happened to the bitch. That suggested he should exercise extreme caution in any arrangements he made, including the caution that hid them from Sakristos, herself. He’d never anticipated that she’d dare to defy him, given his hold over her. And the truth was that any showdown between them might all too easily end in mutual destruction, given all she knew about the North Hollow bodies. Then there was the fact that however resistant she might be to having Harrington killed, it wasn’t because of any qualms she might have arranging someone else’s murder. She’d spent a long time building a successful, lucrative, and above all safe (as far as the Ballroom was concerned) identity here in the Star Kingdom. She wasn’t about to give it up easily, and if he pushed her hard enough—or if she simply decided he was about do something that would bring the authorities down on her—she just might decide another tragic death in the Young family was in order and take her chances on what Stefan did with their father’s files. So any arrangements he might make without her involvement also had to be made without her knowledge.
But whatever she thought, Pavel Young wanted the bitch dead, and he had no intention of waiting.
Over the past, endless weeks, he’d become a laughingstock. Oh, no one in his own circle was likely to say anything where he might hear of it. He had too many weapons with which to avenge himself on anyone that foolish! But behind his back, in their private clubs, or in the House of Lords cloakroom, the whispers were there. And however wary of his vengeance members of the Conservative Association or their allies might be, the Opposition newsfaxes and podcast commentators had no qualms at all about speculating breathlessly on what sort of evidence Harrington might possess, or how she intended to deal with him. The sensationalist scandal-mongering ’faxes that catered to the stupid Proles had lined up in droves to help the Opposition blast the bitch’s allegations throughout the entire Infonet, as well. And then there were all the other bastards, who—secure in the knowledge that no homicidal maniac was hunting them—posted thread after thread on the boards to ridicule how perfectly he was emulating an Old Terran rabbit hiding deep in its burrow to avoid the fox outside it.
He’d become not simply an object of contempt among his equals, but a source of raucous amusement for the unwashed, ignorant mob.
He felt the pressure of his clenched jaw as Doisneau closed the door behind her and walked across to the table, and he forced his jaw muscles to relax.
It wasn’t easy. The shame, the humiliation of knowing everyone in Landing, or at least everyone who mattered, knew how desperately he was hiding from the bitch burned like acid. He genuinely didn’t know which was worse: the humiliation, or the terror. Or the added internal humiliation of knowing how terrified he truly was. The bitch was supposed to be dead. Instead, she turned his life into a living hell, and he was done tolerating it.
“Lord North Hollow,” Doisneau said as she reached the table.
“Ms. Doisneau.” He bobbed his head in acknowledgment and pointed at the facing chair. “Sit, please.”
“Of course.”
She settled into the chair and laid her briefcase on the table. Then she opened it, reached into it, and withdrew a compact electronic device. She set it on the table, tapped its touchscreen, and studied its display carefully for perhaps ten seconds before she looked back up with a faint smile.
“Chez Berthelsen has a well-deserved reputation for the quality of its security systems, but any conscientious attorney knows it’s always best to be certain about these things, Milord. Especially when privileged information is discussed.”
“Oh, I certainly agree.” North Hollow poured wine into a pair of glasses and passed one across to his guest. She accepted it with a slightly broader smile, sipped, and then set the glass on the table before her.
“I imagine you know why I wanted to speak to you,” the earl said, and she cocked her head.
“Under the circumstances, I imagine I do. It might be best for you to lay out your requirements clearly, however.”
“My ‘requirements’ are simple. I want Harrington dead. I want her dead now, and I want her dead in a way that can’t lead back to me.”
“Well, that’s certainly concise and to the point.” Doisneau’s dark eyes twinkled with what looked like genuine amusement.
“Believe me, if I thought there was another approach at the moment, I’d take it,” he said bleakly. “Yes, I want her dead, and not just because of what she’s saying about me and the way the ’faxes are carrying it. But no matter how careful I am, and no matter how good anyone you might help me contact may be, a lot of people will automatically blame me for anything that happens to her. That’s why this has to be handled so discreetly.”
“Oh, I’m always discreet, Milord.”
“Good.” North Hollow sipped wine moodily. “To be honest, I’d really prefer to engage your courtroom services and sue her for libel. Even if the case ultimately failed, the litigation would bar her from issuing any challenges before the Navy deploys her out of the system. But I can’t risk it.”
“Actually, and I provide this information free of any charge, Milord, suing her for libel would be a very, very bad idea.”
“Oh?” North Hollow lowered his glass.
“As you’re undoubtedly aware, my client list is extensive,” she said. “Among my many clients is the Roualeyn Corporation. They own a château in the Arduus Mountains on Gryphon. A little over a month ago, Denver Summervale was a guest there, and during his stay, a Royal Navy pinnace supporting a Marine training exercise suffered a navigation systems failure and landed not far from the château. There was . . . some unpleasantness when the embarked Marines visited the château, ostensibly to seek directions.” Her eyes met North Hollow’s very levelly across the table. “While they were there, the senior officer present—a Colonel Ramirez, I believe—had a personal conversation with Mister Summervale.”
The color drained from North Hollow’s face.
“Speaking in a purely professional sense,” she continued, “and based solely on my second- or thirdhand understanding of events, I feel confident Colonel Ramirez violated quite a few of the Star Kingdom’s laws in the course of his interview with Mister Summervale. Unfortunately, for reasons I expect you can probably understand, the Roualeyn Corporation’s management—and, frankly, Mister Summervale himself—had their own reasons for avoiding any scrutiny of his actions. One must assume, however, that the Colonel obtained whatever he’d come for, given that Mister Summervale was still alive when the Marines returned to their pinnace and departed.”
“I see.”
North Hollow’s jaw clenched again, in fresh shame, as he heard the sick awareness in his own voice. So the bitch did have proof, or at least strongly suggestive evidence. Obviously, as Doisneau had just said, it had been illegally obtained, so she couldn’t provide it to the Crown without at the very least exposing her toadies to the legal consequences their actions richly deserved. But if he sued her for libel, all her defense team had to do was to play a recording of any confession Summervale might have made. As long as she declined to file legal charges against him—or Summervale’s estate, assuming he had one, declined to file charges against her—she couldn’t be legally compelled to reveal how she’d obtained it. And, as long as analysis proved it was actually Summervale’s voice, it would offer her all the legal defense against libel she would ever need, no matter how it had come into her hands.
“You may take my word for it, Milord, that the château’s owners and their other business associates are less than happy about this entire episode,” Doisneau continued. “By the same token, they have no desire to throw bad money after good by picking an open quarrel with someone who possesses the resources—and friends—Countess Harrington can command. None of them would shed any tears if something untoward were to befall her, however. Which, frankly, is the primary reason I’m here tonight.” Her smile took on more than a hint of frost. “Believe me, if any of those business associates objected to my meeting you to discuss your needs, I would—regretfully, of course—have declined your gracious invitation.”
“I see,” he repeated in a rather different tone. “In that case, may I assume some of those associates of yours might be willing to make certain resources available to me?”
“Not out of their own organization, I’m afraid,” she said. “Given Colonel Ramirez’s intrusion into their affairs, the possibility is high that an investigation into Countess Harrington’s sad fate—assuming, of course, that a sad fate were to overtake her—might lead back to them. After all, as you yourself are aware, suspicion would naturally, if unfairly, focus upon those who might have had a bone to pick with her. It’s rather a case of mutual deterrence in that regard. As long as neither the Countess nor her friends draw my associates any more deeply into this unhappy affair, those associates will decline to become actively involved in its resolution.”
North Hollow’s lips tightened, and she shook her head at him.
“Don’t despair, Milord. Their own organization is scarcely the only source for the capabilities you require. And while they must decline to become involved themselves, they have no objection to . . . facilitating conversations with unaffiliated individuals suitable to your needs. In this instance, I believe, it might be best to consider a blunt-instrument approach to your problem. One that eschews finesse in favor of extreme effectiveness.”
“I certainly have no objection to that sort of approach,” North Hollow said slowly. “May I ask why that seems the most advisable option to you, though?”
She sipped more wine with a thoughtful air, then lowered the glass again.
“Frankly,” she said then, “it’s because the individuals I have in mind, while undeniably effective, are definitely chainsaws, not scalpels. ‘Finesse’ isn’t in their lexicon, I’m afraid, and they’ve always been a bit reckless. Or perhaps the word I want is heedless. Their notion of an assassination normally includes things like bombs or ambushes on public sidewalks with automatic weapons.” Her lips twitched in distaste for such crudity. “Unfortunately, they seem unaware of, or at least unconcerned by, the long-term consequences of the collateral damage they leave in their wake . . . or of whom those consequences might splash on. To be honest, while some of my associates have engaged their services in the past, that heedlessness of theirs has made them more and more of a potential liability. Indeed, there’s been some discussion about engineering their forcible retirement, and one or two of my associates have suggested that this might be an opportunity to kill multiple birds with a single stone.”
“In what way?” he asked.
“Well, you have a problem which needs to be removed. My associates have a vested interest in assisting you, albeit indirectly, in its removal. Ideally, this should be done in a fashion which would prevent any unfortunate connections that might lead back to you or to my associates. Using a team of . . . problem removers who have no direct connection with my associates or with you would be an excellent first step in that direction. And if you were prepared to accept the financial burden of paying for their services, since they would no doubt insist upon receiving at least a portion of their fee in advance, my associates and I could guarantee that the actual arrangements were made by a third party with no direct connection to you or to them. In fact, it’s quite probable that the third party in question would never actually exist, so any evidence leading back to their employer would hit a dead end, so to speak.” She flashed him a smile. “And just to be certain that it did, my associates would also be amenable to . . . tidying up afterward. Using some of their own employees to guarantee that none of the individuals in question were ever available to assist in any investigations after the fact.”
“I see,” North Hollow said for a third time, and leaned back in his chair. “And assuming all of this proved feasible, how early an execution date, if you’ll pardon the expression, might we anticipate?”
“That, I’m afraid, is a tactical question that lies outside my own area of expertise. My understanding, however, is that Countess Harrington is now accompanied by a security team of her own wherever she goes. More than that, her quarters are aboard her ship, even though it’s still technically in dockyard hands, and getting to her there or aboard Hephaestus would be quite difficult. The good news is that she makes fairly frequent flying visits to Landing, especially to meet with her agent now that her prize money from Hancock has made her a wealthy woman. My sources suggest to me that some of those meetings have less to do with her business affairs and more to do with her own investigators’ and agents’ efforts to help her reach you to present her challenge. So we can be fairly certain her visits will eventually present a window of opportunity, and her Grayson bodyguards can scarcely be as well read in on threats here in the Star Kingdom as they might be back home in Yeltsin. The problem will be obtaining sufficient warning to take advantage of one of those windows, which suggests it will probably take some time.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me for observing that, from my perspective, it’s a case of the sooner the better,” he said.
“Oh, I quite understand that, Milord! And, should you desire to proceed in the fashion I’ve described, I can see to beginning to make arrangements tomorrow morning.”
“What sort of funding will you require? And how do I provide it without its being traceable to me?”
That was the sort of thing Georgia would normally have taken care of for him. This time, unfortunately . . .
“I would think that perhaps a hundred thousand dollars would be in order, as a complete fee,” Doisneau said thoughtfully. “Perhaps twenty percent of that would be in order as a down payment. Under ideal circumstances,” she smiled coldly, “the remainder of their fee will never be required, of course.”
“Of course,” he agreed with an equally cold smile.
“I understand you’re a betting man, Milord?”
“I’ve been known to make the occasional wager.”
“On sports, I believe? Specifically, on soccer?”
“Yes.” He nodded and cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because, Milord, if you were to contact this bookmaking agency”—she handed him an electronic business chip—“and place a twenty-thousand-dollar bet on the Clarkson Guerriers for this weekend’s match against Uplands, I expect you could get very good odds.”
“I expect I could!” North Hollow snorted. “The last time I looked, the betting was something like nine-to-one in Uplands’ favor!”
“I’m sure it was. The object, however, would be for you to lose the bet. My associates have an understanding with this particular agency. When you lose your wager, the funds will disappear into an appropriately anonymous account from which the individuals whose services you require could be paid without any annoying little money trails leading back to my associates . . . or to you.”
“Really?” North Hollow cocked his head and regarded her thoughtfully for a moment.
“Odd,” he said then. “I feel a sudden urge to lay down a bet on the Guerriers. I’m not usually the sort to plunge at such unfavorable odds, but I have the strangest suspicion”—he bestowed an unpleasant smile upon her, feeling better than he had in weeks—“that this one will be money very well spent.”